The legendary paddock solitude of Lewis Hamilton is shattered when he unexpectedly and tenderly introduces his girlfriend Y/N to the stunned inner circle of Formula 1, marking the first time he has ever invited a romantic partner into his professional sanctuary.
The Taste of Jealousy (He is jealous)
Faced with the jealousy sparked by an artist’s attention toward his partner, Lewis Hamilton comes to realize that love is nourished far more by a genuine interest in the other’s world than by a rival’s flattery.
The Most Beautiful Race (WILL YOU BE MY DAD?)
Faced with Lily’s drawing asking him, ‘Do you want to be my dad?’, Lewis Hamilton, overwhelmed with emotion, realizes that the title of father she offers him surpasses all his victories on the track.
Safe Haven (Falling asleep in his arms)
In the renewed calm of Monaco, exhausted by the intensity of the Grand Prix, Y/N finds complete refuge as she falls asleep against Lewis, for whom this moment of intimacy and shared trust surpasses the race victory.
The Weight of a Name(Prank: call him by his full name)
In an attempt at a joke by calling him by his full name, Y/N inadvertently pushed Lewis to reveal a monumental and very heavy professional secret he had been keeping to himself, turning a playful moment into one of intense confession and deep connection.
Style and Sweat
Disturbed by her laid-back style in the glamorous world of Formula 1, Y/N distances herself, until Lewis makes her understand that it is precisely her authenticity that gives her all her value in his eyes.
The Eight-Legged Intruder
Faced with a deep phobia, an unexpected and tender reaction reveals the strength of the support that binds the couple in the face of irrational fears.
Strenght and the Crack
Following an assault, the façade of strength cracks to reveal vulnerability and the depth of the support that binds couples in the face of adversity.
Santa Claus and the Masked Fear
An irrational fear arises during a public walk, revealing an unexpected vulnerability and the depth of acceptance within the couple.
The first flowers
She gives him flowers, a simple first bouquet that touches Lewis deeply, reminding him of the beauty in everyday life and seeing him, not the champion.
Max Verstappen
Jealousy Over 70 Laps (He is jealous)
A silent jealousy gnaws at the champion, until a cleared misunderstanding reveals the depth of his attachment and their ability to laugh about it.
The Scar and the Champion (You're hurt, but you don't want him to know.)
A wound hidden out of love eventually reveals a champion’s vulnerability and the depth of an attachment that transcends the track.
The path of Fear
An assault endured on the way to the circuit brings couples together in the face of fear, revealing a shared vulnerability and the quiet strength that binds them beyond the track.
The Champion's Body
A withdrawn reaction to intimacy reveals an unexpected vulnerability in the champion, leading to a moment of confession that strengthens their budding connection.
The Hinge Trap
A taunt by Y/N about Charles Leclerc supposedly being on a dating app backfires when Max, as literal as he is perceptive, realizes she must have created a profile herself to see it.
Daniel Ricciardo
Jealousy, Ricciardo Style (He is jealous)
From a clumsy and spectacular jealousy arises a hilarious misunderstanding, strengthening the couple’s bond through laughter in the face of insecurities.
A Smile to Heal (You're hurt, but you don't want him to know.)
From a wound hidden out of love emerges a moment of shared vulnerability, where the legendary smile reveals its true depth: an unconditional kindness that turns a celebration into intimacy.
Carlando : Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz
Under the sun of Miami
From a historic victory on the track emerges a moment of shared vulnerability, where pride and long-held feelings finally unfold under the Miami sun.
The Swing of the Heart
From an awkward afternoon of golf emerges a moment of deep connection, where learning a swing becomes the pretext for a first silent declaration of love under the Spanish sun.
Lestappen : Max Verstappen X Charles Leclerc
Red Flag (Max’s jealousy)
From a silent jealousy arises an electric confrontation, where the rivalry on the track gives way to a passionate declaration, as sudden as it is intense.
Feline Diplomacy in Monaco
From a chaotic first encounter between a dog and three cats emerges an unexpected truce, turning the confrontation into a peaceful scene that cements their future coexistence.
Distance and Doubts
From a heavy distance in public arises a crucial conversation, where vulnerability and insecurities are finally expressed, turning a passionate kiss into a silent promise to be seen together.
The Kitten and the Tiger (Charles’s jealousy)
From a spectacular jealousy and icy possessiveness arises a love as intense as their rivalry on the track, where the kitten and the tiger find their perfect balance.
The Monaco paddock, Saturday after qualifying, was a living organism, breathing at a frantic pace. Under the Mediterranean sun that made the carbon-fiber shells sparkle, the air was thick, saturated with the acrid smell of burnt hydrocarbons, strong coffee from the motorhomes, and palpable tension. It was the holy of holies of Formula 1, a closed, hierarchical ecosystem where every face was known, every badge scrutinized, every presence justified. And at the top of this invisible pyramid reigned an unwritten, almost mythical rule concerning Lewis Hamilton: his secret garden remained secret. In sixteen years of career, through triumphs and defeats, controversies and glories, one constant had remained unshakable. No woman, no partner, had ever set foot in the paddock by his side on a Grand Prix day. It was a sacred boundary. His private life was a sanctuary guarded more fiercely than the data from his race car. Rumors were rife, blurry photos from outside the circuits, but here, in the arena, Lewis was just a driver. A solitary man. A fortress.
