I love love love your kid fics. I would love a fic where reader has a kid and is dating a driver (anyone tbh but my fav is Oscar) and they’re watching Cinderella and the kid asks why step parents get such a bad rep bc her step dad is awesome and it’s the first time that the kid has EVER referred to him as a parent and it’s sweet and fluffy and cute!
Again I love your work so much!
A Different Kind Of Cinderella Story
Oscar Piastri x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: Oscar joins you and your daughter for movie night, and Cinderella turns unexpectedly emotional when she casually calls him her “step dad” for the first time — a tiny slip that leaves him soft, stunned, and completely in love with the little family he’s found.
Warning: cuteness overload 🥺
Moonlight Radio: tysm 🫶🏻, this was so adorable, I hope u like it!
Oscar doesn’t even make it ten minutes into Cinderella before your daughter ends up half‑asleep on his chest, her curls spilling over his hoodie, one of her tiny hands fisted in the fabric like she’s anchoring herself to him.
You’re curled up on the other end of the sofa, watching the two of them more than the movie — because honestly, how could you not. Oscar’s arm is around her automatically, thumb brushing slow circles on her shoulder, eyes soft in that way he never quite realises he does.
It’s domestic. It’s stupidly sweet. It’s everything you never thought you’d get again.
The movie plays on, the wicked stepmother being her usual dramatic self, when your daughter suddenly sits up a little, frowning at the screen.
“Why do step parents get such a bad rep?” she asks, completely serious. “My step dad is awesome.”
Oscar freezes.
You freeze.
The world freezes.
Because she has never — not once — used that word for him.
She doesn’t even seem to realise what she’s said. She just leans back against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Oscar’s eyes flick to yours, wide, stunned, a little glassy. He mouths, did you hear that? and you nod, biting back the kind of smile that makes your chest ache.
He swallows, voice soft. “Hey, sweetheart… what made you say that?”
She shrugs, still watching the movie. “Well, she’s mean. You’re not mean. You make pancakes and you braid my hair and you do the voices when you read bedtime stories. So you’re a good step dad.”
Oscar’s breath catches — actually catches — and he presses a kiss to the top of her head like he can’t help himself.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and his voice cracks just a little. “That means a lot.”
She beams, completely oblivious to the emotional earthquake she’s caused, and snuggles back into him. Within minutes she’s asleep again, tiny snores puffing against his chest.
Oscar looks at you over her head, and the expression on his face is something you’ll remember forever — awe, love, disbelief, and something fiercely protective.
He mouths, I love her.
Then, after a beat, I love you.
You shift closer, tucking a blanket around all three of you, and rest your hand over his where it sits on her back.
“She meant it,” you whisper.
“I know,” he whispers back, eyes shining. “I just… I didn’t think I’d ever get to be this for someone.”
You lean your forehead against his shoulder. “You earned it. Every bit of it.”
He exhales shakily, holding both of you a little tighter, like he’s anchoring himself now.
On the TV, Cinderella gets her happily ever after.
not loudly enough - part one (max verstappen x reader)
🏁 pairing: max verstappen x f!reader.
🏁 word count: 27.4k total. this part: 9.8k.
🏁 genres/warnings: co-workers to lovers to strangers. set between 2024 - 2026 season, creative liberties with race outcomes so bear with. reader is a performance engineer. no smut but implied sex/sexual references. fwb/secret relationship, both are toxic in their own way. they are in LOVE and it ruins everything, just two emotionally intelligent people still failing to communicate properly. right person wrong time. sprinkle of jealousy, fear of vulnerability, this does not have a happy ending. brief mention of a crash (but its minor and very minor injury), max genuinely believes there is nothing underneath the driver worth loving and reader thinks nobody sees her beyond being a female in motorsport. reader insert but no use of y/n.
🏁summary: you were never just casual. two years of almost-conversations, hotel rooms, and loving each other in every way except the one that mattered most.
he loved you quietly. you just needed him to do it out loud.
🏁 author notes: this is my first max fic outside my bridgerton series and ive been thinking about it non-stop, it was a joy to write him. it's very loosely based on one of my fave songs gethsemane by sleep tolken (i highly recommend listening to it for the full fic effect) there is a lot of rain in this fic so pls ignore that (it just seemed fitting for all the sad), also pretend Laurent was tp since 2024 and it does not have a happy ending, you have been warned. also i'm so sorry this is a two part-er, tumblrs block limit hates me and i just cannot shut up <3
read part two here.
You weren’t really sure how it started.
Or maybe you were, and you simply preferred the blur. The beginning had softened with time, worn smooth at the edges until it no longer felt like a choice so much as something inevitable. Something that had been waiting patiently for the right moment to unfold.
You had always been good at calculating risk. Measuring margins. Knowing precisely when to push and when to yield. But whatever this was, it had never felt like a decision.
It had felt like gravity.
There had never been enough words for the way he looked at you. Not the public version of him, not the driver the cameras followed through paddocks and press conferences with sharp eyes and carefully rehearsed headlines draped around his shoulders like armour.
It was the quieter moments that ruined you. The moments when the edges softened. When exhaustion dragged honesty out of him in fragments. When his gaze settled somewhere deeper than it should, as though he could see every careful wall you had built around yourself and had already begun deciding which one to dismantle first.
He never asked questions you weren’t ready to answer. He simply looked at you long enough that silence began to feel like confession. You never decided whether that was comforting or dangerous.
Perhaps it had always been both.
Because the longer you spent caught in the orbit of him, the more difficult it became to separate tension from tenderness.
At first, it had felt contained. Controlled. Two people intelligent enough to understand boundaries. Professional enough to respect them. It had been easy to believe that in the beginning.
Late nights in the garage had a way of unravelling intention. Especially once the rest of the team disappeared and the overhead lights dimmed low enough for the world to feel smaller than it really was. Telemetry screens painted everything in cold blue light, numbers flickering endlessly between you as if reminding you both that everything could be measured, predicted, controlled.
But nothing about him ever felt controllable once the hours grew late enough.
Debriefs stretched longer than necessary. Arguments became conversations somewhere along the way. Conversations became silences that neither of you seemed eager to break.
Somewhere between tyre degradation projections and half-finished glasses of gin in hotel bars, the line between professional and personal dissolved so gradually you never saw the exact moment it disappeared beneath you.
Perhaps that was why it felt so dangerous afterward. Because by the time you noticed, you were already standing too close to the edge of something impossible to survive cleanly.
The first time your hands found him— it had not felt shocking. That was the terrifying part.
It had felt inescapable. Like acknowledging something that had been living quietly beneath your skin for months already.
After that, the two of you slipped into a pattern neither of you ever properly discussed. Hotel rooms after difficult races. Lingering glances across debrief tables. Two taps against the inside of your wrist from opposite sides of a crowded garage.
You never realised when that change happened either.
Only that somewhere along the line, the wanting became softer. More dangerous. Less about anger and adrenaline and far more about the unbearable comfort of being understood by someone too perceptive to lie to.
There had always been an intensity to Max that made everything feel deliberate. Every touch measured but unrestrained. Every moment of closeness unfolding with a focus that made the rest of the world recede into something distant and unimportant.
He never made promises. That was part of the problem. He never offered explanations either. He simply stayed. Steady and certain and devastatingly consistent, as though this thing between you existed safely outside consequence so long as neither of you forced it into the light.
And for a long time, you let yourself believe him.
Because it was easier to pretend wanting someone was not the same thing as needing them. Easier to pretend you could survive loving someone privately. Easier to pretend that the quiet way he reached for you in crowded rooms meant less because nobody else could see it.
But there are some forces you cannot measure until you are already trapped inside them.
And there are some people who love you deeply without ever learning how to say it loudly enough to let you stay.
Two years ago, it had still felt manageable. Temporary. Contained within hotel rooms and closed doors and the quiet understanding that neither of you would ask for more than the other was willing to give.
Or perhaps more accurately: Neither of you would ask at all.
Two years of almost conversations. Two years of loving each other in every way except the one that mattered. Two years of knowing exactly how this would end.
And two years of choosing not to stop anyway.
At the beginning— before the hotels and the signals and the impossible tenderness of loving him— you had genuinely believed you disliked each other.
Because the first thing you learned about Max Verstappen was that he hated being told no.
And the second thing was that he hated being wrong even more.
Unfortunately for both of you, your job required informing him of both things regularly.
You had spent years earning the right to sit in rooms like this. Top of your class in university. Strategy internships nobody else wanted. Factory roles that quietly became promotions because you kept solving problems faster than people expected you to.
Because in motorsport, women were rarely allowed to simply be good at their jobs. You learned early that competence had to become undeniable before people stopped looking for reasons you didn’t belong.
By the start of the 2024 season, Red Bull had finally moved you trackside to work alongside GP as one of Max’s performance engineers.
Which was how you discovered almost immediately that Max respected very few people willing to challenge him.
Unfortunately for your nervous system, he seemed to enjoy arguing with you most of all.
“Sector two was compromised because you pushed the tyres too early,” you said flatly, eyes fixed on the telemetry screen glowing across the engineering room.
Behind you, Max scoffed. “That’s not what happened.”
You resisted the urge to sigh. You already recognised the tone instantly. Sharp-edged frustration disguised as confidence. The kind that usually surfaced after difficult weekends and bad strategy calls. Most people in the garage had learned to navigate around it carefully.
You, unfortunately, seemed incapable of doing that. You swivelled slowly in your chair to face him properly. “You overheated the fronts on lap fourteen.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
A dangerous silence settled between you. Around the engineering room, several people became suddenly fascinated by their laptops. You folded your arms. “The data literally says otherwise.”
“The data’s wrong.”
You stared at him for a long moment before amusement slipped unwillingly beneath your irritation. “That is potentially the most Max Verstappen sentence anyone has ever spoken.”
Somewhere near the back of the room, a mechanic choked on his coffee trying not to laugh.
Max’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry. Engaged. Like arguing with you had become something he anticipated now. Something he looked for. “You always this irritating?” he asked.
“Only professionally.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“And yet here you are.”
His gaze held yours for one second too long. There it was again. That strange current that had existed between you almost from the moment you joined the team.
At first, you had mistaken it for dislike. That would have been easier. Easier to explain why every conversation with him felt sharpened somehow, why simple disagreements stretched into prolonged arguments neither of you seemed willing to walk away from.
But dislike didn’t explain the awareness.
Didn’t explain why Max always seemed to seek you out after difficult conversations. Why his attention found you instinctively during debriefs even in rooms crowded with engineers and strategists. Why your pulse occasionally betrayed you whenever he looked at you too directly for too long.
And it definitely didn’t explain why everyone else in the garage had started noticing too.
“You know,” GP muttered quietly beside you while pretending to review data. “Most people eventually back down when he gets like this.”
Without looking away from Max, you replied, “Sounds like a design flaw.”
A tiny twitch appeared at the corner of Max’s mouth. Tiny. Gone instantly. But devastating nonetheless.
Because suddenly, horribly, you realised he liked this. Not the disagreement itself— You.
The challenge of you. The fact that you pushed back when everyone else softened their edges around him. And maybe that should have alarmed you more than it did.
Instead, something dangerous unfurled low in your stomach every time his attention locked onto yours like this. Something hot and restless that felt far too close to attraction to examine comfortably.
“Run the numbers again,” Max said finally.
You raised an eyebrow. “You admitting I might be right?”
“I’m saying there’s a possibility you’re less wrong than usual.”
“Careful,” you murmured. “That almost sounded respectful.”
Another silence settled between you. Charged this time. The engineering room suddenly felt too warm. Max stepped closer, leaning one hand against the back of your chair as he looked down toward the telemetry beside you. Close enough now that you caught the clean scent of his aftershave and cold air still clinging faintly to his race suit.
Your heartbeat stumbled traitorously. He pointed toward the graph. “Lap sixteen.”
You looked down automatically. Mistake. Because suddenly you were acutely aware of everything at once: his arm beside yours, the heat of him at your shoulder, the quiet that had settled suspiciously across the room.
You swallowed carefully. “See?” you said, forcing your voice steady. “Front left degradation spike.”
Max hummed thoughtfully beside you. Far too close. “You enjoy proving me wrong.”
You glanced up. Another mistake. His face was much nearer than expected. Close enough that for one brief, horrifying second your brain stopped functioning entirely. And Max noticed. Of course he noticed. Something unreadable flickered briefly behind his eyes. Not smugness. Something worse. Awareness.
Like he felt it too.
Then someone across the room called his name and the moment shattered instantly. Max stepped back smoothly as though nothing had happened at all. Like your pulse hadn’t just nearly climbed out through your throat. “You’re still annoying,” he said casually before turning toward the door.
You stared after him in disbelief. “You’re still wrong.”
A brief pause at the doorway. Max glanced back over his shoulder. And smiled. Small. Sharp. Dangerously amused. Like this had stopped being solely about racing a long time ago.
You watched him leave with an expression hovering somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief before finally deciding to pack up for the night and retreat to the relative safety of your hotel room.
The racing season had barely started and already you felt wrung out. Practice sessions. Data reviews. Strategy meetings. Arguing with Max. Again.
You shoved your laptop into your bag with more force than necessary before slinging it over your shoulder, still irritated enough to fantasise briefly about pushing him directly into oncoming traffic the next time he questioned your data.
“Careful,” one of the mechanics murmured while passing you near the garage exit.
“With what?”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “He only argues with people he likes.”
“Oh good,” you deadpanned. “I’ll alert the authorities.”
The mechanic laughed quietly before disappearing back toward the engineering room, but the comment lingered unpleasantly in your chest long after you left the paddock behind.
You were halfway down the hotel corridor when you noticed him leaning against the wall outside your room. Your stomach tightened instantly in annoyance. Or something dangerously close to it. “You’ve got to be joking.”
Max looked up lazily from his phone. “You took long enough.”
“You’re waiting outside my room like a serial killer.”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I ignored your phone call.”
“Same difference.”
You stared at him. Still in team kit. Arms folded loosely across his chest. Expression unreadable beneath the dim corridor lighting. Entirely too attractive for someone currently irritating the life out of you. “What do you want, Max?”
“You were right.”
The words hit you so unexpectedly that you almost forgot how to breathe. “What?”
“The second stint degradation.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Who are you and what have you done with Max Verstappen?”
A brief flicker of amusement crossed his face before disappearing again. “You were still annoying about it.”
“And you were still wrong.”
His gaze sharpened slightly at that. There it was again. That awful tension. Like neither of you fully understood why every conversation seemed to crackle with more intensity than it should. Like somewhere beneath the arguing, something else had been building quietly for months. “You always push this hard?” he asked suddenly.
“What?”
“When people disagree with you.”
You scoffed softly. “Only when they’re behaving like spoiled children.”
“And yet here you are talking to me.”
You rolled your eyes, fumbling for your room key mostly so you had something else to focus on besides the way he was looking at you. “I’m going to bed.”
“Mm.”
But he still didn’t move.
You finally looked at him properly then. “Why are you actually here Max?”
Something shifted subtly in his expression. Then— “You looked at me differently today.”
Your breath caught annoyingly fast. “What does that even mean?”
“You stopped treating me like a driver.”
The corridor suddenly felt far too small. Max’s gaze remained fixed steadily on yours. Not flirtatious. Not soft. Just intensely aware. Like he was trying to figure you out in real time.
And maybe you were doing the same. “You are a driver,” you said carefully.
“No,” Max said quietly. Then, after a beat, “That’s just the useful part.”
The words landed somewhere deep enough to unsettle you. Because suddenly this no longer felt like an argument. It felt like standing too close to the edge of something neither of you fully understood yet.
The corridor had gone very quiet. Not literally. Somewhere down the hall, an elevator chimed softly. A door shut. Muffled laughter drifted briefly from another room before fading away again.
But between you and Max, the silence had thickened into something almost physical. You still held your room key too tightly in your hand. Max hadn’t moved. Neither had you. And suddenly that felt like a mistake.
“You always psychoanalyse people after meetings?” you asked lightly, mostly because the alternative was continuing to stare at him in this increasingly dangerous silence.
His gaze remained fixed steadily on yours. “Only the interesting ones.”
Your pulse betrayed you instantly. “That’s unfortunate for you,” you said. “I’m deeply irritating.”
“I noticed.”
You should unlock your door. You should say goodnight. You should leave this exactly where it was. Instead, you bit down lightly on your lip and asked: “Why’d you actually come here?”
Something shifted subtly in his expression again, like he was weighing how honest to be. “You looked angry.”
“I was angry.”
“At me.”
“That tends to happen when you act like a dick during debriefs.”
A tiny twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again. “You’re still doing it,” he murmured.
“Doing what?”
“Talking to me like I’m normal.”
The words landed strangely. Not flirtatious. Not self-pitying. Almost confused. You frowned slightly. “You are normal.”
Max actually laughed then. Quiet. Disbelieving. “No.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Because there it was again. That glimpse beneath the armour. Tiny. Gone too quickly to examine properly. “You know,” you said carefully, “you make it very difficult to be nice to you.”
“Why?”
“You enjoy arguing.”
“I enjoy arguing with you.”
Your breath caught for half a second. The honesty of it hit harder than it should have. And maybe he realised it immediately because something in his expression shifted afterward.
Sharper now. More aware. Like he had accidentally revealed too much.
You folded your arms defensively. “That’s a terrible hobby.”
“Mm.”
“Seriously, it’s concerning.”
“But you still do it too.”
The corridor suddenly felt much smaller than before. You hated how steady his gaze was. How he looked at you like he had all the time in the world to wait for an answer. “I think,” you said slowly, “you just enjoy annoying me specifically.”
“That too.”
Again. Too honest. The air between you had changed somehow. Tilted. You became acutely aware of how close he was standing now. Not touching you. Not quite. But near enough that one step forward would erase the space between you entirely.
And the terrifying thing was that neither of you seemed interested in stepping back.
Max’s eyes flicked briefly toward your mouth. Your stomach dropped. There it was. That awful recognition. The moment attraction stopped being abstract and became something alive in the room with you.
“You should probably go,” you said quietly.
“You want me to?”
The question wrapped itself around your ribs dangerously fast. Because no. You didn’t. That was the problem. You forced out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “You’re unbelievably arrogant.”
“You didn’t answer.” His voice had gone lower somehow. Still calm. Still controlled. Which only made it worse.
Your heartbeat felt uneven now, clumsy beneath your skin. “I think,” you said carefully, “you’re very used to getting what you want.”
Something flickered behind his eyes then. Not amusement. Something heavier. “And what do you think I want?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Because suddenly you weren’t entirely sure.
There was something strangely intense about the way he watched you. Like he was trying to solve something instead of seduce it.
And somehow that felt far more dangerous.
“You’re staring again,” Max said quietly.
Your throat tightened. “Am not.”
“You are.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Mm,” that sound again. Thoughtful. Certain. Then, before you could prepare for it properly, his mouth twitched faintly. “You keep looking at my mouth.”
Heat climbed instantly up your neck. “Oh my god,” you muttered. “You’re insufferable.”
“But am I wrong?”
You hated that he asked questions like traps. Your laugh came out breathless around the edges. “This is exactly why people find you annoying.”
“But not you.”
The words settled softly between you. Not cocky this time. Observational. And that was somehow infinitely worse. Because the truth was, you didn’t find him annoying right now. You found him impossible.
Max took one slow step closer then. Not enough to touch. Enough to ask. Your pulse thundered hard enough you were sure he could hear it. “You know what your problem is?” you whispered.
His gaze stayed fixed steadily on yours. “What?”
“You think everyone eventually gives in to you.”
A pause. Then he smirked, that infuriating but captivating smirk. “And you still haven’t left yet.”
The world tilted slightly. And maybe the worst part was that he sounded almost curious about it too. Like he genuinely wanted to know what this thing between you was becoming.
Your arms dropped to your side as your room key slipped forgotten from your fingers onto the carpet. The sound echoed softly through the corridor. Max’s eyes dropped automatically toward it before lifting slowly back to yours.
And something about the look on his face then made your stomach twist painfully tight. Not triumph. Not arrogance. Recognition. Like he understood this moment mattered suddenly.
The corridor felt too warm. Too small. Too quiet. You should say something. Anything.
Instead you just stood there staring at each other while your pulse beat hard enough to make coherent thought nearly impossible.
Max spoke first. “You’re nervous.”
The observation should have irritated you. Unfortunately, it was true. “That’s because you’re standing outside my room at midnight acting like I’m a psychological experiment.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You started it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You looked at me like you wanted to kill me during the debrief.”
“Maybe I did.”
“And then you came back to the hotel angry.”
Your breath caught slightly. He noticed too much. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“No?”
“No.”
Max tilted his head slightly then, studying you with that same unbearable focus that always made you feel like he was seeing things you hadn’t admitted to yourself yet. “Then why are you shaking?”
Your chest tightened instantly. Because you were. Barely. Just enough that your fingers trembled faintly at your sides. Humiliating. “I’m not.”
“Liar.” The word landed softly. Not cruel. Almost intimate. And suddenly the distance between you felt impossible to survive.
“No, now I really know what your problem is?” you said quietly.
Max’s gaze stayed fixed on your mouth now. “Enlighten me.”
“You always need to win.”
Something shifted in his expression at that. Not defensive. Interested. “And what exactly am I trying to win here?”
The answer lodged itself somewhere behind your ribs. You. The thought hit hard enough to frighten you slightly. “This,” you gestured vaguely between you both, “whatever weird game this is.”
For the first time all evening, Max looked genuinely confused. “Game?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do.” The frustrating thing was that he sounded honest. That honesty made this worse somehow.
“You flirt with people like it’s a competitive sport,” you said.
“I don’t flirt with people.”
You stared at him incredulously. “You are literally doing it right now.”
“No,” Max said quietly. Then, after a beat, “Not people. Just you.”
The air left your lungs in one uneven breath. God— That shouldn’t have affected you the way it did. But there was something terrifying about how straightforward he could be sometimes. No performance. No charm. Just blunt honesty dropped directly into your bloodstream like poison.
Or maybe not poison. Something far more dangerous.
Max took another small step closer. Close enough now that you could feel warmth radiating from him. Neither of you spoke.
Your body had become painfully aware of every tiny detail: the smell of rain still clinging faintly to his clothes, the sharp line of his jaw beneath the corridor lighting, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the Red Bull shirt, the fact that if you leaned forward even slightly—
No. Absolutely not.
“You should go,” you whispered again. But this time it sounded weak even to your own ears.
Max’s gaze didn’t waver. “You don’t want me to.”
It wasn’t arrogance anymore. That was the problem. It was certainty. Like he could already feel the way your resolve kept cracking every time he looked at you too long. You hated that he was right. Your heart was beating so hard now it genuinely hurt.
“Max—” The warning dissolved halfway through his name. Because his eyes had dropped to your mouth again. And this time he didn’t look away. Something electric passed violently between you both. Not romance. Not tenderness. Hunger. Tension stretched too tight for too long.
Your breathing had gone uneven. “So this is what tonight was?” you asked softly. “You came up here because you wanted to prove something?”
His expression sharpened slightly. “Maybe.”
“That’s insane.”
“Probably.”
“And what exactly do you think happens now?”
For the first time since you’d found him waiting outside your room, Max hesitated. Tiny. Barely visible. But you saw it. Then— “I think,” he said slowly, “if I kiss you right now, you’ll let me.”
Your stomach dropped so hard it almost felt like fear. Because the worst part? You would.
The silence that followed felt endless. You could still walk away. Unlock your door. Tell him goodnight. End this before it became something impossible to undo. Instead, you heard yourself whisper, “You sound very confident.”
And maybe that was the moment it truly stopped being avoidable. Because suddenly all the tension of the last few months seemed to collapse inward at once. Every argument, every lingering look, every sharp-edged conversation, every moment spent too close to each other pretending not to notice.
Your pulse thundered painfully beneath your skin. Then, before you could think better of it, “Maybe,” you whispered, “I’m just curious whether you ever shut up.”
A pause. Tiny. Dangerous. And for the first time all night, Max smiled properly. Slow. Ruined around the edges. Like something breaking open. “Come here then,” he said softly. The words settled low in your stomach like a lit match.
Come here then. Not demanding. Not rushed. Certain. And somehow that certainty undid you faster than anything else had tonight. You should have laughed. Rolled your eyes. Told him to go to hell.
Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Max watched you quietly for one second longer, like he was giving you the chance to walk away if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
That seemed to change something in him. The air between you tightened almost painfully as he stepped fully into your space at last. Close enough now that your back brushed lightly against the hotel door behind you.
Still, he didn’t touch you. Not yet. Which somehow felt worse. Your breathing had gone shallow. His remained infuriatingly steady. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured.
“You’re very smug for someone standing in a corridor waiting to get rejected.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “But I’m not going to get rejected, am I?”
Your stomach twisted violently. God, you wanted to be angry about the arrogance of him. Instead you just wanted him closer. “Has anyone ever told you you’re difficult to like?” you whispered.
“Yes.”
“And?”
His gaze held yours steadily. “You still haven’t gone inside.”
The words hit somewhere deep enough to hurt. Because he was right again. You could have unlocked the door and left him outside. But instead you were still standing here. Still looking at him like this. Like something inside you had already surrendered before your mind caught up.
Max finally lifted a hand then. Slow enough that you could have stopped him if you wanted to. You didn’t. His fingers brushed lightly beneath your jaw, barely touching at first, like he was testing whether you’d pull away.
You should. Instead, your eyes closed briefly at the contact. A mistake. When you looked back at him, something in his expression had shifted entirely. Not teasing anymore. Focused. The intensity of it made your pulse stutter unevenly.
“You know,” you said softly, because apparently self-destruction had become a hobby now, “for someone who claims not to flirt, you’re very good at this.”
Max’s thumb moved once against your jaw. Tiny movement. Devastating effect. “I’m not trying to flirt.”
Your breath caught. No. Of course he wasn’t. That would imply lightness. Games. Distance.
This didn’t feel light at all. The realisation settled heavily between your ribs— whatever this thing was between you had already become too intense to classify as harmless.
You swallowed carefully. “Then what are you trying to do?”
For a second, Max didn’t answer. His gaze searched your face with that same terrifying attentiveness he brought to everything he cared about. Then, quietly, “Figure out why you look at me like that.”
The honesty of it cracked straight through you. Because suddenly you understood this wasn’t entirely one-sided confidence from him either. He was affected too. Maybe just as badly.
Your chest tightened painfully. “You’re unbelievable,” you whispered.
“I know.”
But the automatic arrogance lacked force now, like even he wasn’t fully paying attention to the words anymore. Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself.
Max noticed instantly. The hand against your jaw tightened slightly. Not enough to trap. Enough to feel intentional. “You keep doing that,” he breathed. His voice had gone rougher somehow.
Your pulse jumped hard. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you want something.”
The corridor suddenly felt far too small to breathe inside. You forced yourself to meet his eyes again. “And what if I do?”
Something flickered across his face then. Not victory. Relief. Gone immediately. But you saw it. And maybe that was the exact moment things became dangerous beyond repair.
Because for the first time all night, Max looked uncertain. Not externally. Not enough anyone else would ever notice. But you noticed. You always would. Like he’d reached the edge of something and suddenly realised he wanted you to meet him there too.
Your heart was beating so violently now you thought it might bruise your ribs. “Max,” you whispered again. This time it sounded nothing like a warning.
His eyes closed briefly at the sound of his name in your mouth. One second. Barely that.
Then he leaned down slowly enough for you to stop him.
And maybe you should have. Maybe this was the last clean moment either of you would ever have again. Instead, the second his mouth touched yours, every coherent thought disappeared completely. Not gentle. Not careful. Months of tension collapsing inward all at once.
Your fingers caught instinctively in the front of his shirt as his free hand found your waist, pulling you against him hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs. And suddenly all the fighting between you made horrible, perfect sense. Because this was what it had always been turning into. Every sharp word. Every stare held too long. Every argument dragged out longer than necessary.
Not hatred. Want.
Max kissed like he argued: focused, intense, like losing wasn’t an option. Your head tipped back against the hotel door with a soft sound you barely recognised as your own, and something rough and uneven escaped him at the noise before he kissed you harder.
God— This was a terrible idea. You knew that immediately. Because already it felt far too consuming. Far too easy to disappear into him. And the worst part? The truly horrifying part?
Was the way Max touched you like he’d been thinking about this for far longer than tonight.
The hotel room had gone strangely quiet afterward. Not awkward exactly. Just still. The kind of stillness that arrives after something irreversible.
You sat at the edge of the mattress wrapped tightly in the hotel duvet while Max moved calmly around the room collecting pieces of clothing from the floor like this sort of thing happened to him every Friday.
Which, to be fair, it probably did.
Your own shirt was currently hanging from the bedside lamp for reasons you did not want to examine too closely. Neither of you had spoken properly in several minutes. Probably wise.
Because the second either of you acknowledged what had just happened out loud, there was a strong possibility you might actually combust from delayed humiliation.
Max pulled his t-shirt back over his head before finally glancing toward you. And the truly irritating thing? He looked completely fine. Relaxed, even. Meanwhile your nervous system was actively trying to leave your body. “This—” you announced finally into the silence, “—Was an exceptionally bad idea.”
Max reached for his watch from the bedside table. “Probably.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “You agreeing that quickly feels offensive.”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You haven’t kicked me out yet.”
“I’m in shock.”
“Mm,” that stupid sound again. You watched him fasten the watch onto his wrist with infuriating calmness before leaning back slightly against the dresser. “We should do it again.”
Your head snapped toward him in disbelief. “What?”
His expression remained completely neutral, like he had suggested grabbing coffee sometime instead of detonating the fragile remains of your professionalism. “You heard me.”
“That,” you said slowly, “is genuinely insane.”
“Why?”
You stared at him. Actually stared. Because somehow the casual certainty of him was far more unsettling than if he had made this emotional or complicated. “Max.”
“Yes?”
“We cannot just continue doing this.”
“Why not?”
“You are my driver.”
“And?”
“And?” you echoed incredulously. “That’s your counterpoint?”
He shrugged once. “You seemed fine with it an hour ago.”
Heat climbed violently into your face. “You’re impossible.”
“You liked that too.”
Your pillow hit him directly in the chest. Max laughed quietly under his breath before tossing it back toward you. The sound twisted unpleasantly low in your stomach. Dangerous.
Everything about this felt dangerous now.
You folded your arms defensively instead. “This is not becoming a recurring thing.”
“Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
The immediate agreement somehow irritated you more. “That’s all you have to say?”
Max’s gaze drifted slowly over your face. Steady. Unsettlingly attentive. His lips curved faintly into a smirk. “I just don’t think you mean it.”
Your pulse stumbled hard against your ribs. Unfortunately, the worst part? Neither did you.
You opened your mouth anyway. “I absolutely mean it.”
“Mm.”
“There you go with the smug noise again.”
“It’s not smug.”
“It’s deeply smug.”
A tiny smile threatened briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again. A moment later, he pushed himself away from the dresser and moved toward the door, grabbing his room key from the table beside it.
You watched him the entire time despite yourself. Annoying. Very annoying. At the door, Max glanced back once over his shoulder. And for one brief second something shifted in his expression. Not softness exactly. Something quieter. Like curiosity. Like he was wondering whether this would really be the end of it too. Finally, he said, “Goodnight.”
The door shut behind him a moment later. And you sat there alone in the silence convincing yourself this absolutely would not happen again.
It happened again twelve days later. Which honestly felt embarrassing for everyone involved.
Wednesday evening in Japan and somehow you found yourself standing outside Max’s hotel room after midnight like a woman completely incapable of learning from previous catastrophic decisions.
The worst part? You hadn’t even tried particularly hard to stop yourself.
Almost two weeks. Almost two entire weeks of pretending you weren’t thinking about him constantly. Every conversation had become unbearable afterward. Every glance stretched too long. Every argument somehow heavier now that you knew exactly what his mouth felt like against yours.
You hated him a little for it. Mostly yourself.
The door opened before you could lose your nerve. Max looked down at you once, before saying, “Wow.”
Your glare sharpened immediately. “Don’t.”
“You didn’t even make it to practice.”
“I said don’t.”
A faint grin appeared despite himself. Infuriating. “You lasted less than two weeks,” he mused. “That’s worse than I expected.”
“Oh my god,” you shoved lightly at his shoulder as you walked past him into the room. “Your personality becomes significantly less attractive when you’re right.”
“Still attractive though.”
“You are unbearable.”
The hotel door clicked shut behind you. And suddenly the atmosphere shifted instantly. Like the room itself recognised this now. The tension between you felt sharper tonight somehow.
Less uncertain. More inevitable.
Max watched you quietly from beside the door while you tried very hard not to acknowledge how fast your pulse had started racing the second he looked at you properly. “You gonna stand there insulting me all night?” he asked eventually.
You crossed your arms. “You’re very confident for someone who got used as a rebound against my own better judgement.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Rebound from what?”
“Sanity.”
That finally earned a proper laugh from him. Low. Real. Dangerously warm. And God— You hadn’t even realised you’d missed that sound. The realisation hit hard enough to annoy you further.
Max stepped closer slowly. Not rushing. Never rushing. “You kept looking at me during the flight briefing,” he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped instantly. “You’re imagining things.”
“No.”
Again with the certainty. It should not have affected you this much already. “You’re incredibly irritating,” you informed him softly.
“And yet—” He stopped directly in front of you now. Close enough that the heat of him settled immediately beneath your skin. Neither of you moved. Slowly, Max lifted his hand between you both.
Tap. Tap. Against the inside of his wrist.
You frowned slightly. “What’s that?”
His gaze remained fixed steadily on yours. “The signal.”
“The what?”
“So I know when you want me.”
Your breath caught embarrassingly fast. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s efficient.”
“You keep saying efficient like this isn’t deeply concerning behaviour.”
A tiny shrug. “You came to my room.” Fair. Annoyingly fair. Your eyes dropped briefly toward his mouth before you could stop yourself. Max noticed immediately. Of course he did. “So,” he murmured quietly, “you using the signal or not?”
You stared at him for one suspended second longer before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him before he could say anything else.
The first time Max used the signal, you genuinely thought he was mocking you. The debrief after the Chinese Grand Prix had already been unbearable before it somehow became worse.
Bad qualifying. Worse strategy calls. Laurent tense enough to make the entire room feel airless. And Max, already irritated before anyone had even sat down, had spent the last twenty minutes dismantling every decision made across the weekend with the precision of someone pulling threads from a wound just to watch it bleed again.
Normally, you could handle him after bad races. Actually, that wasn’t true. You handled him better than most people did. Which was exactly why he kept looking at you every time someone else in the room said something he didn’t like, as though he expected you to challenge him eventually.
You usually did. Unfortunately for both of you, tonight you were tired.
Tired enough that when Max interrupted you halfway through explaining tyre degradation projections, something sharp finally snapped loose inside your chest. “If you already know everything,” you said flatly, “I’m not entirely sure why the team bothers paying the rest of us.”
The room went silent instantly. Somewhere to your left, someone coughed nervously. Max stared at you across the table. Not angry exactly. Worse. Interested. You could practically feel Laurent praying neither of you continued speaking. Unfortunately, Max had never met an argument he didn’t want to escalate. “You think the strategy was good today?” he asked coolly.
“No. I think acting like an arsehole after every difficult weekend is getting old,” another dangerous silence. You should stop talking. Immediately. Instead, you continued, almost like you wanted the rise from him. “Shockingly, the laws of physics do not rearrange themselves simply because you’re in a bad mood.”
A mechanic near the back of the room actually looked impressed. Max leaned back slowly in his chair, gaze never leaving yours. And then, to your absolute horror, the corner of his mouth twitched. Like he was enjoying this. “Oh, you’re really angry,” he murmured.
You blinked at him incredulously. “Yes?”
“Hm.” You hated that sound. That thoughtful little noise he made whenever he was deciding something.
Laurent cut in quickly before either of you could continue. “Right. We’ll regroup tomorrow morning.”
The meeting dissolved almost instantly after that. People fled. Genuinely fled. You shoved your laptop into your bag with far more force than necessary while muttering something under your breath about emotionally constipated world champions.
Then you felt it. Eyes on you. You looked up sharply. Max stood near the doorway speaking to one of the engineers, but his attention had drifted entirely toward you.
And before you could look away, he lifted his hand.
Tap. Tap. Against the inside of his wrist.
You frowned immediately. What the fuck?
Max held your gaze for exactly one second longer before leaving the room without explanation.
Weirdo, you thought.
You still met him in his hotel room later that night and let him kiss you like he had something to prove.
The first few months settled into something ugly and addictive. It was never planned. Never discussed. Just a pattern that formed quietly between race weekends and late-night debriefs until eventually the signal became as instinctive as breathing.
Tap. Tap.
Sometimes from across crowded strategy meetings. Sometimes outside hotel bars. Sometimes through the reflection of garage windows while neither of you acknowledged it directly.
At first, it only happened after bad weekends. Bad races. Bad strategy calls. Arguments sharp enough to leave bruises beneath your skin long after the words themselves faded.
Max arrived angry more often than not. At the world. At the car. At himself. And somehow you became the place he brought that frustration to.
Not cruelly. Just intensely. Like the only time either of you stopped fighting each other was when your mouths were occupied. There was nothing soft about it then. No lingering afterward. No sleeping beside each other. No slow conversations in the dark.
Just heat. Tension. Hands grabbing desperately at fabric and skin like both of you were trying to burn something out of your systems before morning arrived.
And afterward, one of you always left. Every single time.
Which was probably why you kept convincing yourself it remained uncomplicated.
About a month into whatever this was, you found yourself sitting in Max’s lap in a dark hotel room in Italy while he kissed lazily along the curve of your neck like he had nowhere else to be.
The television muttered quietly somewhere in the background. Neither of you were paying attention. Your fingers traced absent patterns against his bare shoulder while his hand rested low against your waist beneath one of his shirts. Dangerously domestic for two people supposedly doing this casually.
“We should probably have rules,” you murmured eventually.
Max barely looked up. “Why?”
“So this doesn’t become messy.”
That finally made him pause. His mouth brushed once more against your throat before he leaned back enough to properly look at you. “It’s not going to become messy.”
“You sound very confident.”
“I am.”
You studied him carefully. Still shirtless. Still unfairly attractive. Completely relaxed beneath you in a way that should have alarmed you more than it did. “And what exactly is this, then?” you asked quietly.
Max’s thumb moved absently against your waist. “Just two people attracted to each other.”
“That sounds suspiciously simple.”
“It is simple.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You don’t think this could become complicated?”
“No.” The certainty of it should have reassured you. Instead, something about it unsettled you slightly.
“Max.”
“What?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” his gaze held yours steadily now. “No feelings,” he said calmly. “No expectations.”
Your stomach tightened unexpectedly. “Okay,” you said carefully.
“No staying over,” which was ironic considering the position you were currently in. “No impact on work,” he continued.
“No-one in the team finds out,” you added quietly.
Max looked almost amused by that. “You think they don’t already suspect something?”
“I’m serious Max.”
“So am I,” his hand settled absently against your waist again. “No drama, no complications. No-one else involved.”
You tried to ignore the strange ache that settled somewhere beneath your ribs at the thought of reducing this to terms and conditions. “And if one of us wants out?”
Max shrugged once. “Then we stop.”
Simple. Controlled. Contained. That was the whole point. You nodded slowly like you believed him. And maybe you did.
At least a little.
Then his hand slid slowly beneath the back of your shirt and your thoughts dissolved entirely again.
Barcelona was the first time it became properly toxic. You hadn’t seen him properly all weekend. Not outside meetings. Not outside strategy briefings. And every time you did catch sight of him, he looked irritated about something.
Friday practice. Traffic. Tyre temperatures. You. You weren’t entirely sure.
By Saturday evening, the tension between you both had become unbearable. “You’ve been ignoring me for two days,” you snapped finally after he interrupted you mid-debrief for the third time.
Max didn’t even look up from the telemetry screen. “I’ve been working.”
“That’s funny. So have I.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Because suddenly this no longer sounded like an argument about work. It sounded like something else entirely.
Your chest tightened unpleasantly. “Right,” you said flatly. “Of course.” You left before he could answer.
Then three hours later: Tap. Tap. Against the side of his wrist. From across the hotel bar. You hated yourself for going anyway.
Silverstone was worse. Because by then, the arguments had started bleeding into moments that had nothing to do with racing.
“You disappear every time this starts feeling real,” you said sharply one night while pulling your shirt back on.
Max frowned immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.” The frustrating thing was that he sounded honest.
You laughed once without humour. “Of course you don’t.”
Max watched you carefully from the edge of the bed. “You said this wouldn’t become complicated.”
“Maybe that was naive.”
His expression hardened slightly at that. “We agreed on what this was.”
“There you go again,” you snapped quietly. “Talking about this like it’s a contract.”
Silence settled heavily between you. Dangerous. Fragile. Finally, Max said evenly, “If you want to stop, then stop.”
The words should have made leaving easier. Instead they just hurt. Because suddenly it sounded less like confidence and more like defence. Like he needed this relationship to remain emotionally manageable or he wouldn’t survive it. You hated that some part of you understood.
And then somehow, despite all of that— It started softening anyway. Not suddenly. Worse.
Gradually. Like neither of you noticed it happening until it already had.
Singapore. Three in the morning. You sat cross-legged on the floor of Max’s hotel room eating terrible room service chips while he lay sprawled across the bed half-asleep listening to you complain about strategy projections for the next day.
At some point, you realised you’d been there nearly two hours. Neither of you had touched each other once. The thought unsettled you more than it should have.
“You’re staring again,” Max muttered sleepily from the bed.
You rolled your eyes immediately. “You say that every time I look at you.”
“Because you do it a lot.”
“You’re deeply annoying.”
A brief silence followed before he said, quieter this time, “But you stayed.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Because he sounded surprised by it too.
The music was too loud. That was the first problem.
The second was Max. Or more specifically, the fact that Max had spent the last two hours acting as though you barely existed despite being the entire reason you were currently trapped inside an overcrowded Monaco rooftop bar pretending not to care.
You took another sip of your drink while watching him across the room. Surrounded, obviously. Friends. Sponsors. Drivers. People laughing too loudly at things that probably weren’t funny. And him in the middle of it all looking unfairly good in black button-down sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand wrapped around a gin glass while someone spoke animatedly beside him.