This is why, that Saturday afternoon, the appearance of the young woman triggered a silent but seismic shockwave.
She emerged from the shadow of the tunnel leading to the pits, walking with measured but assured steps along the mythical pitlane. She didn't belong to any identifiable category. She wasn't wearing the flashy uniform of a team, nor the press badge, nor the impeccable attire of the partners. Dressed in cream linen tailored trousers and a navy silk blouse, her hair pulled back in a simple bun, she seemed to belong to a parallel world, that of art galas or corporate boardrooms. A generic access pass hung around her neck, but her face was a blank page in the book of overly familiar paddock faces.
Her apparent composure was a masterpiece of trompe-l'oeil. Upon closer inspection, her knuckles were white around the strap of her soft leather bag. Her calm blue-grey gaze fixed on a point straight ahead, carefully avoiding any direct eye contact. She breathed with calculated slowness, containing the frantic beating of her heart. Each step on the warm asphalt was an act of pure will. Don't stumble. Don't look around. Look like you belong.
Eyes, like magnets, stuck to her as she passed. A Ferrari mechanic, a nut in hand, paused, watching her. A seasoned photographer, used to capturing every micro-expression of the drivers, lowered his lens, perplexed. Who is that? The question floated in the warm air. In this microcosm where the same two hundred people had been circling for years, a new face was an anomaly. A new female face, crossing the pitlane alone with this facade of tranquility, was an event.
She headed towards a temporary aluminum and glass structure erected at the end of the pitlane. A technical meeting bringing together the drivers and chief engineers of the main teams was about to begin. In front of the wide-open door, a familiar ballet was playing out. Engineers with tablets exchanged final words, drivers in casual wear formed small groups, speaking in low voices, their features still marked by the effort of qualifying.
Charles Leclerc, leaning against a data panel, was talking animatedly to Carlos Sainz, miming a corner. His gaze, sweeping the crowd, caught on the approaching figure. He cut off his sentence mid-word, his brow furrowing slightly. Carlos followed his gaze and gave a quizzical look.
George Russell, in the midst of signing a stack of postcards for a partner, looked up and paused for a moment, pen in the air. The stranger. She didn't look lost. She looked… like she had an appointment.
Lando Norris was the unpredictable element of the scene. Slouching against the doorframe, he was finishing an absurd anecdote about a simulator to Alex Albon, his booming laugh dominating the surrounding murmurs. His ever-roving gaze swept the gathering and landed on the young woman. An expression of pure surprise, then of genuine, unfeigned joyful recognition, lit up his face like a spotlight switching on on stage.
"Y/N?!"
His voice, full of that youthful, disarming energy that was his trademark, cut several conversations dead. Within a radius of ten meters, heads turned as one.
The young woman, Y/N, then allowed a real smile to crack her mask of concentration. The relief of seeing a friendly face, even in this storm of stares, was immense. "Lando! Hi!"
She approached and they kissed each other on the cheeks with evident, familiar warmth. Lando gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, his grin at maximum wattage.
"But what are you doing here? You just show up in Monaco without warning? Is this a surprise invasion?" he exclaimed, visibly delighted and curious.
The small group of drivers and engineers had instinctively drawn closer, forming a loose circle around them. Pierre Gasly and Esteban Ocon exchanged a knowing glance. The intrigue had just escalated several degrees. Not only was she here, but she knew Lando Norris? And seemingly well?
"It was a bit last-minute," Y/N replied with a small shrug she hoped looked casual. Her voice was calm, but an attentive ear might have detected a slight tension. "I didn't want to disturb anyone, just… come say hello."
"Disturb? You're joking!" Lando said with a grand gesture, almost knocking over Alex Albon's water bottle. He turned to his captive audience, instinctively playing the role of master of ceremonies. "Guys, meet Y/N! A great friend from London! We hang out all the time, she's the queen of midnight burgers and has a sense of humor even worse than mine, if you know what I mean!" He turned back to her, still enthusiastic. "Seriously, you should have texted me! We could have organized something last night!"
The present drivers nodded, intrigued but smiling. Lando's explanation was plausible, almost reassuring. A friend from London nightlife, a 'mate' who had come to enjoy the atmosphere. Nothing too out of the ordinary… except for that persistent feeling that something was off. Why was she here, precisely, at this place, at this hour? And why, beneath her calm, did she seem so tense?
It was at that precise moment that Lewis Hamilton arrived.
He came from the far end of the pitlane, after a final sharp debrief with Bono and his race engineers. He walked with that relaxed but powerful grace that was uniquely his, a combination of perfect bodily awareness and that aura that parted crowds without a word. He nodded to an FIA official, exchanged a glance with Toto Wolff who was exiting a motorhome. His expression was professional, focused, that of the leader in analysis mode.
Then his gaze swept over the scene in front of the meeting room: the small gathering, Lando at the center of attention with his usual animation, and the figure at the heart of the circle…
Something in him relaxed, melted. A smile blossomed on his lips, a smile that belonged to none of his cataloged public expressions. It wasn't the champion's beaming grin, nor the polite smile of the icon. It was a soft, private, intimate smile, full of tender affection and palpable pride. His eyes, behind his sunglasses, settled on Y/N with an intensity that swept away years of guardrails in an instant.
He approached from behind, unhurried, sliding between bodies with natural ease. No one noticed him at first, hypnotized as they were by the Y/N enigma and Lando's commentary.
And then, he did it.