He hadn’t looked at you properly once all evening. Not once. Which was irritating for several reasons. Most notably because he was the one who had insisted you come tonight.
“You’re coming.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my birthday.”
As though that explained anything. You hated that you came anyway.
“You look murderous.”
You glanced sideways toward the man beside you on the lounge sofa. Sam, one of the mechanics. Unfortunately observant tonight. “I’m deciding whether homicide would ruin team morale.”
He followed your line of sight across the room before immediately grinning. “Oh, this is about Max.”
“It is not.”
“You’ve looked at him seventeen times in under ten minutes.”
“Counted, did you?”
“I’m very bored.”
You rolled your eyes before draining the rest of your drink.
Across the room, Max finally glanced over. Your stomach tightened immediately. The look lasted less than a second. Then he looked away again. Something sharp and unpleasant twisted beneath your ribs. Fine, whatever. You set your empty glass onto the table harder than necessary before standing.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked suspiciously.
“To enjoy myself.”
“That sentence sounds threatening coming from you.”
You ignored him entirely. If Max wanted to spend all evening pretending you weren’t there, then fine. You were perfectly capable of surviving one party without orbiting around him constantly like some pathetic idiot.
The thought irritated you enough that when a man near the dance floor smiled at you twenty minutes later, you smiled back. Maybe a little recklessly. He was attractive enough. Funny enough. Very clearly interested. You recognised him vaguely. He didn’t work for the team.
Maybe a friend of someone’s.
But most importantly: He was not Max. Which should have made this easier. Instead, the entire time he spoke to you, some part of your attention remained painfully aware of the other side of the room. Waiting. Pathetic.
“You’re not listening to me at all, are you?” the man laughed eventually.
You blinked back into the conversation guiltily. “Sorry.”
“Distracted?”
“Unfortunately.”
You let him pull you closer toward the dance floor anyway because at this point stubbornness had become the only thing keeping your dignity alive. The music pulsed heavily beneath your ribs while the crowd shifted around you in blurred movement and flashing lights.
The stranger’s hands settled lightly against your waist as you laughed at something he said.
And then you looked up. Mistake. Because across the room, Max was staring directly at you.
Not casually. Not mildly irritated. Furious.
Your breath caught instantly. The atmosphere seemed to sharpen violently around the edges. Even from here you could see the tension pulled tight through his jaw. The gin glass still clenched low in one hand. The complete focus of his attention locked entirely onto the man touching you.
Something hot twisted low in your stomach. Not fear. No— God help you — it was attraction.
The stranger beside you was still speaking but you barely heard him now over the sudden rush of adrenaline flooding your bloodstream.
Max didn’t look away. Slowly, deliberately: Tap. Tap. Against his wrist.
The signal. Your pulse slammed violently against your ribs. At first it had been practical. Then secretive. Tonight it felt possessive. Come here. Not a request. The sheer intensity of wanting, reflected back at you in his expression nearly ruined you on the spot.
The stranger’s hands were still resting against your waist. Max’s gaze dropped there briefly.
Something dangerous flashed across his face. You were moving before your brain fully caught up. “Sorry,” you blurted quickly to the poor man in front of you before turning away into the crowd.
The walk across the rooftop felt endless.
Max met you halfway. “Having fun?” he asked coolly.
You scoffed immediately. “Oh, now you remember I exist.”
His jaw tightened. “You seemed occupied.”
“You spent all night ignoring me.”
“I was talking to people.”
“You were glaring at me like you wanted to kill him.”
“That too.”
Your stomach flipped violently. God— You hated him. No, worse. You liked this. The realisation made your pulse feel dangerously unsteady beneath your skin.
Max stepped closer suddenly, enough that the music around you blurred into background noise. “Nobody else gets to touch you like that.”
The words landed rough and immediate between you. Your breath caught. There it was. Not casual anymore. Not really. And judging by the way Max looked immediately afterward, some part of him realised he had revealed too much too. A dangerous silence stretched between you both. Finally, he said quietly, “Hotel.”
You went immediately. Which honestly felt like losing some kind of war against yourself.
Later, the room had gone quiet except for both of your uneven breathing. The earlier sharpness had burned itself out somewhere along the way, leaving only exhaustion and warmth settling slowly through the dark hotel room.
You lay on your back staring at the ceiling while Max sat beside you against the headboard, one hand resting absently against your waist beneath the sheets. Neither of you had spoken properly in several minutes.
Suddenly, Max asked quietly, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
The question startled you enough to turn toward him immediately. Max wasn’t looking at you.
His expression had gone quieter now. Tension replaced with something almost uncertain.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “No,” you said softly. “No, you didn’t,” only then did some of the tightness leave his shoulders. “It was hot, actually,” you added carefully.
That finally earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Unfortunately for my self-respect, yes.”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him. Silence settled again briefly before Max said, more quietly this time, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
You frowned slightly. “What way?”
Max’s gaze dropped toward the sheets between you both. Possessive. Controlling. Too much. The words remained unspoken anyway. He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I just meant...” He sighed softly, as though he was aware he was giving part of himself away. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else,” he admitted finally. “And I don’t intend to.”
Your heartbeat stumbled hard.
Oh.
That felt bigger than it should.
You swallowed carefully. “I’m not either.”
Max looked at you then. Really looked at you. And suddenly the room felt very still. Because there it was— The edge. Not love confessed. Not commitment. But something frighteningly close to exclusivity sitting quietly between you both now. Neither of you seemed brave enough to name it yet.
So instead Max’s thumb brushed once absently against your waist beneath the sheets. Tiny movement. Devastating effect. And somewhere deep down, you both understood this thing between you had just become far more dangerous than either of you intended.
Brazil was the first time he touched you gently without seeming to realise he was doing it.
You had fallen asleep briefly in the back of the engineering room after a brutal triple-header.
When you woke up, the garage had mostly emptied. And Max was sitting beside you scrolling through telemetry with one hand while the other rested absentmindedly against your ankle.
Not sexual. Not possessive. Just there.
Your pulse stumbled strangely beneath your ribs. For one terrifying second, neither of you moved. Then Max glanced over casually. “You drool when you sleep.”
You kicked him immediately. The moment shattered.
But not entirely.
The end of the season arrived in a blur of champagne and exhaustion.
Another championship. Another year of Max standing beneath flashing lights with cameras pointed toward him from every angle imaginable while the rest of the paddock looked on with varying degrees of admiration and resentment.
You watched from the edge of the garage while Red Bull erupted around you. Mechanics shouting. Laurent already halfway through celebrating. GP looking equal parts proud and exhausted. And Max in the middle of it all. Untouchable, almost.
Except his eyes still found yours. Even through the noise. Even through the crowd.
Tap. Tap. Against the inside of his wrist while nobody else noticed.
Your stomach flipped instantly. Come upstairs later. The signal still meant that too. You rolled your eyes faintly before answering it back beneath crossed arms.
Tap. Tap.
His mouth twitched briefly at the corner before the cameras swallowed him again. And somehow that tiny secret exchange felt more intimate than the podium celebrations themselves.
Winter break should have created distance. That was probably the first sign things had already become dangerous. Because suddenly there were no race weekends. No late-night debriefs. No hotel corridors. No excuses.
Just silence. Or at least there should have been.
Instead, your phone kept lighting up with his name. At first it stayed practical.
Did you send GP the updated simulator numbers?
What’s the name of that restaurant near MK you mentioned?
Do you think the new suspension setup will actually fix the balance issue?
But gradually the conversations started stretching later into the night. Memes. Photos. Complaints about travel delays. Arguments about football neither of you actually cared enough about to defend that passionately.
And underneath every conversation sat the same unspoken thing— I miss you. Neither of you said it. But it lingered anyway.
One night in January, your phone rang just after midnight. You frowned immediately at Max’s name flashing across the screen before answering. “What?”
Music thundered faintly through the speaker. Voices. Laughter. Glass clinking somewhere in the background. “You sound annoyed,” Max said.
“You’re calling me drunk at midnight.”
“I’m not drunk,” a pause. Then, more honestly, “Okay, I’m a little drunk.”
You laughed despite yourself, curling deeper beneath the blanket on your sofa. Rain tapped softly against the windows of your flat while Milton Keynes slept quietly outside. “Dangerous level of honesty for you.”
“Mm.” That stupid sound again. You could practically picture him leaning back somewhere in Monaco with a glass of gin in his hand and that unfocused softness around his eyes that only appeared when he was exhausted or tipsy enough to stop guarding himself properly.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Watching terrible television.”
“You hate television.”
“I contain multitudes.”
A quiet laugh crackled down the line. God— You missed that sound more than you wanted to admit. The silence that followed settled strangely soft between you. Not empty.
Comfortable.
Then Max said quietly: “Come to Monaco.”
Your breath caught slightly. “What?”
“Come here, to me.”
The words sounded almost careless at first. But underneath them, something else. You sat up slightly on the sofa. “Max.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re drunk.”
“So?”
You swallowed carefully. “You miss the sex.”
“No.” The answer came too fast. Too certain. And suddenly your pulse had started beating unevenly beneath your ribs.
“No?” you echoed quietly.
A pause. Noise shifted faintly in the background like he’d moved somewhere quieter. Then—
“I miss you.”
The world seemed to still around you. Not the sex. Not the convenience. Not the fighting.
You.
Your throat tightened painfully fast. Because God, you missed him too.
The silence stretched long enough that Max finally murmured, “You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” your voice sounded smaller than usual somehow.
You heard him exhale softly through the phone. “Come see me, please.”
And for one terrifying second, you almost said yes.
The next morning, Max acted like none of it had happened. No mention of the call. No mention of Monaco. No mention of the fact he had cracked something open inside your chest at midnight and then apparently forgotten about it entirely by daylight.
Instead, your phone buzzed at eleven thirty with: Did GP send you the updated aero numbers?
You stared at the message for nearly thirty seconds. That was all. No acknowledgement whatsoever. Something sharp twisted unpleasantly beneath your ribs. You told yourself it was because he’d been drunk. That he probably didn’t even remember half the conversation. But for the first time since this thing between you had started, the hurt felt distinctly romantic.
And that terrified you far more than the pain itself.
not loudly enough - part two (max verstappen x reader)
🏁pairing: max verstappen x f!reader.
🏁 word count: 27.4k total. this part: 17.6k.
🏁 genres/warnings: co-workers to lovers to strangers. set between 2024 - 2026 season, creative liberties with race outcomes so bear with. reader is a performance engineer. no smut but implied sex/sexual references. fwb/secret relationship, both are toxic in their own way. they are in LOVE and it ruins everything, just two emotionally intelligent people still failing to communicate properly. right person wrong time. sprinkle of jealousy, fear of vulnerability, this does not have a happy ending. brief mention of a crash (but its minor and very minor injury), max genuinely believes there is nothing underneath the driver worth loving and reader thinks nobody sees her beyond being a female in motorsport. reader insert but no use of y/n.
🏁summary: you were never just casual. two years of almost-conversations, hotel rooms, and loving each other in every way except the one that mattered most.he loved you quietly. you just needed him to do it out loud.
🏁 author notes: very loosely based on gethsemane by sleep tolken and again i'm so sorry this is a two part-er <3
read part one here.
Pre-season testing arrived too quickly after that. The paddock hummed with nervous energy again. New cars. New upgrades. New expectations. New 2025 season.
And Max.
You saw him constantly throughout the first day: briefings, garage meetings, media obligations. But never alone. Every interaction stayed frustratingly professional. Like the winter break had never happened at all.
Which was why by the time you finally returned to your hotel room that evening, your nerves had become completely unbearable. Because now you knew. He would come eventually. He always did.
You changed clothes three times before settling on something you hoped looked accidental.
Which was humiliating. Then you waited. An hour passed. Then another.
No signal. Your stomach tightened gradually with every minute that crawled by. Maybe he wasn’t coming. You had given the signal hours ago during debriefs.
Tap. Tap. Against your wrist while nobody else noticed.
Max had looked directly at you afterward. And done nothing. The humiliation settled slowly beneath your skin.
Fine, whatever. You were halfway through convincing yourself not to care when a knock sounded against the hotel door.
Your entire body reacted instantly. Idiot.
You opened the door too quickly. And there he was. Sweat-darkened training shirt. Hair damp. Face flushed slightly from exertion. Max looked exhausted. And somehow impossibly beautiful because of it.
“You look disappointed,” he observed immediately.
You stepped aside before answering. “You took too long.”
“I was training.”
“You couldn’t shower first?”
Max brushed past you into the room carrying a small overnight bag over one shoulder. Your stomach flipped violently. Overnight bag. Oh, you were in trouble. “You’re rude when you miss me,” he murmured. The words hit dangerously hard considering how casually he said them.
You crossed your arms quickly. “You’re sweaty.”
“Tragic,” but there was no sharpness to it tonight. No tension. No fight. Just tiredness settling softly around the edges of him. Max dropped the bag near the bathroom before glancing back toward you. “You got food?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m starving.”
You stared at him for one long second before laughing despite yourself. And suddenly something shifted. The tension that had existed between you for almost a year loosened slightly around the edges. Not gone. Just softer somehow.
“You can use the shower,” you muttered eventually.
“I know.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
Max looked faintly confused. “I brought clothes.”
Your eyes dropped automatically toward the overnight bag again. Spare clothes. The idiot had planned this. Something warm twisted painfully beneath your ribs. “You’re very confident for someone who ignored me all day.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“You literally didn’t answer the signal.”
“I was in a meeting.” The answer came so simply that your irritation dissolved almost instantly. Annoying. Very annoying.
“You’re still sweaty,” you informed him weakly.
Max’s mouth twitched faintly. “You keep saying that like you want me to care.”
The bathroom door shut behind him a minute later. And suddenly you were left standing alone in the hotel room with your pulse behaving catastrophically inside your chest. Because this felt different tonight. You just didn’t understand how yet.
By the time Max emerged from the shower, your nerves had become genuinely unbearable.
Mostly because he looked painfully domestic now. Grey sweatpants. Navy t-shirt. Damp hair curling slightly at the edges. Like he belonged here somehow. Which was ridiculous.
You were both sitting on opposite ends of the bed eating cold room service leftovers when he asked quietly, “How was your break?”
You frowned immediately. “What?”
“Your break?”
“You’re asking me about my holidays?”
Max looked unimpressed. “Should I not?”
“No, I just—” you laughed softly in disbelief. “You usually come here and immediately start trying to take my clothes off.”
His eyes flicked briefly toward you. Dangerous look. “I can if you want.”
Heat climbed instantly into your face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Mm.” You hated that sound. But your chest still felt strangely warm as the conversation drifted onward. He asked about your family. About England. About the new simulator programme you’d been working on over winter. And worse, he listened. Actually listened. Like he cared about the answers. At some point you both ended up sitting closer together without consciously deciding to. Your knee brushed his thigh. Neither of you moved away.
The room had gone quiet around you by the time you finally asked softly, “Do you not want me?”
Max looked genuinely startled. “What?”
You swallowed carefully, suddenly unable to meet his eyes properly. “Well, you’re here,” brilliant explanation. “You don’t seem to—” you gestured vaguely between you both. “—Want me.”
For one terrifying second, Max just stared at you. Then he laughed quietly in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
Your embarrassment flared instantly. “Forget I said anything.”
“Are you actually insane?”
You glared immediately. “Wow. Charming.”
Max shifted closer before you could retreat properly, one hand catching lightly against your waist. “I always want you,” he said quietly. The words landed low and devastating inside your chest. Not rushed. Not teasing. Honest.
And suddenly all the distance of winter break seemed to collapse inward at once. Because God— You had missed him. Missed this. Missed him looking at you like that. Missed the feeling of his attention settling entirely onto you.
Your hand lifted almost instinctively toward his face. Max went still beneath the touch. Tiny reaction. Easy to miss. You noticed anyway. Always.
Then he kissed you. And this time it felt nothing like the beginning. Not sharp. Not angry. Not consuming in the same destructive way. Still intense. Still desperate. But slower somehow.
Like neither of you wanted to rush through finally having each other again. Your fingers slid into his damp hair as Max kissed you deeper, one hand tightening carefully at your waist while his forehead rested briefly against yours between breaths.
And the terrifying thing? He touched you like something precious now. Like he knew exactly how badly he had missed you too.
When you woke the next morning, sunlight had already begun spilling weakly through the hotel curtains. For one disoriented second, you forgot where you were. Then you felt warmth wrapped around your waist.
Your breath caught softly. Max. Still asleep beside you. No. Not beside you. Practically wrapped around you. One arm heavy across your stomach while his face remained half-buried against the pillow beside yours, breathing slow and even in sleep.
Your chest tightened painfully. Because this had never happened before. No staying over.
That had been one of the rules.
And yet here he was. Still there. You studied him quietly in the pale morning light. The softness of sleep had stripped something away from him. No sharpness. No arrogance. Just warmth and exhaustion and the unfair prettiness of someone completely unaware they were being looked at.
Your heart did something deeply inconvenient inside your chest. God— This was bad. And worse, you didn’t want it to stop.
The room still smelled faintly like rain and soap. Somewhere outside the hotel windows, the city hummed quietly beneath the dark, blurred by the soft glow of streetlights against wet pavement. The television played something neither of you had paid attention to for at least an hour.
Max lay sprawled across the bed beside you, shirtless and half-asleep beneath tangled sheets while your head rested against his chest. At some point during the last year, nights with him had stopped feeling temporary. That was probably the first problem.
The second was this. The softness afterward. Not always. Sometimes it still stayed sharp-edged and desperate, all collision and heat and unspoken things neither of you wanted to examine too closely.
But lately— Lately it had become this strange quiet intimacy that settled naturally between you once the restlessness burned itself out.
You traced lazy patterns against his hand where it rested over your waist, absentmindedly slotting your fingers between his. Max glanced down sleepily. “You’ve got tiny hands.”
You smiled faintly against his skin. “You have massive hands. It’s unsettling.”
“They’re normal.”
“No,” you laughed softly, holding your hand against his properly now. “This is ridiculous. You could probably palm my entire face.”
A tiny huff of amusement vibrated beneath your cheek. “Maybe your hands are just small.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
You rolled your eyes despite the warmth blooming quietly beneath your ribs. This was dangerous now. Not the sex. Not the secrecy. This.
The ease of him. The way your body had started treating his as somewhere safe to rest.
Max’s thumb brushed lazily once against your knuckles while your fingers remained tangled together across his stomach. Neither of you spoke for a while after that. Comfortable silence.
The kind that would have terrified you six months ago.
Eventually you asked lightly, “So did you sleep with anyone over the break?”
Max frowned slightly like the question genuinely confused him. “No.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
You tilted your head enough to look up at him properly. “Seriously?”
“I told you already,” he murmured. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else,” your pulse stumbled traitorously. Even now, hearing him say it still did something catastrophic to your nervous system. “Just you,” he added quietly.
You tried disguising the sudden tightness in your chest with humour. “Very romantic.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late for that,” you looked back down quickly before he noticed how warm your face had suddenly become. “Same, by the way,” you muttered.
A pause. Then his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around yours. Tiny movement. Devastating effect.
The room settled back into quiet again afterward. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. Your eyes drifted lazily across the ceiling while your fingers continued playing together absentmindedly between you both. Then, because apparently self-destruction was your hobby now, you asked, “So why me then?”
Max looked down slightly. “What?”
“You don’t date. You avoid emotional vulnerability like it’s a media obligation. But apparently a friends-with-benefits situation with me is fine?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I have needs.”
You snorted immediately. “That is such a man answer.”
“It’s true.”
“Right. Of course. Max Verstappen, tragic victim of his own sex appeal,” that actually earned a quiet laugh from him. Warm. Sleep-heavy. Dangerously fond. Your heart betrayed you instantly. You smiled faintly against his chest before mumbling, “You’re unbelievable.”
But when you looked back up at him properly, the amusement had faded slightly from his face. Something quieter had settled there instead. “You’re different,” he said eventually.
Your stomach tightened unexpectedly. “How?”
Max’s gaze drifted toward your intertwined hands like the answer was somewhere there instead of inside him. “You don’t—” he paused briefly, searching for the words. “You’re not impressed by any of this.”
You frowned slightly. “The racing?”
“The lifestyle,” a tiny shrug. “Everything.”
Your chest tightened softly. Because you understood immediately what he meant. The money. The fame. The mythology of him. All the things people usually wanted first. “You don’t care about any of that,” Max said quietly. There was no arrogance in it. No smugness.
Just genuine confusion. Like he still couldn’t quite understand why you’d stayed.
You swallowed carefully. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I see you.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. And suddenly the room felt very still. Max looked at you then with an expression so open it almost hurt to witness. Like something inside him had gone quiet for one suspended second. Too vulnerable. Too real.
You felt your pulse trip unevenly beneath your ribs. Dangerous territory. Max cleared his throat softly a moment later, retreating slightly from the edge of whatever that moment almost became. “Well,” he muttered, “this conversation’s getting serious.”
You laughed weakly beneath your breath. “Terrifying.”
His thumb moved slowly against your knuckles again. Then he looked at you more carefully. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why don’t you date?”
You barked out a startled laugh immediately. “Please. Men in motorsport barely take women seriously professionally, never mind romantically,” Max’s brow furrowed slightly. “It’s true,” you said lightly. “Most of them either think you’re terrifying or assume you got hired because somebody fancied you.”
His jaw tightened faintly at that. You smiled crookedly. “Though the irony of sleeping with my driver while complaining about professional credibility is not entirely lost on me.”
That finally dragged another real laugh from him. And wow, you loved that sound. The realisation arrived suddenly enough to almost wind you. You looked away quickly. Max’s fingers were still loosely tangled with yours between you both. Neither of you moved. Then, after a long silence, quieter than before, he whispered, “I see you too.”
Your breath caught instantly. Not flirtatious. Not teasing. Honest. And somehow that was infinitely worse. Because suddenly all you could think was: this is it. This is the thing people spend years searching for. To be fully known by another person and loved gently anyway.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Max looked up toward the ceiling again afterward, expression quieter now. “I just— I don’t know,” he admitted eventually. The honesty pulled your attention back toward him immediately. His jaw shifted slightly like he was trying to organise thoughts he usually kept locked somewhere airtight behind his ribs. “People like drivers,” he said.
“Well, yeah.”
“No,” his thumb brushed slowly against yours again. “They like what comes with it.”
Something uncomfortable tightened low in your chest. Max stared up at the dark ceiling while rain tapped softly against the windows. “They like winning,” he murmured. “The attention. The image,” a tiny shrug. “It’s different.”
You frowned slightly. “Different how?”
For a moment, Max didn’t answer. Then finally, as though he never meant for you to hear it, “I don’t think there’s much left once racing’s gone.”
The sentence settled heavily into the room. Not dramatic. Worse. Matter-of-fact. Like he genuinely believed it.
And suddenly all the fear inside him made horrible sense.
Max was late. Not unusually late. Just enough that irritation had started curling slowly beneath your ribs by the time the hotel room door finally opened.
“You’re twenty minutes late,” you said from the bed without looking up from your laptop.
“Mm,” the door clicked shut behind him. No apology. Typical. You heard the soft thud of his backpack hitting the floor before silence settled briefly between you again. “You’re still awake?”
You snorted lightly. “Some of us have jobs.”
“So do I.”
“That’s generous considering what you call media day effort.” A quiet huff of laughter answered you from somewhere near the minibar. Your chest warmed traitorously at the sound. It always did.
You finally glanced up then. And immediately regretted it. Because Max looked exhausted.
Not angry exhausted. Not post-race sharp-edged frustration. Just worn down in a way that made something protective twist painfully inside you.
His hoodie sleeves were shoved messily to his elbows, hair damp from the outside, jaw shadowed with the beginnings of stubble. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes that he probably hadn’t even noticed because Max rarely noticed things about himself unless they affected performance.
The season had barely begun and already he looked as though he was holding himself together through sheer stubbornness alone. “You look awful,” you murmured softly.
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
His gaze lifted briefly toward yours at that. And there it was again. That terrible thing between you now. Not tension anymore. Recognition. Like somehow the space between you had become crowded with all the things neither of you said aloud. Max crossed the room slowly before stopping beside the bed.
“You ate?” you asked automatically.
A tiny pause. “No.”
Your irritation returned instantly. “Max.”
“What?”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“I forgot.”
Of course he did. You sighed heavily before pushing the laptop aside and climbing off the bed. “There’s still pasta left from my dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you still haven’t kicked me out.”
The words should have sounded arrogant. Instead they landed quietly between you.
Dangerously honest. Because he was right.
You moved toward the small kitchenette anyway, trying very hard not to think about the fact that you knew exactly how he liked the sauce reheated because you had done this enough times now for it to become muscle memory.
Behind you, Max loosened the strap of his watch absently before setting it on the counter.
Tap. Tap. Against the marble surface. Your movements stalled for half a second. The signal. Once upon a time it had meant meet me upstairs, come to me. Now sometimes he did it without even thinking. Like breathing. Like habit. Like you.
“You know,” you said quietly while reaching for something that could resemble a plate, “normal people usually go on dates before they start memorising each other’s eating habits.”
“Sounds inefficient.”
You laughed softly despite yourself. And suddenly Max was close. You hadn’t even heard him move. One second there had been empty space between you. The next his warmth pressed lightly against your back, chin resting briefly against your shoulder while he peered down toward the microwave.
“You’re burning it,” he murmured.
“I’m literally not.”
“You forget the edges.”
“You’re unbelievably annoying.”
“Mm.” But he didn’t move away.
Your pulse had started doing that awful uneven thing again. Because this was the problem now. Not the sex. Not the secrecy. Not even the fighting. It was this. Domesticity. The quiet intimacy of existing together in borrowed hotel rooms around the world like you belonged there.
Max’s hand settled absently against your waist. Casual. Unthinking. Like he had touched you this way so many times now that his body no longer asked permission first. You closed your eyes briefly. Dangerous. Everything about this had become dangerous. “You should just sleep tonight,” you said softly.
“I do sleep.”
“You know what I mean.”
A beat of silence passed before he said quietly, “You hate when I leave after.”
The words caught you completely off guard. You turned slightly toward him. “What?”
His expression remained frustratingly unreadable. “You’re quieter the next day.”
Your chest tightened painfully. Because of course he had noticed. Max noticed everything about you. That was the tragedy. “You’re imagining things,” you lied.
“No.” Just that. No. Certain. Steady. Like he knew you better than you knew yourself. Maybe he did.
Rain tapped softly against the hotel windows. Neither of you moved. His hand still rested against your waist. Your heart still betrayed you inside your chest. And suddenly you couldn’t breathe properly beneath the weight of everything unsaid between you. “You can’t keep doing that,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Something flickered across his face. “Doing what?”
“This,” you gestured vaguely between you both, already hating how fragile your voice sounded.
Max frowned slightly. “I don’t know what that means.”
Of course he didn’t. Because he genuinely thought this was sustainable. Your laugh came out quieter than intended. Sad around the edges. “You hold me like you’re never going to let me go,” you said softly, “and then act confused when I start thinking maybe you mean it.”
Silence. Complete. Devastating. Max’s hand tightened involuntarily against your waist. There it was. Proof. Not spoken. Never spoken. But there. His eyes searched your face like he was trying desperately to find the correct answer to a question he didn’t fully understand. And for one terrible moment, you thought he might finally say something real.
Instead he said quietly, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
The words shattered something inside you with terrifying softness. Because that was exactly the problem. To him, presence was confession. Consistency was commitment. Touch was love. And maybe for him, it really was enough.
But suddenly all you could think was: why do I still feel lonely sometimes when you’re standing right in front of me?
Max must have seen something change in your expression because his entire posture shifted subtly. Alarmed. “Hey,” he said quietly. Too late. You stepped carefully out of his hold before you could stop yourself. And the look on his face then hurt worst of all.
Because he looked like someone watching something precious begin slipping through his fingers without understanding why.
At some point, the signal stopped meaning meet me or come upstairs. Neither of you acknowledged when it changed. It just did.
Tap. Tap. Sometimes it meant where are you? Sometimes are you okay? Sometimes come find me.
And increasingly, it had nothing to do with sex at all.
In Miami, you were halfway through a strategy discussion with GP when a coffee appeared silently beside your laptop. You looked up automatically. Max had already kept walking. No acknowledgment. No pause. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to notice you’d been awake for twenty hours straight and quietly fix it without discussion.
GP glanced between the coffee and Max’s retreating figure before raising an eyebrow slowly. You ignored him. Mostly because your chest already felt too tight.
You fell asleep during the flight home with your head against the window. At some point during the flight, Max shifted you gently sideways until your head rested against his shoulder instead.
Neither of you acknowledged it after you woke up. But when turbulence hit twenty minutes later, his hand closed automatically around yours beneath the blanket. Not romantic. Instinctive. Like his body had made the decision before his brain caught up.
Imola arrived loud and chaotic and painfully bright.
The paddock buzzed with post-race adrenaline while engineers moved frantically between garages carrying laptops and champagne bottles in equal measure. Radio chatter crackled endlessly overhead. Cameras flashed somewhere near the front of the garage while reporters circled like vultures around another Max Verstappen victory.
You stood near the back of the garage pretending to focus on telemetry while the celebration unfolded around you in overlapping waves of noise. Someone from marketing brushed past carrying champagne. Mechanics laughed somewhere behind you. Laurent was already halfway through another interview.
Max had won. And somehow that made this worse. Victories always made him restless afterward. Like the adrenaline had nowhere to go once the race was over. You’d learned that almost a year ago. Unfortunately, you’d also learned you liked being the place it landed.
You kept your eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen in front of you even as you felt him approaching before you saw him. Ridiculous really, how aware of him your body had become. Like some part of you was permanently tuned to his frequency now.
“Everyone’s looking for you,” you said without turning around.
“And yet I found you first.”
Your stomach tightened traitorously. You finally glanced sideways at him. Still in his race suit. Balaclava hanging loose from his hand. Champagne droplets drying against flushed skin.
His hair was damp with sweat beneath the harsh garage lighting and his expression still carried that familiar sharpness victories never quite smoothed away.
“You’re supposed to be celebrating,” you murmured.
“I am.” The look he gave you with those words settled far too low in your chest.
You looked away first. Coward. “You know,” you said carefully, “one day somebody’s going to notice the amount of time you spend hovering around me after races.”
Max leaned casually against the workbench beside you. “Then stop being interesting.”
“That’s not a real solution.” But your lips twitched despite yourself. Dangerous. Everything with him was dangerous now.
Someone shouted his name from across the garage. Max ignored it completely. Your eyes followed the sound instinctively. “Go,” you said softly. “Before Laurent starts sending search parties.”
“Mm.” But he still didn’t move. You hated how much that affected you. The fact that in a garage full of people celebrating him, he was standing here instead.
With you.
A mechanic passed nearby and clapped Max enthusiastically on the shoulder before disappearing again into the noise. The interruption shifted the moment just enough for you to breathe properly again.
Barely.
“You were good today,” you said quietly.
Max looked at you then in a way that made the entire crowded garage seem to disappear at the edges. Not because of the compliment. Because of who it came from. “You were right about the second stint,” he admitted.
You blinked once. “Did Max Verstappen just voluntarily admit I was right?”
“Don’t make it weird.” Too late for that. Far too late. Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and something in his expression softened instantly at the sound. Tiny. Almost imperceptible.
But you saw it. You always saw it. And suddenly, horribly, you became aware of how close he was standing. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his every time someone passed behind you. Close enough that if you tilted your head slightly your mouth would be near his ear. Close enough that you could smell champagne and clean soap and the lingering trace of race fuel still clinging stubbornly to his suit.
Your pulse stumbled unevenly. “Max,” you said quietly. A warning. A plea. You weren’t sure anymore.
His gaze dropped briefly toward your mouth. And there it was. That unbearable thing between you. Not lust anymore. Not only that. Something slower. Deeper. Far more difficult to survive.
Someone called his name again from the front of the garage. This time louder. Max barely reacted. “You should go,” you whispered. But your voice lacked conviction now. Because some selfish part of you wanted him to stay exactly where he was.
His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist then. Tiny contact. Barely there. Yet somehow it felt more intimate than half the nights you’d spent in his bed. “You coming tonight?” he asked quietly.
The question should have sounded casual. It didn’t. Not anymore. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. Because you were painfully aware that you always came when he asked.
Always. No matter how many times you promised yourself you wouldn’t.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “You didn’t even use the signal.”
For the first time all day, something almost amused flickered across his face. “Didn’t think I needed to.”
And that should not have felt as devastatingly tender as it did. Because hidden beneath the arrogance was something far worse. Certainty. Certainty that he could find you in any crowded room. Certainty that you would still be there when he reached for you. Certainty that this thing between you belonged to him as instinctively as breathing.
The terrifying part was that he was right. You looked away first. Again. “Thirty minutes,” you said softly.
Max nodded once. Like he already knew your answer before you spoke. Then he finally stepped back, disappearing slowly into the noise and flashing lights waiting for him at the front of the garage.
But just before he reached the cameras, he glanced back over his shoulder.
And tapped twice against his wrist.
In Monaco it was three in the morning again. Some things never changed. You sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter in his flat eating takeaway noodles while Max wandered barefoot through the flat complaining about simulator issues.
At some point he stopped talking. You looked up. Max was staring at you.
“What?”
Something softened almost imperceptibly in his expression. “You’re here a lot.”
Your stomach flipped nervously. “You invited me.”
“Mm.” Not disagreement. Observation. Then he stepped automatically between your knees, hands settling absentmindedly against your thighs while he stole the food from your fork.
The movement was so casual. So familiar. Your chest ached with it suddenly. Because there it was again. That terrifying feeling of belonging.
Austria came with too much wine and not enough dignity. The night before qualifying, you laughed so hard wine came out of your nose. Which should have ruined the moment completely. Instead Max nearly fell off his chair laughing at you while you threatened murder across the restaurant table.
“You’re actually crying,” you accused.
“You snorted.”
“I did not snort.”
“You absolutely snorted.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” Max said immediately. “You don’t.” Still laughing. Still smiling. But immediate. Like correcting that mattered instinctively.
Your breath caught softly. Because neither of you spoke for a second afterward. And suddenly the air between you had changed again. Tiny shift. Barely noticeable. Still irreversible.
The paddock became unbearable after qualifying in Austria. Media everywhere. Mechanics stressed. Max already irritated before he’d even climbed out of the car. You found him eventually hidden behind the engineering trucks alone, jaw tight with frustration while sweat soaked slowly through the shoulders of his fireproofs. “You’re hiding,” you said softly.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
A tiny twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. Victory. You stepped beside him quietly beneath the storm-dark sky. Neither of you spoke for a while. Then Max said quietly, “I don’t know how to be normal about any of this.”
Your chest tightened instantly. “The racing?”
A pause. Then, softer, “All of it,” he replied. The honesty of it settled heavily between your ribs. Because suddenly you understood something terrible. Max wasn’t withholding because he didn’t feel it. He was withholding because he genuinely did not know what to do with it once it existed.
You reached for his hand before you could think better of it. For one terrifying second, Max looked down at your intertwined fingers like he’d never seen anything more dangerous in his life.
But he didn’t let go.
The morning of the race at Silverstone arrived grey and freezing. You were cold. That was it. That was the entire problem. Rain hammered endlessly against the garage roof while engineers rushed around adjusting setup plans and tyre projections.
You rubbed your hands together absently while staring down at telemetry. Without looking away from the screen in front of him, Max tugged his hoodie over his head and dropped it directly onto your laptop. You blinked at him. “What?”
“You’re shivering.”
“You need this.”
“You need it more.”
Simple. Like it wasn’t intimate at all. Meanwhile your pulse was suddenly behaving catastrophically inside your chest because the hoodie smelled like him and Max had already turned back toward the telemetry as though this interaction required no further thought.
Which somehow made it infinitely worse.
By the time the red flag was raised halting the race, rain hammered against the garage roof hard enough to drown out half the radio traffic.
The entire paddock had descended into controlled chaos sometime around lap twenty-three. Visibility gone. Cars sliding everywhere. Engineers speaking too fast over overlapping channels while mechanics crowded around monitors with the particular tension only wet races seemed capable of producing.
You stood near the strategy screens trying very hard to keep your breathing normal. “Has anyone seen him?”
One of the mechanics glanced up briefly. “Medical car took him initially, I think.”
Think. Your stomach twisted violently. The crash replay looped silently across one of the side monitors again. The moment the rear snapped. The violent spray of water. Carbon fibre exploding against barriers.
You looked away immediately. He’s fine. He has to be fine. The thought repeated uselessly through your head while adrenaline crawled painfully beneath your skin. You’d seen crashes before. Hundreds of them. But none with your pulse lodged somewhere in your throat like this.
“Radio contact?” you asked sharply.
“Nothing yet.”
That horrible cold feeling spread further beneath your ribs. Around you, the garage kept moving normally. Data. Radios. Damage assessments. Strategy discussions already shifting toward salvaging points.
And meanwhile you were standing perfectly still trying not to visibly unravel in front of half the team. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen anymore.
Not like this. Somewhere along the line, you had both agreed to keep whatever this was contained neatly within its existing boundaries. No complications. No expectations. No more than this.
You’d nodded along at the time because it had felt safer that way. But suddenly all you could think was: if he’s hurt and I can’t even go to him, what exactly are we doing?
Your hands were shaking. You shoved them into the pockets of your team jacket immediately. No one seemed to notice.
The garage entrance stirred suddenly with movement. Your head snapped up instinctively. And there he was.
Relief hit so hard your knees almost gave out beneath you. Max walked slowly through the paddock entrance still half out of his race suit, damp hair sticking messily to his forehead from the rain.
One of the FIA medics was speaking beside him but you barely registered any of it beyond upright, conscious, alive. Your body reacted before your brain did. You took one step forward automatically. Then stopped. Because you couldn’t. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
The reality of that landed like something bruising against your chest. Max looked exhausted.
Sore probably. But okay. And somehow that almost made it worse. Because the urge to reach him physically hurt now.
Your eyes met his across the garage. Instantly. Like they always did. For one terrible second, all the panic you’d spent the last twenty minutes trying to hide threatened to spill visibly across your face. Max’s expression shifted immediately the moment he saw you. Subtle.
Tiny. But enough. He knew. Of course he knew.
You swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in your throat. Then carefully, where nobody else would notice: Tap. Tap. Against your wrist.
Max stared at you for one suspended heartbeat longer. And then, slowly: Tap. Tap. Back against his own wrist. I’m okay.
The smile that touched his mouth afterward was so soft it nearly destroyed you. Not teasing. Not sharp-edged. Just tired. Reassuring. For you.
And suddenly— horrifyingly— you realised this wasn’t casual anymore. Not even slightly.
Because casual didn’t feel like panic clawing through your ribcage watching someone hit a barrier at two hundred miles per hour. Casual didn’t feel like relief so overwhelming it made your eyes sting. Casual definitely didn’t feel like looking at someone across a crowded garage and realising your entire nervous system had quietly rearranged itself around their survival.
Your chest ached with the understanding of it. And worse still, some part of Max seemed to realise it too. Neither of you looked away first.
The knock at your hotel room door came just after midnight. You frowned immediately.
Nobody knocked like that except him.
Two slow knocks. Pause. Then two more.
You opened the door expecting him to look worse. Instead, somehow, that made it more dangerous. Grey sweats. Red Bull hoodie. Hair still damp from the shower. Bruising beginning faintly along one side of his jaw. And exhaustion. God, he looked exhausted.
Your expression tightened instantly. “What are you doing here?”
Max leaned one shoulder tiredly against the doorframe. “Wanted to see you.”
“You hit a barrier at speed today,” you said incredulously. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I tried.”
“And?”
His eyes held yours steadily. Couldn’t. The word hung there unspoken anyway. Your chest tightened painfully. Because suddenly you understood. He’d gone looking for you instinctively. The same way you’d searched for him in the garage. Dangerous. Terrible. Far too late to stop now.
You stepped aside silently to let him in. Max moved slowly tonight. Careful beneath the exhaustion. You noticed immediately. Of course you did. The hotel room fell quiet once the door shut behind him. No tension. No sharpness. None of the familiar combustion that had once defined this thing between you.
Just tiredness. And something unbearably soft beneath it.
“You scared me today,” you admitted quietly before you could stop yourself.
The honesty startled both of you. Max looked at you carefully then. Not defensive. Not dismissive. Just quiet. “I know,” that almost hurt worse. Because he sounded affected by it too.
You folded your arms tightly across yourself instead. “You can’t keep doing that.”
A faint tired smile touched his mouth. “Crashing?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
The smile faded slightly. Silence settled between you. Heavy now. Not awkward. Just full.
Then Max stepped closer. Slow enough that you could have moved away if you wanted. You didn’t. His hand settled lightly against your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, and suddenly every bit of adrenaline you’d been surviving on since the race finally started collapsing beneath your skin. “You were panicking,” he said quietly.
Not a question. You looked away immediately. “No I wasn’t.”
“Liar.” The word landed softly. Familiar now.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “I couldn’t get to you,” you whispered before you meant to say it aloud.
That did something to his expression. Something painful. Because the reality of what this relationship actually was seemed to settle visibly between you both. All this love. All this fear. All this instinctive devotion. And still hidden.
Max’s hand tightened faintly at your waist. Then, quieter than before, “I looked for you first.”
Your breath caught hard in your chest.
Oh.
Oh, that was bad. Because people who were casual did not say things like that. Neither of you spoke after that. There wasn’t really anything left to say.
Eventually Max sat down heavily against the edge of the bed, exhaustion finally winning against stubbornness. “You staying?” you asked softly.
He looked up at you then with that same unreadable openness that always felt far more intimate than words. “If you want.”
The terrifying thing was how immediate your answer felt. Always. Instead, you only nodded once.
Later, long after the city outside had gone quiet, you lay beside him in the dark while rain tapped softly against the hotel windows. No urgency tonight. No collision. No pretending this was still only physical.
Just warmth. Max lay on his side facing you, one arm resting loosely around your waist beneath the blankets while exhaustion pulled slowly at both of you.
You should have felt trapped by this closeness. Instead you felt frighteningly safe.
Half-asleep now, Max brushed his thumb once absently against your side. Tiny movement. Thoughtless. Intimate enough to ruin you.
Your eyes burned suddenly with the weight of it all. Because this was the tragedy, wasn’t it?
You loved him. And he loved you. You knew he did. But would it ever be loud enough to let you keep him.
COTA was chaos. Media everywhere. Mechanics sprinting between garages carrying tyre blankets and coffee with equal urgency while the entire paddock dissolved slowly into weather-induced irritation.
You stood near the engineering station trying unsuccessfully to untangle a headset cable while listening to three separate strategy conversations happening simultaneously through your radio.
Somewhere nearby, Max was giving an interview. Unfortunately loudly.
“Your problem,” you muttered while wrestling the cable again, “is that you enjoy suffering.”
“Talking to yourself now?” You looked up. Max had appeared beside you seemingly out of nowhere, still half-dressed in his race suit with his balaclava hanging loose around his neck.
“You’re supposed to be in media,” you said.
“I escaped.”
“Brave.”
His mouth twitched faintly. Then his eyes dropped toward your shoulder. “You’ve got grease on you.”
“What?”
Before you could react, Max reached forward automatically and brushed his thumb lightly along the shoulder of your team jacket. Tiny movement. Thoughtless. Intimate enough to make your pulse immediately trip over itself.
Worse still, neither of you realised how it looked until the surrounding silence registered half a second later. You glanced up. Three mechanics were staring openly. One of them immediately looked away. Far too late.
Heat climbed violently up your neck. Max’s hand dropped back to his side instantly, but something unreadable had already shifted across his face too. Awareness. Not of the touch.
Of being seen.
You nearly died on the spot. Max, unbelievably, looked amused. “You’re enjoying this,” you accused under your breath.
“A little.”
“You’re horrible.”
“Mm.” But his shoulder brushed yours as he moved past anyway. And for the rest of the day, every time someone looked at the two of you for slightly too long, your pulse behaved catastrophically.
The offer came on a Thursday. Which somehow felt offensive. Not dramatic enough for the way it quietly threatened to unravel your entire life.
You’d stayed late reviewing simulator correlation data when Laurent stopped beside your desk and said casually, “Can I have a quick word before you leave.”
You hadn’t thought much of it. At first. Then Laurent had smiled at you across the conference room table in that particular way powerful men smiled when they were about to change the trajectory of someone’s career. And suddenly your stomach had tightened.
“We’ve had enquiries about you,” he said.
Plural. You blinked once. “Enquiries?”
“Other teams.”
Your pulse stumbled slightly. Oh.
Laurent leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled thoughtfully. “You’ve moved through the engineering structure very quickly,” he continued. “Performance, strategy integration, driver communication... frankly, your work has been exceptional.”
Heat crawled awkwardly up your neck. Praise still made you uncomfortable. Especially here.
“We know you’ve had opportunities already,” Laurent added calmly from beside him. “But this one is significant.”
You frowned slightly. And that was how you found yourself an hour later sitting alone in your car outside the factory with your phone clenched tightly in your hand while the autumn-dark Milton Keynes sky pressed heavy overhead.
A promotion. A real one. Not just another incremental step upward. A leadership role. More responsibility. More influence. More visibility. A future. And the worst part? You wanted it.
That was the truly terrible thing. Because for the first time since joining Red Bull, your future stretched beyond simply surviving Max Verstappen.
You stared blankly through the rain-streaked windshield. Then finally you turned the car on.
By the time Max arrived at your hotel room that weekend for the next race, you still hadn’t told him. Which was unusual.
You told him everything now. Not officially. Not deliberately. But somewhere along the way he had become the first person you looked for after every difficult meeting, every frustrating strategy call, every small victory. Like your thoughts instinctively bent toward him before anyone else. Dangerous habit.
Tonight he looked exhausted in the familiar way that no longer alarmed you because you had memorised all his moods by now. Race exhaustion looked sharp. Media exhaustion looked distant. This was different.
This was just him. Tired. Comfortable. Safe enough here to let himself unravel slightly around the edges. He dropped onto your bed with a long exhale while you sat cross-legged beside him scrolling aimlessly through your phone pretending your heart wasn’t beating unevenly beneath your ribs.
“You’re quiet,” Max murmured eventually.
You glanced sideways at him. “Am I?”
“Mm.” His hand found your ankle absentmindedly where your legs brushed. Tiny touch.
Automatic.
Your chest tightened painfully. Because this was exactly the problem. The intimacy of him had become constant now. Not explosive anymore. Not frantic. Just woven quietly into the shape of your life. You swallowed carefully. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Max looked up immediately. Not alarmed. Attentive. Always attentive when it came to you. “What?”
You suddenly wished the room were darker. “I got offered another job.”
Silence. Not immediate anger. Not shock. Something stranger. Stillness. Max’s fingers stilled against your ankle. “Where?”
You named the team softly. And there it was. The shift. Tiny. Instant. Like something inside him had gone rigid without warning. Your stomach twisted. “It’s a promotion,” you continued carefully. “A big one.”
Max looked away first. That scared you more than if he’d argued. “What kind of role?”
You explained it quickly. Too quickly. Like if you rushed through the details fast enough maybe neither of you would have to acknowledge the thing thickening painfully between you.
Max stayed quiet the entire time. Which felt wrong. You’d expected irritation. Questions. Something. Instead he just sat there staring down at the duvet beside him with his jaw pulled tight enough to hurt.
Then finally— “So you’re leaving.” The words landed harder than they should have.
You frowned immediately. “That’s not what I said.”
“You’re considering it.”
“Yes, because it’s a huge opportunity.”
Max laughed once quietly. Not amused. Sharp around the edges. “Right.”
Your chest tightened instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
You hated when he did this. Shut down. Retreated inward. Expected you to somehow decode him anyway. “No, say it.”
His eyes lifted finally to yours. And suddenly the room felt too small to breathe inside. “You want to leave,” he said evenly.
Frustration sparked hot beneath your ribs. “This isn’t about wanting to leave.”
“It’s another team.”
“It’s my career.”
“And Red Bull isn’t enough for that anymore?” The words hit like a slap. Because suddenly this wasn’t about strategy. Or opportunity. Or ambition.
It was about him.
You stared at him in disbelief. “You think this is personal?” Something flickered across his face then. Too fast to fully catch. Maybe because it was. “You know what,” you said quietly, anger rising now to protect all the softer things underneath it. “You don’t get to act like I’m betraying you because somebody finally recognised I’m capable of more.”
Max’s expression hardened instantly. “I never said you weren’t.”
“No,” you laughed softly, bitter around the edges. “You just sound angry enough about it.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Bullshit.” The word cracked sharply through the room. And suddenly there it was again. The old version of you both. Sharp-edged. Defensive. Dangerous. Except now it hurt differently.
Because underneath the anger sat love. Raw and terrified and completely unspoken.
Max stood abruptly from the bed and moved toward the window. Distance. Your chest ached watching him create it. “You said you were happy here,” he said quietly. The words almost undid you. Because they didn’t sound accusatory. They sounded wounded.
“I am.”
“Then why would you leave me?” There it was. Not stay at Red Bull. Stay with me. Your throat tightened painfully. Because this was it, wasn’t it? The moment. The open door. All he had to do was ask. Just once.
You stood slowly from the bed. “Why do you care?” you asked softly.
Max turned toward you immediately, frustration flashing across his face. “What kind of question is that?”
“The kind you’re not answering.”
Silence. Heavy. Breathing. Dangerous. You could practically feel the words trapped between you both now.
Stay. Please stay.
But Max just looked at you like the sentence physically could not force its way out of his chest.
And suddenly anger became easier than heartbreak. “You don’t get to ask me to sacrifice things for you,” you said quietly. “When you won’t even admit what I am to you.”
The words hit him visibly. You saw it. Max’s jaw tightened hard enough to ache. “That’s not fair.”
A laugh escaped you then. Small. Broken. “Fair?” you repeated softly. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive this version of you,” you whispered. “The one who loves me constantly but still won’t say it out loud.”
Max looked almost wounded by the words. “You hold me like you’re terrified of losing me,” you continued softly. “But every time I need something real from you, you act like I’m asking for too much.”
Your chest ached so badly now it was difficult to breathe through it. “And you keep talking about your own fear like I don’t have any of my own,” you said quietly. “Like loving you hasn’t been terrifying for me too.”
His expression cracked slightly at that. Tiny fracture. Devastating. Because there it was. The truth. Not denial. Fear. “You think this is easy for me?” he asked suddenly, voice rougher now. “You think I know how to—” He stopped himself hard.
Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs. “How to what?” you whispered.
Love me.
The words hung there anyway. Breathing between you both. Max looked away first. Like a coward. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
And God, that hurt. Because you suddenly realised he meant it. Not manipulative. Not cruel.
Just genuinely incapable of giving shape to the thing destroying both of you. Your eyes burned unexpectedly. “I want you to ask me to stay.”
The honesty slipped out before you could stop it. Max went completely still. For one horrible second, you thought he might actually do it. Might finally crack himself open enough to reach for you properly.
Instead he said quietly: “You should take the job.”
The room went silent. Your chest hollowed instantly. Because there it was. His answer. Not because he wanted you to go. But because wanting you to stay terrified him more.
You saw it all at once suddenly. The panic behind his eyes. The restraint. The fear. Max would rather lose you himself than hand you the power to destroy him later. And the worst part? He loved you enough that he genuinely believed letting you go was the kinder option.
Tears threatened hot behind your eyes. You hated him for that. “No,” you whispered. “You don’t get to do that.”
His expression tightened. “Do what?”
“Act like this doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding for it?”
That landed. Hard. Because suddenly Max looked angry too. Not at you. At himself. At the situation. At the fact he couldn’t become the version of himself you needed no matter how badly he wanted to. “I don’t know how to be what you want,” he admitted quietly.
And there it was. The tragedy. Because the awful truth was he already was.
He just couldn’t see himself clearly enough to believe it.
The rain started sometime after midnight. You could hear it against the hotel windows, soft and relentless, turning the city outside into little more than blurred lights smeared across wet glass.
Max was asleep beside you. That alone probably should have frightened you more than it did. Not because sleeping like this together was unusual anymore. At some point over the last year, staying the night had stopped feeling accidental. The awkwardness disappeared first. Then the excuses. Then eventually the awareness that either of you should leave at all.
Tonight, though, felt different. Maybe because there had been no argument beforehand. No sharp tension. No collision of tempers disguised as attraction. Just exhaustion. A long race weekend. A delayed flight. His quiet knock against your hotel door close to one in the morning.
And then, softly: “Couldn’t sleep.”
As though that explained anything. As though you had ever denied him entry anyway.
You shifted slightly beneath the blankets, careful not to wake him. The room was dark apart from the thin strip of city light spilling through the curtains. Enough to make out the shape of him beside you. One arm stretched loosely across your waist, his breathing slow and steady against the back of your neck.
The intimacy of it still caught you off guard sometimes. Not the physical part. That had never scared you. It was this. The unconscious tenderness. The way Max reached for you even asleep, like some part of him had learned your absence and disliked it instinctively.
Your chest tightened painfully. Because this no longer felt temporary. And maybe the worst part was that you weren’t entirely sure it ever had.
You stared quietly toward the rain-streaked windows. A week ago, you’d told him about the offer. You could still remember the exact look on his face when you said another team wanted you. The way something in him had gone still so quickly you almost missed it.
And afterward, when you told him you weren’t going to take it, you had waited. Not intentionally at first. But then the silence stretched. And stretched. And suddenly every part of you had been listening for something he never said.
Stay. Don’t go. Choose me.
Anything. Instead, Max had simply kissed you hard enough to stop the conversation entirely. Like if he could just pull you back into bed, neither of you would have to acknowledge the thing cracking open between you. Like you hadn’t practically told him you loved him. Like he hadn’t looked at you the exact same way and still refused to say it out loud.
So you’d let him. Because what else were you supposed to do? You couldn’t force someone to love you out loud. Even when you knew they already did quietly.
Since then, something strange had settled between you. Not distance exactly. Worse.
Awareness. Like too many truths had slipped accidentally into the open and now neither of you knew how to gather them back up again.
You still reached for each other instinctively. Still shared hotel rooms and exhausted flights and late-night conversations that blurred dangerously close to intimacy. But now every soft touch seemed to carry another question beneath it.
What are we doing? How long can this survive like this? Why does loving you suddenly hurt more than losing you?
Behind you, Max shifted slightly in his sleep. His arm tightened automatically around your waist. Your throat burned unexpectedly. Because even now, half-asleep and unconscious, he held onto you like someone afraid of waking up alone. And somehow he still didn’t understand why you were beginning to break apart beneath the weight of this.
You closed your eyes briefly. At the beginning, you’d thought the hardest part of loving Max would be getting close enough to matter. Turns out the hardest part was realising you already did. And that it still might never be enough.
You stared quietly toward the rain-streaked windows. There had been a time when nights with him felt volatile. Reckless. Something sharp enough to leave bruises beneath your skin and confusion in their wake. Now it felt dangerously close to peace. That terrified you far more.
Behind you, Max shifted slightly. Then, voice rough with sleep, “You’re thinking too loud.”
A quiet laugh escaped you. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does when you do it.”
A reluctant smile tugged briefly at your mouth. His hand tightened lazily against your waist before relaxing again. “You should be asleep,” you murmured.
“So should you.”
Silence settled again. Comfortable. Heavy. You could feel the warmth of him pressed along your spine, steady and grounding in a way you had long since stopped wanting to examine too closely. Eventually, quietly, you asked: “Do you ever think about stopping?”
Max was silent long enough that you wondered whether he’d drifted back to sleep. Then he murmured, “Stopping what?”
“Racing.”
The answer came immediately this time. “No.”
You swallowed lightly. “Not ever?”
“No.”
Something about the certainty of it made your chest ache unexpectedly. You turned slightly then, enough to look back at him over your shoulder. His eyes were open now, dull blue beneath the darkness, fixed somewhere beyond you toward the wall. “What happens when you have to?” you asked softly.
His jaw shifted faintly. “I won’t.”
“You can’t drive forever.”
“I know.” But he said it strangely. Flatly. Like the thought itself irritated him.
You studied him quietly for a moment. “You hate talking about this.”
“I hate talking in general.”
“That’s unfortunately true.” That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But it disappeared quickly.
Your gaze lingered on him. And suddenly you understood something that settled cold and heavy inside your ribs. Max knew exactly who he was inside a car. But outside of it? You weren’t sure he believed there was anything left worth knowing.
The thought hurt more than it should have. “You know,” you said quietly, “you’re allowed to exist as a person outside of racing.”
His eyes shifted toward yours then. Direct. Unreadable. “Am I?”
The question was so unexpectedly genuine your breath caught slightly. Not sarcastic. Not dismissive. Real. You turned fully toward him without thinking, his arm sliding automatically with the movement until you were facing each other properly beneath the dim wash of city light.
“Max—” You didn’t even know what you were trying to say. That you saw him. That you loved the parts of him nobody else seemed to notice. That somewhere along the line he had become the first thing you looked for in every room. The words crowded painfully against your throat. But fear held them there. Because saying them aloud would change everything.
Even though you wanted it to.
Max’s gaze lingered on your face quietly, searchingly, like he was trying to solve something he didn’t have the language for. “You don’t understand,” he said eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion more than emotion. “People only—” He stopped himself briefly, jaw tightening. “—They only care because I win.”
Your chest ached instantly. “That’s not true.”
“It is.” The certainty in his voice hurt. Not arrogance. Resignation. Like he had convinced himself of this years ago and never allowed anyone close enough to challenge it.
You frowned slightly. “You genuinely think there’s nothing underneath all of this?” you asked softly. “Nothing outside the racing that matters?”
Max looked away first. And somehow that tiny movement felt devastating. “What happens when it’s gone?” he asked quietly. “When I stop winning. When I stop driving.”
The question hung heavily between you. Not hypothetical. Fear. Real fear. You could suddenly see it so clearly it almost hurt to breathe around it. The panic underneath everything. The reason he kept love at arm’s length even while sleeping wrapped around you like you belonged there.
Because Max genuinely believed there would come a day when someone looked at him and realised there was nothing left worth staying for. And God— If only he could see himself the way you did.
You moved closer before you could think better of it, your hand finding his face gently in the dark. His eyes closed briefly at the touch. Heartbreaking. “I don’t care about the driver,” you whispered. That made his eyes open immediately. You swallowed carefully against the emotion thickening in your throat. “I mean, I do,” you corrected softly, thumb brushing lightly against his jaw. “I’m proud of you. All the time. But that’s not—”
You struggled for the words. Because how could you possibly explain this properly without admitting everything? “It’s you,” you said finally, voice quieter now. “I like you, not the driver. You.” The simplicity of it somehow made it more devastating.
Max stared at you like the words physically hurt him. Because maybe they did. Your fingers remained against his skin while rain tapped softly against the windows behind you. “You’re impossible when you’re tired,” you continued quietly. “And stubborn. And emotionally repressed to a level that should probably concern medical professionals.”
A tiny breath of laughter escaped him despite himself. You smiled faintly. “You forget to eat when you’re stressed. You pretend you’re fine when you’re not. You hate asking for help even when you clearly need it,” your throat tightened slightly. “And you still come looking for me first anyway.”
Something shifted visibly across his face then. Not relief. Something sadder. Because the more you loved the parts of him outside racing, the more frightened he seemed by it. “You shouldn’t,” he said quietly.
Your chest tightened painfully. “Shouldn’t what?”
“Look at me like that.” The words landed somewhere deep enough to bruise. Because he sounded almost afraid of it. Afraid of being seen too clearly.
You frowned softly. “Max—”
“What if one day you realise I’m not enough outside of this?” he asked suddenly, cutting you off.
The honesty of it knocked the breath from your lungs. There it was. The thing sitting underneath all of this from the beginning. Not fear that he didn’t love you. Fear that eventually you would stop loving him. You stared at him in disbelief. “Do you really think that little of yourself?”
His jaw tightened immediately. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said,” silence. Heavy now. The rain outside had intensified, tapping harder against the glass while the city beyond blurred further into shadow. “You think this hurts less?” you whispered suddenly.
Max frowned slightly. “What?”
“This,” you gestured weakly between you both. “Pretending this isn’t what it is.”
His expression shifted carefully blank. Coward. You could see him retreating already. “I’m not pretending anything.”
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped you. “You sleep wrapped around me every night,” you whispered. “You look for me first after everything. You know how I take my coffee. You kiss my forehead when you think I’m asleep,” your throat burned suddenly. “What exactly do you think this is?”
Max looked at you helplessly then. Actually helpless. Like he was standing at the edge of something enormous without any idea how to survive crossing it. And suddenly your anger vanished completely. Because this wasn’t cruelty. It was fear. Pure, devastating fear.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted finally. The confession settled softly between you.
Raw. Unprotected.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly. “You already are,” you whispered.
And somehow that seemed to hurt him most of all. Because he pulled you against him immediately afterward like proximity could silence the conversation entirely. Like if he held you tightly enough neither of you would have to acknowledge the inevitable ending looming somewhere ahead of you both.
You let him. Of course you did. But long after his breathing finally evened out again, sleep refused to come anywhere near you. Because for the first time, you understood something terrible. Max loved you enough to break his own heart.
He just didn’t love himself enough to believe you wouldn’t eventually leave too, once you saw all of him.
The hotel balcony overlooked the strip, all blurred gold lights against a black sky and distant music drifting softly up from somewhere below. You stood barefoot beside the railing wrapped in one of Max’s hoodies while the party inside the suite carried on without you.
Or more accurately, without both of you.
Max stepped out onto the balcony a moment later, shutting the glass door behind him with a quiet click before leaning beside you against the railing. “You disappeared,” he said.
“You invited too many people.”
“You knew there’d be people.”
“I tolerate approximately four humans at a time.” A faint huff of laughter escaped him.
Silence settled comfortably afterward. Not awkward anymore. That had vanished months ago. Now quiet with Max felt dangerous in an entirely different way.
Easy.
Below you, Vegas glittered endlessly beneath the dark sky. Expensive cars. Flashing lights. Music drifting across the strip. Max nudged your shoulder lightly with his. “You cold?”
“No.”
“You’re wearing my hoodie.”
“That’s because you keep your room at arctic temperatures.”
“Liar.”
You smiled faintly into the night. Beside you, Max exhaled slowly through his nose before tilting his head back toward the sky. Tired tonight. You could see it in the looseness of him. The way he only got when his guard slipped low enough to rest for a while. “You know,” you murmured, “most people would probably be inside celebrating themselves right now.”
“I was.”
You rolled your eyes softly. “You signed two hats and insulted a journalist.”
“Exactly,” a tiny smile tugged briefly at his mouth before fading again. Then quieter, “I wanted to come out here.”
Your chest tightened immediately. Because there it was again. The thing he kept doing. Offering pieces of himself so casually that he never seemed to realise how devastating they actually were. You looked sideways toward him. “Why?”
Max shrugged once. But not dismissively. More like he genuinely didn’t know how to explain himself properly. Finally he said, “Too loud in there.”
You hummed softly. “And I’m not?”
His eyes shifted toward you then. Direct. Steady. “No,” he said quietly. “You’re the opposite, actually.”
Your breath caught slightly. The terrifying thing about Max was that when he did say something real, he said it with absolutely no awareness of the damage it caused. Like he had no idea your entire nervous system had just lit on fire beneath your skin. You looked away quickly toward the strip again. Beside you, Max’s shoulder remained pressed lightly against yours. Then after a long silence, he said quietly, “You’re my favourite part of this.”
Your heart stopped. Not racing. Stopped. You turned toward him slowly. Max still looked calm. Thoughtful almost. Like he hadn’t just cracked something open inside your ribcage with one sentence. “The racing?” you asked softly.
A pause. Then: “All of it.”
And there it was. Not quite a confession. But worse. Because it was honest. You stared at him helplessly while the wind shifted softly around the balcony. Max frowned slightly then, like he’d only just realised how much he’d revealed. Immediately afterward you watched the walls start rebuilding themselves behind his eyes. Retreat. Always retreat.
“So,” he said, too casual now, “are you coming back inside or are you planning to become part of the scenery out here?”
And just like that, the moment was gone. But the words stayed. They stayed for weeks.
The hotel room was dark apart from the television flickering soundlessly against the opposite wall.
Max hadn’t bothered turning on any of the lamps when he walked in, tossing his room key onto the table before disappearing into the bathroom without a word. The door stayed half-open, steam curling slowly into the room while you sat at the edge of the bed still wearing your team kit, exhaustion pressing heavily beneath your ribs.
The race had been catastrophic. Not spectacularly catastrophic. No screaming over radios. No shattered carbon fibre scattered across gravel traps. Somehow those weekends were easier to survive because anger had somewhere to go.
This had just been disappointing. Poor pace. Bad strategy calls. Endless frustration simmering beneath every clipped response Max had given since qualifying. You heard the bathroom tap shut off. A moment later he emerged in grey sweats and a green t-shirt, hair still damp, expression unreadable in the low light.
“You’re still here,” he said quietly.
You looked up from where you’d been staring blankly at the muted television. “You sound surprised.”
“I thought you had an early flight.”
“In the morning.”
He nodded once before crossing the room toward the minibar. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. That was the problem. At some point over the last two years, silence had become its own language. You watched him twist open a bottle of water. “You should sleep,” you said eventually.
Max leaned back against the counter. “You saying I look bad?”
“You always look bad after races like that,” a huff of laughter escaped him then. Brief. Tired. Real. It settled low in your chest in the dangerous way things always seemed to around him. “You know,” you murmured, “most people would probably hate me for talking to them like this after a weekend like today.”
“Most people annoy me.”
“And I don’t?”
His gaze lifted fully then. Direct. Steady. Too intense for this time of night. “You annoy me constantly.”
You rolled your eyes softly, but something warm unfurled anyway because you knew what he meant. Or at least you thought you did. That was the trouble with Max. Everything meaningful sounded careless coming out of his mouth. He crossed the room a moment later, dropping heavily onto the mattress beside you. The bed dipped beneath his weight, your shoulder brushing his automatically. Neither of you moved away.
The television continued flickering silently across the room. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. “You were quiet after the debrief,” you said after a while.
Max stared ahead. “Didn’t have much to say.”
“That’s new,” another tiny smile ghosted briefly across his face before disappearing just as quickly. You looked down at your hands. “There’s still a chance you can win it.”
“Mm.”
“You’ll still probably win next weekend just to make everyone else miserable.”
This time his shoulder nudged yours lightly. “You sound very supportive.”
“It’s one of my better qualities.”
“Debatable.”
You laughed quietly beneath your breath. And there it was again. That awful, dangerous ease between you. The kind that had started as tension and somehow become comfort without either of you noticing when the shift happened.
You weren’t even sure why you’d come here tonight. Nothing had happened between you after the race. No argument. No charged glances across the garage. No signal beneath the debrief table. You had simply found yourself outside his hotel room fifteen minutes after leaving the paddock. Like your body had already decided where it belonged before your mind could catch up.
Max exhaled slowly beside you. Then, quieter this time, “You should take that job.”
Your entire body stilled. Not because of the words. Because for one terrible second, before he’d said them, you thought he was finally going to ask you to stay. You turned toward him slowly. “What?”
His gaze stayed fixed ahead on the muted television. “The offer, the one you told me about.”
Your stomach tightened painfully. Of course this again. Weeks ago you had practically handed him an opening. Ask me to stay. Choose me. Tell me this matters enough to fight for.
And instead he’d looked at you with fear in his eyes and told you to take the job before distracting you the best way he knew how. Now here he was doing it again. Like he was trying to carve the ending into both of you himself before either of you could hope for something different.
“You already told me that,” you said quietly.
“I meant it.”
The words landed hard. Too flat. Too controlled. Like he’d rehearsed them. You stared at him in disbelief. “Why are you doing this?”
That finally made him look at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Max’s jaw tightened faintly. “It’s a good opportunity.”
“There you go again,” you laughed softly, bitterness slipping around the edges. “Talking about this like it’s just career advice.”
“What do you want me to say?” The question cracked through the room sharper than he intended. Your chest tightened immediately. Because there it was. The real problem. He genuinely didn’t know. Or worse, you knew he did and was too terrified to say it aloud.
You looked away first. “Nothing,” you murmured. “Forget it.”
But Max was already watching you too carefully now. “You’d be good there,” he said quietly.
“Better than here, probably.”
The self-sabotage of it almost made you angry. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t,” your voice sharpened despite yourself. “You just think if you push me away first it’ll hurt less when I leave.”
Silence. Heavy. Immediate. Max looked like you’d hit something exposed. You swallowed hard against the emotion climbing your throat. “Why are you acting like this?” you whispered. “Why are you so determined to make this easier to lose?”
His expression shifted then. Tiny fracture. Gone almost instantly. But you saw it. Always. “Because eventually,” he said quietly, “you’ll realise this isn’t enough.”
Your chest ached so sharply it almost stole your breath. There it was again. That horrible belief sitting underneath everything he touched. You shook your head slowly. “You don’t get it.”
“No,” Max laughed softly, but there was nothing amused about the sound. “I think I do.”
“You really think I care about titles and paddock politics more than...” You stopped yourself too late. More than you. The words hung there anyway. Breathing between you.
Max went very still. Rain tapped steadily against the windows behind you while the television flickered meaningless light across the room. And suddenly it felt like you were both standing at the edge of something enormous and inevitable. “You want more than this,” he said eventually. Not accusatory. Just tired. Like the truth exhausted him.
Your throat tightened painfully. “Yes.”
The honesty of it hurt. Because neither of you were pretending anymore. Max looked down at his hands for a long moment before speaking again. “I don’t know how to give you that.”
And God— That really was the tragedy, wasn’t it? Not that he didn’t love you. That he did.
Completely. Terrifyingly. And still believed love alone would ruin you both in the end. You stared at him quietly while your chest ached beneath the weight of everything unsaid between you. “You already give me most of it,” you whispered.
That seemed to hurt him more than anger would have. Because Max closed his eyes briefly like the words physically exhausted him. “You shouldn’t stay somewhere smaller because of me.”
The sentence came out rougher now. More honest. And suddenly you understood this wasn’t manipulation. It was sacrifice. Twisted. Fearful. Self-destructive sacrifice. He loved you enough to want your future bigger than himself. Even if it destroyed him.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly. “You really think this is noble, don’t you?” you asked softly.
Max frowned slightly. “Letting me go before I can choose to stay,” you continued quietly. “You think if you ruin this yourself first, it’ll hurt less.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is.” Your voice cracked slightly around the words. Because the cruelest part was that some part of you understood him.
Max had spent his whole life surviving pressure by controlling outcomes before they could control him. And now he was trying to do the same thing with love. You looked away before he could see how badly the realisation hurt. For a long moment neither of you spoke.
Then quietly, almost to himself, “You’d leave eventually anyway.”
The words hollowed something inside your chest. Because he sounded so certain. Like he had already mourned you long before you were gone. You turned toward him slowly. “Max,”
He didn’t look up. “You know what the worst part is?” you whispered. His jaw tightened. “I think you actually believe that.”
Silence swallowed the room whole after that.
Outside, rain continued streaking endlessly down the hotel windows while the city blurred somewhere far below. Max sat beside you close enough that your shoulders still touched.
Close enough that you could feel his warmth. Close enough that he could love you in every way except the one you needed most.
And somehow that made the distance between you feel unbearable.
Lando won the championship on a floodlit night in Abu Dhabi.
You watched it happen from the Red Bull pit wall with your headset half-off and your heartbeat somewhere down near your stomach while fireworks exploded violently above the circuit. Around you, the paddock celebrated in fragments. McLaren mechanics screaming. Orange shirts flooding the pit lane. Camera flashes everywhere.
And beside him on the podium, Max stood perfectly still. Not angry. That would have been easier. Just quiet in a way that unsettled you more.
The season had slipped away slowly. Not one catastrophic collapse. Just enough mistakes. Enough second places. Enough races where the car stopped feeling untouchable.
You looked toward him instinctively. Max’s expression remained unreadable beneath the harsh lights, jaw tight while champagne sprayed next to him around a laughing Lando. Your chest ached unexpectedly. Not because he lost. Because you knew him well enough now to understand what losing did to him when nobody else was looking. And selfishly, terribly, some part of you already knew where he would go afterward.
You were halfway through disconnecting your equipment when a shadow fell across the strategy monitors.
“You leaving tonight?”
Your fingers stilled. Max stood beside you still wearing his race suit half-zipped to his waist, exhaustion carved visibly into the sharp lines of his face. “I was going to,” you said carefully.
“Don’t,” the word landed softly. Immediately. You looked up fully then. His eyes were fixed on you with that same unbearable intensity that had ruined your life two years ago in a hotel corridor. “You should come to Monaco,” he said quietly.
Your stomach tightened instantly. “Max—”
“I mean it.”
Something dangerous flickered low beneath your ribs because he sounded almost hesitant saying it. Not casual. Not careless. Real. You swallowed carefully. “For how long?”
A tiny shrug. “A while.”
That shouldn’t have affected you the way it did. A while. Not tonight. Not a few days. A while. Like he wanted more time before the inevitable ending swallowed you both whole. The thought hurt. You looked away first. “Don’t ask me that.”
His jaw tightened faintly. “Why?”
Because if I come, I’ll pretend this still has a future. Because if I wake up beside you on some stupid yacht in Monaco while you make coffee and complain about simulator data and kiss me half-asleep in kitchens at two in the morning, I’ll forget this is already dying. Because I don’t know how to survive loving you in pieces anymore. Instead you forced out quietly, “You know why.”
Silence stretched heavily between you. Around you, celebrations still exploded across the paddock while cameras followed the new world champion through champagne and confetti.
Max didn’t move. “You’re already leaving,” he said eventually.
Your chest tightened painfully. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
You turned toward him sharply. “You’re the one who keeps pushing me away every time this becomes real.”
Something flashed across his face then. Too quick to name. Gone immediately. “I’m asking you to come with me now.”
“No,” you whispered. Not because you didn’t want to. No, that was the problem. You wanted it too much. You just couldn’t bare to put yourself through the thought of what if, what if he asked you to stay. When deep down, you knew he wouldn’t.
Max stared at you for a long moment. Then finally, “You don’t even want to try.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you softly. “Try what, Max?”
He looked away first this time. And suddenly you understood the problem. He wanted the intimacy. The closeness. The illusion of forever. But not the words required to hold it together once winter ended. Your throat burned unexpectedly. “You don’t get to ask me for everything except commitment,” you whispered.
His expression hardened immediately. “I never asked for everything.”
“No,” you laughed bitterly. “You just take it anyway.”
The words landed hard between you both. Max’s jaw tightened sharply. “You think this season went badly because I wasn’t focused?” he asked suddenly.
Your stomach dropped. There it was. The cruelty people reached for when they were frightened. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you think it.”
“No.”
“Maybe you should,” his voice had gone flatter now. Colder. “Maybe having you around all the time wasn’t exactly helpful.”
The sentence hollowed something inside your chest. Because you knew instantly he didn’t mean it. And somehow that made it worse.
You stared at him in disbelief. “Wow,” Max looked angry immediately afterward. At himself. At the conversation. At the fact he’d said it at all. But neither of you knew how to stop now. “You don’t get to blame me because you’re scared,” you said quietly.
“I’m not scared.”
“You’re terrified.” Silence cracked violently between you. Because there it was. The truth neither of you could survive hearing aloud.
Max looked at you like he wanted to say something enormous and devastating. “Fine,” he said instead, before dropping his eyes.
Your chest ached sharply. Fine. Not stay. Not please. Not I need you. Just fine.
You nodded once because suddenly speaking felt impossible. Then you walked away before he could see your eyes burning.
The winter break passed in silence. Not complete silence. That would have been easier. Instead it became something worse. Half-typed messages never sent. Instagram stories watched immediately. His name appearing in your notifications at two in the morning only for nothing to arrive afterward. Like both of you kept reaching instinctively toward the other before fear pulled your hands back again.
You spent Christmas in England. Max spent it in Monaco. And somehow the distance between those places felt larger than entire continents.
By New Year’s Eve, your chest felt permanently hollowed out by him. You told yourself you wouldn’t think about him at midnight. That lasted until 10:43 p.m, when your phone lit up beside your drink.
Max. Your breath caught instantly. For one terrible second you just stared at the screen while your pulse thundered unevenly beneath your skin. Then finally, you answered. “Hi.”
Music thundered faintly through the speaker. Laughter somewhere behind him. Fireworks already beginning outside. But Max sounded tired. Not physically. Something deeper. “You busy?” he asked quietly.
You swallowed carefully. “At a party.”
“Mm.”
You could picture him perfectly from that single sound. Leaning somewhere private away from the crowd. One hand rubbing tiredly at his jaw. Looking for you anyway. Your chest ached. “How’s Monaco?” you asked softly.
A pause. “Loud.”
The answer made something painful twist beneath your ribs because you understood immediately what he meant. Too many people. Too much noise. Not you. You closed your eyes briefly. Around you, people were screaming songs drunkenly somewhere across the room.
Max stayed silent on the line for a moment, before he inhaled sharply. “I miss you.”
The words stole the breath from your lungs completely. Not I miss this. Not I miss the sex. Not some carefully detached version of longing.
You. For one horrible second, tears threatened unexpectedly behind your eyes. Because there it was. The thing you had spent two years destroying yourselves trying not to say. You gripped your phone tighter. “Max—”
“I know,” he interrupted quietly. “I know.” But he didn’t. That was the tragedy. He still thought loving you and keeping you were separate things.
Your throat tightened painfully. “You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered.
Silence answered you for a moment. “But I tried.” That almost ruined you completely. You pressed your hand hard against your ribs like it might stop your heart physically breaking apart inside your chest.
Over the phone, you could hear fireworks exploding somewhere beyond where he was. The countdown had started.
Ten.
“I know you tried, I just— It’s nearly midnight there, you should be with people,” you said shakily.
“I want you to be here.”
Nine. Eight.
Your eyes burned. “Max...”
Seven. Six.
“I don’t know how to let you go,” he admitted quietly. The confession cracked straight through you.
Five. Four.
And suddenly you thought about how he loved you enough to drown in it. He just still didn’t know how to choose you over his fear. The tears fell freely from your eyes now, burning down your face as you pressed a hand to your mouth, covering the sounds which slipped through your trembling lips.
Three. Two. One.
You could hear erupted cheers faintly through the static on the phone. Fireworks exploded violently above him. And through the noise, through the shouting and music and champagne and the beginning of a brand new year, neither of you spoke for a long moment.
“Happy New Year,” you whispered softly.
Max exhaled shakily on the other end of the line. “Yeah,” he murmured.
Like nothing about it felt happy at all.
Your flat was quiet apart from the rain. Again. Somehow every devastating conversation between you and Max seemed to happen while rain battered helplessly against windows somewhere in the background. Like the universe itself had decided subtlety was overrated.
You hadn’t seen him properly since Abu Dhabi. Not really. There had been the New Year’s call. His voice rough with alcohol and longing and something dangerously close to honesty as he spoke.
I miss you.
Three words. Three catastrophic words. And then the next morning, again, he’d acted like none of it had happened. Like he hadn’t cracked your ribcage open from six hundred miles away. So you’d both done what you always did.
Pretended. Pretended the silence afterward wasn’t unbearable. Pretended the distance didn’t feel like grief. Pretended this thing between you still had somewhere left to go.
In truth, the ending had already begun taking shape quietly over winter. More days at the factory. Handover meetings stretching late into the evening. Laurent reassuring you softly one afternoon that opportunities like this didn’t come often.
You hadn’t trusted yourself to answer properly.
The factory had been your first real collision since then. Just after New Year.
You’d felt him before you saw him. Ridiculous still. Across the engineering floor, through exhausted mechanics and telemetry screens and endless preseason noise, your body had recognised him instantly anyway.
And then: Tap. Tap. Against the inside of his wrist. Softer now than it used to be. More dangerous.
So you’d let him follow you home.
Of course you had. The second your door shut behind him, Max kissed you like a man trying to outrun something. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you against him hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs while rain hammered against the windows outside.
You kissed him back just as desperately. That was the worst part. You knew what was coming. You knew this was ending. And still your body opened for him instinctively like it always had.
Max kissed like he was starving tonight. All rough edges and restrained panic buried beneath control. His fingers tightened against your hips when you made a small sound against his mouth, and suddenly you understood with terrible clarity that he knew too.
He knew this was slipping away. So he was doing what he always did when something frightened him— hold it with his hands instead of his words. Your fingers tangled briefly in the front of his shirt before you broke the kiss first, breathing unevenly. “Max...”
His forehead rested briefly against yours. “Don’t.”
The word came rough. Almost pleading. And there it was again. He would beg you to stay physically. Emotionally. Instinctively. Just never aloud. Your chest ached so violently it almost made you angry. “You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered.
His jaw tightened immediately. “Doing what?”
“This,” you gestured weakly between you both. “Acting like if you kiss me hard enough none of this exists.”
Max stepped closer again instantly, like even half a foot of distance already felt unbearable to him. “It does exist,” he said quietly.
“Then why do you act like it doesn’t?”
“I don’t.”
A humourless laugh escaped you. “Max, you talk about your pain like I don’t have any.”
That stopped him. Actually stopped him. The silence afterward felt enormous. Because suddenly all the things neither of you had wanted to say were standing naked between you both anyway. Your throat tightened painfully. “You act like you’re the only person scared here,” you whispered. “Like you’re the only one this hurts.”
His expression shifted instantly at that. Wounded. Guilty. Terrified. You kept going before you lost the nerve. “I know you’re trying,” you said softly. “I do. I know this is your version of trying,” your voice cracked slightly around the edges. “But I need more than hidden hotel rooms and late-night phone calls and pretending I don’t exist the second other people are around.”
Max looked like he wanted to interrupt. You didn’t let him. “I want to hold your hand in public,” you admitted quietly. “I want to support you properly when you win instead of standing at the back pretending I’m not looking for you,” your eyes burned suddenly. “I want people to know.”
The room fell devastatingly silent. Rain against glass. Uneven breathing. The sound of both of you breaking apart slowly. Max stared at you like you’d just exposed something he’d spent years trying not to examine directly. “But this is good,” he said finally.
And somehow those four words hurt more than shouting would have. Because he meant them. God, he meant them. To him, this was love. Just a version small enough to survive.
“Is it?” you whispered.
His jaw tightened slightly. “Why can’t we keep going like this?”
Because it’s killing me. The answer sat hot and painful behind your ribs. Instead you laughed softly without humour and stepped back from him properly for the first time since he walked into the flat. “You still think I’m going to leave in the end.”
Max went very still. There it was. The thing underneath everything. “You don’t understand,” he said quietly.
“No,” you whispered. “I understand perfectly.”
Your chest physically hurt now. Because the tragedy was that you did understand. You understood every sharp edge of him. Every instinct to retreat. Every terrified belief that eventually you would realise he was only worth loving when he was winning. But he still couldn’t understand the one thing that mattered— you had already chosen him. Not the driver. Not the championships. Not the mythology.
Him.
And somehow he still looked at you like abandonment was inevitable. Max’s voice sounded rough now. “I’m trying to give you what I can.”
The honesty of it nearly destroyed you. Because you knew that too. He was trying. God, he was trying so hard. That was what made this unbearable. Your eyes burned as you looked at him standing there in your flat, soaked in rain and fear and love he could not survive speaking aloud. “Do you love me?” you said quietly.
The words landed like a gunshot between you. Max stopped breathing for half a second. You saw it. The panic. The longing. The instinctive urge to deny it colliding violently with the truth.
Your pulse thundered painfully beneath your skin. “Say it,” you whispered.
For one terrible moment, you genuinely thought he might. His eyes closed briefly. His throat moved. His entire expression cracked open with something raw enough to make your chest ache. And still— nothing.
When he looked back at you, he looked devastated. “I can’t,” he admitted softly.
The words hollowed something out inside you. Not because he didn’t love you. That would have been easier. No, the truly heartbreaking thing was that he did. Completely. And somehow it still wasn’t enough to make him believe he deserved to keep you.