With a gesture that seemed as natural as taking the wheel of his car, he wrapped his arm around Y/N's waist, drawing her gently but firmly against him. His movement was protective, possessive, and infinitely tender. He leaned in and placed a frank, solid kiss on her cheek, a kiss that had nothing of protocol about it.
"There you are at last, my love," he murmured against her ear, his voice a low, confidential whisper that, nonetheless, carried in the sudden silence that had fallen like a lead blanket.
Time seemed to freeze.
Lando Norris, mouth agape, looked like a fish out of water. His joyful smile was still plastered on his face, but his wide eyes expressed total stupefaction, absolute incomprehension. He blinked several times, as if to dispel an illusion.
Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz, perfectly synchronized, turned to each other, their faces identical masks of mute shock. Charles opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again without a sound.
Pierre Gasly, who had just been bringing his water bottle to his lips, froze, the bottle halfway, his eyes riveted on Lewis's hand resting on Y/N's waist.
Esteban Ocon had an almost imperceptible recoil, as if he had just witnessed something forbidden.
George Russell tried to form a word, but only a small, stunned puff of air came out.
All the present drivers, all the nearby engineers, seemed to have been struck by a spell. This was more than a surprise. It was the unthinkable materializing before their eyes.
Lewis Hamilton.
The Lewis Hamilton who had erected an impenetrable barrier between his life as a driver and his heart. The one whose relationships, always discreet, were subjects of endless speculation but never, ever, public demonstrations within the sacred paddock confines. The one who, even during his most high-profile past relationships, had always kept this space inviolate.
And he had not only touched her, embraced her with an intimacy that left no room for doubt, but he had called her "my love." In front of them all. In broad daylight. In Monaco.
Lando finally regained the power of speech, but his voice had gone up an octave. "Wait… wait, wait, wait." He pointed a trembling finger from Lewis to Y/N, then from Y/N to Lewis, his brain visibly overheating as it recalculated all of reality. "You… and you? You… you're together? Since… since when? HOW?"
Lewis, still smiling that new, radiant, and relaxed smile, one arm still solidly around Y/N's waist, who, for her part, was desperately trying to master the flush rising to her cheeks—looked at Lando with amused benevolence.
"Yes, Lando. For a few months now."
The "few months" landed like a second bomb. Months. They had kept the secret for months.
"But… but you never told me anything!" exclaimed Lando, shifting from stupefaction to comic, almost wounded indignation. "I hang out with her in town, I talk to her about my races, I tell her my terrible jokes… and you were… together? All this time? And she didn't tell me either!" He turned to Y/N, playing the offended party. "I feel betrayed! Used! Was I your cover?"
Y/N managed to find a semblance of a voice, despite the tremor she felt within. "We wanted to keep it to ourselves at first, Lando. It was… important for us to build something away from all the eyes. Especially here." Her gesture encompassed the paddock.
Lewis squeezed her a little tighter against him, a gesture both of support and manifest pride. "And today, she came to see me work. It's a big step. For us."
The news, more explosive than any internal combustion engine, spread through the paddock at the speed of light, far surpassing any lap time. Whispers became murmurs, then hushed conversations. The stares that, a few minutes earlier, had been intrigued, were now dumbfounded, recalculating all their past interactions with Lewis, searching for missed clues.
Charles finally approached, breaking the circle of stupefaction. He had regained his composure, but a glimmer of incredulity persisted in his eyes. "So… congratulations, I suppose?" he said, fumbling for words with charming awkwardness, as destabilized as if he'd missed a start in the rain.
Lewis extended his free hand, the handshake firm and warm. "Thank you, Charles. Really."
Carlos, always the most pragmatic element, nodded slowly, a smile beginning to form on his face. "Hombre… that explains a lot. You've been… how to say… lighter these last few months. Less in your bubble. Now I understand."
The technical debriefing that followed was undoubtedly the most surreal in recent F1 history. Around the table, engineers tried to seriously discuss rear wing clearance, tire wear in sector 2, and fuel strategy. But the drivers' attention was divided. Their gazes kept drifting to the back of the room, where Lewis and Y/N were sitting side by side. She, serious, was taking notes on a tablet, seeming to follow with admirable concentration. He, from time to time, leaned towards her to whisper a technical explanation, a detail, making her sketch a small, complicit smile. It was a scene of disconcerting normality, and yet it shattered all established norms.
After the meeting, as they exited into the harsh light of the pitlane, Lando caught up with them. He had regained his balance, but his expression was a mix of excitement and friendly reproach.
"I'm still in shock, you know," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "But seriously… I'm really, really happy for you." His gaze became more serious as he turned to Lewis. "Well, especially for you, Lewis. You deserve this. Really." Then, he turned back to Y/N, his grin returning. "And you, next time we go for a drink, you're inviting your boyfriend, okay? Because apparently, the confirmed bachelor retired without telling anyone."
Lewis burst out laughing, a frank, relaxed laugh, and gave Lando a friendly pat on the back. "Got it, champ. Now, if you'll excuse us, I'm going to give my girlfriend an official tour of the backstage."
As they walked away hand in hand, retracing her earlier solitary and vulnerable path through the paddock, the stares were no longer the same. Curiosity was still there, of course, sharpened to its peak. But there was something else. Respect. A silent acknowledgment. Lewis Hamilton hadn't just introduced a woman into his world. He had chosen to break a rule he had imposed upon himself from the very beginning. And he had done it not with fanfare, but with a serenity and happiness so evident they were almost disconcerting.