You stared at him through the silence that followed, suddenly understanding with horrible clarity that this was the last chance. Not the last time you’d touch him. Not the last time he’d knock on your door.
But the last chance for this to become something survivable. And Max had let it pass him by.
Again.
Barcelona felt cruelly bright. Sunlight spilled endlessly across the hotel balcony doors, warm against polished floors and untouched coffee gone cold on the table beside the window.
Somewhere outside, the distant noise of private testing drifted faintly through the city.
Max had barely slept. Not properly. He’d known the second you texted: Can we talk?
Not come upstairs. Not are you awake? Just can we talk. And somehow that had frightened him more than anything else ever had.
The knock came ten minutes later. Max crossed the room slowly before opening the door. And immediately knew.
Not because of your expression. That was bad enough already. Eyes red-rimmed. Sadness sitting so heavily beneath your skin it looked exhausting to carry.
No. It was the clothes. No Red Bull kit. No team jacket. No credentials hanging absentmindedly around your neck. Just jeans. Trainers. One of your oversized jumpers swallowing your hands slightly at the sleeves.
Civilian. Separate. Gone.
Something cold dropped violently through his chest. “You took it,” he said immediately.
Not even a question. Your face crumpled slightly at how fast he understood. Slowly, you nodded. “I asked them not to announce it yet,” you said quietly. “I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
The silence afterward felt catastrophic. Max stared at you from the doorway, something sharp and disbelieving twisting across his face. Even now, some irrational part of him had genuinely believed you wouldn’t go. That you’d stay. Because you loved him.
And maybe that was the worst thing he’d ever done to you. Assume your love meant permanence while offering none in return. His jaw tightened hard. “So that’s it?” he asked flatly. “You’re leaving.”
Your eyes immediately filled. “No, Max—”
But he was already stepping back from you, anger arriving in the only place panic knew how to survive inside him. “Right,” he laughed once without humour, dragging a hand through his hair. “So all of this was bullshit then?”
The hurt on your face was immediate. Real. “Don’t,” you whispered.
“I thought you loved me.”
“I do love you,” the honesty of it nearly knocked the breath from him. Your voice cracked visibly around the edges now. “This was real to me,” you said. “God, Max, it was so fucking real.”
Something in his chest splintered quietly. Because he knew. He knew that. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he loved you too and somehow still couldn’t build a future out of it without feeling terrified. You wiped angrily at your face before continuing. “But I need more.”
Max looked away immediately. There it was. The thing underneath everything. The thing both of you had spent months trying not to say directly. “I’m not asking you to become someone you’re not,” you whispered. “I’m not forcing you into something you don’t want,” your breathing shook unevenly now. “But I also can’t keep shrinking myself to fit inside what you’re capable of giving me.”
The words landed like knives because they were true. And Max had known for months this was coming. You swallowed hard. “This opportunity—” Your voice wavered slightly. “They see me, Max. They see what I can do.”
“I know how good you are,” the response came instantly. Violently. Like instinct. “You’re incredible, that’s why I...” He stopped.
Your entire face broke open at the hesitation. Because there it was again. The edge. The cliff. The impossible, unbearable thing sitting behind his teeth that he still couldn’t force himself to say even now. Tears spilled hot down your cheeks. “You can’t even say it now,” you laughed weakly through the crying. “Jesus Christ.”
Max’s expression twisted painfully. “But you know,” the words sounded rough. Desperate. “You know how I feel.”
“That’s not fair,” your voice cracked hard enough this time that Max physically flinched.
Because suddenly you looked exhausted. Not angry. Not dramatic. Just heartbroken in a way that seemed to reach all the way into your bones. “I would’ve given you everything,” you whispered. Max stopped breathing. You shook your head softly, crying openly now. “I had nothing to lose with you,” your lips trembled around the words. “Nothing.”
The hotel room felt too small suddenly. Too warm. Too full of grief. “But I can’t keep living inside hotel rooms and secret signals and pretending this doesn’t matter more to me than it’s allowed to,” you wiped helplessly at your face again. “I can’t keep being something hidden.”
“It’s not because I’m ashamed of you.” The panic entered his voice properly for the first time then. Sharp. Immediate.
You crossed the room toward him instinctively before he could spiral further. Of course you did. Even now. Your hands lifted gently to his face, thumbs brushing lightly against his jaw while he looked at you like someone already grieving. “I know,” you whispered softly. And somehow your understanding destroyed him more than anger would have. “I know, Max,” your fingers trembled slightly against his skin. “You’re just afraid.”
His eyes shut briefly. “There’s a difference.”
“No,” you whispered sadly. “Not really,” he leaned unconsciously into your touch for one devastating second before catching himself. Your chest physically hurt at the movement. “I get it,” you said quietly. “I really do,” a watery laugh escaped you. “You talk about pain like I’ve never had any but I understand you better than anyone.”
Max looked wrecked now. Not externally. Anyone else would’ve missed it. But you saw him. Always. “I know why you keep waiting for me to leave,” you whispered. His throat moved hard. “And maybe one day someone will stay long enough to convince you they won’t,” your face crumpled suddenly around the next words. “I’m just sad it couldn’t be me.”
The silence afterward felt endless. Rain tapped softly against the windows again. Of course it did. You smiled weakly through tears. “These last two years...” Your voice broke. “They were the best years of my life.”
Something inside Max nearly shattered at that. Because they were his too. Without question.
You stepped back carefully then. Small movement. World-ending consequence. “But I need to choose myself now.”
Max stared at you like he genuinely could not comprehend the shape of a life where you no longer existed inside it. “So this is it,” he said quietly. Not angry anymore. Just hollow. “We’re done.”
Fresh tears slipped down your face immediately. But your smile softened sadly anyway. “No,” you whispered. “We’ll probably see each other again,” your throat tightened visibly. “Just not like this.”
That was the moment something inside him finally cracked. You saw it happen. The panic. The grief. The sudden horrifying understanding that this was real. That you were actually leaving. You turned toward the door before you lost the strength to do it.
“Wait—”
Your entire body stilled instantly. Slowly, you turned back. Max stood frozen near the centre of the hotel room, chest rising unevenly beneath the thin black t-shirt, eyes locked onto yours with something so raw it almost made you walk back to him immediately.
This was it. The moment. You saw him fighting himself in real time.
Say it. Please.
His throat moved once. Twice. Then finally: “I do though,” your breath caught. Max looked devastated. “You know I do,” he whispered roughly. “Isn’t that enough?”
And there it was. The tragedy of him. Loving you completely while still being unable to survive the vulnerability of naming it aloud. Fresh tears burned instantly down your cheeks.
Because God— You wished it was enough.
“It might be enough for your heart,” you whispered shakily. “But it’s not good for my head,” his face twisted slightly. “And one day,” your voice cracked, “it won’t be enough for either of us.”
The silence afterward felt like mourning. You reached for the door handle slowly. Then paused one final time.
Max looked up immediately. And despite everything, despite the grief clawing through your ribcage, your expression softened when you looked at him. “You’re amazing,” you whispered. The words visibly undid him. “One day you won’t be afraid anymore,” your lips trembled hard. “And that’s going to be wonderful.”
Max looked suddenly on the verge of collapse. You smiled sadly through tears. “I hope you love that person properly,” his eyes shut briefly. “And I’m just...” your voice failed for a second. “I’m just sad it won’t be me.”
The entire room went devastatingly still. Then finally: “I love you, Max.”
The words landed softly. Certainly. Without hesitation. Max’s eyes opened instantly. Too late.
Because you were already gone.
And this time, for the first time in two years, he didn’t follow.
The first race weekend of the 2026 season felt wrong in ways nobody else would ever notice.
Different garage. Different colours. Different voices speaking through your headset while strategy engineers argued quietly around you over fuel loads and tyre windows and race simulations that still didn’t feel fully yours yet.
Everything worked. That was the problem. The promotion was exactly what everyone promised it would be. More responsibility. More authority. More visibility.
Senior Race Strategy Engineer. One of the youngest on the grid. The kind of role people spent entire careers trying to reach. You should have felt triumphant every time someone introduced you properly now. Every time your opinions shifted meetings. Every time senior staff listened when you spoke.
Instead, some traitorous part of you still kept expecting to hear Max somewhere behind you saying something argumentative about tyre degradation. Pathetic, really.
Six weeks. It had been six weeks since Barcelona. Since the hotel room. Since you’d walked away from the only thing that had ever really felt like home. And somehow you still carried him everywhere.
You had no one left to protect you from your own memories now. That was the worst part. At Red Bull, he had been unavoidable. Constant. Built into the rhythm of your days so thoroughly that loving him had felt almost survivable simply because he was always there.
Now the absence echoed. You heard him in silence. In hotel rooms after midnight when the television played quietly in the background and exhaustion settled too heavily for distraction.
In rain against windows. In the instinctive glance toward empty space beside you during debriefs where he no longer sat.
Sometimes you still caught yourself turning slightly, expecting warmth at your back. A hand against your waist. Tap. Tap.
And God, you still remembered how he touched you. Like you were something precious he didn’t know how to keep. Grief had become strangely ordinary now. Not smaller. Just familiar. You had learned how to carry it beside everything else.
Because leaving him had not made you stop loving him. It had only made loving him quieter.
And maybe that was the cruelest part of all. You still thought he might have been the greatest love of your life. Your chest tightened softly at the thought.
Sometimes you wondered what would have happened if you’d stayed. If eventually he would have believed you long enough to stop being afraid. If one day he would have looked at himself outside a race car and finally understood what you saw so clearly every time you looked at him. That he was gentle. Funny. Loyal in strange invisible ways. So much softer than the world realised. That there had always been far more to him than racing.
You had wanted so badly to teach him that. He just never let you stay long enough to try.
The paddock buzzed loudly around you while you crossed toward hospitality carrying strategy reports against your chest. People moved constantly around you. Mechanics. Engineers. Journalists. New faces already learning your name.
Everything ordinary. Everything moving forward.
And then you looked up. Mistake. Because there he was. Across the paddock beside the Red Bull motorhome, talking quietly with GP. Your body recognised him before your mind did. Instantly. Like instinct. Like muscle memory.
Your pulse stumbled painfully beneath your ribs. He looked tired. Not physically. You knew the difference. Something quieter sat beneath the sharpness of him now. Like grief had worn some of the edges softer since the last time you saw him. Or maybe you were imagining it because heartbreak had made you sentimental.
GP was saying something while gesturing toward a tablet in his hands. Max wasn’t listening.
Because suddenly his eyes lifted. And found you immediately.
Everything inside you went still. The paddock noise blurred softly around the edges while the distance between you stretched impossibly wide and painfully small all at once.
There you are. The thought arrived so suddenly it almost winded you.
Across the paddock, Max looked completely frozen now. Like the sight of you had physically interrupted whatever thought he’d been having before. GP followed his gaze a second later.
And understanding crossed his face almost instantly. Soft. Quiet. Sad enough to make your chest ache further. He offered you a small wave. You managed one back automatically. Then GP glanced toward Max once, touched his shoulder lightly like: I’ll give you a minute.
And walked away without another word. Leaving Max standing there alone. Looking at you like regret had become something living beneath his skin.
Your throat tightened painfully. Because suddenly all you could think was: I hope you know how hard this was for me. I hope you know I would have stayed forever if loving you hadn’t started destroying me.
Max’s expression barely shifted outwardly. Anyone else would have missed it. But you knew him too well. You saw the grief in the way his shoulders held tension. The exhaustion behind his eyes. The way he looked at you like someone seeing the shape of his own loss reflected back at him.
And somehow, despite everything, you still understood him. That was the tragedy. You understood that he had not failed to love you. He had simply never learned how to survive being loved in return.
He had loved you in every language except the one you needed most.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly. Because even now, standing in different colours on opposite sides of the paddock, you could still feel the shape of him inside your life.
You had loved him enough to leave. And he had loved you enough to let you.
A small sad smile touched your mouth before you could stop it. Across from you, something in Max’s expression cracked slightly at the sight of it. Not dramatically. Worse. Quietly. Like pain settling deeper instead of louder.
You nodded once toward him. A goodbye. A thank you. An I still love you. Then you turned away. One step. Two. And then:
Tap. Tap.
You stopped instantly. The sound didn’t exist. Not really. But your body knew it anyway.
Slowly, you looked back over your shoulder. Max stood exactly where you’d left him. Watching you. Two fingers pressed lightly against the inside of his wrist.
The signal. Now it meant something else entirely.
I loved you. I still do. I probably always will.
Your breath caught painfully in your chest. For one devastating second, you considered answering it. Giving in. Crossing the paddock. Falling back into him one final time just to feel loved by him again, even incompletely.
Because God, it would be so easy. Too easy. You stared at him across the noise and movement and fluorescent light of the paddock while your heart broke quietly all over again.
Then, slowly, you shook your head. Not angry. Just sad.
Max’s face fell almost imperceptibly. Still, after a second: Tap. Tap. Again. Like hope. Like apology. Like love arriving too late.
Your eyes burned fiercely now. But this time, you didn’t look back again. You turned and walked away while the paddock swallowed you whole around the edges.
And somewhere behind you, Max Verstappen finally understood that loving someone was not the same thing as knowing how to keep them.
You struggle to get your key in the door while balancing groceries and a very vocal cardboard box. When you finally manage to stumble into the apartment, Oscar looks up from his laptop, then does a double-take.
"What," he says slowly, "is that noise?"
The box meows in response.
"Funny story," you begin, setting down the groceries. "Remember how you said I shouldn't go grocery shopping when hungry because I make impulsive decisions?"
"YN."
You open the box carefully, and a small orange cat pokes its head out, looking around curiously.
"What is that?"
"Our cat!"
"Our what?"
"His name is Oscat!"
Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose. "We don't have a cat."
"We do now! Look how cute he is!" You lift the cat, who immediately starts purring. "I found him outside the store and he was all alone and hungry and look at his little face!"
"No."
"But-"
"We can't have a cat."
"We can! I already got food and litter and toys and-"
"When did you have time to get all that?"
"...I may have gotten the supplies before the groceries."
"YN."
"Oscar," you mimic his tone, holding the cat up so it's face-to-face with him. "Look at him. Look at his little nose. He looks just like you!"
"He does not- wait, is that why you named him Oscat?"
"He's grumpy but secretly sweet. Just like you!"
The cat meows again, reaching a paw toward Oscar.
"No," Oscar says firmly. "No way. We travel too much."
"Lando's sister already said she'd cat-sit during race weekends!"
"You called Lando's sister before talking to me?"
"I knew you'd say no!"
"Because it's a no!"
The cat chooses that moment to wriggle free from your hands, landing gracefully on Oscar's lap and immediately curling up.
"See?" you say triumphantly. "He loves you!"
"He's... just warm," Oscar says, very carefully not petting the cat despite its loud purring. "And we're not keeping him."
"But-"
"He can stay until we find him a proper home. That's it."
"Really?"
"Just until we find him a home."
You beam. "You're the best!"
"I mean it, YN. Just temporary."
"Of course, totally temporary," you agree, already taking pictures of Oscar and the cat. "Completely temporary."
One Week Later:
"Oscar? Have you seen Oscat's fish toy? The blue one?"
"It's under the couch," Oscar replies without looking up from his phone. "And don't give him the catnip one, he got too hyper last time."
"Says the person who bought him three new toys yesterday."
"They were on sale."
"Mhmm. And the custom bed with his name?"
"It was practical."
"And the special food you ordered from that fancy pet store?"
"He's picky!"
"Face it, babe," you grin as Oscat jumps onto Oscar's lap, immediately demanding attention. "You love him."
"I tolerate him," Oscar corrects, even as he scratches behind the cat's ears exactly where he likes it. "And we're still finding him a new home."
"Sure we are."
"We are!"
"Is that why you changed your phone background to that picture of him sleeping in your racing helmet?"
"He looked cute- I mean, it was funny."
"And why you FaceTimed him during the simulator session yesterday?"
"I was checking if he ate!"
"And why you're currently letting him sleep on your McLaren jacket?"
Oscar looks down at the cat, who has indeed made himself comfortable on the expensive team gear. "He has good taste."
"Just admit you love him."
"Never."
Oscat meows, headbutting Oscar's hand for more pets.
"Demanding little thing," Oscar mutters, but he's smiling as he strokes the cat's fur.
"Like owner, like cat."
"I'm not his owner."
"No?" You pull out your phone. "So I shouldn't show everyone the video of you singing him to sleep last night?"
Oscar's head snaps up. "You didn't."
"Want to bet?"
"Delete it."
"Make me."
Oscar moves to get up, but Oscat digs his claws into the jacket, giving him the most betrayed look a cat could manage.
"Ha!" you say triumphantly. "You won't move because you don't want to disturb him!"
"I just don't want him to ruin the jacket."
"Sure, that's why you let him sleep on it every day."
"I do not-"
"And why you're currently smiling at him like he's the cutest thing you've ever seen."
Oscar quickly schools his expression. "I'm not."
"Too late, already got a picture."
"You're the worst."
"And yet you love me."
"Unfortunately."
"Almost as much as you love Oscat."
"I don't-"
Oscat chooses that moment to stretch and yawn, then snuggles closer to Oscar, purring loudly.
"...fine," Oscar admits defeat. "Maybe I like him a little."
"A little?"
"Don't push it."
"Says the guy who installed a cat camera to watch him while we're away."
"It's for security!"
"The one that you check every hour?"
"I'm just being thorough."
Oscar looks down at the cat, who is now fully asleep on his lap. "This is your fault," he tells him. "You and your stupid cute face."
Oscat just purrs louder.
"Face it, babe," you sit next to them, scratching Oscat's chin. "You're a cat dad now."
"I hate that term."
"Would you prefer 'fur parent'?"
"I hate you."
"No you don't. You love me and our cat."
Oscar sighs, but he's fighting a smile. "Yeah," he says softly, watching Oscat sleep. "I really do."
"Both of us?"
"Both of you. Even when you're both impossibly annoying."
"We learned from the best."
Oscar doesn't argue, too busy taking another picture of Oscat for his growing collection. You hide your smile, watching your grumpy boyfriend completely smitten with your little orange cat.
And if Oscat now has his own Instagram account run by Oscar? Well, that's just coincidence. Totally temporary, of course.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
When you'r f1 driver gets jealous for absolutely no reason.
pairing: f!reader x f1!boyfriend
genre: contains spicy texts but mostly fluff
drivers mentioned: cl16, ln1, ka12, ob87, mv3, op81
this has been sitting in my drafts before i made my tumblr so enjoy!!
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
─── 𝔀arnings ⌗ smut 18+ (sex to get even, semi public sex, slight dom/sub dynamics, blowjobs, handjob, fingering, minimal praise kink, kinda mean and condescending dom!oscar, dry humping, reader grinds on the table, sex on a desk, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), some very light degredation i think ... not beta'ed sorry)
it was all because of stupid oscar piastri.
the tension between you two wasn't just palpable; it was a physical weight in the engineering lecture halls. you were both top of your class, and when mclaren announced a singular 12-month engineering internship spot for your university, the rivalry turned nuclear. he was infuriating, constantly undercutting your technical arguments in design reviews with that calm, maddeningly precise logic of his, all while throwing little smirk filled glances your way that made you want to throw your drafting compass at his perfectly composed face. he’d make comments—soft, cutting remarks that only you could hear—and delight in the way your face would heat up in frustration.
the incident that got you both stuck in the quiet study room after hours for "academic misconduct"—because apparently, shouting about CFD simulations in the library constitutes a disturbance—was just the tipping point.
you were trying to finish your final design specs so you could go home and finally relax, but the sound of his pen clicking rhythmically against the wooden table two spots away was vibrating through your skull.
he infuriated you to your core and you can't even pinpoint the exact reason, though there were, in fact, a lot of reasons that annoyed you about him. and maybe, just maybe, it was the way he kept throwing comments at you in class and the way you scowled at him before throwing the marker at his stupid face, or the way he constantly calls you those disgusting pet names and relishes in getting under your skin because he thinks your reactions are funny, or the way you had your knee in between his thighs the other day, threatening to cut his dick off if he ever bothered you again, only for you to be left fuming because he took one look at your threat as a cute challenge.
(or maybe, it was that one time you kissed him in the dark at some random's house party and the way he was never going to let you live it down.)
you hate him, you despise him, and you absolutely fucking loathe him for existing and breathing the same air as you. unfortunately today, your ego had just about enough to the point that it got both you and him in trouble—or, as the department head called it, the self study room—for "academic misconduct"
so now you're stuck here, trying to get the last of your design specifications done so you could go home and binge the entirety of your new favourite show without the guilt of pending assignments lingering in the back of your head. the sound of a pen clicking over and over again against the wooden desk two tables away from where you are currently seated irritates you.
your fingers grip the corners of your textbook, the page scrunching under your touch. you try to regain your composure; you let out a heavy sigh before plastering the best fake smile you could muster before turning to him.
oscar meets your eyes and he's already smiling, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"please, will you stop making those noises," you weren't asking; it was a demand. "i am trying to get my work done. i don't know what the hell your deal is, oscar, but you better stop it."
his lips curl into a smirk now. you feel like punching him again. "yes, ma'am," he says while laying the pen down, flicking it and allowing it to roll off the table. your eyes follow the object before they fly back to the boy, whose attention is now on some girl from a group of students who are also in the study room. annoying fuck , you think.
feeling like he's some deranged vampire who has sucked every life energy out of your body, you huff yet again before stabbing your own pen into your braided hair twist before gathering your things, and heading out of the room. you're loud. you're not exactly sure why you're slamming your hand or your book shut or deliberately taking out your frustrations on your school things but fuck this punishment, and definitely fuck oscar piastri. your father could buy this school and his ass out in seconds anyway.
oscar's eyes burn into you as you do this. you're aware and you want him to see it—want him to see how infuriating his existence is to you, and how many alarms he sets off in your body. you do not miss the way his blurry figure gets up from his seat in your peripheral view, and that's when you know you got him.
it's only a few minutes later when you realise the thuds coming from your prada loafers are the only ones resonating throughout the hallways of the university. you stop for a bit, your mind debating whether you should look back, but alas, your body betrays you, turning you around to scan the floors and staircases for a glimpse of him. he was there earlier, you could've sworn so.
before you can gather your thoughts rationally, you find your heels dragging you back to the library, poking your head through the glass window and straining your neck in order to have a better look around. he's nowhere to be found.
"looking for me, angel?"
you flinch, almost screaming before the realisation dawns on you that only one jackass would do this. god, help me , you thought. but because of the way you spun around to shove him for his piss behaviour, he swiftly garners the chance to pin your wrist above your head.
"ew, don't touch me. i'm getting a cramp," oscar chuckles as you yank your arm free from his grip.
"i don't bite, princess," you meet his eyes, drinking in the mischief that swirls around his dark eyes. "unless you're into that."
your breath hitches in your throat as you try to level it down. you hadn't noticed the way you've been holding in your breath, and you don't understand why you're fighting the slow crawl of pink creeping up your cheeks. the arrogant smirk on his face doesn't falter for a second and you're already thinking of a haughty remark.
the realisation hits you like a truck when you catch up to the observation that anyone with half a brain could mistake you both as a couple with the way he suddenly inches closer, his hot breath fanning your skin. you gulp and you pray he didn't notice.
you were not about to show oscar piastri that he had some stupid effect on you; over your dead fucking body.
you don't know why you're making it difficult for yourself, honestly. there's a way out for you; he hasn't trapped you between him and the wall completely, so you don't know why you're taking up his petty challenge and willingly allowing yourself to suffer.
"aren't you going to apologise to me, baby? you broke my face." he feigns being hurt with his free hand caressing your cheek. you glare at him, swatting it away.
"all this trouble for an apology? just say you're obsessed with me and go." you reply, inwardly cringing at the way your voice shook. oscar shrugs and you decide that this isn't worth your time anymore, and you knew that he wouldn't bite back either. so you begin to walk away.
oscar piastri was full of shit and you knew it first hand.
immediately, you feel a hand on your waist, pulling you and pinning you firmly back in place. you instinctively moan when you feel his knee prop up to your core, successfully trapping you. your eyes widen when you realise and your hands fly up to your mouth. the boy towering over you grins, incredibly amused at the reaction you just made. oscar switches his arm for the other, resting it on the wall next to your head. you were turning red. hands curling into a fist with your fingernails digging crescent moons into your skin that were sure to bleed.
oscar lowers his head down to the shell of your ear. "look at you," he says, huskily. his voice is low and you hate the way you can't avoid the blooming pit in your stomach. "you always fall apart at the thought of me. you say you can't stand me but your body language says otherwise. what will everyone think of this when they find out, hm?"
your breath hitches in your throat as you stare him down.
god, he's so close he could kiss you and you might just let him. might.
but you know you wouldn't. you're too stubborn to give in to your desires. you were always hellbent on not becoming like those stupid girls who looked like they were close to dropping their panties after oscar piastri gave them a smidge of his attention.
"listen here, you arsehole," you grit your teeth as your fingers curl around his shirt, bunching it up in your hand before yanking him to your eye level. "i don't know what sick game you're playing but you need to stay the hell away from me, piastri."
"scared you'll come crawling back for more?"
you snort. "as if."
"i'm not the one who just moaned at the mere contact of cold concrete against my skin and force,"
"true. but i'm not the one whining for a video call every night, am i?" there's something in him that flickers and you know you had the cards in your favour when you brought it up. because now, oscar's pulling you by your elbow and dragging you up the staircase leading towards the rooftop.
you don't get the chance to speak when he aggressively pushes you against the wall and pushes you down on your knees. you moan out of instinct, pain settling in and pleasure striking like lightning.
"do you want us to get caught?" you run your hands further up his clothed thigh. your fingers pass over his erection and to his fly.
"maybe.”
"god, i hate your ass."
oscar stands over you while you undo his button, pull down the zipper, and tug his pants down about halfway. his eyes are fixated on you while you do this. "and i love yours."
your eyes roll at his response but you appreciate it nonetheless. you can't help but think how fictional worthy your positions look like right now—getting ready to give your literal internship rival the best blow of his life as if he didn't just give you three orgasms the other night. you prop yourself up a bit, leaning towards the erection that's straining through his boxer briefs. you kiss the head of his cock through the cotton. oscar is sensitive, dick twitching upon your kiss, and your breath feels hot against all the fabric.
"(your name)..."
you pull his boxers down shamelessly, letting his erection free. you sigh with a bit of performance. "you know, it's kind of a shame," you say, "if i had only known that mouth of yours was good for something else other than pissing me off, i would've been better off with you."
"was this why you kept looking for me the other day, angel? finally bored with that situationship you keep posting about? i told you, princess—fuck, i love your mouth—i already told you i was better," he fishes, and you lick a stripe up his shaft before flattening your tongue on the tip of his cock. "and i did make you come more than he ever did during that night." he breathes.
you don't say anything else, slipping your mouth over the tip of his. your tongue feels wet and so hot, swirling just around the head of oscar's cock, pretty lips pressed against him. you pause to spit on your palm before beginning to work gentle strokes down his shaft. it's good, and for a little second, all he can think about is how he wants you to take him further into your warm, wet throat. you move slowly, your tongue almost teasing. the anticipation is intense.
"osc," you say as your hand works around his dick, massaging his balls occasionally. you stare up at him through your dark lashes, with those eyes you know that gets him going—and the boy's heart stops as you press another long kiss to his cock and say, "i like you like this. you look so pretty."
you punctuate your words by taking him into your mouth, deeply—your tongue moving flat and firm against the underside of his shaft, hand squeezing the base of him. the feeling overwhelms him and he moans—well, it's a whimper, but the sound is honest.
you go down once, and take your mouth back off of him to say, "i've been thinking of us like this. in this same exact position."
jesus christ, oscar thinks you're out to kill him.
you speak some more, "do you think about me like this?"
"always," he manages as you flatten your tongue against the tip of his cock. oscar heaves before you and you hum, loving the reaction—and to rile him up some more. a hand goes through your hair, strands falling from the makeshift bun you made with the pencil earlier, as you slide your mouth over his cock. oscar doesn't have the words to articulate how good your mouth feels around him; how good you use your tongue while you move your head; how you're so hot, and how you want him. how you've been thinking about this—about him. his head's gone wild and it electrifies the slick heat of your lips, your tongue. fuck, oscar thinks. he's in heaven.
the ache in your knees begins to stir as you imagine the purples, blues, and greens forming bubbles of bruises on your flesh. a groan flies out of your lips when you lift one to move it aside, creating a gap between legs.
"you okay?" oscar's voice rings in your ear and you think it's sweet that he asked.
"don't worry about me, baby. i'm more than okay."
your free hand, the one that's been caressing the boy's clothed thigh up and down, snakes away to disappear under your skirt. the slick noise that pokes out underneath almost makes oscar choke.
"you're—ah—," he pants, and you look up at him. "fuck. that's so fucking hot. keep—keep touching yourself, princess. my sweet girl."
you moan around him, like you're really getting off on this, not letting up for a moment. he moans louder in return, just so you'll hear him, just so you'll keep touching herself. it's hot. it's so hot. you both don't even care anymore.
you rock against your own hand as you swallow his cock, messy and fast, and it's starting to overwhelm him in a way he desperately wants to give in to.
before he can truly consider it, he tugs on your hair, and says, "(your name)—stop—,"
you meet his eyes, and there's a moment where he doesn't think you will. and he can't remember why he wanted you to.
but you do, sliding your mouth excruciatingly slowly off of his cock, your tongue feeling every inch of him on the way.
"shit." he shudders, missing your mouth badly as the cool air hits the spit drying on his cock. "you drive me crazy."
"i want you to come for me," you whisper, and he hisses, still closer to the edge than he wants.
you're moving so relentlessly that it's hard for him to track the sound of your fingers rubbing your clit, so he tries to focus on the difficult task of cumming, instead of the distracting, maddening slick heat of your cunt.
very quickly it becomes too much. embracing the point of no return, he drives his hips up to meet up yours and groans the moment the head of his cock meets the back of your throat, loving the way you gag around him.
he comes so hard he can't think.
oscar's digs his hands into your scalp and moans, head thrown back against the window, sweat sticking his hair to his neck as he loses himself inside your mouth. he loses count of the hot pulses of cum that rush through him.
you release him with a pop before licking another stripe up to the head and giving it a kiss. he tells you to open your mouth and you do, sticking out your tongue to show that you've swallowed all of him.
"that's my girl."
"i hope that was okay, though," you say after a while and he runs his thumb over your cheek, where your tears have dried.
oscar curls down to kiss you, hard, and it's not enough. you sigh and you force yourself to stand, ignoring the pain on your knees, and shimming up to his body. he clings to you, pressing his mouth into every part of you he can reach, as if he's never been able to kiss you before. he wants to laugh with the feeling of just getting something he wants. and whether oscar has realised it or not, he wants nothing else but you.
and so, oscar barely gives you a moment to breathe, haphazardly tucking himself back into his trousers with a frantic, uncharacteristic edge to his movements. he doesn't wait for you to stand properly; he simply grabs your hand, his grip firm and possessive, and drags you out of the rooftop, up the final flight of stairs to a desolate, quiet academic floor. he navigates the hallway with purpose until he finds an empty classroom, kicking the door shut behind you with a sharp thud that echoes in the stillness. he locks it, the click of the latch final and heavy.
he turns back to you, his eyes dark with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. he marches toward you, hoisting you up onto the heavy wooden desk meant for a lecture. your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, locking him into place.
"you think you'll have me at the palm of your hands like that without getting any back? think again, bunny," he murmurs against your lips, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low growl that vibrates against your skin.
he doesn't wait for an answer, his mouth crashing onto yours with a relentless, hungry urgency. his hands are everywhere—tangling in your hair, sliding down to press firmly against your lower back, and beginning to undo the fastenings of your uniform with clumsy, heated determination. every touch is a claim, and as he undresses you, he peppers your neck and jawline with sharp, stinging kisses, leaving you breathless and completely at his mercy in the dim, empty classroom.
your moans spill out, ragged and breathless, each sound a testament to the absolute hold he has over you. they are music to his ears, high-pitched gasps and soft whimpers fueling the fire in his eyes as he hears the effect he’s having. he thrives on the noise, tilting his head to catch every ragged breath you take, his hands mapping the curve of your thighs with a possessive, grounding pressure.
"that's it," he rasps, his composure completely shattered as he presses his body flush against yours, his hands roaming over your skin with a mixture of worship and urgency. every time you cry out, his grip tightens, his movements becoming more deliberate and demanding, as if he's trying to etch his claim into you.
he loves the way you arch into him, the way you pull him closer as if you can't get enough, your encouragement pouring out of you in a symphony of desperate, uninhibited pleas.
your mind's a haze of a lot of things; your anger that has dissipated moments ago, his confidence as he touches you like you're the only girl ever, his stupid smirk that you can feel ghosting against the pulse of your throat, and the way he's gotten under your skin that you've allowed so willingly. it infuriates you, and yet.
yet, your fingers tangle firmly into his hair, pulling him closer, bringinv him to the sensitive juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. you need him right there, against your collarbone, as he traces the line of your throat with his lips and grazes his teeth over your skin, sending sharp jolts of electricity straight through your nervous system. his touch is overwhelming, his palms hot and heavy against your skin making the world outside this room feel frozen and distant.
"please—," you breathe out, the word fracturing as he intentionally rolls his hips against your core. the friction is agonisingly good, the lingering dampness from your earlier release making your nerves scream for more. "oscar, don't tease." you choke out the plea, your voice rising into a desperate, needy whine as you press your body forward, instinctively chasing the rough, unforgiving heat of his denim against your center.
but oscar just chuckles against your skin, his eyes dark with beautiful cruelty. he knows exactly how much you crave the contact, and he denies you the steady rhythm you’re begging for. he shifts just enough to break the pressure, dragging his hips away whenever you lean in, leaving you hollow and shivering in his grip. he thrives on the way you unravel under the deprivation, his hands roaming over your hips to hold you steady while he keeps you right on the edge, hands sliding under your blouse, exploring hot skin while teetering over the lined edge of your bra.
the friction of his denim against your thighs is driving you to the brink of insanity, a maddening, abrasive contrast to the liquid heat pooling between your legs. you let out a low, involuntary whine, your head falling back and then forward, burying your face into the crook of his neck. you trace the line of his jaw and his pulse point with desperate, fluttering kisses, your movements frantic and uncoordinated.
he's gone now and slid the very hand he had been using to further explore the skin under your top down to under the hem of your skirt, teasing and brushing past your bikini line. you flinch with a spike of pure, raw need. oscar's fingers map the damp, aching contours of your folds through the thin fabric of your cotton panties, providing just enough pressure to make you gasp, yet he pulls away before you can find any relief.
"please, please—," you try to form a coherent sentence, but the words dissolve into broken, gasping fragments. your voice is thin and strained, lacking any of the haughty defiance you usually wield against him. you are reduced to nothing but raw nerve endings and incoherent pleas, begging for the very thing he is so meticulously denying you.
oscar watches you with that infuriating, observing stillness, his brown eyes tracking every tremor that runs through your body. he lets out a soft, dismissive tut, his thumb pressing firmly against the center of your ache through the cotton, but again, he doesn't break the seal.
"patience, angelface," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a promise that feels both like a threat and a reward. "i'll make you feel good too."
he leans in, his breath hot against your ear, and you can feel the smirk in his tone. he wants to hear you break completely; he wants to witness you losing your grip on your own pride until you are begging for his touch as if it’s the only thing that can keep you upright. he intentionally drags his knuckles along your sensitive inner thigh, his touch precise and calculated, deliberately stoking the fire until you are arching your back and clutching at his shoulders, your manicured nails digging into his skin as you wait for him to finally give in to the rhythm you’re so desperately chasing.
oscar leans in, his expression sharpening as he takes in your scrunched up, pleasure-contorted face and eyes fluttered shut. he closes the distance to swallow every whine and mewl against your lips, his tongue tangling with yours in a deep, hungry kiss that leaves you dizzy.
as he holds you there, he finally dips his fingers inside your underwear, the sudden contact of his warm skin against your slick folds making your back arch off the desk. he spreads the moisture evenly across your folds, his touch deliberate and maddeningly slow before he begins rubbing your clit in steady, circular motions that send sharp waves of heat through your entire body.
you moan directly into his mouth, his name spilling out in a broken gasp alongside a desperate, "yes, please—god, finally—,”
ocar lets out a soft, mocking grin, his eyes glinting with a mix of gentle amusement and calculated dominance at your immediate reaction. "excited, aren't we? haven't given you my cock yet," he purrs into the crook of your neck, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your skin. he moves away from your lips to plant a trail of burning kisses down your chin and jawline, his fingers never once stopping their ministrations between your legs.
he doesn't stop there, his thumb finding the exact spot that makes your vision cloud and your breath stutter. the pressure he applies is a far cry from the teasing distance he held just moments ago, and the sudden shift in pace forces a primal, hitching sob from your throat. oscar revels in it, his hand moving with a confident kind of expertise that makes the desk beneath you feel far too hard and the air in the room far too thin.
"look at you," he whispers, his voice dropping into that dangerous, honey-thick register as he pulls back to observe the way you're shaking against his touch. "completely undone and i haven't properly started yet."
he picks up the pace, his fingers working inside you with a fluid, invasive grace that makes your legs lock around his waist, pulling him as flush against you as the fabric of his jeans will allow. the friction is all-consuming, a desperate, maddening cycle of his touch and your response. every time you try to pull away, he just holds you firmer, his thumb circling your clit until you're gasping for air, your head lolling back against his shoulder as his kisses move from your jaw to the sensitive pulse beating frantically at the base of your throat.
he knows exactly when you're teetering on the edge, and he has no intention of letting you fall just yet. he slows his rhythm again, his touch becoming light, almost absent, just to feel the way you chase his hand, your hips bucking forward in a silent, desperate demand for more. he just chuckles, a low, vibration in his chest that you can feel through his clothes, as he leans in to bite softly at your earlobe.
"still haven't given you everything you're asking for, have i?" he taunts, his fingers sliding back inside you in a slow, deep stroke that makes you cry out, his name fracturing on your tongue.
and this is where you remember that oscar piastri is a piece of shit.
at the very height of your unraveling, when your body is a tightly wound spring of desperate need, oscar abruptly halts, pulling his fingers out with a clean, devastating motion. the whiplash of pleasure being stolen from you is enough to make you thrash in his hold, your legs kicking out in a futile attempt to recapture the friction you were denied. you are a mess of tangled limbs and raw nerves, your back arched off the hard wood of the desk, your head tossing back as you let out a sharp, ragged cry of pure, unadulterated frustration.
"please!" you sob, the word escaping you in a broken, pathetic wheeze as you claw at his shoulders, trying to pull him back to the center of your ache. you are begging for him, your pride completely annihilated by the void he left behind, your body twitching with the ghost of an orgasm that refuses to fade. oscar only laughs—a low, gravelly, and thoroughly amused sound that ripples through his chest—and he pulls back just enough to watch you struggle, his expression one of mock satisfaction. he lets you thrash and complain, letting your agitation feed the atmosphere of the room.
"fuck you, piastri—," you bite out, your voice trembling with a potent cocktail of rage and arousal. you can barely string the words together, your breath hitching in broken, wet gasps. "i can't—, god, i can't, please." you plead, your fingers digging into his shirt as you try to ground yourself. your entrance pulses and clenches, a hollow ache that begs for the pressure he just stole away.
your body vibrates; your entire core throbbing with a phantom tension that refuses to dissipate, and the sight of you—completely unraveled and desperate for his return—only seems to make his resolve to tease you further.
oscar shushes you, the sound sharp and silencing, his hand coming up to press firmly on your waist to keep you steady on the desk. despite his hold, your hips grind erratically against the hard wooden surface, your body desperate to find the friction it was just robbed of.
you’re frantic, trying to coax pleasure from the unyielding furniture, but it’s an empty, frustrating effort; the cold, stationary edge of the desk is a poor substitute for the specific, intoxicating electricity that only oscar’s touch provides.
he watches you with an amused, half-lidded gaze, clearly enjoying the sight of your desperate attempt to satiate yourself without his help. he lets you suffer through the inadequacy of your own movements for a heartbeat longer before he leans in, pressing his lips against your forehead in a feather-light, almost taunting kiss. "want it that bad, huh?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that feels more intimate than his touch.
your fingernails bite into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him flush against you as you struggle to even form a coherent word. "want me to fuck you stupid on this desk?" he asks, his question hanging heavy and dangerous in the air, his eyes dark with the promise of exactly what he knows you've been burning up for.
you nod your head frantically, your vision swimming and your thoughts unraveling into a hazy, singular need as you continue to beg. "i'll do anything, oscar, please. i can't—i need it—," you gasp out, the words barely audible as you feel yourself soaking your panties, the heat of your own desire pooling heavily against the barrier oscar refuses to fully breach.
oscar hums against your skin, a sound of sick satisfaction, but instead of finishing what he started, he teases you further by guiding your hands down to his crotch.
you don't need instructions; you already know exactly what he wants. as he crashes his mouth back onto yours in a fervent, needy kiss, you work the zipper of his fly, your fingers trembling as you help spring his cock free.
the instant he's released, oscar lets out a sharp, ragged hiss, the stark difference between your small, desperate hand and the impressive size of him sending an addictive rush through his system. he kisses you harder, his hands tangling deep into your hair and pulling your head back, exposing your throat to his hungry attention while you wrap your hand around him, stroking him in a steady, building rhythm that prepares him for exactly what you're both craving.
oscar presses his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he battles the overwhelming sensation of your touch, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to keep you close to him. the atmosphere in the room feels tense, charged with the scent of unspent desire and the harsh, metallic tang of the upcoming internship you both are so desperate to win, yet in this moment, those stakes are pushed to the absolute periphery of his mind.
he moans low in his throat; jagged and involuntary as you pull your hand upward, your thumb grazing the sensitive underside of his head, causing him to shudder violently against you. he’s losing his grip on his own composure, his hips twitching in sync with your hand, the dominance he’s been holding most of the time beginning to fray at the edges. “shit, dollface— keep doing that and i won't last," he groans. his voice a strained, melodic mess as he pulls your head back further, exposing the arch of your throat to his hot, feverish kisses.
after some time, oscar begins to move his hips in slow, deliberate grinds, testing the space between your thighs, the denim of his jeans grating against your already sensitive, dampened skin in a way that makes you cry out with renewed desperation. he’s playing with the threshold of your endurance, his fingers returning to your inner thigh, tracing the seam of your panties, daring you to stop, daring you to push him past the point of no return.
you feel the heat radiating off the man before you, the way his muscles bunch and ripple under your touch, and you use that to your advantage, increasing the speed of your hand, teasing him with the same attitude he’s been using on you all afternoon. his head falls back against the whiteboard, a sharp, muffled thud that signals just how close he is to snapping.
oscar kisses you then—a bruising, possessive collision of teeth and tongue—tasting his own mounting frustration and your frantic, saccharine need, binding you both together in a rhythm that feels less like a game and more like an unavoidable collision of two people who have been holding each other at arm's length for far too long.
he grips your hips, his knuckles turning white as he positions himself, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a hungry, devastating focus. with a deliberate, slow push, he finally slides inside you. the sheer size of him is overwhelming, stretching you to your absolute limits, and for a second, your breath leaves you entirely. it’s tight, an intense, crushing fullness that makes your head spin and your vision blur. oscar watches the way your face contorts, the way your fingers dig into his shoulders as you struggle to accommodate him, and a look of pure, unadulterated triumph crosses his features.
to him, sheathing himself completely within your warmth is nothing short of elysium. he lets out a low, guttural groan that vibrates through your chest, his body shuddering at the sensation of you—so hot, so soft, and so incredibly wet—clamping down around his length. you gasp, a broken, breathless sound, marvelling at how he managed to fit despite the friction, your body instinctively clenching around him.
"fuck—oh! " you moan out, the sensation ricocheting through your spine as he finds a rhythm that is both punishing and perfect.
oscar lets out a harsh, ragged breath against your neck, his voice thick with praise as he feels you adjusting to his size. "that's it, doll," he murmurs, his tone vibrating with possessive pride. “you take my cock so well. all the damn time. missed being inside you, fuck.”
his hands lock onto your hips, grounding you as he begins a punishingly steady rhythm, burying himself deep with every forward thrust. the sounds echoing in the classroom are obscene—skin meeting skin and your desperate, uninhibited cries, which oscar drinks in, his eyes blown wide with an intensity that matches the violence of his movements. each time he hits that deep, sensitive spot, you feel your resistance shattering, your nails raking down his back as you tilt your head back and sob his name, completely undone by the sheer force of his possession.
you don't know how long you stay like that until you reach down into the friction between your bodies, sourcing out pleasure elsewhere to get you coming. and so your fingers tremble as you slip them inside your panties, desperate for that specific, sharp contact. you start to work in quick, desperate circles against your sensitive nub, but just as you find a rhythm, oscar’s hand drops from your hip to press his fingers over yours. he sandwiches your hand against yourself, forcing you to maintain a firm, heavy pressure against your clit while he continues to piston in and out of you.
the double-barreled stimulation is almost too much; a ragged, shattering cry rips out of your throat, and your thighs spasm, your legs trying to clamp shut in an involuntary, defensive reflex against the sheer intensity. "oscar!" you gasp, the name barely more than a sob as his pace turns wild, uncoordinated, and utterly feral.
he's erratic, slamming his hips into yours with a frantic need that matches your own. he’s caught in the same feedback loop, his breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches that mirror the way your own pulse is hammering in your ears. “wanna fuckin’ come, princess? wanna get that orgasm you've been crying about?” he taunts as he pushes you over, clearly intending to go over with you, his movements becoming more aggressive as the friction reaches a fever pitch.
at this point, all you can do is nod frantically into his personal space as you feel the pressure building — a tidal wave of heat and muscle tension that’s threatening to snap you in half. as you begin to climax, your hips grind upward against him with a violent, final strength, your fingers underneath his finally letting go as the world narrows down to nothing but the feeling of him, the desk beneath you, and the shattering release that rips through you, making your eyes see white light.
as your heartbeat finally thrums at a reasonable pace, oscar turns his head to press a lingering, possessive kiss onto the side of your temple, his breath coming in shallow, shuddering gasps against your skin. with one final, deep push, he unloads himself inside you, and you can feel the hot, heavy spurts of his release flooding into your core. you’re completely spent, your body heavy and humming with the aftermath, and you can only muster a soft, broken whimper as you feel him pulsing within you.
"thank you," you mumble, your voice a barely audible rasp against his collarbone as your eyes flutter shut, your body finally losing its tension and sagging involuntarily against his shoulder. oscar doesn't pull away; he holds you firmly in his arms, staying buried deep inside you, content to let the lingering heat and the silence of the empty classroom wash over you until you’re steady enough to move again.
he eventually shifts, his weight shifting off you just enough so he can pull you flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around your frame to keep you close as you catch your breath. he brushes a stray, sweat-dampened strand of hair from your forehead, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that feels entirely at odds with the intensity from moments ago.
"you," he says, his voice still raspy and low, "are absolute trouble."
you let out a soft, tired laugh, tilting your head to look up at him, your eyes still heavy with the haze of what you just shared. "coming from the man who decided to make his internship rival lose her composure on a desk in the middle of a workday?"
oscar smirks, the look in his eyes softening as he leans down to press another lingering, chaste kiss to your lips. "well, you did ask for it, bunny. and you were very, very convincing."
"i was under a sex spell and begging, piastri. there's a difference."
“a sex spell? is that what we're calling it now?” oscar throws back at you as he chuckles, pulling you tighter until your head rests securely back on his shoulder.
"let's call it a tie," he murmurs against your hair, his hand coming to rest possessively at the small of your back. "though we should probably consider how we're going to explain the state of this room if anyone walks in."
you hum, feeling the cool air of the room start to settle on your skin, but you make no move to leave his embrace. "we'll just tell them it was part of an 'intensive performance evaluation.' i'm sure they'll understand."
"oh, they'd definitely understand," he agrees, his tone shifting into that familiar, teasing cadence. "though i think i’d have to fight them off if they tried to give you a higher score than me."
you smack him lightly, a smirk tugging at your lips. "your ego is going to be the death of us both, you know." he just laughs, a low, vibrating sound, and pulls you to your feet with an ease that makes your knees wobble.
"maybe so," he concedes, straightening his shirt and giving you one last, lingering look that makes the flush return to your cheeks. "but at least we'll go out having the best stats in the department.”
how you communicate with your boyfriend using his own memes
note: just a little fun one in between the two longer fics i'm working on :) definitely feel like oscar would just be so used to you talking to him in memes that he's not even a little phased by it lol. hope you guys enjoy this one!
warnings : swearing, implied/referenced sex
he doesn’t sleep that night, not even for a minute, just lies there staring at the ceiling with everything replaying on a loop he can’t shut off, your voice when you said it, the way it didn’t even sound angry anymore, just tired and hurt, like something in you had already given up, and that’s the part that gets to him the most because he can handle anger, he can argue back, defend himself, explain, but that quiet kind of disappointment? he has no idea what to do with that, and now it’s all he can see when he closes his eyes
he keeps going back to the exact moment he said her name, like if he rewinds it enough times he can somehow stop himself, choose different words, keep everything from breaking the way it did, but it doesn’t work like that and he knows it, so instead he’s left with the weight of it, the realization that it wasn’t just one mistake, it was everything leading up to it, everything he ignored, everything he justified under “protecting you” without ever actually asking how it felt on your side
because he did think he was protecting you
that’s the part that makes this worse, he wasn’t trying to hurt you, he was trying to avoid exactly this kind of situation, people knowing too much, saying too much, dragging you into something you didn’t ask for, he’s seen it happen before, seen how quickly things can turn ugly, how people can go from supportive to invasive in seconds, and the idea of that being directed at you made him pull back instinctively, keep things quieter, more controlled, more… contained
but lying there, with nothing to distract him, he finally admits the part he’s been avoiding too
it wasn’t just about you
it was about him too, about control, about not wanting something real in his life to become something public that he couldn’t manage, because once it’s out there, it’s not just his anymore, people have opinions, expectations, narratives they build on their own, and that terrified him more than he ever said out loud
so he kept you slightly separate, told himself it was safer that way, better that way
and never once stopped to think that from your perspective it might feel like he was pushing you away
like he was embarrassed of you
that thought alone makes his chest tighten, because that was never it, not even close, if anything it was the opposite, you mattered too much, which is exactly why he handled it so badly
by morning he knows he can’t just sit with it, can’t wait and hope it somehow fixes itself, so he goes to you, even if there’s a chance you won’t want to see him, even if there’s a chance he’s already too late
standing outside your door feels worse than anything he’s done on track, worse than any pressure he’s used to, because this actually matters in a way nothing else does, and when you open it, looking at him with that same guarded expression, he feels it all over again
“i know you probably don’t want to see me,” he starts, voice quieter than usual, rough from not sleeping, “but i need to explain, properly this time”
you don’t shut the door, and that’s enough for him to keep going
“what i said yesterday… about her,” he continues, forcing himself to say it even though it feels awful, “that was wrong, completely wrong, and i’m not going to try and downplay it, you didn’t deserve that, not even a little bit”
you stay quiet, just watching him, waiting
“i wasn’t thinking,” he admits, running a hand through his hair, “i felt like everything was slipping and i said the first thing that came to mind to defend myself, and it was careless and stupid and i hate that that’s what came out when i was talking to you”
he takes a small breath before continuing, because this part matters just as much
“but the rest of it, i need you to understand where i was coming from, not because it excuses anything, but because i don’t want you thinking i was ever ashamed of you”
there’s a flicker of something in your expression at that, and he steps a little closer, careful
“i’ve seen what people can be like,” he says, more steady now, more honest than he’s been before, “i’ve seen how they treat people who get pulled into this world, how quickly things can turn, and i didn’t want that for you, i didn’t want you dealing with all of that just because you’re with me”
you cross your arms slightly, still guarded, “you should’ve told me that instead of just shutting me out”
“i know,” he says immediately, nodding, “i know, and that’s on me, i handled it badly, i thought if i kept things quieter it would be enough, but i didn’t think about how that would feel for you”
he pauses, then adds, softer, “i didn’t realize i was making you feel like something i didn’t want people to see”
that lands, you can tell it does, but it doesn’t fix it, not even close
“i understand what you’re saying,” you tell him after a moment, and his chest lifts slightly at that, “i really do
he nods quickly, hopeful for half a second
“but that doesn’t change how it felt,” you continue, and that hope drops just as fast
he exhales slowly, bracing himself
“it’s not just what you said about your ex,” you go on, your voice calm but firm, “even if that was the worst part, it’s everything before that, the way you kept me at a distance, the way i had to ask for space in your life instead of just being part of it”
he looks down for a second, jaw tightening, because hearing it like that makes it impossible to defend
“i started feeling like i had to tone myself down around you,” you admit, quieter now, “like loving you the way i do was too much”
“it wasn’t too much,” he says immediately, looking back up, “it was never too much, i just…i didn’t handle it right”
“no, you didn’t,” you agree softly, and there’s no anger in it, which somehow hurts more, “and that’s not something that just goes away because you explained it now”
he nods slowly, because he knows you’re right, even if he hates it
“so what do i do?” he asks, more honest than anything else, “because i don’t want to lose you over this”
you take a breath, like you’ve been thinking about this longer than just today
“you don’t get me back just because you’re sorry,” you say, meeting his eyes, “and i’m not saying that to punish you, i’m saying it because i can’t just ignore how this made me feel”
that lands exactly how it’s supposed to, heavy and real
“i’m not asking you to ignore it,” he says quickly, “i just….i need a chance to fix it”
“you have a chance,” you tell him, “but that doesn’t mean we’re back together”
the words hit harder than he expects, even though he probably should’ve seen them coming
“so i just… what, wait?” there’s a slight edge of panic in his voice now he can’t fully hide
“you show me,” you correct gently, “you show me that you understand what went wrong, that you’re not just reacting because you’re scared of losing me, but because you actually get it now”
he nods, even if the idea of not having you fully there anymore feels wrong in a way he can’t explain
“and you don’t rush me,” you add, “you don’t decide when i should be over it”
“i won’t,” he says immediately, “i won’t rush you, i just…i’ll do whatever it takes”
“that’s exactly it,” you reply, “i don’t want you to do whatever it takes, i want you to actually mean it”
he stops for a second at that, because there’s a difference, and he knows it
“i do mean it,” he says, quieter now, more grounded, “i just need to prove it to you”
there’s a long pause, and then you nod, just slightly
“then prove it”
it’s not forgiveness, not even close, but it’s not the end either
and that’s enough for him to hold onto it
———
after that, nothing is easy
he doesn’t get to fall back into old habits, doesn’t get the comfort of knowing where he stands with you, everything feels uncertain and that’s something he hates, something he’s never been good at dealing with, but he forces himself to sit with it because this is the consequence of what he did
he starts small, consistent, not overwhelming you, not trying to force closeness back too quickly, just showing up, checking in, being there without expecting anything in return
and it’s hard, harder than he thought it would be, because he notices every difference
the way you don’t reach for him automatically anymore
the way there’s that small pause before you respond sometimes
the way you keep just enough distance that he can feel it constantly
and he doesn’t complain about it, doesn’t make it your problem
he just takes it
because he knows he’s the reason it’s there
he starts being more open too, not in a way that feels forced, but enough that it’s clear he’s not hiding you anymore, mentioning you when it comes up, not dodging it, not redirecting, letting people know you’re part of his life without acting like it’s something that needs to be kept separate
and when he asks you to come to a race, he does it differently this time
“you can say no,” he says, almost careful with it, “i’ll understand if you’re not ready”
you hesitate, and he prepares himself for that, for the possibility that it’s too soon
but then you nod, slow, unsure
“okay”
it’s not excitement, not like before, but it’s something
and when you’re there, he makes sure it’s different, not performative, not over the top, just… present, he checks in, includes you, doesn’t leave you feeling like you’re on the outside looking in, and when people notice, when attention shifts slightly, he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t retreat like he used to
he stays
with you
it doesn’t fix everything instantly, of course it doesn’t, you’re still careful, still holding a part of yourself back, and he feels it every time, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t try to rush you into being what you were before
because he understands now
that version of things is something he has to earn back
not something he gets just because he wants it
and slowly, very slowly, you start meeting him halfway again
not all at once, not dramatically, just in small moments
your hand brushing his and not pulling away
your shoulder leaning into his for a second longer than necessary
your guard slipping just enough for him to see that he’s not completely shut out
and he holds onto those moments carefully, doesn’t make them bigger than they are, doesn’t scare them off
because this time, he’s not trying to control how things look
he’s just trying to make sure you never feel like something he has to hide ever again
even if it takes longer than he wants
even if he has to sit in the uncertainty for as long as you need
because losing you once was enough to show him exactly what’s at stake
Hi! Can you write about reader and driver George Russell slowly drifting apart because he’s focusing more on driving, and when reader confronts him it leads to a big argument that causes them to separate for a while
Please let it be angst with a happy ending!! thanks so much
The only thing that mattered
Pairing: George Russell x Reader (y/n)
Warnings: angst, happy ending, no actual race calendar
Summary: when the pressure of a Formula 1 championship threatens his dreams, Mercedes driver George Russell rejects the one person who supports him. Facing isolation and a friend’s harsh reality check, he must confront his arrogance to save his relationship.
Requested: Yes/anon
Requests open
Word count: 2298
Author’s note: i really hope i wrote it as you imagined it, if not let me know and i can change it. If you have any other requests feel free to send them over, i finished school and have all day to write, xx.
Masterlist
The shift in the Mercedes garage wasn’t a sudden explosion; it was a slow, agonizing freeze. At the start of the season, the energy surrounding George had been electric. He had been entirely convinced that this was his definitive year. The car was a masterpiece of carbon fiber and aerodynamic genius, the winter simulator data had been flawless, and the World Drivers' Championship felt less like a distant dream and more like an impending inevitability. He had tasted the front of the grid before, but this time, he believed he held all the cards.
But Formula 1 rarely follows a script.
Instead of George leading the silver arrows to glory, it was Kimi, his younger, deceptively quiet teammate who hit the ground running. Week after week, the rookie displayed a terrifyingly calm composure, stringing together flawless weekends, maximizing tyre life, and quietly sitting at the top of the standings.
The pressure turned George inward. The easy smiles, the shared post-race dinners, and the quiet moments of connection between the two of you were systematically replaced by data logs, extra hours in the engineering room, and a hyper-fixation on closing the gap. You became a background character in a life you used to co-author, watching him slip behind a wall of telemetry and unyielding obsession.
It started with small things. A dinner reservation pushed back an hour because he needed to run one more simulation stint. A missed phone call during a mid-week break because he was huddled with his track engineer trying to understand where Kimi was finding two-tenths of a second in sector two.
By the time the European leg of the season was in full swing, the drift had become a chasm. When you traveled with him to the races, your presence felt less like a sanctuary for him and more like a box he had to tick. In the motorhome, he would sit with his iPad glued to his face, his thumb flicking through throttle application graphs while you tried to tell him about your week.
"George?" you had asked one evening in Silverstone, holding two cups of tea. "Are you even listening?"
"Yeah, yeah. Two-tenths," he murmured, not looking up. "If I just adjust the differential shape for turn three, I can match his rotation."
You set the tea down, the warmth escaping from the mugs just as it had evaporated from your relationship. He wasn't just fighting Kimi on the track; he was fighting a ghost of his own expectations. He had been so sure the team was his, the car was his, and the title was his. Seeing a teenager take it from him was fracturing his ego, and you were the one taking the collateral damage.
The confrontation finally happened in the sterile, cramped confines of his driver's room after a grueling qualifying session in Hungary. Kimi had claimed pole position by a mere five-hundredths of a second. George was starting P3, his face a mask of barely suppressed rage as he tore off his racing balaclava.
You closed the heavy door behind you, the muffled roar of the paddock crowd fading into a tense silence.
"George, we need to talk. Right now," you said, your voice steady but carrying the weight of months of neglect. "You've been completely gone for weeks. Even when you're sitting right next to me, you aren't here. I know the championship is slipping away, but you're letting us slip away too."
George didn't look up immediately. He unzipped his race suit, letting it hang around his waist, his expression hardened by exhaustion and defensive pride.
"I am trying to win a world title," he said, his voice dangerously low, clipped and sharp. "Do you have any idea what the pressure is like right now? Kimi is capitalizing on every single mistake I make. The garage is shifting focus. I don't have the luxury of switching off and playing happy couples."
The words stung, but you held your ground. "I'm not asking you to switch off. I have never asked you to sacrifice your career. I'm asking you to remember that I am a human being who loves you. I'm your partner, George, not just a fixture in your hospitality suite. We haven't had a real conversation since Monaco. I'm living with a ghost."
George snapped. The frustration of the telemetry, the pressure from the media, and his own self-doubt culminated in a harsh, defensive roar.
"Then maybe you shouldn't have come this weekend!" he shouted, turning to face you fully, his eyes dark with anger. "If all you're going to do is demand my attention and drag me down when I'm trying to save my season, then why are you even here? I need focus. I don't need you holding me back!"
The silence that followed was deafening. The accusation hung in the air like poison. The realization that he viewed your love and presence as a burden, as something holding him back, was the final break.
You didn't yell back. You didn't cry. You simply looked at him, seeing a stranger in a racing suit.
"Okay," you whispered.
You picked up your handbag, walked past him without a second glance, and left the motorhome. You caught the first flight back to London that night, leaving your paddock pass on the kitchen counter of his apartment before packing a bag of your own things and moving into a hotel. You needed air. You needed to breathe without the suffocating weight of his ambition.
Three weeks passed. The summer break arrived, but the radio silence between you remained absolute. George plunged deeper into his isolation, convincing himself that the space was exactly what he needed. He told himself you were being unreasonable, that you didn't understand the brutal sacrifice required to be an F1 champion. He was convinced he was the victim of bad timing.
He was sitting in a secluded corner of a quiet cafe in Monaco, staring blankly at his laptop, when Alex Albon dropped into the seat directly across from him. Alex didn't have his usual easygoing, mischievous grin. He looked at George with a blunt, disappointed seriousness.
"You look like hell, mate," Alex said, skipping the pleasantries.
"Just training hard for Spa," George muttered, closing a spreadsheet of sector times. "Trying to clear my head."
Alex leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. "Where is she, George?"
George stiffened, knowing exactly who 'she' referred to. "We're taking some time apart. She was putting too much pressure on me during race weeks. I need to focus on catching Kimi. It was getting distracting."
Alex let out a sharp, disbelief filled laugh, shaking his head.
"Are you completely blind, or are you just choosing to be an idiot? Pressure? She has been your absolute rock for years. Who stood in the back of the garage when you were stuck at Williams, cheering for P15? Who handled your mood swings when strategies ruined your races? She protected you from the circus. And the moment the car isn't handing you wins on a silver platter, you push away the only person who actually cares about George the human being, not George the Mercedes driver."
George opened his mouth to defend himself, but Alex cut him off, his tone dropping into a fierce, protective gravity.
"Kimi isn't beating you because you have a relationship, George. He's beating you because he's driving better right now. You think you’re being some ruthless, cold-blooded champion by cutting people off, but you’re just being selfish. You took the one person who gave you unconditional safety and you threw them away because you couldn't handle losing. Don't ruin your life outside the paddock trying to prove a point to a garage that will replace you the second you stop driving fast."
Alex stood up, leaving his untouched coffee on the table. "Fix it. Because if you don't, you're going to win or lose that title completely alone. And trust me, a trophy doesn't keep you warm at night."
As Alex walked away, the carefully constructed wall of justification in George's mind completely shattered. The arrogance washed away, leaving behind a cold, hollow dread. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through your chat history. He looked at the messages from a month ago, words of encouragement, reminders to eat, expressions of love, all met with single-word replies or completely ignored.
He hadn't been focused. He had been cruel.
Winning you back wasn't going to be achieved with a flashy grand gesture, a bouquet of roses delivered by a courier, or a public apology. You had completely disengaged, changing your routine, protecting your peace after being discarded.
When George finally showed up at your new apartment building two weeks later, he didn't call ahead. He stood outside in the pouring rain, waiting for hours until you returned from work. When you saw him, his usual immaculate posture was gone. He looked completely defeated, his hair soaked, standing with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
"Can I please just have five minutes?" he asked, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of his usual media-trained eloquence. "You don't even have to let me inside. Just let me speak."
You hesitated, looking at the genuine remorse etching lines into his face. You nodded slowly, stepping under the small awning of the building, keeping your distance.
"I am so deeply sorry," George began, his chest heaving. "Alex told me what a fool I was, but the truth is, I already knew it. The second I walked into an empty apartment, I knew it. I let the paranoia of losing get to my head. I looked at the championship slipping away and I panicked, and I took all my anger, my insecurity, and my failure out on the one person who deserved it least. You aren't a distraction. You're the only thing that makes all of this worth it. I don't expect you to forgive me today. I just... I needed you to know that I see what I did. I see how horribly I treated you."
You looked at him, feeling the familiar pull of affection, but the hurt was still too fresh.
"I'm glad you see it, George," you said quietly. "But apologies don't fix the fact that you threw me away when things got tough. I can't just jump back into being your emotional cushion. I need time to see if you're actually changing, or if you're just lonely because the racing season is on a break."
"I'll give you all the time you need," he promised desperately. "Whatever it takes."
He kept his word. Over the next month, George didn't smother you. He didn't bombard your phone with texts demanding answers. Instead, he showed up consistently, quietly, and entirely on your terms.
He sent small things—a specific book you had mentioned wanting to read, a coffee from your favorite local shop delivered to your office desk with no note attached other than his initials.
He flew back to London on a Tuesday night between back-to-back flyaway races just to sit with you on a park bench for forty-five minutes, completely forbidding any talk of motorsport or his career.
He listened. For the first time in a year, he asked about your day, your goals, and your feelings, actively dismantling the selfish barrier he had built.
By the time the autumn races arrived, Kimi had mathematically secured a massive point lead, making George's title hopes impossible for the year. But strangely, George didn't look broken. The desperate, angry edge to his demeanor had vanished. He was driving with a fluid, relaxed freedom again, securing clean podiums, but his mind was entirely focused on a different kind of victory.
On a quiet Friday evening during a rare off-week, your phone rang. It was George. His voice wasn't tense or hurried; it sounded grounded, warm, and nervous.
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi, George," you replied, leaning back against your kitchen counter.
"I was wondering..." he paused, clearing his throat. "If you're free this Friday, would you allow me to take you out? A proper date. No paddock passes, no PR teams, no discussing tyre degradation or team strategy. Just... a first date. I want to start from absolute zero. No expectations. Just me trying to earn a chance to know you again."
You listened to the humility in his voice—the complete absence of the driver persona. This was the boy from Norfolk who had captured your heart before the world knew his name.
"Okay," you agreed softly, a small smile finally breaking through your caution. "A first date. But you're picking the place, and your phone stays in the glove box of the car the entire night."
"Deal," he said, a breath of pure relief escaping his lips. "I'll see you at seven."
That Friday, when he arrived at your door, he wasn't dressed in team kit or high-end designer gear meant for paddock arrivals. He wore a simple knit sweater and jeans. He didn't reach out to kiss you or hold your hand right away, entirely respecting the boundaries you had established over the painful weeks apart.
He took you to a small, unassuming, dimly lit Italian restaurant tucked away in a corner of London where no one recognized him. As you sat across from each other, navigating the familiar but cautious territory of a new beginning, the conversation flowed naturally. The laughter returned, slow at first, then filling the space between you until the coldness of the past months completely melted away.
For George, looking at you across the candlelit table, the championship standings faded into absolute insignificance. He had lost the world title, but as your hand tentatively slid across the white tablecloth to rest over his, he knew he had won back the only thing that actually mattered.
𖤓 He left you waiting. For three years. For birthdays and promises and "I'll call you"s that never came. Then he missed your birthday for a sponsor dinner and you stopped waiting. A year later, he shows up at your door. He says he loves you. He says he's sorry. He says he'll wait. You have to decide if some doors are worth opening again.
𖤓 max verstappen x fem!reader, angst, ambiguous ending, emotional unavailability
𖤓 warnings: being someone's second choice, a year of silence, one door, no happy ending (but also no sad ending? it's just… an ending)
𖤓 wc: 8,000
𖤓 note: my first time writing for max so pls be nice to me!! idk what to call this genre either. it's not fluff, it's not really sad, it's just… that feeling when someone finally shows up and you don't know if it's too late or if you're just too tired to find out.
𖤓 listen to: "the night we met" by lord huron while reading this or "exile" by taylor swift ft. bon iver. or just sit in silence and feel things. i'm not your mum.
Abu Dhabi at the end of the season smells like champagne and regret.
You've been here before. Too many times. Standing in the shadow of the podium, watching him celebrate, watching him forget you exist until the cameras turn off and the crowd thins and he remembers that you're still here. Still waiting. Still stupid enough to believe that this time might be different.
The paddock is emptying out. Trucks are being loaded. Engineers are saying goodbye, slapping each other on the back, promising to see each other in a few weeks for winter testing. Everyone is tired. Everyone is ready to go home.
You don't know where home is anymore.
Max finds you in the back hallway of the paddock, his driver's room already packed up, his flight already scheduled, his eyes already somewhere else. He's still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist, his fireproofs clinging to his chest. There's champagne in his hair. There's a medal around his neck.
He looks like everything you've ever wanted and everything you've learned not to need.
"You're leaving," you say. It's not a question.
"Early flight." He rubs the back of his neck. "You know how it is."
You know how it is. You've always known how it is. There's always a flight, a race, a simulator session, a sponsor dinner, a thousand things that matter more than you. And you've always understood. You've always been the easy one. The one who doesn't make a fuss. The one who smiles and says "it's fine" and means it less every time.
"Okay," you say. "Safe flight."
He hesitates. For half a second, something flickers across his face — guilt, maybe. Or recognition. Or just exhaustion.
"I'll call you," he says.
You nod.
You've heard that before too.
The thing about Max is that he's not cruel.
That's what makes it so hard.
If he were cruel, you could hate him. If he forgot your birthday, if he snapped at you, if he made you feel small on purpose — you could walk away and never look back. But he doesn't do any of that. He remembers your birthday. He sends flowers. He texts you after every race — good race, sorry I was busy, thinking of you.
He's not cruel.
He's just not there.
And there's a difference, you're learning. A person can be kind and still leave you hollow. A person can mean well and still make you feel like you're disappearing. A person can love you — or something like it — and still never choose you first.
You met Max three years ago, at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.
You were working for a hospitality company, the kind of job that put you in rooms with important people and expected you to smile and pour champagne and not exist too loudly. He was already a world champion. Already a name. Already the kind of person who walked into a room and sucked all the air out of it.
You didn't expect him to notice you.
But he did.
He asked for your number. Called you the next day. Showed up at your apartment with takeaway and a story about a simulator session that had gone wrong. He was awkward in the way that very famous people sometimes are — unsure how to be normal, unsure how to exist in a space where no one wanted anything from him.
You liked that about him. The awkwardness. The way he looked at you like you were the first person who'd treated him like a person in months.
"You're different," he said, that first night. "You don't want anything from me."
You laughed. "I don't know what I'd even want."
He smiled. It was small and private and it made your chest hurt.
"Exactly," he said.
The first year was easy.
Or maybe it wasn't easy — maybe you just didn't notice the cracks because you were too busy falling. He was attentive. He made time. He flew you to races, introduced you to his family, let you wear his jacket in the garage when the air conditioning was too cold.
You thought you were building something.
You didn't realize you were just… fitting into his life. Not building together. Just existing in the spaces he left empty.
The first time he canceled on you, it was for a sponsor dinner. You understood. Of course you understood. He was a world champion. He had obligations. You weren't going to be the girlfriend who complained about that.
"Next time," he said. "I promise."
You believed him.
The second time was a simulator session. Urgent, last-minute, something about setup changes. He sounded stressed on the phone, distracted, already halfway out the door.
"It's fine," you said. "Go."
"You're the best," he said. "I'll make it up to you."
He never did.
Not because he forgot — Max doesn't forget things. But because there was always something else. Another race. Another obligation. Another person who needed him more than you did.
And you let it happen. You let yourself become small. You stopped asking for things because asking felt like begging, and you refused to beg anyone to love you.
The second year was harder.
You started noticing things. The way he'd check his phone during dinner. The way he'd say "I love you" like it was punctuation, not poetry. The way he'd hold you at night but his mind was already somewhere else — already in the next race, the next season, the next thing he had to win.
You tried to talk to him about it.
"Are we okay?" you asked, one night in Monaco, after a race you'd watched from the garage, standing in the corner where no one would ask you to move.
He looked up from his phone. "What do you mean?"
"Us. I feel like… I don't know. Like I'm not a priority."
He put his phone down. His face was open, confused, genuinely trying to understand.
"Of course you're a priority," he said.
"Then why do I feel like I'm always waiting for you?"
He didn't have an answer.
Neither did you.
The almosts started to pile up.
Almost stayed for dinner. Almost called when he said he would. Almost chose you over a sponsor dinner, a media day, a flight he could have taken later.
You started keeping track without meaning to. A mental list. Evidence, maybe, for a case you didn't want to win.
Abu Dhabi, Year 2: He left the afterparty early to walk you back to your hotel. You thought maybe — but then his phone rang, and he took the call, and you walked the rest of the way alone.
Monaco, Year 2: You were crying in his driver's room after a bad race — not his, yours. Something at work, something stupid, something you should have been able to handle. He held you for exactly three minutes. Then he had to go to a meeting.
Spa, Year 2: He said "I love you" first. For the first time. You were standing in the rain, umbrella broken, both of you soaked. He kissed your forehead and said it like it was easy. You said it back. You meant it. You're still not sure if he did.
The thing you never told anyone — not your friends, not your family, not even yourself on the nights you couldn't sleep — was that you were scared of being easy to leave.
Because Max had left people before. Not cruelly. Not dramatically. He just… moved on. Outgrew them. Forgot to call. And you saw yourself in their faces sometimes — the old friends who didn't come to races anymore, the exes no one mentioned, the people who had loved him and been loved back, briefly, before becoming someone he used to know.
You didn't want to be someone he used to know.
So you stayed small. You stayed quiet. You stayed.
And he kept not noticing.
The betrayal wasn't dramatic.
That's what made it hurt.
It was your birthday. You'd been together for two years. You'd spent both birthdays with him — the first in Monaco, takeaway and a cake he'd clearly bought that morning, the second in the paddock, quick and rushed and forgotten the second the race started.
This year, you'd made plans. Nothing big. Just dinner. Just the two of you. He'd promised.
"I'll be there," he said, three days before. "I cleared my schedule."
You believed him. Because you always believed him. Because hope was a disease and you'd stopped trying to cure it.
The day came. You put on a dress. You lit candles. You waited.
He texted at 7:42 PM.
So sorry. Something came up. Rain check?
You stared at the message for a long time. Your phone screen glowed in the dark of your apartment. The candles flickered. The food got cold.
Something came up.
You didn't ask what. You didn't want to know. You didn't want to hear about a meeting, a call, a crisis that mattered more than you. You didn't want to be understanding anymore.
You texted back: Okay.
Just that. Okay.
He didn't respond.
The next morning, you scrolled through Instagram and saw a story. Max, at a restaurant, with some people you didn't recognize. Laughing. Drinking. Looking like he didn't have a care in the world.
Something came up.
You turned off your phone. You went back to bed. You didn't cry — you were too tired for crying. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling something inside you shift.
Not break. Not snap. Just… shift.
Like a door closing. Quietly. Without drama.
You didn't confront him.
That's what surprised you. A year ago, you would have called. Would have asked for an explanation, a justification, a reason to keep believing. You would have fought for him.
But you were tired. So tired. And somewhere along the way, you'd stopped believing that fighting meant anything to someone who never had to fight for you.
He called three days later. You let it ring.
He texted: You okay? Haven't heard from you.
You typed: I'm fine. Just busy.
You didn't send it.
You deleted it and put your phone in a drawer and went for a walk. The city was cold. Your breath fogged in front of you. You walked until your feet hurt and then you walked some more.
You thought about the last three years. The almosts. The cancellations. The way you'd made yourself small so he wouldn't have to make room.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who laughed too loud, who asked for what she wanted, who didn't know how to make herself smaller because she'd never had to.
You wondered if you could find her again.
You didn't break up with him.
That's the other thing you never told anyone. There was no conversation, no tearful goodbye, no moment of closure. You just… stopped reaching. And he didn't notice.
Or maybe he did notice. Maybe he felt the distance and chose not to close it. Maybe he was relieved — relieved that you'd finally stopped expecting things from him, finally stopped being someone who needed to be chosen.
You'll never know.
Because you stopped asking.
The messages slowed. The calls stopped. His name appeared on your phone less and less. And then, one day, you realized you hadn't spoken in three weeks.
You didn't call.
Neither did he.
The year without him was strange.
Not bad. Not good. Just… different. You had to relearn how to exist without waiting. Without checking your phone. Without planning your schedule around someone who never showed up.
Your friends noticed the change.
"You seem lighter," one of them said, six months in. "Like you're not holding your breath anymore."
You hadn't realized you'd been holding your breath.
But you had. For years. Waiting for him to choose you, to show up, to prove that you mattered as much as the races and the trophies and the endless parade of obligations. Waiting for him to look at you and see something worth staying for.
You stopped waiting.
You started living. Small things at first — coffee with friends, a new hobby, a trip you'd been putting off. Then bigger things. A new job. A new apartment. A new understanding of what you deserved.
You thought about him less.
Not never. Just… less. He'd appear in your mind sometimes — at night, when you couldn't sleep, or in moments that reminded you of him. A song. A scent. A sunset that looked like the one in Monaco.
But the ache was duller now. An old wound, not a fresh one.
You started to think you might be okay.
He texted you eleven months after your birthday.
Out of nowhere. No context. Just your name.
Hey.
You stared at the message for a long time. Your phone felt heavy in your hand. Your heart did something stupid — something that felt like hope, even after everything.
You didn't respond.
Not because you were angry. Not because you didn't want to. Because you didn't know what to say. Hey felt like too much and not enough. Hey felt like the beginning of something you weren't sure you wanted to start.
Hey felt like him, after all this time, still not knowing how to show up properly.
You put your phone down. You went back to your life.
He didn't text again.
He showed up at your door on a Tuesday.
No warning. No text. Just a knock, steady and insistent, the kind of knock that said I'm not leaving until you answer.
You looked through the peephole and felt your stomach drop.
Max.
He looked different. Thinner, maybe. More tired. His hair was longer, curling at the edges. He was wearing a hoodie you didn't recognize and jeans that looked like he'd slept in them.
You opened the door.
"Hey," he said.
His voice was hoarse. Like he'd been rehearsing what to say and still hadn't figured it out.
"Hey," you said back.
The silence stretched. He shifted his weight. Stuffed his hands in his pockets. Pulled them out again.
"Can I come in?"
You should have said no. Every logical part of your brain was screaming at you to say no. He left. He didn't call. He missed your birthday and didn't even remember to apologize. He let you disappear from his life and didn't come looking until now, a year later, when it was convenient for him.
But there was something in his face — something small and scared and unfamiliar — that made you step aside.
"Okay," you said.
He walked in. Looked around. Your new apartment, your new life, the spaces you'd filled without him.
"It's different," he said.
"Yeah."
"Good different."
"Yeah."
He stopped in the middle of your living room. Turned to face you. His hands were shaking. You'd never seen Max's hands shake before. They were always steady — on the wheel, on the podium, on the rare occasions he'd touched you.
"I fucked up," he said.
You waited.
"I know I fucked up. I know I —" He stopped. Rubbed his face. "I don't have an excuse. I don't have a reason. I just… I didn't know how to —"
He stopped again.
You didn't help him. You just stood there, arms crossed, watching him struggle.
"I thought about you every day," he said finally. "Every single day. And I still didn't call. I don't know why. I don't — I'm not good at this."
"Good at what?"
"Being… there. Being present. Being someone who stays."
The words hung in the air.
You thought about the last three years. The cancellations. The almosts. The way you'd made yourself small so he wouldn't have to make room. The way he'd let you.
"Why now?" you asked.
He looked at you. Really looked. Like he was trying to memorize your face.
"Because I can't —" He exhaled. "I can't keep pretending I don't care. I can't keep pretending you don't matter. You matter. You've always mattered. I'm just —"
He stopped.
"You're just what?"
He didn't answer.
You waited.
He sat on your couch.
You stayed standing.
He looked up at you, and for a moment, he looked young. Not like a world champion. Not like someone who'd won everything there was to win. Just someone who didn't know how to say what he meant.
"I was scared," he said.
"Of what?"
"Of you. Of this. Of how much I —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I've never been good at letting people in. You know that. You've always known that."
"That's not an excuse."
"I know."
"It's been a year, Max."
"I know."
"You didn't call. You didn't text. You didn't show up to my birthday and you didn't even —"
"I know."
You stopped. Took a breath.
"Why are you here?"
He looked at his hands. Then at you. Then back at his hands.
"I miss you," he said.
The words were quiet. Barely audible. Like he was confessing something he'd never said out loud.
"I miss you," he said again. "I miss the way you laugh. I miss the way you'd roll your eyes at me when I talked too much about racing. I miss falling asleep next to you. I miss waking up and knowing you were there."
You didn't say anything.
"I miss you," he said. "And I don't know how to — I don't know if I deserve to ask for another chance. I probably don't. But I can't — I can't keep living like this. Pretending I'm fine when I'm not. Pretending I don't think about you every single day."
You thought about the year you'd spent learning to live without him. The nights you'd cried. The mornings you'd woken up reaching for someone who wasn't there. The moment you'd finally stopped checking your phone for his name.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who waited, who hoped, who believed that if she just loved him enough, he'd learn to stay.
She was still in there somewhere. Fainter now. But still there.
"What do you want from me?" you asked.
He looked at you. His eyes were wet.
"Everything," he said. "I want everything. I want — I should have said it before. I should have said it a hundred times. I love you. I love you and I'm sorry and I don't — I don't expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to know."
The silence was heavy.
You could feel yourself at a crossroads. One path led back to him — to the familiar ache, the waiting, the hoping. The other led forward — alone, but whole. Not healed, maybe. But not bleeding anymore.
You thought about the door you'd closed in your chest a year ago. The one you'd locked and bolted and told yourself you'd never open again.
He was asking you to open it.
"I love you," he said again. "I've always loved you. I just didn't know how to show it."
You looked at him. Really looked.
And you made your choice.
"Okay," you said.
He blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay. You said what you needed to say."
He waited. Hoping, maybe, for more.
You didn't give it to him.
"I'm not going to tell you it's fine," you said. "Because it's not. You hurt me. You left. You didn't call. And I spent a year learning how to live without you."
"I know."
"I don't know if I can go back to the way things were."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
He stood up. Walked toward you. Stopped a few feet away — close enough to touch, far enough to give you space.
"I'm asking for a chance," he said. "Not to fix things. Not to pretend the last year didn't happen. Just… a chance. To show up. To try."
You thought about it.
You thought about the almosts. The cancellations. The birthday you spent alone. The way he'd let you disappear without a fight.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who would have said yes without thinking. The one who would have opened her arms and let him back in and pretended the last year didn't hurt.
She wasn't gone. But she wasn't in charge anymore.
"I need to think," you said.
He nodded. "Okay."
"That's not a yes."
"I know."
"That's not a no either."
He nodded again. "I know."
You walked to the door. Held it open.
He walked toward you. Paused in the doorway. Looked at you with an expression you couldn't name — hope, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
"I'll wait," he said. "However long it takes. I'll wait."
You didn't answer.
He stepped through the door.
You closed it behind him.
You didn't lock it.
You didn't open it either.
You stood there, hand on the wood, listening to his footsteps fade. They stopped halfway down the hall. He was waiting. Giving you time. Giving you space.
You could open the door. You could call him back. You could let him in and see what happened.
Or you could walk away. Go to bed. Wake up tomorrow and keep living the life you'd built without him.
You didn't know which choice was right.
Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Maybe that was the point.
You took your hand off the door. Walked to your bedroom. Sat on the edge of your bed and stared at the wall.
In the hallway, you heard him exhale.