For Y/N, the paralyzing stress of the stares had transformed. It was still there, but different. Lewis's firm, warm hand in hers was an anchor, a declaration more powerful than any press release. She was no longer the intruder, the anomaly. She was the one Lewis Hamilton had chosen. The First One. The first to whom he had opened the door to his sanctuary.
And for Lewis, walking beside her under the Monaco sun, showing her the garages, introducing her to Bono with a proud smile of a happy man, explaining how a pit stop worked, was discovering a new facet of his own world. After all these years of hard-fought racing, of solitary victories and intimate defeats, he had finally found someone with whom to share not only the finish line but also the path leading to it, with its noises, its smells, its unique pressure. Feeling his heart beat to the calm rhythm of hers, he realized he had just won a victory of unexpected sweetness. And that, he knew as he watched her smile at something Angela was saying, was worth far more than all the trophies, all the pole positions, all the podiums in the world. The champion had finally found his audience of one. And it was all he needed.
Lewis's London apartment was bathed in the golden light of a lazy Saturday afternoon. The scent of fresh coffee hung in the air, mingling with the sweet smell of beeswax that permeated the dark wood furniture. For three months, Y/N had been sharing this space more and more often, learning the rhythms of the man behind the icon.
Sitting at the kitchen table, she watched Lewis, leaning against the marble countertop, a slight furrow of concentration between his brows as he scrolled through an article on his phone. He was in his element: comfortable sweats, disheveled hair, but with that aura of intense calm that always characterized him. They had spent the morning doing nothing special, and it was perfect.
Lewis was everything people said about him: passionate, intense, deeply romantic in his gestures: the small attentions, thoughtful gifts, the right words at the right moment. He was also a man of conviction, never hesitating to use his voice for causes, especially for equality. He was a feminist, truly, not just in words. She had seen him gently correct a journalist on the phrasing of a question, fervently defend women's careers in engineering. It was a part of him she deeply admired.
And it was while thinking about all that, about this balance between gentleness and strength, that the idea had come to her. A simple idea, almost too simple. But it felt right.
"I'll be back," she announced, getting up.
Lewis looked up, an absent smile on his lips. "Okay, sweetheart."
She went out, her heart beating a little faster than usual. The idea suddenly seemed more audacious. She went to the local florist, an independent little shop run by an older woman with a keen eye. No flashy red roses, no overloaded arrangements. She chose carefully: a few stems of deep, vibrant purple anemones, burnt-orange ranunculus with silky petals, and silvery eucalyptus for volume and that fresh, slightly camphoraceous scent. A wild, joyful, slightly rebellious bouquet. It resembled him, him.
When she returned, she found Lewis settled on the large living room sofa, a book on contemporary art in hand. He looked up at her entrance, and his gaze immediately fell on the bouquet she was holding, wrapped in simple brown paper.
An eyebrow rose, intrigued. "Been to the flower market?"
"Something like that," she said, approaching, suddenly nervous. She stood before him, the bouquet held out a little awkwardly between them, like an offering.
Lewis gently closed his book and set it down, his attention fully captured. He looked at the flowers, then at her face, seeking an explanation in her eyes.
"They're for you," she said simply, her voice a little lower than intended.
There was a silence. A real silence, where the only sound was the ticking of the designer wall clock. Lewis's face was a study in pure bewilderment. He looked at the flowers again, as if he couldn't process the information.
"For… me?" he repeated, as if the words tasted strange.
She nodded, a small, uncertain smile on her lips. "Yes."
Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he reached out and took the bouquet. His fingers, accustomed to composite materials and carbon steering wheels, brushed the fragile petals of the ranunculus with a delicacy that squeezed Y/N's heart.
He was looking at the bouquet, really looking. The vibrant colors against the matte paper, the unruly grace of the stems, the vitality emanating from it. Then he looked up at her, and his expression melted her. It wasn't exuberant joy, nor the triumphant beaming smile he wore on podiums. It was something deeper, more vulnerable. Astonishment. A raw, unfiltered emotion that made his eyes shine with a moist glint.
"No one…," he began, before stopping, shaking his head slightly. His voice was choked. "No one has ever given me flowers."
The words, spoken with disarming simplicity, resonated in the room. Y/N suddenly understood the magnitude of her gesture. Lewis Hamilton, the man who had everything, who was gifted luxury cars, works of art, unique experiences… had never received flowers. That small, commonplace token of affection for so many people, had been denied to him. Or rather, no one had thought of it.
"Never?" she asked softly.
"No." He was still staring at the bouquet, as if afraid it might disappear. "Gifts, yes. Many. But flowers… no." He looked up at her, and a shy, almost adolescent smile formed on his lips. "It's so… normal."
She laughed, moved. "That's the point. You're also a normal man, Lewis. Who deserves flowers on a Saturday afternoon."
He delicately placed the bouquet on the coffee table, as if it were a museum piece, then stood up. He approached her and took her in his arms, the embrace strong and silent. She felt his heart beating hard against her chest.
"Thank you," he murmured into her hair, his voice still a bit rough. "It's… it's truly the most beautiful gift."
He pulled back, keeping his hands on her hips, and kissed her. It wasn't a passionate, urgent kiss like it sometimes could be. It was soft, slow, grateful. His lips met hers with tender devotion, as if sealing a pact of rediscovered simplicity. When he separated, he kept his forehead against hers.