Then footsteps. Fading. Fainter. Gone.
You didn't know if he'd come back.
You didn't know if you wanted him to.
You lay down. Pulled the covers up to your chin. Stared at the ceiling.
The apartment was quiet.
The door was closed.
And somewhere, in the space between what you'd lost and what you might still find, you let yourself breathe.
SIX MONTHS LATER
You're at a coffee shop when you see him.
Not Max. Someone who looks like him. Same build, same jaw, same way of moving through a room like he owned it.
Your heart does something stupid.
Then you realize it's not him, and your heart settles.
You order your coffee. You sit by the window. You watch people walk by.
Your phone buzzes.
A text. From a number you haven't saved but still recognize.
I'm in town. Can we talk?
You stare at the screen.
The coffee grows cold.
You think about the door. The hallway. The way he'd said "I'll wait" like he meant it.
You think about the girl you used to be. The girl who waited. The girl who hoped.
You think about the person you are now.
You type: Maybe.
You don't send it.
You delete it.
You type: When?
You stare at the word.
Then you delete that too.
You put your phone in your pocket. Drink your cold coffee. Watch the rain start to fall.
★ : a/n :: ignore the typos, comments, thoughts and reblogs are appreciated! i got a request for this :") but i lost the ask. anyway hi!! how is everyone
❤︎ |5,7k| Summary: Lando and Y/n are fated mates and meet in the paddock. Their connection is strong but Lando’s alpha instincts are difficult to control.
The roar of engines still echoed in your ears as you followed Lily through the McLaren garage. It was your first time at a Formula 1 race, and honestly, you were completely overwhelmed. The smell of fuel, the organized chaos, the sheer energy of the place—it was intoxicating.
"You doing okay?" Lily asked, turning to you with a bright smile. Her hand was intertwined with Oscar's, who was still in his racing suit, looking exhausted but satisfied after practice.
"Yeah, just... a lot," you admitted, trying to take in everything without looking like too much of a tourist.
Lily laughed, squeezing your hand. "You get used to it. The paddock parties are way more intense than this."
"Great," you muttered sarcastically, making her laugh harder.
Oscar leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Lily's cheek. "I need to shower and debrief with the team. You two going to be okay for a bit?"
"We'll be fine," Lily assured him. "Go be a professional race car driver."
With a wink in your direction, Oscar disappeared into the team area, leaving you and Lily to navigate the maze of engineers, mechanics, and team personnel.
"I'm going to run to the bathroom," you told Lily, pointing in the general direction you thought the facilities might be. "Don't leave without me."
"Wouldn't dream of it," she promised, already engaged in conversation with one of the McLaren PR people.
You navigated through the crowd, trying not to bump into anyone carrying expensive-looking equipment. The McLaren garage was a world of its own—orange and black everywhere, screens displaying telemetry data, people speaking in rapid-fire technical jargon. It was fascinating but intimidating.
After finding the bathroom and freshening up, you stepped back into the main area of the garage. That's when it hit you—a strange sensation in your stomach, like butterflies on steroids. It wasn't just nervous excitement; it was something deeper, more intense. Your heart started racing for no apparent reason, and you felt a warmth spreading through your body.
You paused, leaning against a wall to steady yourself. What was happening? Maybe it was just the overwhelming environment getting to you.
And then you heard it—a low growl that seemed to vibrate through the floor, through your entire body.
Your head snapped in the direction of the sound, and suddenly, everything else faded away. The noise of the garage, the people moving around, the music playing somewhere in the distance—it all disappeared.
There, standing not twenty feet away, was the most handsome man you'd ever seen. Tall, lean but clearly muscular beneath his racing team polo, with messy brown curls that fell across his forehead. But it was his eyes that held you captive—a vibrant green that seemed to glow with an inner light.
He was watching you, his head tilted slightly, and as your eyes met, his lips parted to reveal canines that were longer and sharper than normal. Almost like... fangs.
You couldn't look away. There was something primal about him, something that called to a part of you you didn't even know existed. He took a step toward you, and another, his movements fluid and predatory. The growl came again, deeper this time, and you realized he was showing off his teeth, almost like a mating dance.
Your knees felt weak, your heart hammering against your ribs. You should have been scared, but instead, you felt an inexplicable pull toward him.
Before you knew it, he was closing the distance between you with impossible speed. One moment he was across the garage, the next he was right in front of you. And then you were falling, thrown off balance by... something. You braced for impact with the concrete floor, but it never came.
Instead, you felt strong hands—one beneath your head, the other under your ass—cushioning your fall. The impact was absorbed by his hands as they hit the floor, leaving you suspended just above the ground for a moment before he gently lowered you the rest of the way.
You were now lying on the garage floor with this stranger hovering over you, his green eyes intense, his canines still prominently displayed. His hands were still cradling your head and hip, the touch sending sparks through your body.
"Who—?" you started to ask, but the words caught in your throat.
He leaned closer, and for a wild moment, you were sure he was going to kiss you. Your eyes fluttered closed, your lips parting in anticipation.
But instead of lips against yours, you felt something wet against your cheek. Your eyes snapped open to find him... licking your face? Like an actual wolf marking its territory?
He kept licking, long strokes of his tongue against your skin, and to your absolute shock, you felt yourself becoming aroused. The sensation was strangely intimate, and the low moans he was making against your skin weren't helping matters.
That's when you felt it—something hard pressing firmly against your thigh. Even through both your jeans, you could feel the unmistakable outline of his erection, and it was... substantial.
Before you could process this, his hands moved to pin your wrists to the floor above your head. The grip was firm but not painful, and there was no mistaking the strength in those hands.
He shifted, his weight pressing you more firmly into the floor, and then he was leaning in again. This time, he gently bit your nose with those sharp canines, just enough pressure to make you gasp. Then he scraped his teeth against your cheek, the sensation sending shivers down your spine.
His mouth moved to your neck, and you felt him take a long, deep inhale, his nose grazing and tickling your sensitive skin. He was scenting you, you realized with a jolt.
"Please," you whispered, though you weren't sure if you were asking him to stop or continue.
He responded by gently biting your neck, just where it met your shoulder, his teeth scraping against your skin. A moan almost escaped your lips, but you bit it back just in time.
That's when awareness came flooding back—you were lying on the floor of a busy garage, with this stranger pinning you down, and anyone could walk by at any moment. Anyone could see them!
As if reading your thoughts, he began rubbing his nose against your neck, a gesture that was both possessive and strangely comforting. He shifted his body even closer, putting more weight on you as if trying to eliminate any space between you. You felt yourself growing wet, your body responding to his despite your brain screaming that this was insane.
"Lando!"
The female voice was sharp, cutting through the fog that had settled over your mind. "Get off her. Now."
The man—Lando—growled, actually growled, and pressed more weight onto you in response. You felt a tug on his arm, but he didn't budge.
"Lando, I'm not asking again. Go to your drivers room. Now."
Something in her tone must have reached him, because he reluctantly began to move. But instead of letting you up, he pulled you with him, keeping you pressed against his body as he stood.
He started walking, and you had no choice but to follow, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist from behind, his body flush against your back, his head buried in your neck. It was difficult to walk like this, with him essentially clinging to you, but somehow you managed.
The woman led you through a maze of corridors to what you assumed was Lando's drivers room. Once inside, she left, closing the door behind her.
The moment you were alone, Lando started moaning against your neck again, his hips grinding into you from behind. You could feel his erection pressing against you, hard and insistent.
"Stop," you said softly, trying to gently push him away. "Please, stop."
Instead of listening, he gripped your hips tighter and ground harder, his movements becoming more frantic. He was making a mix of moans and other sounds—low growls and whimpers that weren't quite human.
"Lando, stop," you said more firmly, but he only tightened his grip.
"Charlotte," he managed to say, his voice strained. "Call Charlotte."
He fumbled with his phone, eventually managing to hand it to you. You quickly found Charlotte in his contacts and dialed.
"Charlotte? It's... I'm with Lando in his drivers room. He's... not acting right. Can you come help?"
Before she could respond, Lando tightened his grip on you again, starting to whimper. "Sorry," he breathed against your neck. "Can't help it. Can't stop."
You said nothing, too shocked to form words. Within minutes, the door opened and Charlotte entered, followed by two large bodyguards.
They moved quickly to grab Lando, and he immediately snarled and growled loudly, trying to shake them off. When that didn't work, he started whimpering, and you felt your heart clench at the sound. You could see tears in his eyes, and the desperate sounds he was making were breaking your heart.
Charlotte pulled a syringe from a box, the liquid inside a bright yellow.
"What is that?" you asked nervously.
Before Charlotte could answer, the bodyguards had managed to restrain Lando enough for her to administer the injection.
"It's a sedative," Charlotte explained as Lando's struggles began to weaken. "It will calm him down and knock him out for a while. When he wakes up, he'll be more in control."
Lando's eyes began to flutter, and he made grabby hands toward you. The bodyguards carefully moved him to a massage table in the room, and Charlotte nodded at you.
"It's okay," she said gently. "You can go to him."
You approached slowly, your heart still racing. As you got closer, Lando's hand shot out, grabbing yours with surprising strength for someone who was supposed to be sedated.
"Stay," he mumbled, his words slurred. "Love you."
Then his eyes closed completely, and he was out, his breathing deep and even, his mouth slightly open.
You stood there, staring at him, your hand still held tightly in his. The reality of the situation was just beginning to sink in. You looked up at Charlotte and the bodyguards, expecting some kind of reaction, but their faces were completely neutral, as if this was just another day at the office.
"What... what just happened?" you finally managed to ask.
Charlotte gave you a sympathetic look. "We'll leave you two alone for a bit. When he wakes up, we'll come back to help you both to the car. We need to make sure you're safe and that he stays calm."
With that, she and the bodyguards filed out of the room, closing the door softly behind them.
You were alone with him again—well, with his unconscious form, anyway. Your mind was reeling, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. The intense connection, the possessiveness, the way your body had responded to his...
You pulled out your phone with your free hand, your fingers trembling slightly as you dialed Lily.
"Hey! Where did you disappear to? I was about to send out a search party," Lily's cheerful voice came through the phone.
"I... uh... something happened," you said, not sure how to even begin explaining.
"Are you okay? You sound weird."
"I'm fine, I think. Can you come to Lando Norris's drivers room? Alone?"
There was a pause on the other end. "Lando Norris? As in the driver? Why are you in his drivers room?"
"It's... complicated. Just please come?"
"Okay, okay, I'm on my way. Don't move."
True to her word, Lily arrived a few minutes later, knocking softly before entering. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene: you standing there looking nervous with what you could only imagine was a deep crimson blush on your face, and Lando completely knocked out on the massage table, his hand tightly gripping yours.
"Oh my god," Lily whispered, her eyes darting between you and the unconscious driver. "Are you... are you mates?"
You nodded, unable to form words.
Lily let out a squeal that she quickly muffled with her hand. "This is incredible! I can't believe it!"
She rushed forward, hugging you tightly before pulling back to look at Lando again. "But why is he knocked out? What happened?"
You took a deep breath, trying to organize your thoughts. "He got... a little too excited. Aggressive. He couldn't let go, so they had to sedate him."
A wide grin spread across Lily's face. "Wow. I can't believe how lucky you are! You found your fated mate! And he's such a powerful alpha!"
Your eyes widened at the word "alpha." "Alpha? What do you mean alpha?"
Lily laughed at your expression. "You didn't realize? With that aggressive behavior? The possessiveness? The instant connection?"
You shook your head, feeling completely out of your depth.
"Oh, honey," Lily said, patting your arm. "He's Lando Norris! The most powerful alpha in Monaco. One of the strongest in all of Europe. He's feared and admired. And millions of girls would kill to be in your position right now."
You felt yourself blush even deeper. "Is it... is it normal that he said he loved me before he passed out?"
Lily jumped up and down with excitement. "Yes! It's normal for an alpha to feel that way almost immediately, but usually, no alpha says it first. It's almost always the Luna who says it first because she's under the alpha's influence."
You couldn't help but glance at Lando, your heart fluttering strangely. You reached out with your free hand, gently caressing his cheek. His skin was warm, and even unconscious, there was something about him that drew you in.
"Aren't you excited to go to his house?" Lily asked, practically vibrating with energy.
"Of course I am," you admitted softly. "But I'm also really nervous. What if he gets aggressive again when he wakes up?"
Lily's expression softened. "That's understandable. But Charlotte and the team will make sure you're safe. And once he's more in control, he'll be different. The initial mating frenzy can be intense, especially for someone as powerful as Lando."
You nodded, trying to absorb everything. It was all so much to take in—finding your fated mate, discovering he was one of the most powerful alphas in Europe, the intensity of your connection...
As if sensing your thoughts, Lando's fingers tightened around yours even in his sleep. You looked down at your joined hands, marveling at how right it felt, despite the chaos of how you'd come to be here.
"You should probably call your parents," Lily suggested gently. "Let them know you won't be coming home tonight."
Your eyes widened. "Oh god, I hadn't even thought of that. What am I supposed to tell them?"
Lily shrugged. "Just say you met someone special and you're staying with a friend. You can give them the full story later, once things have settled down a bit."
Nodding, you quickly made the call, your parents accepting your vague explanation with surprising ease. Maybe they sensed the excitement in your voice, or maybe they were just used to your occasional spontaneous adventures.
As you hung up, there was a soft knock on the door. Charlotte entered, followed by one of the bodyguards.
"How is he?" Charlotte asked, checking Lando's pulse.
"Still out," you replied.
"That's good. It'll give him more time to recover his equilibrium." She looked at you kindly. "Are you ready to go to his place? We have a car waiting."
You nodded, though your stomach was doing flip-flops.
"Don't worry," Charlotte assured you. "He'll be much calmer when he wakes up. The initial surge of mating hormones can be overwhelming, especially for someone with Lando's... particular genetics."
The journey to Lando's home was a blur of city lights and silent tension. You sat in the back of the sleek black car, Lando's unconscious form beside you, his head resting on your shoulder. Even in sleep, his grip on your hand remained firm, as if afraid you might disappear.
Charlotte sat opposite you, occasionally checking her phone but mostly giving you space to process. The silence was heavy with unspoken questions, but you weren't sure where to begin.
Finally, the car turned into a private driveway, and your eyes widened at the sight before you. Lando's home wasn't just a house—it was a stunning modern villa that seemed to float above the Mediterranean, all white walls, glass panels, and clean lines that screamed expensive taste and even more expensive architects.
"Wow," you breathed, unable to hide your amazement.
Charlotte smiled faintly. "It's something, isn't it? Lando designed most of it himself."
The bodyguard who had been driving opened your door and then moved to help with Lando. Between the two of them, they managed to get him inside without waking him, his feet dragging slightly on the polished marble floors of the entrance hall.
"His bedroom is this way," Charlotte said, leading you down a wide hallway lined with what looked like original artwork. "We'll put him in there."
The bedroom was as impressive as the rest of the house—a massive space with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the moonlit sea. The bodyguards carefully laid Lando on the king-sized bed, his curly hair spreading across the pristine white pillows.
Charlotte turned to you, her expression serious. "There are some things you should know about alphas, especially ones as powerful as Lando. They're... different from other wolves—betas, omegas, even regular alphas."
"Different how?" you asked, your eyes still fixed on Lando's sleeping form.
"Their instincts are stronger, more primal. The mating bond hits them harder, faster. What happened earlier—that's just the beginning. The need to claim, to protect, to possess... it's overwhelming for them. For Lando, it's even more intense because of his status."
You nodded slowly, trying to absorb this information. "So what you're saying is... this might happen again?"
"It's not a matter of if, but when," Charlotte confirmed gently. "And it might be even stronger next time. The sedative gave him time to recover some equilibrium, but the mating hormones are still surging through his system."
You felt a tremor of fear mixed with something else—excitement? Anticipation?
"I think it would be best if we had someone come over to explain things more thoroughly," Charlotte continued. "Someone who specializes in alpha-luna dynamics. I can send a lady tomorrow morning, if that works for you? She can tell you everything you need to know."
"That would be... helpful," you admitted. "Thank you."
Charlotte gave you a sympathetic look. "You're handling this remarkably well, all things considered. We'll leave you two alone now, but we'll be nearby if you need anything. Just call."
With that, she and the bodyguards filed out of the room, closing the door softly behind them.
You stood there for a moment, alone with Lando's unconscious form. The silence of the room was broken only by his deep, even breathing. You had no idea how long he would sleep, and suddenly, you felt restless.
Taking one final look at him, you couldn't resist reaching out to touch his face again. His skin was warm, slightly rough with stubble, and even in sleep, there was an intensity to him that drew you in.
Deciding to explore while he was still out, you left the bedroom and wandered through the house. It was even more impressive up close—a grand, white summer villa that seemed to embody luxury and relaxation. The living room opened onto a terrace with an infinity pool that appeared to merge with the sea beyond. The kitchen was a chef's dream, all stainless steel and marble countertops.
You found a glass in the kitchen and filled it with water, sipping it slowly as you continued your exploration. But as you moved further from the bedroom, a strange sensation began to build in your stomach—a discomfort that quickly escalated into nausea. Your head started to ache, and you felt dizzy, as if something essential was missing from your system.
Without really thinking, you found yourself turning back toward the bedroom, drawn by an inexplicable urge. The closer you got, the better you felt, until the moment you stepped back into the room, all symptoms vanished completely. In fact, you felt better than before—energized, centered, whole.
Realizing with a jolt that proximity to Lando seemed to affect your physical well-being, you approached the bed again. As you reached out to caress his cheek, his eyelids fluttered open.
You withdrew your hand quickly, startled. His green eyes focused on you, clear and intense now, not clouded by the frenzy from earlier.
"Hey," he said, his voice still a bit rough from sleep. "How long was I out?"
"Not sure," you admitted. "A few hours, maybe?"
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his messy curls. "I'm sorry about earlier. Did I... did I hurt you?"
You felt yourself blush at the memory. "No, you didn't hurt me. I just got a bit overwhelmed."
Lando looked at you with those striking green eyes, and you could see the sincerity in them. "I didn't mean to be like that. I couldn't stop myself. The moment I saw you... smelled you... something just took over."
"I understand," you said softly, though you weren't sure you did at all.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up and stretching. "I'm starving. How about we make some dinner and talk a bit? If you want to, of course."
"That sounds nice," you agreed, following him into the kitchen.
As you walked, Lando reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The contact sent a pleasant warmth through your body, and you found yourself smiling slightly.
In the kitchen, he opened the fridge to survey the contents. "Pasta okay with you?"
"Perfect," you replied.
But as he started pulling out ingredients, he encountered a problem—he needed both hands to cook, which meant letting go of yours. He paused, looking down at your joined hands with a frustrated expression, then back at your face.
After a moment of consideration, he guided you to one of the bar stools against the kitchen island. Then, to your surprise, he lifted the entire stool—with you on it—moving it closer to where he was working.
"There," he said with satisfaction. "Now I can see you properly."
You blushed at this unexpected gesture, feeling both flattered and slightly ridiculous perched on the bar stool like a decorative centerpiece. "Can I help with anything?"
Lando looked at you with a heated gaze that made your stomach flutter. "If you just keep sitting there looking pretty, that's fucking amazing. More than I could ever ask for."
You nodded, your blush deepening as you watched him start preparing the pasta. He moved with an easy confidence, his motions efficient and practiced.
"So," he said as he chopped vegetables, "where are you from originally?"
"France," you replied. "But my family moved to Monaco not too long ago."
At this, Lando paused in his chopping. "You live with your parents? How old are you?"
"Yes I live with them, and I’m nineteen."
He nodded slowly. "I'm twenty-four."
You hesitated for a moment, then decided to be direct. "So you're... an alpha? Like Lily said?"
Lando's chest swelled with pride as he answered. "Yes, I am. And I'll take good care of you, always."
The certainty in his voice was both comforting and intimidating.
As he finished cooking, he plated the pasta and set it on the dining table. Throughout the meal, he stayed mostly quiet, just watching you with an intensity that made you self-conscious.
"What?" you finally asked, unable to bear the silence anymore.
"I can't believe how lucky I am that you're my mate," he said simply. "Out of all the people in the world, I found you."
You felt your cheeks flush at his words, touched by the genuine emotion in his voice.
When you finished eating, a practical concern suddenly hit you. "I just realized—I don't have anything with me. No toothbrush, no change of clothes..."
Lando's eyes darkened with desire. "You can just sleep naked."
When your eyes widened at his bold suggestion, he amended, "Fine, you can wear underwear."
"That's not happening either," you said firmly, though you couldn't help but smile at his persistence.
"Then we'll go to your house and pick up a bag," he decided, standing up and reaching for your hand.
You bit your lip, torn. Logically, that was the smartest thing to do, but the thought of introducing him to your parents already—especially when you hadn't even told them about him—made you nervous.
"Okay," you finally agreed, letting him lead you toward the garage.
Your eyes widened when you saw the collection of cars parked there, but you almost gasped when you spotted the bright orange McLaren F1 car displayed like a work of art. You hadn't realized he was rich rich.
Lando opened the passenger door of a sleek sports car for you, even leaning over to buckle your seatbelt when you seemed to be struggling with it. You felt your cheeks flush at his close proximity.
While he drove, you quickly texted your parents: "Coming home to grab something quickly. Be there in 10."
When the car pulled up to your house, you turned to Lando. "Just stay here. I'll run in and grab a bag. It'll only take a minute."
A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that vibrated through the car and directly into your bones. "I will do no such thing."
"Lando, please," you pleaded, but you could see from the stubborn set of his jaw that it was useless.
You sighed, opening your car door. "Fine. But wait here."
You thought he understood, but as you walked toward your front door, you felt his hand wrap firmly around your waist. He was right behind you, his body heat seeping into you, his presence a palpable force.
Resigned, you knocked on the door. When your parents opened it, their eyes widened at the sight of Lando standing behind you.
"Mom, Dad, this is—" you started, but they cut you off, laughing.
"We know who he is, sweetheart," your mom said, beaming.
Your confusion must have shown on your face because your dad added, "We watch Formula 1. It's not every day our daughter comes home with Lando Norris."
Before you could process this, Lando was greeting them with a charming smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you both. Y/n has told me so much about you."
To your astonishment, they greeted him warmly, acting as if it was completely normal for their daughter to show up with a world-famous racing driver slash werewolf alpha.
Feeling like you'd stepped into an alternate reality, you led Lando upstairs to your bedroom. As you quickly threw clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag, you became aware of Lando's behavior changing.
He was standing in the middle of your room, eyes closed, breathing deeply. When he opened them, they were almost black with desire, the green barely visible around his dilated pupils.
"What are you doing?" you asked, a note of panic creeping into your voice.
He started approaching you slowly, deliberately. "Your room," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "It smells so much like you. It's everywhere. On your pillow, your clothes..." He took another step closer. "It's intoxicating."
Your eyes widened as you realized what was happening. He was about to lose control again.
He came up behind you, pressing his body against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist. You could feel his erection against your back, hard and insistent. He began nipping at your neck, gentle bites that sent shivers down your spine despite your fear.
You held back a moan. "Lando, stop. What are you doing?"
"I can't help it," he breathed against your skin. "Your scent... it's everywhere. I need... I need..."
Realizing he was on the verge of another frenzy, you acted on instinct. You turned around in his arms and pushed with all your strength against his chest. To your surprise, he stumbled back a step, giving you just enough space to escape.
You grabbed your bag and fled the room, calling over your shoulder, "We have to go. Now!"
You practically ran down the stairs, Lando close behind you. "Goodbye, Mom! Goodbye, Dad!" you called out, not stopping to see their reactions.
In the car, Lando immediately placed his hand on your thigh, high up near your hip. You pushed it down to a more appropriate level, but he just growled and moved it right back. After a third attempt, you gave up, letting his hand rest where he wanted it. He squeezed occasionally, a possessive gesture that made your heart race for reasons you couldn't quite identify.
Back at his house, you made a beeline for the bathroom, locking the door behind you. You quickly went through your nighttime routine, trying to calm your racing thoughts. As you turned on the shower, you heard a whimper from right outside the door.
"Are you showering without me?" Lando asked, his voice a mixture of hurt and desire.
Despite everything, you couldn't help but laugh at his silliness. "Yes, Lando. I'm showering alone."
You could hear him sigh dramatically on the other side of the door, which made you smile even more.
After your shower, you changed into the pajamas you'd brought—a skimpy silk set that consisted of shorts and a camisole top with lace trim. It was your favorite sleepwear, but suddenly you felt exposed wearing it in Lando's house.
Taking a deep breath, you opened the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom. Lando was lying on the bed, propped up against the headboard. When he saw you, he bit his lip and let out a low moan.
His eyes roamed over your body, lingering on the swell of your breasts visible above the low-cut top. "Fuck," he breathed, his eyes darkening with desire.
Before you could react, he was off the bed and moving toward you. In one fluid motion, he had you on the bed, hovering above you. Then he pressed all of his weight down, letting you feel his hard erection against your core. He pinned both your wrists above your head with one hand, his grip firm but not painful. Lando's eyes burned with an intensity that seemed to pierce right through you, his gaze so focused that you felt as if he was looking into your soul. His body hovered above yours, solid and warm, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that was both terrifying and thrilling. Your wrists were still pinned above your head in his firm grip, his other hand tracing patterns along your side.
You wanted to push him away, to tell him you weren't ready for this, that this was all happening too fast. But something held you back—a magnetic pull, an undeniable attraction that made your body respond to his despite your mind's protests. Heat pooled in your stomach, your breath hitched as his eyes dropped to your lips.
His head lowered slowly, giving you time to protest, but no words came out. You could feel his breath against your mouth, warm and inviting. Just as his lips were about to meet yours, you turned your head at the last second, causing his kiss to land on your cheek instead.
Lando froze, pulling back slightly. You could see the disappointment in his eyes, a flicker of hurt that made your heart clench with guilt. He had been so vulnerable with you, so open about his feelings, and you had rejected him—even if it was just a kiss.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, unable to meet his gaze.
Instead of getting angry, Lando's expression softened. He shifted his attention to your neck, leaning down to inhale deeply. "You smell so good," he murmured against your skin. "Like vanilla and sunshine."
His lips brushed against your throat, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. He began scenting you again, rubbing his nose against your neck in that possessive yet strangely comforting gesture. Then his teeth scraped against your sensitive skin, followed by gentle nips that made your toes curl.
A moan almost escaped your lips, but reality suddenly came crashing back. You weren't ready for this. You barely knew him, despite the undeniable connection between you.
"Lando, stop," you said, pushing against his chest. "I'm not ready for this yet. For... any of this."
He froze, then slowly rolled off you with a frustrated huff. The bed dipped with his weight as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Sorry," he said, his voice strained. "I just... can't control it."
You sat up, pulling the covers around you. "Is there anything I can do to help? Maybe... a cold shower?"
Lando let out a humorless laugh. "That's not how it works for alphas. The mating instinct... it's not just physical arousal. It's a biological imperative. My body is producing hormones that are screaming at me to claim you, to make you mine in every way possible."
You bit your lip, feeling guilty for causing him pain but still not ready to take that step. "I understand. I just... need more time."
He nodded, turning onto his side to face you. "I'll try. For you, I'll try."
You lay down, keeping a careful distance between you. The bed felt enormous with the space you were maintaining. Sleep was elusive as you listened to Lando tossing and turning beside you, his restless movements a testament to his struggle.
After what felt like hours, his voice broke the silence. "Can I... can I just hold you? Nothing more. I just need to feel you close."
You hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Okay."
Lando shifted closer, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him. His chest pressed into your back, his face buried in the curve of your neck. You noticed how he kept a deliberate space between his hips and your ass, and you were grateful for his restraint.
"Thank you," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear.
You relaxed into his embrace, feeling safer than you expected. His presence was comforting despite the turmoil he was experiencing. Eventually, sleep claimed you both.
Summary ━━━━━ Lando gets his wisdom teeth removed and is being a baby about it. Luckily he’s got y/n to feed him kinder bars and give him kisses.
Word count ━━━━━ 2,9k
The morning light filtered through the blinds of your shared bedroom, casting stripes across the duvet where Lando was currently burrowed like a frightened hedgehog. You watched him with an affectionate smile, already dressed and ready for the day that had been looming over him for weeks.
"I'm not going," came his muffled voice from beneath the covers.
You sighed softly, padding over to the bed and sitting on the edge. "Yes, you are. We talked about this."
The covers shifted and his head emerged, hair disheveled and eyes wide with a fear that seemed disproportionate to the situation. "But what if they mess up? What if I wake up during it? What if—"
You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "What if everything goes exactly as planned and you wake up with less pain than you've been in for months? The dentist said your wisdom teeth are impacted, love. They're causing you headaches and making it hard to eat properly."
He pouted, those perfect lips that usually charmed millions now pursed in a way that made you want to bundle him up and protect him from the world. "But I'm scared."
"I know," you murmured, running your fingers through his curls. "And I'll be right there with you the whole time. I promise."
His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you down until you were lying beside him, face to face. "Really? You'll stay the whole time?"
"Every minute," you confirmed, pressing another kiss to his nose. "Now get dressed or we'll be late."
With a dramatic sigh that seemed to drain all energy from his body, Lando eventually extracted himself from the bed and trudged toward the bathroom. You followed, watching as he brushed his teeth with unusual vigor, as if trying to delay the inevitable by making himself as clean as possible.
"Did you buy the soft foods I asked for?" he called out, voice muffled by toothpaste.
"All your favorites," you replied from the bedroom. "Ice cream, yogurt, soup, and those Kinder bars you love."
He appeared in the doorway, wiping his mouth with a towel. "You're too good to me."
"You're worth it," you said simply, holding out your hand.
He took it, intertwining your fingers, and didn't let go for the entire drive to the dental clinic. His knee bounced nervously the whole way, and you kept rubbing soothing circles on his palm with your thumb.
The waiting room was sterile and unwelcoming, with outdated magazines and a fish tank that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the last millennium. Lando squeezed your hand tighter when the receptionist called his name.
"Ready?" you asked softly.
He shook his head, eyes wide. "Can't we just go home? I promise I'll floss better."
You suppressed a smile. "Nope. You've been putting this off for months."
The dental assistant led you back to a small consultation room where Dr. Michaels was waiting. She was a kind-looking woman in her forties with a warm smile that didn't quite reach her eyes—probably because she dealt with nervous patients all day long.
"Lando, Y/N, nice to meet you both," she said, gesturing to the chairs. "So we'll be removing all four wisdom teeth today. The procedure itself should take about forty-five minutes, and you'll be under general anesthesia the whole time."
Lando's grip on your hand tightened. "General anesthesia? Like, completely knocked out?"
"That's right," Dr. Michaels confirmed, not seeming to notice his growing panic. "We'll place an IV line, administer the anesthesia, and you'll be asleep before you know it. When you wake up, it'll all be over."
Instead of taking the chair beside him, Lando patted his lap. "Sit here."
You glanced at Dr. Michaels, who raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. You settled onto Lando's lap, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist like a child clinging to a security blanket.
"As for pain management," Dr. Michaels continued, pulling out a chart, "we'll prescribe something stronger for the first few days—probably oxycodone—and then you can switch to over-the-counter pain relievers as needed."
Lando buried his face in your shoulder. "I don't like needles."
"They'll use a numbing spray first," you whispered, stroking his back. "You'll barely feel it."
He nodded reluctantly against your shoulder, and you could feel the tension in his body. Dr. Michaels went over the aftercare instructions, but you had a feeling Lando wasn't absorbing much of it, judging by the way his fingers were tracing patterns on your back.
"Any questions?" Dr. Michaels asked when she finished.
Lando shook his head without lifting it from your shoulder.
"Alright then," she said with a smile. "Let's get you set up in the surgery room. Y/N, you can wait in the reception area, and we'll come get you when he's in recovery."
Lando's head snapped up. "No. She stays with me."
Dr. Michaels looked momentarily surprised. "Usually we don't allow—"
"Please," he interrupted, his voice small. "I need her."
You felt your heart melt a little. "It's okay. I'll wait outside."
"But you promised," he whispered, eyes wide and pleading.
You exchanged a look with Dr. Michaels, who seemed to soften at his distress. "Alright," she conceded. "You can come in until he's asleep, but you'll need to wait in recovery after that."
"Deal," Lando said immediately, as if worried she might change her mind.
The surgery room was even more sterile than the consultation area, with bright overhead lights and trays of intimidating-looking metal instruments. Lando's breathing hitched when he saw the IV setup.
"Hey," you said softly, turning to face him on his lap. "Look at me. Just focus on me, okay?"
He nodded, eyes fixed on yours as the nurse prepared his arm, spraying the cold numbing solution that made him shiver.
"You're doing great," you murmured as the needle went in. He winced but didn't look away from you. "Almost there."
The anesthesiologist injected the medication, and you watched as Lando's eyes began to droop. "Love you," he slurred, his words already becoming fuzzy.
"Love you too," you replied, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I'll be right here when you wake up."
His eyes fluttered closed, and his body went limp against yours. The medical team gently moved him onto the operating table, and you were escorted to the waiting area, where you settled in with your phone and a magazine you had no intention of reading.
Dr. Sarah Michaels watched as the anesthesiologist began the reversal process, bringing Lando Norris back to consciousness. The procedure had gone smoothly—four impacted wisdom teeth successfully removed with minimal complications. Now came the part she always found both amusing and touching: watching patients emerge from the fog of general anesthesia.
"He should start coming around in the next minute or two," the anesthesiologist said, checking the monitors. "Vitals are stable."
Sarah nodded, making notes on her tablet. "Let me know when he's fully alert."
It started with a flutter of eyelids, then a soft groan as Lando's body registered the absence of four teeth that had been there just an hour ago. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and glassy.
"Welcome back," Sarah said gently. "How are you feeling?"
Lando blinked, his gaze drifting around the recovery room before settling on her face. A slow, dopey smile spread across his lips, which were already beginning to swell. "Hello," he slurred, his voice thick and muffled by the gauze pads in his mouth. "Where is she? Where's Y/N?"
"She's just in the waiting area," Sarah assured him. "She'll be in as soon as you're more awake."
But Lando wasn't listening. His lower lip began to tremble, and his eyes filled with tears that spilled down his temples. "I miss her," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I miss her so much. It feels like my heart is trying to escape my chest to go find her. Does that happen to everyone after surgery?"
Sarah exchanged a look with the nurse, who was trying to hide a smile. "Not typically, no. The anesthesia can make people a bit emotional."
"But this isn't just emotion," Lando insisted, his tears flowing freely now. "This is... this is real. I just want her here. I need her."
Sarah found herself genuinely touched despite the absurdity of the situation. "She'll be here soon, Mr. Norris."
"Is she okay?" he asked suddenly, his eyes wide with panic. "What if she got bored waiting? What if she went to get coffee and decided not to come back?"
"I think she's perfectly safe in the waiting room," Sarah said gently. "Why don't we get someone to bring her in?"
"Please," he begged, reaching out with a wobbly hand. "Tell her I need her. Tell her I just need to see her."
The nurse stifled a laugh as she headed toward the waiting area. Sarah stayed with Lando, who had now collapsed back against the pillows, exhausted from his emotional outburst.
"You really love her, don't you?" Sarah asked, dabbing his tears with a tissue.
He nodded, his eyes already drifting closed again. "More than anything. She's everything."
In the waiting area, you were scrolling through your phone, half-watching a daytime talk show on the mounted television. Every few minutes, you'd glance toward the recovery area doors willing them to open. When a nurse finally approached, you stood immediately.
"He's awake," she said with a knowing smile. "And asking for you. Quite insistently, actually."
"Is he okay?" you asked, already gathering your things.
"He's loopy from the anesthesia, but physically he's doing great," she replied. "Just... be prepared for some unconventional conversation."
You followed her down the hallway, your heart beating a little faster. The recovery room was dimly lit, and you spotted Lando immediately, propped up against a mountain of pillows, his face swollen and his eyes glassy.
The moment he saw you, his entire face lit up. "There you are!" he exclaimed, his voice muffled by the gauze. "I knew you'd come. I missed you so much."
You rushed to his side, taking his outstretched hands. "I was just outside, love. They told me you were asking for me."
His eyes welled with tears again. "I thought you left. I was so worried. I just needed to see your face."
You laughed softly, sitting on the edge of his bed. "I would never leave you, not when you're like this. I promised, remember?"
"I remember," he said, squeezing your hands tightly. "I love you. I just... I really love you."
"I love you too," you replied, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "Even when you're being a dramatic baby about having your teeth removed."
He pouted, those lips now even more swollen from the procedure. "It was scary. And then I woke up and you weren't here, and my heart did that thing where it tries to climb out of my chest like a baby bird."
"Kiss me," he whispered, his eyes pleading. "Please, just one kiss. I've missed your lips so much."
You looked at his swollen face and the cotton pads stuffed in his cheeks. "Oh, love, I don't think that's a good idea right now. Your mouth is all full of gauze, and it's still bleeding a little. We don't want to disturb it."
His face fell, and his eyes filled with tears again. "But... but I need your kisses. They make everything better."
"I know Lan," you said softly, cupping his cheek. "But how about this instead?" You leaned in and pressed a series of soft kisses to his cheeks, avoiding the swollen areas. "And here," you murmured, moving to his temple, then his other cheek, peppering his face with gentle affection.
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch like a starved animal. "That's nice," he mumbled. "Really nice."
You smiled, continuing your trail of kisses down to his jawline, then his neck, placing soft, innocent kisses against his warm skin. He hummed in contentment, his body relaxing under your touch.
"Better?" you asked softly.
"Much better," he replied, his voice still thick with emotion and cotton. "You always know how to make me feel better."
The nurse returned with discharge instructions and a prescription for pain medication. "He'll need to keep these gauze pads in for about thirty minutes," she explained, gesturing to the cotton wads stuffed in his cheeks. "After that, he can have soft foods, nothing too crunchy or hard for a few days."
Lando nodded, his attention mostly focused on you. "Can we go home now? I want to cuddle."
"Let's get you home then," you teased, helping him sit up slowly.
The car ride home was entertaining, to say the least. Lando was completely loopy from the anesthesia, leaning his head against your shoulder and sighing contentedly every few minutes.
"I'm so lucky," he murmured, his words slightly slurred. "So, so lucky to have you."
"You're not so bad yourself," you replied, glancing over at him as you drove.
"No, really," he insisted, lifting his head to look at you with glassy eyes. "You take care of me. You stayed with me even though I was being a baby about the surgery. You bought my favorite foods. You're... you're perfect."
"You're just high on anesthesia," you said with a laugh.
"Maybe," he conceded, resting his head back on your shoulder. "But I mean it. I always mean it when I say I love you."
"I know, love. I love you too."
By the time you got home and settled him on the couch with extra pillows, the thirty minutes for the gauze had passed. He immediately perked up.
"Snack time," he announced, patting his stomach. "I need fuel to continue being devastatingly handsome and in love with you."
You laughed, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a Kinder bar and a glass of water. "Careful," you said, breaking off a small piece. "Your mouth is still sensitive."
He opened his mouth expectantly, and you fed him the chocolate, your fingers brushing against his lips. He hummed in contentment, his eyes fluttering closed.
"You're so good to me," he mumbled around the chocolate. "Like an angel, but with better snacks."
"You're easy to be good to," you replied, feeding him another piece.
He swallowed, then leaned in, his lips pursed. "Kiss time. I've been medically deprived of your kisses for at least an hour."
You leaned in and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. He immediately deepened it, his tongue tracing your lower lip, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. When you finally pulled away, you were both slightly breathless.
"Wow," he whispered, his eyes dark. "That was better than I remembered. And I remember it being pretty damn good."
You fed him another piece of chocolate, which he accepted with a grin. "Another piece?" you asked, holding up the rest of the Kinder bar.
He shook his head slowly, his eyes roaming over your body. "No," he said softly. "Different snack."
You looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
He grabbed you gently by the hips, pulling you closer until you were standing in front of him as he sat on the couch. He licked his lips, his eyes dark with desire. "Snack," he mumbled again, his gaze dropping to between your legs.
You felt a flush creep up your neck. "Lando," you said softly. "You need to wait until after the medication has worn off."
He pouted but nodded, his hands still resting on your hips. "Fine. But I'm putting in a formal request for later."
You laughed, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. "Noted. Now, do you want more chocolate or more kisses?"
"Both," he declared immediately. "Kisses with chocolate. That's the best kind."
You spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between feeding him Kinder bars and kissing him senseless, his hands roaming freely over your body as the anesthesia slowly wore off. By evening, he was more coherent, though still slightly loopy, and you curled up together on the couch, watching movies and eating ice cream straight from the container.
"Thank you for staying with me today," he murmured against your hair, his arms wrapped tightly around you. "I know I was being a baby."
"You were not," you replied softly. "You were scared, and that's okay. I'll always be there for you, no matter what."
He tightened his embrace, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I love you more than words can say."
"I love you too," you whispered back. "Even when you're being a dramatic baby about having your teeth removed."
He laughed, the sound vibrating through your body. "Hey, I was legitimately scared. And you made it all better."
"That's what I'm here for," you said with a smile. "Now, how about we finish this ice cream before it melts completely?"
"Only if you keep feeding it to me," he replied with a grin.
"Deal," you said, scooping up another spoonful and bringing it to his lips. "Anything for my brave patient."
As you fed him another bite of ice cream, he caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your palm. "Thank you," he whispered, his eyes full of love and gratitude. "For everything."
"You're welcome," you replied softly, your heart swelling with affection for the man in front of you. "Now, open up."
He laughed and opened his mouth, accepting the spoonful of ice cream with a contented sigh. You knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that you would do anything for this man—hold his hand through scary procedures, feed him ice cream when he couldn't eat solid food, and love him through it all, unconditionally.
after the disastrous race that was the canadian gp, lando tells you that he doesn't want any comfort – just you.
lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 2.9k ୨୧ warnings : language, SMUT (oral, püssydrunk!lando, overstimulation (a little bit), cöckwarming, semi-public), nicknames (princess) ୨୧ note : if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
part of the lando's heart series.
the hotel door clicked shut with a small, trembling force as lando closed it behind him. the ride back to the hotel was tense and quiet. you could tell his team was sitting on the edge as lando refused to talk after his media duties had concluded.
you're honestly surprised he was able to have such a smile on his face after a disaster of race you all had just witnessed. but you knew lando just needed a moment. you figured a nice shower together and some time in bed would be enough to bring him back down from the hurricane that was currently rolling around in his head.
"hey," you say softly, shoes and purse discarded next to his own shoes and backpack on the floor. you come up behind him, hands coming to gently massage his shoulders and you just feel how tense he still is. "why don't we take a nice shower, lan. i think that might help – wash today away."
your hands traveled down the planes of his back before grabbing the hem of his hoodie and pulling it up. lando didn't protest as you took his hoodie off, tossing it to the side before he's finally turning to look at you. his face is full of exhaustion – beautiful eyes drooping slightly before he's sitting down on the edge of the bed.
you can't help but smile fondly at your lover, hand combing through his curls before cupping his face. lando lets out a sigh through his nose as he nuzzles his face into your palm, his hands coming to rest on your hips.
"i don't want a shower," he mumbles, looking up at you as he drags you closer between his legs.
you let out a small laugh, "but you would feel better. isn't that what you always tell me?" you reply, head tilting as he rests his head on your chest. you feel his hands trail from around your waist to your ass before he's giving you a firm squeeze.
"i want you though," he says, eyes shining against the hotel room lights as he glances up. his words send a chill through you and straight to your core.
"you can always have me lando," you tell him softly, his hands coming to the waistband of your jeans before he's unbuttoning them. he lifts his head, watching as he unzips your jeans before he's pulling them down your thighs to your knees, and letting you kick them off into the floor somewhere.
he angles his head just enough so he's kissing your pelvis over your underwear. "get on the bed for me, princess," he says, eyes glancing up to look at you.
you feel your breath hitch before you're getting on the bed and crawling behind lando. you feel the bed shift as he stands up, and you turn to see him lifting his mclaren team kit polo over his head and throwing it in the floor. his sweatpants go next as you settle in the center of the bed, getting rid of your own shirt and bra next.
"see?" he teases, getting back on the bed, his warm hands grabbing your ankles before he's pulling you down the bed a little, so you're only half laying down. "you don't want to shower either," he teases with a smug smirk that makes you roll your eyes at him.
"i was just trying to help," you pout as lando crawls over you. a small gasp leaving your lips when you feel his throbbing cock press against your core through your underwear. "f-fuck..." you whimper out as lando rolls his hips against yours.
"i know how you can help me feel better, princess."
"h-how?"
"by letting me taste this pretty pussy you've got. i just know she's been missing my tongue and i've been neglecting her of some kisses," he says before he's moving to settle between your thighs. his large hands gripping the fat of your thighs to spread them.
lando immediately presses his face into your underwear, nose nudging your clothed clit as he inhales your scent before kissing where a wet patch is starting to form on your panties. his hands move from your thighs, letting them rest against his shoulders, as they move to fiddle with the elastic waistband of your panties. he plays with it, letting it snap gently against your skin as he continues to kiss your clothed pussy. you watch as his eyes even fall shut for a moment.
when he reopens them, lando moves just an inch before he's pulling your underwear off and tossing them somewhere over his shoulder. he moves you once more, mainly spreading your thighs again and having your knees press against your chest. his fingers come to spread your folds, showing him just how glistening you are for him.
lando lets out a groan, bottom lip tugging between his teeth before he's diving straight in. tongue flattening against your folds as he licks from your opening to your clit.
"a-ah! l-lando~" you cry out as he repeats the action two, three more times before he's settling on focusing on your opening. you threaded your fingers through his dark curls, gripping tightly as he buried his tongue inside you. your british lover lets out a groan at the feeling of you tugging on his hair, his hazel eyes flickering up to look at you – taking in how your face is already painted in pleasure.
god, you looked so gorgeous like this, all spread out for him and letting him have his way with you without any complaint. his pretty girl. his princess. his pussy.
his y/n. you were his completely and the thought made his dick twitch against the mattress. he was def gonna come in his underwear before the end of this. not that he really cared as long as his face was buried between your thighs.
he pulled away slightly, tongue dragging upwards again before he's sucking on your clit. the action makes your hips twitch and arch slightly before his hands come up to hold you in place. the way his hands grip your thighs and his lips on your clit makes you moan loudly. you throw your head back as lando continues to eat you out like a starved man.
"so fucking good," he mumbles against your pussy before he's flattening his tongue between your folds and aggressively shaking his head.
"fuck! l-lan-do!" you cry out as the frantic stimulation that he was giving you. you could feel the tension in your core build you – heat spreading from your core to all over your body as he continues to lick, suck, and kiss your pussy. his fingers even finding their way inside of you as his mouth alternated between your entrance and clit.
"s-s-so good~ don-don't stop," you beg, feeling your climax start to build up more rapidly. especially as his fingers stretch you out and rub deliciously against your sweet spot, curling inside you to the point it makes your toe curls.
"pussy so good for me. she loves the attention," he breathes out with a drunk smile on his lips. you swear you almost saw his eyes roll back from the taste alone of you. "always weeping for me," he mumbles, voice getting a little slurred as he dives back in.
"l-lan, i'm... fuck– i'm close!" you tell him and he hums before he's suddenly speeding up his fingers and tongue lapping your pussy like he's completely desperate for you. which, spoiler alert: he is.
and it only takes a few more licks and one long, satisfied suck to your clit before you're tipping over the edge with a long, loud moan. the coil in your core snapping as you come. lando is quick to remove his fingers, mouth latching onto you as his tongue licks up all your cum. his hands digging into the flesh of your ass as he lifts you up just to keep you close to him.
your breath hitched, body twitching, and legs shaking as you slowly come down from your high. and then, like another wave crashing over you and dragging you down – you felt your pussy twitch just from the sheer overstimulation from lando's mouth. his mouth glued your pussy to the point that it had you worried about if he was breathing.
"oh, lan, lan, lan– s-top. t-too much~" you whimper out, hands attempting to push his head away. but that damn neck strength of his allows your attempts to be futile. you look down to make eye contact with lando, a pout on your lips as you meet those beautiful, lust-filled eyes that have you clenching around nothing. thanks lando.
you let out another cry, attempting again," lan, stop," you say, gripping his hair and pulling. you feel his tongue give your pussy one more lick before he's allowing you to move his head. finally.
"sorry, baby, you just taste so good," he says, like that's a good enough reason to overstimulate you.
"whatever, come up here so we can cuddle," you deadpan with an eye roll as lando crawls up your body. his arms wrapping around you and pulling you into his side before his lips are meeting yours in a soft kiss. the taste of you was almost overwhelming when lando's tongue slipped into your mouth.
when you broke the kiss, you let your hand rest against his cheek as you looked at him – eyes full of nothing but love for the man laying with you. "i love you, lan, so much."
he gives you a lopsided smile before he's kissing you one more time, "love you, y/n, sorry if i was too much earlier. i just... it fucking sucks because it was like nothing going right during that race, and i wanted to do well. i wanted to win."
"i know you do lando, but... it happens. remember, fate works in weird ways. but you're still my world champion, and i think that's pretty sexy."
"yeah? you think so?"
"i know so," you say with a laugh as he rolls the two of you over so he could kiss you again. "oh," you say, pulling away – not able to stop the smile as you watch lando try to follow your lips for a split second. "we're going back home right? what time is our plane?"
lando pauses for a moment, like he's letting the question settle in his brain before he's answering, "yeah... we have like two hours before we have to be at the airport."
"are we going back to monaco? or did you want to make a trip to the uk?"
"monaco," he says, lips pressing against your pulse in your neck. "stay for a few days before i have to go to mtc for a media, and then we can go back if you want."
you let out a hum, "okay, i'm fine with whatever as long as we get a break, all this traveling the last few months have made me exhausted."
"well, at least the next race is in monaco," he says softly before sitting up a little bit. "did you want to take that shower now?"
"ugh, yes please, i'm starting to feel gross down there," you say with a laugh which makes lando smile at you before he's moving to stand up. "plus, we can go another round in there if you want," you add, sitting up, hand reaching out to trail against his hard cock that is straining against his boxers.
"come on then, princess," he says, linking your hands together. your boyfriend is tugging your hand before he's leading you both into the hotel bathroom.
"monaco, baby!" you cheered, happy to know you would be able to go straight home.
"this is not monaco, lando," you told him with a deadpan expression, arms crossed as you sat next to him in the private jet.
"i'm sorry, baby, you just seemed so excited that i didn't have the heart to tell you," he tries to reason with you. his large hand resting heavily against your thigh and giving it a good squeeze.
"indiana? really? the fucking indy 500 already happened!"
"i know but zak is there and they want me to film some content with the american team for their socials," he explains.
"fucking zak," you grumble, still refusing to look at your british lover. lando leans forward into your view and you are quickly turning your head away – opting to look out the window instead. "this fucking sucks, lando, i wanted to go home."
"hey, look at me, please," he pleads, voice soft and you almost give in. however, you choose to stay strong and that's when you hear him let out a deep sigh, he's then moving next to you – pulling the armrest up and quickly hauling you into his lap.
"lando!" you squeak out in surprise as he settles you in his lap, arms wrapping around your waist to trap you against his chest.
"come onnnnnnnn," he whines, breath hot against your ear, "don't be mad at me, it makes me sad. don't make the world champ sad – i've had a rough weekend."
"shut up," you tell him with a huff as you feel him press his lips on your throat as he's slowly rolling his hips up into your ass. you can feel his half-hard cock through your thin shorts, knowing that he's gone commando underneath his sweats.
"and its just a day, princess, and then we can go home. we'll go to the uk and i'll make it up to you," he says, groaning as you pull your blanket over the two of you.
you then finally turn to look at him, his hazel eyes gleaming brightly once you do. "how you going to make it up, huh?"
"we can watch movies and i'll fuck you so good all over the house," he promises with a smirk.
"oh brother," you roll your eyes at him, "just fucking drop me off in monaco then or i'll book my own flight."
"you're such a damn brat," he huffs, bouncing you in his lap as his hands come to grope you underneath your, his, hoodie. "like hell i'll let you book your own flight."
"i'm a grown woman, lan, i'll do whatever i want."
"didn't say you weren't but i don't want you going back to monaco without me. come on, don't be pissed, i'm sorry i lied. let me start making it up now. there's no way you can stay pissed at me for three hours."
"watch me," you say before pausing for a moment. you're then turning slightly to look at him, "your dick is distracting me."
"yeah, cause my bratty princess is in my lap and not letting me put it inside her," he huffs out – the sudden turbulence jolting you a little bit and making you rock against lando's dick. he lets out a small groan in your ear, his arms squeezing you tightly against him. "let me put it in at least, i won't move, promise."
"you're a big, fat liar like your cock, lando."
he lets out a confident laugh at your words, "yeah, but you like my big, fat cock – your pussy especially likes it when i'm inside her. i bet she's weeping for me now."
fuck him, you think, because he's not wrong. you can feel how wet you are without even having to touch yourself. your wetness seeping into your underwear to the point that you almost–
"find whatever, put it in but i'm only cockwarming you. no funny business cause i'm still mad at you," damn, you hate how weak you are against him sometimes. truly your downfall.
lando lets out a small laugh before he’s adjusting the two of you, slipping his cock out before you're guiding his thick length into your pussy through the leg hole of your shorts. thankfully, your shorts were short enough to make this easier because you would rather not strip off your bottoms on the private jet where there was still lando's team in the other cabin.
"fuck, you're so damn tight, so warm," he groans out into your throat as you slip him inside you. you let out a breathy moan in response, head tilting back to rest against his shoulder. "my princess and her pussy just can't resist this fat cock inside her. you're so fucking wet, i can feel you dripping down your thighs."
"shut up, lando," you tell him again as you lie against him, your hands coming to rest over his own that are still underneath your hoodie. his hands rubbing light circles into your skin before you feel him kiss your cheek. "i'm still mad, don't think you're getting away with tricking me," you remind him.
lando smiles as one of his hands travels down to your lower stomach, letting his fingers splay over you. "of course, i would expect nothing less from my spoiled princess."
you turn to say something, but lando immediately crashes his lips to yours in a quick, fierce kiss that catches you completely off guard. when he breaks the kiss, you are pouting and letting your head rest against his shoulder. "go to sleep, baby, i know you're tired."
you don't say anything as you let your eyes fall closed with lando holding you close and his cock nestled warmly inside you for the next three hours. maybe when you land you'll forgive him, or maybe you'll make him fuck again – you'll decide when you land.
Description: You're planning the wedding of the decade—Max Fewtrell and Pietra Pilão's summer celebration at Villa d'Este on Lake Como. Forty-seven page vision documents, destination logistics, and a bride who knows exactly what she wants. You can handle it. What you can't handle is their best man: Lando Norris, fresh off a breakup, he's arrogant, he's relentless, he doesn't take no for an answer, and he's decided that making your job harder is his new favorite pastime. You just want to execute the perfect wedding, he simply just wants you.
Genre: wedding planner x best man, he's down bad immediately, all of the tropes, "are you single?" on first meeting, why are we soooo horny, rom-com meets porn, unresolved ending, ANGST, cheeky norris
Notes: um, idk, sorry ive been mia for months, hope you enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it!
WC: 17.5k
That was two months ago.
Two months of Pietra's color-coded spreadsheets, vendor calls with Italian florists who didn't speak a lick of English, and approximately sixty-three emails about whether the napkins should be ivory or ecru. (They're the same fucking color. You didn't say that, though, you're a an actual professional.)
Now you're standing in Cifonelli, a tailoring house in London where the building is approximately 300 years old and the man at the door eyes you up and down about twelve times before letting you come in. You arrived fifteen minutes early because that's what professionals do, tablet in hand, ready to make sure Max Fewtrell doesn't accidentally pick the wrong shade of midnight blue and give his fiancée an aneurysm.
Max is already here, standing on the fitting platform in his shirtsleeves while a tailor who looks approximately one hundred years old circles him with pins. The groomsmen are scattered around the room—Max's his brother is scrolling through his phone in the corner, and the other three groomsmen are huddled by the window arguing about something that sounds football-related but you're not paying attention.
And Lando Norris, the best man, is in one of the leather chairs, legs stretched out in front of him, watching you.
He's been staring at you for the last twenty minutes while you've been in the checking suit orders. You felt it. Ignored it. Felt it again. Kept ignoring it, like a professional.
Now you've got his garment bag draped over your arm and you're done pretending you don't notice.
"Norris," you call out.
He doesn't move right away. Just lets his eyes drag up from wherever they were—unhurried, unbothered, like you've interrupted something he was very much enjoying. "That's me," he says, and the smile that follows is the kind that knows exactly what it does to people.
"Dressing room two," you say, already walking toward the hallway. "Let's get you fitted."
You hear him get up. Hear him follow. The hallway is quieter, away from the chaos of the main room, and dressing room two is all dark wood paneling, it's exactly the kind of place where people spend obscene amounts of money and feel good about it.
You hang the garment bag on the hook, unzip it.
"Jacket first," you say without turning around. "Then trousers. If the shoulders don't sit right or the sleeve length is off, don't adjust it yourself. Just tell me."
When you turn around, he's in the doorway. Not coming in. Just leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with this look—eyes slightly narrowed, mouth not quite smiling, like he's just confirmed something he suspected and now he's deciding what to do about it.
"You're very good at this," he finally says.
"At my job?" You raise an eyebrow. "Revolutionary concept."
"No." He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, slow, like the space belongs to him now that he's decided to enter it. "The whole—not looking at me thing." He tilts his head slightly. "You've been doing it since I walked in. It's very disciplined and I'm a little impressed, actually."
Your jaw doesn't move. Your expression doesn't either. "The suit, Norris."
"See, that." He stops close enough that you have to consciously not step back. Close enough that you catch his cologne—something clean and expensive and quietly devastating. He's taller than you clocked from across the room, and the way he's looking at you isn't rude, isn't aggressive. It's just certain, like he's already several steps ahead and he's being generous enough to wait for you to catch up. "That's the thing. You do this—" a small gesture toward you, vague, like he's indicating everything, "very professional, very unbothered. But you felt me looking at you."
"Everyone in the room felt you looking at me."
"Sure." The corner of his mouth pulls up. "But only you ignored it that hard."
The silence sits between you. He doesn't rush to fill it, just watches you with that quiet, completely unearned confidence, chin tipped down slightly, eyes steady, the kind of eye contact that doesn't shift or flicker, the kind that makes you aware of exactly where your hands are and whether your face is doing something it shouldn't be.
"Are you going to try this on," you say, "or are we wasting Pietra's fitting appointment?"
He reaches out and takes the jacket from the hanger himself. Doesn't look away from you while he does it.
"Quick question," he says and the pause that follows is long enough to be deliberate. "Are you single?"
You've got to be fucking kidding me. You shake your head, "That is not a quick question."
"It's three words." He shrugs the jacket on and takes his time with the second button. "Pretty quick to me."
You step forward and fix the collar before you've put any real thought into it. Professional and an awfully horrible fucking habit you've developed because right this second your fingers brush the back of his neck and you feel him go very still.
"Shoulders are good," you say, stepping back. This is absolutely fine. So absolutely not fine.
"You didn't answer."
"Because it's not relevant, Norris."
"To the fitting?" He turns to face the mirror, but his eyes find yours in it immediately. "Probably not. To me?" The corner of his mouth pulls again. "Little bit relevant."
You crouch down to check the trouser break. He looks down at you. You can feel it without looking up.
"You do this with all your clients?" he asks.
"Check the fit?"
"Go all quiet and professional when someone makes you uncomfortable."
You stand. "You're not making me uncomfortable."
"No?" He turns from the mirror to face you properly. You become aware of your hands. "Then why haven't you answered?"
The room feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. You're aware of the door behind him, the mirror to your left, the very small amount of air between you.
"The sleeve length is off," you say. It's a lie, but you reach for his wrist anyway.
He lets you take it, doesn't say anything while you pretend to check the cuff, while your fingers brush the inside of his wrist.
"You're single," he says.
You glance up and he's already looking at you, which is unfortunate considering how attractive the fucker actually is. His lip is quirked upwards at the corner, and his eyes are squinting in that specific way that tells you he is enjoying this very much.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He's still letting you hold his wrist, still watching you with that same certainty. "You would've shut this down immediately if you weren't."
You drop his hand and step back. "The jacket fits."
"Good." He shrugs the jacket off, and you watch the fabric slide down his arms, watch the way his shoulders move underneath the sweater. He hangs it back on the hanger with more care than you expected, smoothing the lapels before turning to the mirror. His hands go to the hem of his sweater, tugging it down, adjusting it. The movement pulls the knit tight across his chest, his shoulders, and his eyes—those fucking eyes—find yours in the reflection.
He doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend he wasn't waiting for you to look. "So when are you free?"
Your throat is dry. "I'm not."
"For dinner." He's still watching you in the mirror. Still standing there with his hands resting at his sides like he's got all the time in the world.
"I know what you meant."
He turns around. The movement is slow, his weight shifts, his hips turn, and suddenly he's facing you instead of the glass. "That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
"But it's not a no." The smile that spreads across his face is different from before—softer, more genuine. It makes him look younger, less like him and more like someone who actually wants to know your answer. And somehow that's worse. "Which means you're thinking about it."
"I'm thinking about how to get you to try on the trousers."
His hands drop to his belt.
The metal clinks as his fingers work the buckle loose and you freeze. Actually freeze, every muscle in your body locking up as you watch his hands—tanned, long-fingered, confident—slide the leather through the silver.
"What are you—"
"Trying on the trousers," he says, like it's obvious. The belt slides through the loops with a soft whisper of leather against fabric, and his shit-eating grin only widens. "That's what you wanted, right?"
"You don't have to—" You turn around and face the wall. What the fuck is going on? "There's literally a changing screen right there."
"There is." You hear the zipper, the metallic sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. Then fabric sliding down his legs, the soft rustle of denim pooling at his feet. Oh my god, oh my god. "But you're already in here."
Your stomach drops. Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You draw in a breath—too sharp, too quick—and try to compose yourself. Try to remember that you're a professional, that you've handled difficult clients before, that this is just a suit fitting.
Except it's not. You both know it's not.
"I will actually leave," you say.
"Why?" He sounds amused. You can hear the smile in his voice, can picture exactly what his face looks like right now without even seeing it. "You're the wedding planner. Don't you need to check the fit?"
Your face is on fire. Your hands are clenched at your sides and you're staring at the wood paneling on the wall like it holds the secrets of the fucking universe. "I can check it when you're dressed."
"I'm getting dressed right now." A pause. Then, quieter, "You can turn around. I'm not naked."
You shouldn't. You should walk out of this room, find another tailor, maintain some semblance of professionalism.
He's in his boxers, black Calvin Kleins that sit low on his hips, and that stupid cream sweater that's ridden up just enough to show a strip of tanned, toned stomach. The jeans are pooled at his feet and he's just standing there, holding the suit trousers, legs long and golden like he spends half his life in the sun.
Which he does. Because he's a fucking Formula 1 driver. And you're trying very hard to look at his face, at the trousers in his hands, at literally anything except the very obvious bulge straining against the black fabric of his underwear.
Your eyes drop. You can't help it. The Calvin Klein waistband sits just below his hip bones, and the fabric is doing absolutely nothing to hide how well-endowed he is. Or how hard he's getting. Jesus Christ.
"Well?" he says, and his voice has dropped lower, rougher. Like gravel and honey mixed together. "Should I put these on, or are you going to keep staring?"
Your eyes snap up to his face and the grin there is absolutely wicked. Victorious. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, knows exactly where your eyes just were, and he's loving every second of it.
"The trousers," you manage. Your voice sounds strange—tight and strained and breathier than it should be—and you quite literally want to rip your vocal cords out. "Put them on."
"Say please."
Your brain short-circuits. "Excuse me?"
"You want me to put them on?" He tilts his head, and the movement is casual, easy. Still holding the trousers in one hand, the other resting against his hip, thumb hooked into the waistband of his boxers. Still standing there like this is completely normal. Like he stands half-naked in front of wedding planners every day. "Ask nicely."
This is insane. This entire situation is insane. You're alone in a dressing room with a half-naked Formula 1 driver who's asking you to beg him to put his pants on while he's very clearly hard and very clearly enjoying watching you try not to look.
"Please," you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant it to. "Put on the trousers."
His grin widens. "See? That wasn't so hard."
He steps into them. One leg, then the other, and you watch—you can't not watch—as he pulls them up slowly and deliberately. The fabric slides over his calves, his knees, his thighs. Golden skin disappearing inch by inch beneath midnight blue wool. Over his hips. Over that bulge that's still very much visible, still obscenely obvious even through the suit fabric now.
He doesn't button them. Just leaves them sitting low on his hips, the zipper undone, the waistband gaping open enough that you can still see the black elastic of his Calvin Kleins.
"How's the fit?" he asks.
You can't speak. Your mouth is completely dry, your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you're very aware that you need to actually do your job now. Need to check the hem and the break and the waist, which means getting close to him again. Means kneeling down in front of him. Means being eye-level with—
"I need to check the break," you hear yourself say.
"Go ahead."
You move before you can think about it. Drop to your knees in front of him, and the position is—it's—don't fucking think about it.
Your hands reach for the fabric at his ankle. The hem is perfect. You both know it's perfect. Pietra sent the measurements three times, the tailors here are the best in London, there's no way it's wrong.
You can feel him watching you. Can feel the weight of his gaze on the top of your head, on your hands, on the way you're very carefully not looking up. But you smooth the fabric anyway. Adjust it against his shoe. Check the length with fingers that are definitely not shaking.
"You know what I think?" he says, voice quiet.
You don't answer. Keep your eyes on the hem.
"I think you're single. I think you've been single for a while. And I think—" he pauses, and you feel him shift slightly above you, "—you're going to go to dinner with me tomorrow."
Something snaps into place in your head. A brilliant, terrible idea.
Fuck it.
You let your hand slide up from his ankle. Slowly. Palm flat against the fabric of the trousers, fingers spreading wide as you move up his calf. The muscle is solid beneath your touch, tense. You feel it twitch as you pass over his knee, and you keep going. Higher. You feel his leg go rigid under your touch. Hear his breath catch—sharp and sudden.
"You think so?" you ask, still not looking up. Your hand keeps moving. Up his thigh now, and he's gone completely still above you. Not moving. Not breathing. Just frozen.
"Yeah," he says, but his voice has gone rough. Strained. "I do."
Your hand reaches the very top of his thigh. You pause there and let the moment stretch. Then you slide your palm over the bulge straining against his trousers and squeeze.
He makes a sound—sharp, shocked, something between a gasp and a groan. You stand up slowly, keeping your hand exactly where it is. Keeping pressure. His hands come up like he's going to grab you, touch you, pull you closer, but he freezes when you press harder.
"Fuck," he breathes.
You're close now. Close enough to see his pupils blown wide, close enough to feel the way his breathing has gone uneven. His hips shift forward into your touch and you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this.
"You were saying?" you murmur, tilting your head up. Your mouth is inches from his.
"I—" He swallows hard. Can't seem to finish the sentence. His eyes drop to your lips and you lean in closer. So close your breath ghosts across his mouth. Your hand moves slightly, rubbing through the fabric, and he actually groans this time.
"What was that about dinner?" you whisper.
"Tomorrow," he manages. "Eight. I'll—fuck—I'll pick you up."
"Mm." You lean in like you're going to kiss him. Let your lips almost brush his.
Then you let go, step back, and knee him directly in the dick.
Not hard enough to do real damage. But hard enough.
He doubles over with a choked sound, hands flying to his crotch, and you step around him calmly. You pick up your tablet from where you left it on the chair, and take one final look at Lando Norris.
"The trousers fit perfectly," you say, voice perfectly professional. "I'll let the tailor know we're done here."
You ignore Lando Norris for the rest of the fitting.
It's not difficult. He stays in the dressing room for a solid ten minutes after you leave, and when he finally emerges—fully dressed, thank fucking god—his face is doing something between amused and aroused and genuinely shocked.
You don't look at him. You focus on Max's final adjustments, on coordinating with the tailor about the timeline, on making notes in your tablet about pickup dates and alteration appointments. When Lando tries to catch your eye in the mirror, you turn away. When he opens his mouth like he's about to say something, you start talking to the elderly tailor about mother-of-pearl versus horn buttons.
Your hands only shake once you're in the car back to your flat. That evening, you send Pietra a follow-up email:
You don't mention Lando. There's nothing to mention, it was a fitting. He tried on a suit, everything went fine. Pietra responds within an hour with twelve exclamation points and a gif of someone crying happy tears. You close your laptop and don't think about Lando Norris for the rest of the night.
Or the next day.
Or the day after that.
Three weeks pass.
Three weeks of vendor calls and seating charts and a truly deranged argument with the florist about whether "white" and "ivory" roses are actually different. (They are, apparently.) Three weeks of normal, professional wedding planning work where you successfully do not think about Lando Norris or the fact that you kneed him in the dick in a Cifonelli dressing room.
You're good at compartmentalizing. It's a necessary skill in this job. You've dealt with difficult clients, bridezillas, grooms who show up drunk to their own rehearsal dinners. One overly confident racing driver who doesn't understand professional boundaries is nothing.
Except he keeps showing up in your email thread with Max and Pietra. Little comments on the group chain about the bachelor party planning, questions about the timeline, a truly chaotic suggestion that they do sparklers at the reception that Pietra immediately vetoed. You don't respond to him directly. You address Max only.
You're fine. Everything is completely fine. It's a Wednesday night—11:00 PM, to be exact—and you're on your couch in your pajamas with a pint of Häagen-Dazs Cookies and Cream that you've been working through for the better part of an hour. Some reality show is playing on your TV. You're not really watching it, too busy scrolling through the seating chart for the reception, trying to figure out where to put Pietra's uncle who allegedly had an affair with Max's aunt's best friend in 1987.
Your phone rings. Unknown number. London area code and you ignore it, taking another spoonful of ice cream. It rings again thirty seconds later. Same number.
You sigh, set the pint down on your coffee table, and answer. "Hello?"
"So, I've been thinking about you."
You freeze, spoon halfway to your mouth. That voice. You know that fucking voice. "Norris?"
"Lando," he corrects, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Hear the way he's settling into this conversation like he's got all fucking night to terrorize you. "And before you hang up—which I know you're about to do—I need to tell you something."
"How did you get this number?"
"Max," he says easily. "Told him I needed to coordinate some best man stuff. He gave it to me, no questions asked. Great guy, but a bloody terrible judge of character."
You close your eyes. "It's eleven o'clock at night."
"I know. I waited aaaaalllll day to call you." He pauses. "Didn't want to seem too eager, ya'know."
"You're calling me at eleven PM. That's the definition of eager."
"Fair point." He sounds amused. "Sooo, are you wearing panties right now?
You choke on your ice cream. Actually choke, coughing and sputtering into your fist while he laughs on the other end of the line. The pint nearly tips over on your coffee table and you have to grab it with your free hand, still trying to catch your breath. "Are you—" More coughing. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
"Completely serious," he says. "It's a yes or no question. Pretty straightforward."
You set the ice cream down. Hard enough that the spoon rattles. "I'm hanging up."
"No you're not." And the worst part—the absolute worst part of all of this is that he's right. You're still sitting here, phone pressed to your ear, face burning, while this man asks you about your underwear at eleven o'clock at night like it's a perfectly normal thing to do.
"Why are you like this?" you ask.
"Like what?"
"Insane. Mmm, iInappropriate, I don't know maybe the completely lack of boundaries."
"I prefer 'direct,'" he says. "And you still haven't answered my question."
"I'm not answering that."
"So that's a yes." He sounds pleased with himself. "Good to know."
"That's not—I didn't say—" You stop and take a breath. "What do you want, Lando?"
"I told you. I've been thinking about you."
"Then stop thinking about me."
"Can't." He says it simply, like it's a fact he's already accepted, like it's a facet that you're supposed to also accept. "Believe me, I've tried. Spent three weeks trying to forget about the dressing room. Didn't work. So now I'm calling you at eleven PM like a psychopath because apparently that's what you've reduced me to."
Your stomach does something stupid. You cannot do this right now. Seriously, you cannot. "I reduced you?"
"Yeah." There's rustling on his end, like he's shifting position. You picture him sprawled out somewhere—on a couch, maybe, or in bed—phone pressed to his ear, that insufferable grin on his face. "You put your hand on my dick and then kneed me in it. That's not something a person just forgets."
"You deserved it."
"I did," he agrees immediately. "Completely deserved it. I was inappropriate and pushy and I basically stripped in front of you. Very poor form. My mum would be horrified."
"God, no. She thinks I'm a perfect gentleman." He pauses. "She'd probably like you, actually. You seem like the type who'd keep me in line."
"No one can keep you in line."
"You did a pretty good job with your knee."
You close your laptop. Pull your knees up to your chest, phone still pressed to your ear, ice cream forgotten on the coffee table. This is insane. You should hang up. You should block this number and email Pietra tomorrow and tell her you can't work with her best man. But you don't, because despite every alarm blaring in your brain, you're enjoying this. "What do you actually want?" you ask quietly.
"Dinner," he says. No joke this time. No flirting, just honesty. "One meal. You pick the place, you pick the time. If you hate it, I'll never bother you again."
"You'll bother me anyway. You're the best man."
"Fine. Then I'll be professional. And completely appropriate. I'll call you 'ma'am' and everything."
"You're not calling me ma'am."
"See? You care." He sounds pleased. "That's progress."
"That's me stopping you from being weird."
"I can be weirder." He pauses. "Much weirder. Want me to prove it?"
"No."
"No, I think I can," he goes silent for a brief second. Then, "Uhhhhhhh, oohhhhhhh, mmmmm—"
Your brain short-circuits. "What the fuck are you—"
"Oh god, yes," he moans into the phone, and it's so obscene, so deliberately pornographic that your face catches fire. "Just like that!"
"Stop!"
"Okay, okay! Say you'll will go with me!" he says in a higher pitched voice, clearly imitating you, before dropping back to that low groan. "Oh yeah, baby, just like that!"
"Oh my GOD, Lando!"
"Right there, don't stop, don't fucking stop."
"Goodbye, Lando!" You're already pulling the phone away from your ear, face burning so hot you might actually combust.
"Friday, eight PM!" he shouts before you can hang up. "Wear something nice! I'm taking you somewhere expensive!"
You hang up. Sit there on your couch, ice cream forgotten, staring at your phone like it personally betrayed you.
Friday comes too soon.
You spend Thursday trying to convince yourself to cancel. Draft three different texts saying you can't make it, that something came up with work, that this was a mistake. Delete all of them. Pietra sends you an email with fourteen exclamation points about linens. You have a call with the florist that somehow turns into a forty-minute argument about garden roses versus peonies. You confirm the string quartet for the ceremony and the DJ for the reception and the backup generator for the lights because Pietra is convinced there will be a power outage even though Villa d'Este has never had a power outage in its three-hundred-year history.
You don't think about Lando Norris. (You think about Lando Norris constantly.)
Friday morning, you have a dress fitting in Knightsbridge for another bride who can't decide between two nearly identical shades of white. Friday afternoon, you meet with a new client in Mayfair to discuss color palettes for their engagement party—"We're thinking sage and blush, but like, elevated sage and blush, you know?" You nod. You take notes. You smile and say yes, you can absolutely source elevated sage napkins.
You don't cancel. By the time you get back to your flat in Monaco—you live here because half your clients are here and the tax benefits are obscene and you can pretend it's a practical decision and not because you've always wanted to live somewhere beautiful—it's 6:47 PM and you have one hour and thirteen minutes to get ready.
You shower. Stare at your closet for fifteen minutes. Pull out four different dresses and hate all of them. Settle on a black slip dress that's simple and elegant and shows just enough without being obvious. Nice black Manolo heels, with your hair down and makeup that looks effortless but took thirty minutes. You look at yourself in the mirror and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing. Your phone buzzes at 7:52 PM.
After rushing down the elevator, you push through the glass doors and step outside into the warm evening air. And there it is.
A Porsche GT3 RS. Forest fucking green, parked directly in front of your building like it belongs there, which it absolutely does not. The engine is running, that distinctive Porsche rumble that turns heads even in Monaco where supercars are background noise. The driver's side door opens and Lando Norris unfolds himself from the car, and—fuck. He's wearing a white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tucked into dark trousers that fit him obscenely well. No tie. Top two buttons undone. His hair is slightly messy in that way that's definitely intentional, and when he sees you, his entire face lights up.
"Hi," he says.
You stop on the pavement. "How did you know where I live?"
His grin is shameless. "Max."
"Of course."
"Also—" he gestures at you, vague and all-encompassing, "—wow. You look incredible."
"Your selfie was terrible."
"I know." He doesn't look embarrassed. "But you responded, so it worked." He walks around to the passenger side, opens the door for you. The interior is all tan leather and you might come just from sitting inside of it.
"Shall we?" he asks.
You should turn around. Go back upstairs and text him that this was a mistake. Instead, you get in the car, he closes your door, walks back around to the driver's side. Slides in and the door shuts with that solid, expensive thunk that only German engineering can achieve.
"Seatbelt," he says, already reaching for his own.
You buckle in. The belt clicks into place and he's already pulling away from the curb, the Porsche responding to the slightest touch of the accelerator like it's been waiting for permission to move. The streets of Monaco blur past. He drives fast—not recklessly, but definitely confidently. Like he knows exactly what the car can do and exactly how far he can push it. His right hand rests on the gear shift, fingers drumming against the leather. The left is on the wheel, relaxed, assured.
Then his right hand moves and lands on your thigh. It rests there, warm and solid through the thin fabric of your dress. His fingers spread slightly, thumb brushing against the inside of your leg. You look down at it. Then at him. He's watching the road. Completely focused like his hand isn't currently on your thigh, like this is totally okay to do upon meeting someone for the second time.
"What are you doing?" you ask.
"Driving." He glances at you briefly, grin tugging at his mouth. "Why, what does it look like I'm doing?"
"Your hand?"
"What about it?" He squeezes gently, once, then goes back to that light, proprietary touch. "Problem?"
"Yes, actually."
"Hm." He doesn't move it. "Want me to stop?"
You should say yes. You should absolutely say yes. "I didn't say that."
His grin widens. "No, you didn't." He shifts gears and his hand moves with it, then returns to your thigh. Higher this time. Not quite at the hem of your dress, but close enough that you're very aware of how little fabric there is between his skin and yours.
"You're very presumptuous," you manage.
"Uh-huh," He takes a turn smoothly, the Porsche hugging the curve like it's on rails. "Also, you haven't moved my hand. So clearly I'm doing something right."
"You're doing something, that's for sure."
"Is it working?"
"Is what working?"
"This." His thumb moves, a slow stroke against your inner thigh that makes your breath catch. "Me being charming and forward and completely shameless."
Your face is burning. "You're not charming."
"Liar." He glances at you again, and there's something predatory in the way he's looking at you. Something that makes your stomach flip. "You wouldn't be in this car if I wasn't at least a little bit charming."
He's right. You hate that he's completely right. "I didn't agree to let you feel me up in your car."
"You didn't disagree either." His thumb moves again, and this time you can't quite suppress the small inhale. He notices, and you want to grab the wheel and crash the fucking car. "Besides, I'm being a gentleman. My hand is barely moving."
"Where are we going?" you ask, trying to redirect.
"Dinner." His hand stays exactly where it is. "I made reservations at Le Grill. You know it?"
"At the Hotel de Paris?" Your stomach drops. "Wait—aren't people going to see us?"
He looks at you. Actually looks at you this time, taking his eyes off the road for longer than is probably safe. "People?"
"You're—" You gesture vaguely at him. "You're you. You're Lando Norris. People know who you are."
"So?"
"So, we'll be seen together. You and I."
"Good." He says it simply, turning his attention back to the road. His hand doesn't move from your thigh. "That's the point."
"The point?"
"Of taking you to a nice restaurant. In public. Where people will see us." He shifts gears smoothly, accelerating through a turn. "I'm not hiding you in some basement bistro. You agreed to dinner with me, so we're doing it properly."
"I didn't agree to being photographed."
"Then don't smile at the cameras." He grins. "Or do. You'll look good either way."
"Lando, please."
"Relax." He squeezes your thigh again. "It's just dinner. People eat dinner all the time. It's a very normal human activity."
The light ahead turns red. He slows to a stop, turns to look at you fully. His hand is still on your leg, thumb still doing that maddening stroke against your inner thigh. "Besides," he says, eyes locked on yours, "I already told Max I'm into you. He laughed. Said I should go for it. So if anyone asks, we're just two single people having a meal. Nothing scandalous about that."
"You told Max—"
The light turns green. He's already accelerating before you can finish the sentence.
There were photos taken outside the Hotel de Paris. At least six people with their phones out, asking for pictures, calling his name. Lando handled it the way he probably handles everything—with that easy charm that makes people feel like they're the only person in the room, even when he's already moving on to the next one. His hand never left yours except to pose for photos, and when he was done, it came right back.
Dinner goes well. Too well, actually. The restaurant is all art deco elegance and Lando is—fuck, he's good at this. Charming without being smarmy, confident without being obnoxious. He orders wine without looking at the list, pulls out your chair, makes the kind of casual conversation that feels effortless even though you know it's not. He asks about your work, actually listens when you answer, remembers details from Pietra's emails that he has no business remembering. And he's gorgeous in the dim lighting. That's the worst part. The candles catch the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when you say something that amuses him. His shirt is still unbuttoned at the collar and you keep noticing his throat, his collarbones, the way his hands move when he talks.
He catches you looking. Grins like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "See something you like?" he asks.
"Don't push it."
"That's not a no." His hand finds your knee under the table. Stays there through the rest of dinner. Through dessert—which he insists on ordering even though you're full. Through the coffee. His thumb traces lazy circles against your leg and you're very aware of every single point of contact. By the time you're back in the Porsche, it's past eleven and the streets of Monaco are quieter. He drives slower this time, his hand back on your thigh like it belongs there.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Shocking."
"You did too. Don't lie." You don't answer, and instead you look out the window instead at the city lights blurring past. He pulls up to your building too soon. Puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine.
"So," he says.
"So."
"Can I come up?"
You look at him. He's watching you with that same intensity, that same certainty, like he already knows what your answer is going to be. "That's very presumptuous," you say.
"I prefer forward." His hand squeezes your thigh. "And you haven't said no yet."
"I haven't said yes either."
"But you're thinking about it." He leans closer, and you can smell his cologne again, that same expensive scent that's been driving you crazy all night. "Aren't you?"
You should say no. You should thank him for dinner, get out of the car, go upstairs alone. "Just for a drink," you hear yourself say.
His smile is dangerous. "Just for a drink."
He turns off the engine and the encompassing sudden silence is loud. You hear your own breathing, hear the way his shifts slightly as he unbuckles his seatbelt.
"Come on then," he says finally.
You get out before he can come around to open your door. He manages it anyway, meets you on the pavement, and his hand finds the small of your back as you walk toward the entrance. The lobby is empty, just silence and the night security guard who nods at you as you pass. The elevator is at the far end, and your heels click against the floor with each step. Lando's hand stays on your back, warm through the thin fabric of your dress.
You press the button. Wait, and the elevator arrives with a soft chime. The doors slide open. You step inside. He follows anf the doors close and suddenly the space feels much smaller. You're very aware of how close he's standing, how you can feel the heat radiating off him.
"Which floor?" he asks.
"Seven."
He presses the button. The elevator starts moving.
You watch the numbers climb. One. Two. Three.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
You look at him. He's already watching you, leaning against the elevator wall with his hands in his pockets, looking entirely too comfortable. "About whether this is a terrible idea," you say.
"It definetly is." He doesn't sound concerned. "But you're still bringing me up."
Four. Five. Six.
The elevator slows. Stops. The doors open. You step out into the hallway. He follows, close enough that you can feel him behind you as you walk to your door. Your hands are shaking slightly as you dig for your keys in your clutch.
"Need help?" he asks, and his voice is closer now. Right behind you.
"I've got it." You find the keys. Unlock the door. It swings open into your flat—dark except for the light you left on in the kitchen. You step inside and he follows, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud.