"Do you know why it's so perfect?" he whispered.
"Why?"
"Because it's not a gift for Lewis Hamilton, the driver. It's a gift for Lewis. Just Lewis. And it's the first time someone has truly made the difference."
The words melted her. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Do you really like them? The colors…"
"They're perfect. Wild. Not tame at all. Like you." He smiled, his real smile this time, radiant. "We need to put them in water."
They went to the kitchen together. Lewis searched for a vase, rejecting options that were too sophisticated before choosing a simple, thick glass vase, understated and modern. He filled it with water, then set about unwrapping the bouquet with touching concentration.
"Let me do it," he said when she tried to help.
She watched him trim the stems, adjust the heights, turn the vase to find the best angle. His hands, so powerful, were incredibly delicate. He talked as he worked, in a soft voice.
"When I was a kid, my mum loved flowers. She had them all over the house. Simple bouquets, things she sometimes picked. It always smelled good." He placed a purple anemone, making it stand out against the silver foliage. "It's funny. With all the complicated things… this is what I was missing."
Once the vase was placed in the center of the kitchen table, where they had breakfast, he took a step back, tilted his head, looking satisfied.
"There."
The afternoon sun shone through the translucent petals of the anemones, casting patches of color on the white marble. It was a simple, beautiful sight.
Later, as they prepared dinner side by side, Lewis suddenly stopped, a ladle in hand, to look at the flowers again.
"You've revolutionized my Saturday, you know," he said, smiling.
"That was the goal," she replied, peeling a carrot.
He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Next time, I'll get some for you. But I warn you, I'm going to set the bar high."
She laughed, leaning back against him. "I can't wait to see that."
The evening unfolded in this new-found gentleness. The flowers reigned on the table, a silent, colorful reminder of a gesture that had touched the man where the most luxurious gifts had failed to reach. That night, falling asleep snuggled against Lewis, Y/N understood something. The greatest romance wasn't always in grand gestures or speeches. Sometimes, it nestled in the simple act of seeing the other person, truly, and giving them what no one else remembered they might need: a little simple beauty, just for them. And the awestruck smile on Lewis's face when he had held that bouquet close would be etched in her memory far longer than any diamond.
The evening was quiet in their Monaco apartment, one of those precious respites between Grands Prix. The roar of engines had given way to the soft crackle of the fireplace and the lounge jazz Max had playing in the background. He was sprawled on the sofa, scrutinizing data from a past race on his tablet with a concentration bordering on obsession. Y/N, curled up against him, was idly scrolling through her phone, a teasing smile on her lips.
She adored these moments of tranquility with Max. Under the shell of the uncompromising champion hid a surprisingly gentle man, funny in his own sarcastic way, and of absolute loyalty. But she also loved, sometimes, to break his legendary focus, to see those intense blue eyes turn away from graphs and settle on her with that unique spark.
The idea came to her just like that, stupid, mischievous, and irresistible. She knew how literal Max could be, especially when immersed in his world of data. And she also knew his good-natured rivalry, tinged with deep respect, with Charles Leclerc. The trap was perfect.
She took a deep breath, adopting a scandalized, almost whispering tone of voice.
"Max. *Max.* You'll never guess what I just saw."
An indistinct grunt was his reply. He hadn't even looked up from his tablet.
"Max, listen, this is serious!" she insisted, giving him a little nudge.
He sighed, finally putting his screen down. "What? McLaren's livery for next year leaked?"
"No, better. Or worse. I just saw… Charles. On Hinge."
She let the words hang in the air, watching his face with the attention of a bomb disposal expert.
Max blinked. "Hinge? What's Hinge?"
*Perfect.* She suppressed a smile. "A dating app, Max. *A dating app.*"
The reaction was slow, but magnificent to watch. First, total incomprehension. Then, a glimmer of surprise. His brows furrowed.
"Charles? On a dating… app?" He shook his head, incredulous. "No. Impossible. He's with Charlotte. Well, I think so. Anyway, he wouldn't talk about that." He looked more perplexed than anything, as if someone had told him Charles had taken up cricket.
"I swear!" insisted Y/N, perfectly playing her role of horrified gossip. "His profile was… quite obvious. A photo of him in Monaco, another with a blurred race car… The bio said something like 'Looking for someone to share life's corners with.'" She was inventing on the fly, fighting back a laugh that threatened to choke her.
Max stared at her, his driver's brain visibly recalculating the trajectory. "Are you sure? It might be a fake. A fan."
"No, no, it was definitely him. Look!" She brandished her phone like damning evidence, of course showing nothing at all.
It was at that moment that the real calculation seemed to happen in Max's mind. His blue eyes, first perplexed, suddenly grew sharper. They detached from the phantom phone to fix on her. His expression changed subtly. Confusion gave way to a slow realization, then to a glint of sharp, slightly dangerous intelligence.
He slowly straightened up on the sofa, placing his tablet on the coffee table with a deliberate little *click*.
"Wait a second," he said, his voice lower, more drawn-out. "You say you saw Charles's profile… on Hinge."
"Yes!" she exclaimed, feeling a mix of excitement and a touch of apprehension. The trap was working… but perhaps too well.
Max leaned slightly toward her. "To see someone's profile on Hinge…" He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes not leaving hers. "… you have to have a profile yourself."
*Bingo.* The trap was closing. On her.