He doesn't move further in. Just stands there in your entryway, hands still in his pockets, watching you. "Nice place," he says.
"You haven't even looked at it."
"I'm looking at you."
Your face heats. You turn away, set your clutch down on the console table by the door. Slip off your heels. The relief is immediate but also makes you shorter, more aware of how much taller he is. "I'll get us something to drink," you say.
"Sure."
You walk toward the kitchen. Hear him follow. When you glance back, he's looking around now—at the open floor plan, the windows overlooking the other buildings, your cream-colored Cloud couch and the art on the walls.
"Wine?" you ask, opening the fridge.
"Whatever you're having."
You pull out a bottle of white. Realize your hands are still shaking when you try to open it.
"Here." He's suddenly right behind you, taking the bottle from your hands. "Let me." He opens it easily. Pours two glasses then hands you one.
"Cheers," he says. You take a sip and the wine is cold and crisp and does nothing to settle your nerves. Lando leans against your counter, glass in hand, still watching you with that same look.
"You're staring," you say.
"I know."
"It's rude."
"I know that too." He takes a sip of wine. "But you look good so good right now, I can't help myself." He sets his glass down. "Come here."
It's not a question. Not quite a command either. Just—an invitation. A test and you should tell him to leave. Should remind him this is a terrible idea. Should do literally anything except walk toward him. You walk toward him and he doesn't move. Just watches you close the distance, watches you stop right in front of him. Close enough to touch but not touching.
"Hi," he says quietly.
"Hi."
His hand comes up. Slowly. Gives you time to move away if you want to. Cups your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "I'm going to kiss you now," he says. "If that's not okay, you should probably say something."
You don't say anything and he leans in. His mouth finds yours and it's—fuck. It's nothing like you expected. Softer at first, almost careful, his lips moving against yours like he's learning you. His hand stays on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, and his other hand comes up to your waist, pulling you closer. Not demanding. Just guiding.
You kiss him back and feel him smile against your mouth.
"There she is," he murmurs, and then the careful is gone.
He kisses you harder, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours and his hand tightening on your waist. You make a sound—something embarrassing and needy—and he swallows it, uses it as permission to crowd you back against the counter. The marble is cold against your lower back but he's warm, solid, pressed against you from chest to hips.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, angling your head exactly how he wants it. The other hand moves lower, gripping your hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there through your dress. You can feel how hard he is already, the thick length of him pressing against your stomach, and when you shift slightly he groans into your mouth.
"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips already swollen, and there's something feral in the way he's looking at you now. "Bedroom. Where's your bedroom?"
You point vaguely toward the hallway. Can't quite form words.
"Show me." You take his hand. Lead him down the hall, past the bathroom, to your bedroom door. It's dark inside but you don't turn on the light. Don't need to. The city lights through the windows give enough illumination to see the bed, to see him closing the door behind you with one hand while the other pulls you back against him.
He kisses you again. Hungrier this time, one hand fisted in your hair, the other sliding down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping your ass through the silk. He walks you backward toward the bed, doesn't break the kiss even when your legs hit the mattress.
"This dress," he says against your mouth. "Been thinking about taking it off you all night."
"Then take it off."
His hands find the zipper. Slides it down slowly, deliberately, knuckles dragging against your spine. The dress loosens, falls open, and he peels it off your shoulders. It pools at your feet and you step out of it, standing there in just your underwear—black lace, matching set, the expensive kind you told yourself you definitely didn't wear for him.
He steps back. Looks at you.
"Jesus Christ," he says quietly.
You reach for his shirt. Start unbuttoning it, fingers fumbling slightly because he's watching you so intently and it's making your hands shake. He lets you get three buttons undone before his patience runs out and he pulls it over his head, sends it somewhere across the room. And—fuck. You knew he'd be fit, he's an athlete, but seeing it is different. Tanned skin, defined muscles, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into his trousers. You put your hands on his chest, feel his heart racing under your palms, feel the way his breathing has gone uneven.
"Your turn," you say, fingers going to his belt.
He doesn't help. Just stands there watching you unbuckle it, unzip his trousers, push them down his hips. He steps out of them and then it's just his boxer briefs—black, tight, doing absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. You look up at him. He's grinning now, that same cocky grin from the dressing room.
"See something you like?"
"Shut up."
"Make me." You kiss him again and he makes this sound—low and pleased—before his hands are on you, one sliding up your back to unclasp your bra while the other grips your ass, pulling you flush against him. The bra falls away and then his mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, trailing lower.
"Bed," he says against your skin. "Get on the bed."
You do. Climb onto the mattress, lie back against the pillows, and watch him watch you. He hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs, pushes them down, and—
Oh. He's—fuck, he's big. Thick and hard and already leaking at the tip, and when he wraps his hand around himself and strokes once, you forget how to breathe.
"Still want to tell me to shut up?" he asks, climbing onto the bed, caging you in with his arms.
You can't speak. Can only stare at him—at the way his muscles shift as he moves, at the cocky tilt to his smile, at the heat in his eyes. His hand slides up your thigh. Slowly. Taking his time. Fingers tracing patterns against your skin until he reaches the edge of your underwear.
"These," he says, snapping the lace against your hip, "need to come off."
He doesn't wait for permission. Just hooks his fingers into the lace and drags it down your legs, tosses it somewhere behind him. Then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, and the way he's looking at you—hungry and focused and completely shameless—makes heat flood through your entire body.
"Fuck," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Look at you."
His fingers trace up your inner thigh, feather-light, getting closer and closer to where you need him. But he doesn't touch you yet. Just keeps tracing these maddening patterns against your skin while you try very hard not to squirm.
"Lando—"
"Yeah?" He's grinning now. Knows exactly what he's doing. "Something you need?"
"Touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?" His fingers move higher, so close now you can feel the heat of his hand. "You might need to be more specific."
You grab his wrist. Guide his hand where you want it. His palm cups you and you both make a sound—yours is relief, his is something darker. "Fuck, you're already wet," he says, and then his fingers are sliding through your folds, finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. "Is this what you've been thinking about? All through dinner?"
You can't answer. Can only arch into his touch as he works you with his fingers, slow and deliberate, learning exactly what makes you gasp.
"Answer me," he says, leaning down to kiss your neck. Teeth scraping against your pulse point. "Have you been thinking about this?"
"Yes." It comes out breathless. "Yes, fuck—"
"Good." He slides one finger inside you and you both groan. "Because I've been thinking about it since the fucking dressing room."
He adds a second finger, curls them just right, and you see stars. His thumb finds your clit and works it in rhythm with his fingers, and you're already embarrassingly close, already fisting the sheets because it's too much and not enough all at once.
"That's it," he murmurs against your throat. "Let me feel you."
You come hard, sudden and sharp, your back arching off the bed. He works you through it, fingers never stopping, prolonging it until you're shaking and trying to push his hand away because it's too sensitive. He pulls his fingers out slowly. Brings them to his mouth. Sucks them clean while maintaining eye contact.
"Jesus Christ," you manage.
"We're not done." He's already reaching for his trousers, digging through the pockets. Pulls out his wallet, then a condom. "Not even close."
He tears it open with his teeth, rolls it on, and then he's positioning himself between your legs. The head of his cock presses against your entrance and you both freeze for a second.
"You good?" he asks, and there's something almost vulnerable in the question. Like he actually cares about the answer.
"Yeah." You pull him down into a kiss. "I'm good."
He pushes in slowly. Just the tip at first, letting you adjust, and fuck—he's thick. Thicker than his fingers, stretching you in a way that's just on the right side of too much. "Breathe," he says against your mouth. "Just breathe."
You do. He pushes in deeper, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you and you both have to take a moment because it's overwhelming. He feels enormous like this, filling you completely, and when he shifts slightly you make a sound that's almost pained.
"Okay?" His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. "Talk to me."
"Move." Your hands grip his shoulders. "Please move."
He does. Pulls out slowly, pushes back in, sets a rhythm that's measured and deliberate. His eyes don't leave yours, watching every reaction, every gasp, adjusting his angle until he finds the spot that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks, doing it again.
"Yes—fuck—there—"
He grins. Picks up the pace, driving into you harder now, and the bed frame starts hitting the wall with each thrust. His hand slides down between your bodies, finds your clit again, and the combination of his cock and his fingers is going to kill you.
"Come on," he says, voice rough. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
You're already close, can feel it building at the base of your spine. His rhythm never falters, just keeps hitting that spot inside you over and over while his fingers work your clit, and when you come this time it's harder than before, your whole body seizing up as you clench around him.
"Fuck—" He groans, hips stuttering, and then he's coming too, burying himself deep and grinding against you as he rides it out.
For a moment, neither of you move. Just breathe hard against each other, hearts racing, skin slicked with sweat. Then he pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and collapses next to you on the bed.
"So," he says, still catching his breath. "That was—"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're about to say. Just—don't."
He laughs. Rolls onto his side to look at you. "I was going to say that was worth the three-week wait."
Despite yourself, you smile. "It was pretty good."
"Pretty good?" He looks offended. "I just made you come twice."
"Twice isn't that impressive."
"Give me ten minutes." His hand slides up your thigh. "We'll go for three."
For a second, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together last night. The restaurant. The car. Your apartment. Your bed. Lando.
You sit up. The sheets are tangled, your dress is still pooled on the floor by the door, and there's a dull ache between your legs that confirms last night definitely happened. But Lando's not here. His clothes are gone. His shoes. The only evidence he was ever here is the faint smell of his cologne on your pillows and a note on the nightstand.
You reach for it. Hotel de Paris stationery, which means he had it in his pocket.
You shower. The hot water does nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in your stomach. When you get out, you pull up his contact—the number he texted you from with that blurry selfie—and type out a message.You hit send. The message sits there for a second, then: Not Delivered
You stare at it. Try again. Not Delivered
He blocked you. Or his number's disconnected. Or something. You wait a day. Try calling. It rings once, then straight to voicemail. The generic kind.
"The person you are trying to reach is not available." You hang up. Stare at your phone and think, what the fuck?
The weeks blur together in a haze of spreadsheets and vendor calls and forcing yourself not to think about Lando Norris.
You throw yourself into work, you finalize the floral arrangements for the ceremony—white roses and peonies, exactly as Pietra specified. Confirm the string quartet for cocktail hour and the DJ for the reception. Coordinate with the Villa d'Este staff about the timeline, the seating chart, the fucking napkin placement. You email Pietra approximately four hundred times about details that probably don't matter but keep you busy enough that you don't have time to feel pathetic.
You don't tell anyone what happened. Not your friends, not your assistant, definitely not Pietra. What would you even say? I slept with the best man and then he ghosted me? It sounds stupid even in your head. You see his name in the email threads. Max and Pietra's group messages about the bachelor party, about travel arrangements, about the rehearsal dinner. Lando responds to everything—quick, efficient, and never directly to you. Always just replies-all to the group.
You stop trying to text him after the first week. Stop checking his Instagram after the second. By week three, you've almost convinced yourself it was just a one-night thing that you both silently agreed to forget about.
Almost. Then Pietra sends the email.
Wonderful, this is going to be absolutely fucking wonderful.
You arrive at Villa d'Este on Sunday afternoon with your tablet, three different backup chargers, and a determination to be so fucking professional that Lando Norris will feel like an absolute idiot for whatever game he's playing.
The villa is stunning—which is not surprising given that Pietra wouldn't settle for quite literally anything less. Terracotta and cypress trees and Italian sunshine that makes everything look like a painting. The staff greets you at the entrance, and you're shown to your room: a corner suite with a view of Lake Como that would be romantic if you weren't here to work.
You unpack. Check your timeline. Confirm with the florist about tomorrow's delivery. Send Pietra a message letting her know you've arrived. She responds immediately with approximately forty heart emojis. The welcome dinner is at 8 PM on the terrace. You spend an hour deciding what to wear, which is stupid because this is a work event and you should just throw on something professional and call it done. Instead you try on four different dresses before settling on a linen midi dress in cream—elegant, appropriate, and coincidentally (totally not planned) makes you look incredible.
At 7:38 PM, you step onto the terrace. It's exactly as beautiful as you expected. String lights overhead, long tables set with flickering candles, the lake shimmering in the background. Pietra spots you immediately and practically runs over, pulling you into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and champagne. "You're here! Oh my god, thank you for coming early, I know it's a lot but I just—I needed you here, you know?"
"Of course," you say, and you mean it. Pietra's one of the good ones. "Everything's going to be perfect."
"I know. Because you're here." She squeezes your hand, then gets pulled away by one of her bridesmaids. You grab a glass of wine from a passing server. Scan the terrace. Max is by the bar with his brother. The bridesmaids are clustered near the railing, taking photos. And then—
There.
Lando's at the far end of the terrace, leaning against the stone wall with a beer in his hand, laughing at something one of the groomsmen just said. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair messy like he's been on the beach. Even from here you can see the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders when he moves. Beautiful bastard.
He hasn't seen you yet. You turn away and head toward the opposite side of the terrace. You can do this. You can be in the same space as him for one week without it being a thing. You're a professional for fucksake.
"There she is!"
Max appears at your elbow, grinning. "The woman who's going to make sure my fiancée doesn't have a breakdown over napkin colors. We owe you our lives."
You laugh despite yourself. "Just doing my job."
"Well, you're doing it incredibly well." He gestures toward the bar. "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone. Well—everyone you haven't met yet."
Your stomach drops. "Max, I've already—"
But he's already steering you across the terrace, toward the group of groomsmen, toward the bar, toward him. "Lando, mate, have you met—" For half a second—just half—something flashes across his face. Something that looks almost like oh fuck. But then it's gone, smoothed over, replaced by that easy smile, and he's extending his hand like you're strangers.
"Don't think we've been properly introduced," he says. His voice is perfectly friendly. Perfectly casual. "Lando."
You stare at him. At his outstretched hand. At the complete absence of acknowledgment in his eyes. "I know who you are," you say.
"Right. Wedding planner." His smile doesn't waver. "Pietra talks about you constantly."
He's still holding out his hand. Waiting. You shake it. His grip is firm, professional, and he lets go immediately—no lingering, no recognition, nothing. Max is already talking. Something about the bachelor party itinerary, about the boat they rented, about someone's girlfriend who couldn't make it. You're not listening. You're looking at Lando, at the way he's nodding along to Max's story like this is completely normal, like he didn't fuck you three months ago and then disappear.
"—right?" Max finishes.
You have no idea what he just said. "Absolutely."
"Perfect! I'll let you two sort out the logistics." Max claps Lando on the shoulder and wanders off toward Pietra, leaving you standing there with a man who's currently pretending he doesn't know what you look like naked.
The silence stretches. Lando takes a sip of his beer. You grip your wine glass hard enough that you're mildly concerned it might shatter. "So," he says finally. "Bachelor party logistics, huh?."
You stare at him. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
"What?" He has the audacity to look confused. Concerned, even. "Did Max not fill you in on the timing? I can send you the—"
"Stop."
He stops. The casual mask slips just slightly—something sharper underneath, something that looks almost like guilt but you're not sure because it's gone before you can name it. "You blocked my number," you say quietly. The terrace is loud enough that no one else will hear, but you keep your voice low anyway. "You left a note that said you'd call. And then you blocked my fucking number."
"I didn't—" He stops. Looks away. Jaw working. "It's complicated."
"Complicated." You laugh, and it comes out brittle. "Right. So complicated that you couldn't send a single text that said 'hey, this was a mistake' or 'I'm not interested' or literally anything besides complete silence for three months."
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" You step closer, and he actually takes a step back. Good. "Because from where I'm standing, you spent weeks pursuing me, convinced me to have dinner with you, fucked me, and then disappeared. So please, Lando, tell me what it was actually like."
His hand tightens around his beer bottle. "Can we not do this here?"
"Oh, now you want to talk?"
"I—" He glances around. The terrace is full of people, but no one's paying attention to you. "Yes. Just—not here."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He stops. Runs his free hand through his hair, and there it is—the first crack in the facade. He looks actually frustrated, like an actual fucking human being. "Because Max and Pietra don't know. About us. About—" He gestures vaguely between you. "Any of it."
"There is no us," you say. "There was one night. That you pretended never happened."
"I'm not pretending."
"Then what do you call this?" You gesture at the space between you. "The handshake? The 'don't think we've been properly introduced'? What the fuck was that?"
"I was trying to—" He stops. "I didn't know what else to do."
"You could've been honest, Lando."
"Yeah, well, I'm trying to be honest right now."
"Three months late."
"I know." He steps closer and his voice drops, quiet enough that it's just for you. "I know, and I—look, can we please just talk about this somewhere that isn't the middle of Pietra's welcome dinner with forty people around us?"
You open your mouth to tell him no, to tell him there's nothing to talk about, to tell him he had three months to have this conversation and he chose silence instead. But before you can get a single word out, someone calls his name.
"Lando!"
You both turn. There's a woman walking toward you—tall, blonde, short hair, absolutely stunning in a lilac slip dress. She's smiling, bright and easy and completely unaware that she's just walked into the middle of something, and when she reaches Lando she rises up on her toes and kisses his cheek like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Your stomach drops so fast you actually feel dizzy.
"There you are," she says, her hand landing on his arm. The touch is light, casual, but it stays there, definitely stays there. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Pietra wants to do a champagne toast before dinner and she's panicking because she can't find the speech she wrote."
Lando's face does something that looks like dread and resignation and guilt all at once. "Magui, I—"
And that's when it clicks. When your brain finally catches up to what you're seeing, to who this is, to what this means. Magui. Magui Corceiro. Portuguese model, Lando's ex-girlfriend, and—according to Pietra's meticulously organized bridal party spreadsheet that you've reviewed approximately three dozen times in the last two months—the maid of honor. She turns to you now, still smiling, still completely oblivious to the fact that you're currently having an out-of-body experience. "Hi! You must be the wedding planner. Pietra showed me all your photos of the ceremony setup—it's going to be absolutely gorgeous."
You can't speak. Your brain has completely short-circuited because Lando's ex-girlfriend is standing in front of you being lovely and friendly and probably a genuinely nice person, and she has no idea that you slept with him three months ago. That he left a note on your nightstand and then blocked your number. That he's standing here right now looking like he wants the terrace to open up and swallow him whole.
"Hi," you manage. Your voice sounds strange, like it's coming from very far away. "Yes. The planner."
"I'm Magui." She extends her hand and you shake it on autopilot, and her grip is warm and her smile is genuine and you kind of want to die. "I'm so excited for this week. Pietra's been planning this wedding since I met her, I swear."
"Yeah," you say. Very articulate. "She has."
Magui's hand is still on Lando's arm. She's not holding on tight, not being possessive, but it's there—a casual point of contact that speaks to history, to familiarity, to the kind of comfort you only get with someone you've known for years. And suddenly, with a clarity that makes you feel physically sick, everything makes sense. The Hotel de Paris, where he took you to dinner. Where people saw you together, where phones came out, where he very deliberately chose somewhere public and high-profile instead of some quiet bistro where you could've had privacy. The ghosting that came after. The blocked number. The three months of complete silence. He took you there to make her jealous. He fucked you and then he went back to her. And you were stupid enough to think it meant something.
Wow, what a fucking joke.
You look at Lando and he's staring at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he can see the entire realization playing out on your face. There's something desperate in his expression now, something that looks almost like panic, and his mouth opens like he's about to say something, like he's going to try to explain or defend himself or ask you to just wait, just give him a second to—
You don't wait. "Excuse me," you say, and your voice comes out perfectly level, perfectly professional. "I need to check on the seating arrangements."
You turn and walk away before either of them can respond. You don't run—running would draw attention, would make it obvious that something's wrong—but you walk fast enough that you're through the terrace doors and into the villa's cool interior within seconds. The hallway is blessedly empty. You make it around the corner, out of sight of the terrace, and then you stop. Just stop, press your back against the wall, close your eyes, and try very hard to remember how to breathe.
Fuck.
You avoid Lando Norris for the next four days. Monday is vendor deliveries and a conveniently timed florist crisis. Tuesday is spa day for the bridal party, which you skip because you're "confirming final counts with catering." Wednesday is the rehearsal dinner and you plant yourself next to Pietra the entire night, keep Max's brother between you and Lando during dinner, and do not make eye contact. Not once. Not when he gives his speech and everyone laughs. Not when you feel him watching you from across the table. Not when Magui's hand is on his thigh and you have to pretend you don't see it, don't care, aren't replaying that night in your apartment on a fucking loop.
It works. For four days, it works.
Then it's Thursday night—the night before the wedding—and you're alone in your room. You've showered, changed into an oversized t-shirt, pulled your hair into a messy knot. Your tablet is open on the bed next to you, tomorrow's timeline pulled up even though you've memorized every minute. Ceremony at 4:30. Cocktail hour at 5:45. Reception at 7:00. Everything is confirmed, everything is perfect, and you should be asleep because tomorrow is sixteen hours of nonstop work.
Instead you're staring at the timeline trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow you'll have to watch Lando stand at the altar in that Cifonelli suit. Watch him give a speech about love and commitment while Magui sits at the head table looking beautiful and oblivious.
There's a knock at your door. 11:47 PM. More likely than not, it's Pietra panicking about something last-minute, or hotel staff with towels you didn't ask for.
It's one of the groomsmen. Tom, maybe, or the one whose name you keep forgetting—one of Max's childhood friends who has been aggressively normal all week and therefore completely indistinguishable from the others. He's still in his dinner clothes with his tie loosened and he's holding his phone out to you.
"Sorry, do you have the groomsmen timeline for tomorrow? Mine cuts off after the ceremony and I can't find the—"
"Yeah," you say. "One second."
You go back to your tablet. Pull it up. AirDrop it to him. The whole thing takes forty seconds. "Brilliant, cheers," he says. "Sorry for bothering you."
"It's fine."
You close the door. Stand there.
The room is exactly as you left it. Tablet on the bed, timeline pulled up, lamp on the nightstand casting the same warm light it's been casting for the last two hours. Nothing has changed. Everything is fine and confirmed and in its place and you did not just spend the walk to the door composing your face into something that wasn't—
You were going to fix your hair. Your hand was actually moving toward your hair. You go back to bed. Turn off the lamp and stare at the ceiling for a while in the dark like a normal person who is completely fine and definitely not lying in a five-star suite on Lake Como having feelings about a man who couldn't be bothered to text.
You're asleep by one. Probably.
You're up at six. The florist calls at 6:04 because she's psychotic, and there are, apparently, too many peonies. You stand on your balcony in yesterday's t-shirt and handle it, because that's what you do, and also because handling it means you can't think about anything else, which is the closest thing to a coping mechanism you have right now.
By eight you've redistributed the surplus flowers, confirmed the string quartet's arrival, talked Pietra down from a weather spiral (partly cloudy is not rain, it has never been rain, clouds are not an emergency), and eaten something standing over the sink. By ten you're in your dress and moving through the villa with your tablet and your timeline and your entire personality held together by a thread.
It works. Right up until the ceremony. The groomsmen are already at the altar when you do your final sweep from the back of the terrace. You're checking sightlines. Checking the musicians. Checking that the flower girl hasn't eaten the petals out of her basket again.
You find him anyway. You weren't looking and you find him anyway, which is really just your life now. The suit fits exactly as well as you knew it would. You stood in that dressing room and checked every seam yourself. Midnight blue, peak lapels, the mother-of-pearl buttons Pietra specified in the email she sent at 11 PM on a Tuesday. His hair is neat for once. He's laughing at something Max just said, head tilted, and he looks, well, he looks beautiful.
You look back down at your tablet. He looks up. You feel it without seeing it, that same thing you felt across the room at Cifonelli four months ago, and you keep your eyes on your screen and breathe.
The ceremony starts one minute late. You note it and say nothing. Pietra comes down the aisle and she looks so genuinely, stupidly happy that something in your chest does a thing you weren't prepared for. Ten meters of Italian lace and she's crying already and Max looks like a man who cannot believe his luck, and you're standing at the side of this terrace with your tablet and your earpiece and your professional remove, and it still gets you. It always gets you. It's the only part of this job that still surprises you every single time.
You watch from the periphery, same as always. That's where you live at weddings—just outside the frame, making sure everything inside it stays perfect. You check the musicians. Check the timing. Check that the rings are where they're supposed to be.
You don't mean to keep finding him in the crowd. It just keeps happening. He's watching Max the whole time. That's the thing—there's no performance to it, no awareness of how he looks. Just him, actually present, actually feeling something, and when Max's voice breaks slightly on his vows Lando looks down at his shoes for a second like he's trying to get it together.
You write 4:47—ceremony concluded in your notes.
When they kiss the whole terrace erupts and Lando is the loudest, clapping with his whole body, grinning like an idiot, and Max grabs him first before Pietra and they do that thing men do where they hug and immediately try to make it funny and Pietra throws her arms around both of them and the photographer is getting all of it and you are standing fifteen feet away writing transition to cocktail hour—on schedule.
Completely fine. Cocktail hour is yours. This is where you live—moving between vendors, checking the canapé timing, making sure the string quartet transitions correctly, solving the three small disasters that happen at every single cocktail hour without exception. You're good at this part. You're good at all of it actually, that's the whole problem, because being good at your job means you're always just present enough to notice things you'd rather not.
Like Lando, at the edge of the terrace, with a drink in his hand, not talking to anyone. You notice it the way you notice everything—peripherally, catalogued, filed away. He's been stopped twice for photos, laughed at something Max's brother said, done a full loop of the terrace. But right now he's standing at the stone railing looking out at the lake and he looks like someone who is also trying not to look at something.
You go check on the canapés. The reception starts at seven on the dot, which you will feel smug about for at least a week. The room is everything Pietra wanted and you knew it would be—candlelight and white flowers and the lake through the open doors, and when the bridal party is announced and everyone floods in you let yourself have exactly four seconds of satisfaction before you're back on your tablet checking the dinner service timeline.
You're at the coordinator's table near the kitchen entrance. Good sightline, close enough to intervene, far enough to be invisible. You've eaten half a bread roll. You have a glass of water and a glass of wine and you've touched neither of them in forty minutes. This is normal. This is what weddings look like from your side of them.
The speeches start at eight. Max's father goes first. Then Pietra's sister, who cries through the whole thing in a way that is genuinely charming and gets the room crying with her. Then the maid of honor—Magui, composed and warm and funny in exactly the right measure, and you watch her at the microphone and feel nothing except a vague and distant acknowledgment that she is, irritatingly, very likeable.
Then Lando stands up. The room shifts the way rooms do when someone walks into them with a specific kind of energy. He gets a cheer before he's even said a word, someone whoops from the back, and he grins and waits for it to die down with the patience of someone who has been in front of crowds his entire adult life.
"Right," he says. "So I've been told to keep this under ten minutes."
Someone shouts something. He laughs. "Which is generous, actually, because I had a whole thing prepared and then Max told me Pietra's sister was going first and I watched her speak at the rehearsal dinner and I've scrapped it completely because there's no following that."
More laughter. Pietra is already crying again. You are looking at your tablet. "I've known Max since we were kids," Lando says, and his voice shifts—still easy, still him, but quieter now. This was more real. "And I can tell you that for a long time he was the most annoying person I'd ever met, which is saying something because I work with some genuinely difficult people—"
Laughter.
"—but the thing about Max is that he has never once, in fifteen years, pretended to be someone he isn't. Not for anyone. And I always thought that was just—I thought that was just who he was. That it was easy for him."
He pauses. Looks at Max.
"And then I watched him meet Pietra."
The room has gone very quiet. "And I realized it wasn't that it was easy. It was that he was waiting. For someone who made it—not easy. Just—worth it." He picks up his glass. "I've never said this to your face because you'd be insufferable about it, but you're my best friend and I love you, mate. And Pietra." He turns to her. "Thank you for making him this annoying to be around. He smiles all the time now, it's disgusting, we all hate it."
Pietra laughs through her tears.
"To Max and Pietra." The room rises and you raise your water glass and you do not look at him and your throat is doing something completely unreasonable that you are going to ignore. By nine-thirty the dancing is in full swing and your job has mostly become logistics maintenance—checking the cake is ready, confirming the late night snacks are on schedule, fielding a minor situation involving someone's elderly aunt and the wrong seat assignment. Small things. Manageable things.
Which means you have too much space in your head. You slip out through the side door onto the smaller terrace, the one that wraps around the north side of the villa. It's quieter here, just the music drifting out from the reception and the lake below and the night air which is warm and still and completely wasted on you. You lean against the railing and look at the water and let yourself have five minutes of not performing.
You hear the door behind you. You know before you turn around and turn around anyway. Better to get it over with. He's loosened his tie at some point, top button undone, and he's holding two glasses of wine which is either presumptuous or optimistic or both. He holds one out to you.
You take it. You're too tired not to. He comes to stand next to you at the railing, not close enough to be a thing, just—there. Looking at the lake. You look at the lake too. The music from inside is muffled out here, something slow, and the water is doing that thing it does at night where it looks completely still even though it isn't.
"Good speech," you say, because you're a professional and it was.
"Thanks."
Silence. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just weighted. "The flowers looked incredible," he says.
"They did."
"Pietra cried when she saw the ceremony setup. Like, before anyone arrived. Just walked in and started crying."
"I know. I was there."
"Right." He turns his glass in his hand. "You're always there."
You're not sure what to do with that so you don't do anything with it. The lake does its thing. The music does its thing. You finish half your wine and let the silence sit because you're too tired to perform and apparently so is he.
"Magui and I have been on and off for four years," he says finally. Not looking at you. Looking at the water. "On when it was easy, off when it wasn't, back on because it's familiar and familiar felt like enough when you're never in the same place for more than two weeks." He pauses. "It wasn't enough. It hadn't been for a long time. We both knew it."
You don't say anything.
"The night I took you to dinner," he says. "We were off."
There it is. "And after," he says. "When I left yours. We were still off." He pauses. "And then I got back and she called and we were," he stops. "We were on again. By the time I thought to reach you it had been two weeks and I didn't know how to." He exhales. "There's no good version of this."
"No," you say. "There isn't."
"I should have told you. Before dinner, before any of it, I should have told you it was complicated and let you decide if you wanted to be anywhere near it." He turns his glass in his hand. "I didn't because I didn't want you to say no."
The music inside swells for a moment then settles. Someone laughs, loud and bright, and then it's quiet again out here.
"So right now," you say. Carefully. "You and her."
He doesn't answer immediately, which is its own answer. "It's complicated," he finally says.
"You said that already. At the welcome dinner."
"I know." He looks at you then. Really looks at you, and you wish he wouldn't because it's much easier to be angry at someone when they're not looking at you like that. "I'm sorry. For the record. Not because I need you to forgive me or because we're stuck at the same wedding. Just—you didn't deserve any of it. The dinner, the note, the silence. None of it was fair to you."
You look at him for a long moment. He means it. That's the worst part. He's standing here in the suit you watched being fitted four months ago and he means every word of it and it doesn't change a single thing.
"No," you say. "It wasn't. You should sort it out," you say. "Whatever it is. Just—sort it out."
You mean it as exactly what it is. Not an opening, not a door left ajar. Just the truth—that four years of on and off is no way to live and you can see it on him and whatever else he is he doesn't deserve that either.
You pick up your tablet. Turn toward the door.
"Hey."
You stop. He's stepped closer. Not by much—just enough that you're aware of it, the same way you've been aware of him all night, all week, across every room you've had the misfortune of sharing. His tie is loose and his eyes are doing the thing they do and he has absolutely no business looking like that.
"What," you say.
"Nothing." The corner of his mouth pulls up. "Just — you look really good tonight."
"Lando."
"I'm just saying."
"You're just saying," you repeat.
"The dress is—" he gestures vaguely, "— it's a good dress." You look at him. At the half smile and the careful eyes and the very deliberate closing of distance that he's doing so slowly you're almost supposed to not notice.
"Don't," you say.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing something."
He takes another half step. You don't move back, which is either confidence or stubbornness, and at this point you genuinely can't tell the difference. He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne, the same one from the dressing room, from your kitchen, from the one night you've been trying to stop replaying for four months.
"Sort it out first," you say quietly.
He stops. Something moves across his face. The half smile fades into something more honest, and he looks at you for a long moment in the dark with the lake behind him and the music leaking through the doors and forty people thirty feet away who have no idea.
"Yeah," he says finally. Quietly. "Okay."
You hold his gaze for one more second and then you go back inside.
The cake goes out at nine fifty-two, eight minutes behind schedule, which you will think about for days. Pietra doesn't notice. Nobody notices. The room is candlelight and dancing and white flowers and everything she asked for, and you stand at the edge of it with your tablet and your earpiece and watch it all run exactly the way you built it to.
Max dips Pietra on the dance floor and she shrieks and the whole room cheers.
You write 2147—reception on track in your notes. You don't look for him. That's the thing—you don't look. And somewhere between the cake and the late night pizzette and the moment Pietra throws her bouquet directly at her maid of honor's face, you realize you've stopped bracing for it. Stopped waiting for him to appear in your peripheral vision. Stopped doing the thing where you feel him in a room before you see him.
Maybe that's something. Maybe that's enough for tonight. You're in the car to the airport by noon on Monday. Your inbox has forty-three unread emails, a voice note from Pietra that is mostly crying and the word perfect repeated several times, and nothing else.
You fly home. You make coffee. You open your laptop.
You don't check for anything specific.
He calls on a Wednesday. Three weeks after the wedding, 9 PM your time, and you answer on the second ring which you will think about later with some irritation.
He calls two weeks after that, and then two months later.
It's October when you finally have the balls to properly ask.
You don't mean to. You've been on the phone for forty minutes about nothing—his race in Japan, your nightmare client in Paris, an argument about whether peonies are actually better than roses which you're winning handily—and it just comes out.
"Are you and Magui still off?"
Silence. Two seconds, maybe three.
"Yeah," he says. "We're off."
"Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he's quiet again
Neither of you says anything for a moment. "The peonies thing," you say. "I'm right."
"You're not right."
"I'm always right."
"Okay, you're right about flowers and wrong about everything else."
"Name one thing."
"You told me Austin was always loud and last weekend it was completely fine actually!"
You're laughing before you can stop it and he sounds pleased about that, insufferably pleased, and you talk for another twenty minutes about nothing and when you hang up you sit with yeah, we're off for a long time in the dark.
He doesn't call for another two months.
You don't call him either. That's the thing you come back to, later—you could have. You have his number, he has yours, there's no rule that says it has to be him. But you wait, and he doesn't call, and you tell yourself it's fine because it is fine, it was always going to be fine, you knew what this was.
You get through November on spreadsheets and a particularly chaotic engagement party in Cannes. December on a destination wedding in Marrakech that nearly kills you professionally but produces the best photographs you've ever seen. January on sheer spite and very good coffee.
He calls in February. A Sunday, 11 AM, like no time has passed at all.
You answer on the third ring. Progress.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"I'm in London."
"Okay."
"It's raining."
"It's always raining."
A pause. "I know I went quiet."
"You don't have to do this, Lando."
"I know I don't have to." His voice is even. "I just wanted to say it. I went quiet and I'm sorry."
You look out your window at Monaco in February, grey and still, the harbour flat and cold.
"Is everything okay," you ask.
"Yeah." A beat. "It's getting there."
You believe him. You always believe him, which is its own problem.
"I have a bride in Tuscany," you say. "She wants the entire wedding in shades of terracotta."
"Is that bad?"
"It's not bad it's just—it's a lot of terracotta, Lando."
He laughs and something in your chest unknots quietly and you talk for an hour about nothing and when you hang up you don't sit with it this time. You just go make coffee and open your laptop and get on with your day.
He calls the following Sunday. And the one after that.
By spring it's just—a thing. Your thing. He calls on Sundays when he can, Wednesdays when he can't wait until Sunday, random Tuesday nights from airports when his flight is delayed and he's bored and you're the person he wants to talk to apparently, which you have filed under not my problem and left there.
You know his schedule better than you mean to. You know Bahrain is always chaos and he hates the Monaco GP for reasons he won't fully explain and that he's been trying to learn to cook since January with limited success.
"The pasta was fine," he says, from his kitchen in Woking on a Wednesday in April.
"You said that last time and then you told me you ate cereal for dinner."
"The pasta was fine and then I had cereal for dessert. Two separate things."
"That's not what dessert means."
"That's exactly what dessert means."
"Lando."
"What, it was good cereal."
You're smiling at your kitchen table over a glass of wine and you are absolutely not thinking about what this is.
He doesn't call on Sunday.
Or the Sunday after that. You don't call him either. You tell yourself you're busy, which is true—there's a wedding in Vienna in November and a corporate event in Paris that's somehow become your problem and a bride who has changed her color palette four times in three weeks. You're busy.
You're always busy, so it's fine.
October becomes November. November becomes December and you're at your parents' house on Christmas Eve standing in the kitchen when your phone rings.
Your stomach does the thing before you've even looked at the screen.
"Merry Christmas," he says.
"It's not Christmas until tomorrow."
"Merry Christmas Eve then."
"That's not a thing."
"I'm making it a thing." A pause, warm and easy. "Are you with your family?"
"Yes."
"Good." Simply. Warmly. "Good."
You're standing in your childhood kitchen with two glasses of wine in you and Lando Norris is wishing you a Merry Christmas Eve from wherever he is and you are so far from fine it's almost funny.
"Merry Christmas Eve," you say.
He laughs. Soft and real. You talk until your mum calls you for dinner. You hang up and go and you don't think about it and you are not fine and that's just where you are now apparently.
He doesn't call in January.
Or February. Or March. Or April or May.
You stop expecting it around March, which feels like its own small achievement. You get through February on a wedding in Marrakech and sheer stubbornness. March on a nightmare engagement party in Geneva and very good chocolate. April on nothing in particular, just the ordinary machinery of your life clicking along without him in it, which is how it was before and how it will be after and that's fine.
You're fine.
It's June. A Thursday afternoon, sun coming through your kitchen window at that specific Instagramable angle, coffee going cold on the counter. You have fourteen unread emails and a call with a florist in an hour and approximately zero feelings about anything.
Your laptop pings.
You stop. Go back.
Read the CC line again like it's going to say something different the second time.
It doesn't.
You close the laptop.
Sit there.
The florist call is in thirty-eight minutes. The seating chart is still a disaster. Your coffee is cold and the sun is coming through the window and Monaco is doing its thing outside completely unbothered by the fact that you are sitting at your kitchen table doing the math again and this time it's adding up to something very fucking specific.
Six months of silence and this is what he was sorting.
You sit with that for a while. Let it go where it needs to go. The Christmas Eve call. The easy Wednesday. Sort it out first. Him saying yeah, okay on a terrace in July like it was a promise.
And maybe it was. Maybe this is just what okay looked like from where he was standing.
Your laptop pings and you open it without thinking.
From: Lando Norris To: You Subject: Re: Wedding Planning Inquiry
One line.
I can explain.
You stare at it for a long time.
Then you close it. Open a new email. Type:
Hi Magui, lovely to hear from you—congratulations on your engagement!
Tf141 who plays strip poker but they all gang up on you until you’re fully naked and the worst anyone else has gotten is a lost sock or shoe.
“No fair!”
“Ain’t our fault youre shit at poker. Now you know the rules.”
Gaz takes you first, biting his lip to hold back the sly grin he has as he sinks you down on his cock. “So pretty perched on a cock.”
His hands gently guide you back and forth, musing nothing but praises. “I’m almost there, baby. I know you want it. Can you feel you wanting it.”
Eventually he holds you still, rutting up into you while his thumb draws soothing circles on your hip. The others watch intensely before he slams you down, keeping your hips pressed firmly against him as he pours his release inside.
Gaz combs your hair out of your face, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead before he peels you off. But not before he gives your cunt a gentle grope with the palm of his hand. “Thanks love.”
He passes you off to soap who’s been bouncing in his seat since you were in your undergarments. He’s quick to get you bent over the table before sinking his dick in with a deep groan.
He’s meaner than Gaz, insisting that you squirt for him before he lets you go despite you cumming multiple times. “I can’t, Johnny! Icanticanticant,” you sob, pussy puffy and swollen.
Soaps arm slinks down between your legs before his fingers repeatedly swipe across your poor clit. He has no aim, but it gets the job done and your vision nearly goes black as you’re leaking onto the edge of the table.
Soap grins victoriously. “So ye can do it. Fuckin’ liar you are.”
Then there’s ghost. He’s not trying to be an ass about it. It’s just that he’s so damn big that it’s bound to hurt no matter how many times Gaz and Soap have cum inside you.
He lifts you up from the underside of your knees, spreading you wide open before nudging inch by inch inside. “Nice view, LT.”
“Wish it were you, aye Johnny?”
Soap smirks. “Who? You or her?”
The conversation ends there, ghost too enthralled by the way his dick pumps out cum with every thrust. The position makes it perfect to see the tip of his dick bulging as he brings you down to the hilt.
“Fuck,” you pant, barely audible over those heavenly wails you let out.
“I know, doll. That’s what I’m doin’.” You don’t even have it in you to tell him to piss off and that’s exactly how he likes you.
Last is price, who lays you gently down on the table with a hand resting on each thigh. There’s no resistance as he slips his dick inside your warm and sloppy hole.
Immediately you shudder from oversensitivity, hands pawing at his abdomen to push him back but there’s no strength behind it.
He’s gentle, but the experience is there when he’s grinding up his dick to all the right places.
Two of his fingers scoop up the leaking cum (probably a mix of all three) before drawing delicate figure 8’s across your abused clit.
You squeak, legs tensing as sparks fill your vision. “There she is, nice and fuckin’ tight.”
And once he knows he has you teetering on that edge, he’s pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow.
The table shakes under the intensity and it proves to be worth it when you’re mumbling gibberish in hysterics.
Price finally pulls out, patting your pussy twice as a reward. “Good girl.” And you don’t know if he’s talking to you or your cunt.
You feel a hand cup your cheek but your vision is blurry and every voice sounds as if you’re underwater. “Ya look like you’re seeing stars, lassie.”
“I’m never playing poker again.”
Your comment earns a few chuckles from the group. “Oh don’t be like that. You almost almost had us!”
“Kyle’s right. You’re improving fast. You’re bound to win the next one, soldier.”
It’s a lie. Price knows it. The group knows it. You know it. But it doesn’t stop you from playing the next week.
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