Y/N felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She wanted to tease him, not get caught. "Uh… Maybe… it was a suggestion in my recommendations?"
"Whose recommendations?" he asked, relentless, a small smile beginning to play at the corner of his lips. It wasn't a joyful smile. It was the smile of a predator who has spotted a flaw in the opponent's strategy. "Hinge only suggests profiles if you have a profile yourself, *schatje*. That's how it works."
He moved even closer, reducing the space between them to almost nothing. The air around them suddenly became charged, electric. The innocent game had just taken a much more intense turn.
"So let me rephrase," he murmured, his voice a rough velvet that made her shiver. "My girlfriend. The one who is supposed to be with me. On this sofa. Would have a profile. On a dating app."
He wasn't angry. He was… amused. And intensely focused. On her.
"It was… a joke," she confessed in a small voice, her heart suddenly racing for a whole different reason.
"A joke." He repeated the word, savoring it. "A joke for which you would have had to create a profile. With your photos. Your bio." He raised a hand and gently brushed her burning cheek. "To see my reaction."
She nodded, unable to tear her gaze from his. The spark in his blue eyes had become a fire.
"Well," he whispered, his face so close now that she could feel his warm breath on her lips. "You got my reaction. Now, I'll have yours."
The kiss that followed was neither soft nor exploratory. It was a takeover.
Max's lips crashed down on hers with an intensity that stole Y/N's breath. It wasn't brutal, but held a total assurance, like a driver committing his car to a tight corner knowing exactly how far he can push. His hand, which had been caressing her cheek, moved to tangle in her hair, pulling her even closer, tilting her head slightly for a better angle.
A muffled sound of surprise escaped her, immediately swallowed by Max's mouth. He took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue tracing a line of fire along the seam of her lips before inviting itself in with an audacity that made her head spin. He tasted the tea she had drunk and something essentially masculine, a flavor that belonged only to him and drove her crazy.
Y/N responded with equal ardor, her hands moving up to grip Max's solid shoulders, feeling the muscles flex under his t-shirt. She tugged on the fabric, as if to pull him even closer, if that were possible. A hoarse groan came from Max's throat in response, a low vibration against her mouth that ignited all her senses.
He shifted slightly, his lips leaving hers to kiss frantically along her jawline, then down the line of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin at the base of her throat. Y/N let out a stifled cry, her head falling back, offering more space for his exploration. Her fingers dug into his hair, holding him to her.
"Max…," she panted, the word barely audible.
He returned to her mouth, the kiss even deeper, more desperate. One of his hands left her hair to slide down her side, stopping at her waist to press her against him. She could feel all the tension in his body, all the intent concentrated in that burning point of contact. It was overwhelming. Intoxicating.
When they finally broke apart to catch their breath, they remained forehead to forehead, eyes closed, panting. Their ragged breaths were the only sounds in the room, mingling with the crackling of the fire.
"So," murmured Max, his voice hoarse and broken, his lips brushing hers with every syllable. "This dating app. Do you think you still need it?"
Y/N burst out laughing, a breathless, happy laugh. "I… I think I just found exactly what I was looking for."
He smiled, a real, beaming smile this time, warm and relaxed. "Good. Because so did I." He placed a softer, almost apologetic kiss on her swollen lips. "And for the record, if you ever *did* see Charles on Hinge… I'm going to break his nose the next time I overtake him."
She laughed again, snuggling against his chest, listening to the rapid beats of his heart gradually slowing.
"It really was a stupid joke," she admitted against his t-shirt.
"The best one you've ever pulled on me," he conceded, hugging her, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her back. "But next time you want my attention, *schatje*, you just have to ask. No need for elaborate scenarios with dating apps."
"Noted," she murmured, smiling.
They stayed like that for a long time, entwined on the sofa, the fire slowly dying in the hearth. The joke had backfired, but it had led to something infinitely more precious: a passionate, ardent, and slightly possessive reaffirmation of what they were. And Y/N decided she really, really liked the way Max Verstappen solved problems. Especially when the "problem" was her.
PS : Max remains number 1 in my heart! What are your thoughts?
The noise of Abu Dhabi was a living entity, a monster of decibels made of hysterical horns, deafening music, and the persistent howl of engines refusing silence. The night was streaked with trails of light, colored smoke, and sparks. At the center of this chaos, the heart of fervor beat in papaya orange. Lando Norris, soaked, exhausted, radiant, clutched the World Championship trophy to his chest as if fearing someone might snatch it away. History had just turned a page.
A few meters away, in the relative shadow of a corner of the Red Bull garage, Max Verstappen was removing his gloves. He had just won the race, a final flourish, a final reminder. But tonight, the Sunday victory tasted bland, like a consolation. The title, the real one, the only one that truly mattered, was elsewhere. He watched it, that glittering trophy in Lando's hands, and waited for the wave of disappointment, of rage, to engulf him as it always had.
It didn't come.
Instead, he felt something strange, new. A calm sensation, almost foreign. A form of… peace? No, not exactly. Pride? Not for himself. Resignation? Even less. It was confusing.
That's when he saw him approaching, cutting through the crowd like a catamaran in rough seas. Charles Leclerc. His rival. His mirror. His lover. His future, in a way they still only dared admit in private.
Charles stopped in front of him, his handsome face marked by the fatigue of the race and by palpable worry. His brow was slightly furrowed, his eyes scrutinizing Max's, searching for the warning signs of the storm. He expected bitterness, sharp words, that icy blue gaze that froze engineers. He was preparing to be the bulwark, the anchor, as he had learned to be these past months.
"Max?" Charles said, his voice almost drowned out by the celebrations.
Max looked up. And Charles was unsettled. There was no anger in those blue eyes. No furious frustration. There was fatigue, of course. Sweat. And something contemplative, almost serene.
"You drove a great race," Charles said, cautious.
"Yeah. Not bad." Max cast one last look towards Lando, then returned his attention to Charles. "It's weird."
"What's weird?"
Max shook his head, as if to chase away an elusive thought. "I should… I don't know. Rage. Be angry. Feel like it was unfair." He paused, his features relaxing slightly. "But I'm not."
Charles stared at him, incredulous. "You're not angry?"
"No." The word was clear, sharp. "I gave everything. The car gave everything. We won the race. Him…" He inclined his head toward Lando, "… he was better over the season. It's a fact. There's nothing to add."
A memory, vivid and incongruous, flashed through Charles's mind.
----
It was years ago. On a karting track in Belgium, under a fine rain. Two kids, soaked to the bone, glared at each other with pure, magnificent hatred after a collision. Max, fists clenched, eyes full of tears of rage. Charles, face set, a lump of disappointment and anger in his throat.
"You did it on purpose!" Max had yelled.
"You're the one who didn't brake!" Charles had retorted.
Their fathers had separated them, but the look they exchanged that day was seared in fire: a promise of eternal war.
----
The memory faded, contrasting violently with the calm man before him. This was no longer the wounded warrior. This was a champion who knew what defeat meant, and who accepted it with a grace Charles didn't know he possessed.
"And you're not… sad?" Charles insisted, still searching for the crack, the point of pain to press on to comfort him.
Max gave a small smile, the first of the evening. A real smile, without bitterness. "Sad? No. I'm… happy for him. Weird, right?" He shook his head again, as if surprised by his own feelings. "He's a good guy. He worked like crazy. He deserves it. And…" His gaze grew sharper, more intense, and fixed on Charles. "… it means the spot is free now. It's no longer mine. We're going to have to go and get it. And you and I, we're going to be there to take it back from him. Next year, it's going to be a war. A real one."
There was a new excitement in his voice, an almost joyful anticipation of the coming battle. It was the prospect of the fight that animated him, not the bitterness of the past defeat.
Charles felt his breath catch. The pride he felt for Max at that moment overwhelmed him. This was the man he loved. Not just the invincible driver, but the one who could face defeat, accept it, and turn it into fuel for the future. An emotion too strong, too burning, flooded him.
Without thinking, driven by an irresistible impulse, he closed the distance between them.
And he kissed him.
It wasn't a soft or tender kiss. It was a collision, an affirmation, a storm.
Charles's mouth crashed against Max's with a wild urgency, as if to seal the promise he had just made, to convey all the pride and admiration that choked him. Max, surprised for a microsecond – they were in public, under the spotlights, surrounded by hundreds of people – remained still.
Then, he responded.
It was as if a switch had been flipped. Restraint, caution, everything shattered. A low, barely audible growl rose from Max's chest and was lost in Charles's mouth. His hands, which had been hanging at his sides, rose to grip Charles's hips, pulling him close with a force bordering on brutality.
The kiss became deep, desperate, charged with all the unspoken words of their season, their rivalry, their secret love. Max's tongue sought, conquered, possessed. Charles's responded with equal ardor, a passionate duel with no victor or vanquished, only perfect fusion. The taste of sweat, champagne, adrenaline, and something uniquely them mingled, intoxicating.
Charles felt the world around them fade. The noise became a distant hum. There was only the heat of Max's body against his, the pressure of his hands on his hips, the burn of his lips, and the taste of their future on his tongue.
Then, brutally, reality came thundering back.
Oh, fuck.
We're in public.
In front of everyone.
He pulled away as quickly as he had thrown himself at him, taking a step back, his eyes suddenly wide with panic. His frantic gaze swept the surroundings. Mechanics, journalists, photographers… and all seemed frozen, mouths agape, eyes as wide as saucers. Even Lando's celebration seemed to have come to an abrupt halt. A relative silence, heavy with stupefaction, had fallen over their small perimeter.
Max, however, remained motionless, his lips slightly parted, swollen from the kiss, his blue eyes flashing in the spotlight. He was breathing a little faster than normal. Then, slowly, a smile began to form on his face. A real smile, wide, proud, and terribly audacious.
He looked at Charles, then at the stunned crowd, then back at Charles.
"Well," Max said, his voice a bit hoarse but perfectly audible in the silence, "now they know."
Charles, his heart pounding, his face on fire, sought his gaze. He saw not fear or regret, but fierce determination, pure joy, and a challenge. The same challenge as when they were on track.
Max reached out his hand towards him. Charles took it, feeling the strength and warmth of Max's fingers closing around his.
Max then turned towards the crowd, towards the camera lenses that began to click frantically, and towards Lando, who, on the other side of the garage, was watching them with an expression caught between surprise and a huge, complicit grin.
"You celebrated your title well, Lando!" Max called out, his voice carrying with the assurance of the champion he still was. "Enjoy it!"
Then he turned back to Charles, and his gaze grew more intense, more intimate, even though his words were spoken for all to hear.
"Because next year…" He raised their intertwined hands, a powerful, obvious gesture. "… we're coming to get that cup. And we're going to fight over it between us. Until the last corner."
The message was clear. To the entire world. They were no longer just rivals. They were a duo. A force. A story.
The noise returned then, multiplied by ten. Shouts, exclamations, camera flashes. But Max and Charles didn't really hear them anymore. They looked at each other, hand in hand, the taste of their first public kiss still on their lips, and the taste of next year's battle already in their hearts.
Max leaned in, and this time, it was a brief, soft kiss, but heavy with promises, placed on Charles's lips, under the flashes lighting up the Abu Dhabi night.
"Come on, schat," Max murmured against his mouth. "We've got work to do. A lot of work."
Charles laughed, a laugh of liberation and pure joy. The future had never seemed so uncertain, so exciting, so perfectly within their grasp. And for the first time, they would face it, not as enemies, but side by side. Tonight's defeat wasn't an end. It was the first chapter of their greatest story.
PS : I literally cried at the end of the race, overwhelmed by all those emotions, Lando's, Max's, and everyone else's...:')
The noise was deafening. A cacophony of horns, screams, music, and the persistent roar of engines that seemed to refuse to quiet down, even after the checkered flag. The Abu Dhabi paddock was organized chaos, a tsunami of papaya orange crashing over the world. At the eye of the hurricane, drenched in champagne, his hair matted with foam and sweat, his face split by a grin so wide it seemed it might crack his face in two, stood Lando Norris. World Champion.
Carlos Sainz, standing on the edge of the celebration, leaning against the McLaren garage wall, watched him. And his heart was doing a strange and wonderful thing: it was bursting with pride while tightening with an emotion so deep it took his breath away. He saw the kid he had known, the young man with eyes too big and nervous energy, now haloed in ultimate glory. His Lando.
Memories assailed him then, as clear and sharp as the images of the decisive lap broadcast on the giant screens.
----
It was years ago. The simulator at the McLaren factory in Woking. An eighteen-year-old Lando, skinny, with freckles and palpable nervousness, introduced himself to his new teammate, the veteran Carlos Sainz Jr.
"Uh, hi. Lando. Lando Norris."
Carlos had shaken his hand with his usual warmth. "Carlos. Welcome to the circus."
Lando had barely dared to look him in the eye. He fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt. "It's... an honor. To drive with you. Really."
Carlos had smiled, a little amused by the reverence. "We're going to have fun, you'll see." He had glanced at the simulator. "Come on, show me what you can do, rookie."
Lando had complied, extremely focused but nervous. At one corner, he'd sent it straight into the virtual gravel trap. "Shit! Sorry!" he had yelled, blushing to the roots of his hair.
Carlos had burst out laughing, not mockingly, but with a frank laugh that had eased the tension. "Tranquilo! We've all been there. Next time, less angle on entry. Come on, I'll show you."
He had settled behind him in the narrow cockpit, their shoulders touching, to show him the right steering input. Lando had felt the reassuring solidity of his teammate, and some of his panic had vanished.
----
The flashback faded, replaced by the much more vivid image of Lando holding aloft the championship trophy, his blue eyes brimming with tears of joy. He was searching for someone in the crowd. His gaze swept over the excited faces and finally stopped on Carlos.
Their eyes met across the throng. And in Lando's gaze, beyond the euphoria, there was a raw recognition, a silent gratitude reserved for him alone. You always believed in me, that gaze said. Even when I didn't believe in myself.
Carlos gave him a small nod, a proud and tender smile on his lips. I know, he replied silently. I told you.
The official celebrations went on for hours. Interviews, photos, champagne, more champagne. Lando was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of pure energy, hugging every member of the team, his laughter rising above all other noise.
Carlos watched him, his heart swollen with a love so powerful it almost hurt. This was no longer the brotherly pride of the early days. It was something much deeper, more rooted. Something that had germinated in debrief rooms, grown in shared laughter and complicit silences, and had just bloomed, magnificent and undeniable, under the spotlights of Lando's greatest victory.
It was only much later, in the relative quiet of their hotel suite, that the world finally seemed to stop spinning. The door closed on the muffled noise of the party continuing downstairs.
Lando was leaning against the door, as if all the day's adrenaline had suddenly left him, leaving him exhausted and vulnerable. His driver's suit was unbuttoned, soaked. He was still holding his trophy, which he placed with almost religious care on the hall table.
"I don't believe it," he murmured, his voice hoarse from too much shouting.
Carlos approached slowly. He said nothing. He didn't need to. He took Lando's face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away a streak of dried champagne on his cheek. His gaze plunged into the blue eyes, now rimmed with fatigue but shining with an inner fire.
"You do believe it," he corrected softly. "Now, you believe it."
A newer memory, more recent this time, crossed Carlos's mind.
----
It was a few months earlier, after a difficult race. Lando, frustrated, was sitting alone in a corner of the motorhome. Carlos had come to sit beside him, offering a supportive silence.
"I'll never be champion, Carlos," Lando had mumbled, eyes fixed on his shoes. "There's too many... Max, Charles, you. I'm just... the funny one."
Carlos had then grabbed him by the nape of his neck, a firm, brotherly gesture. "Listen to me, toro. You have pure talent. Crazy speed. And the heart of a champion. The rest..." He had made a dismissive gesture. "... the rest, it comes. Confidence. Maturity. And when it comes, no one will be able to stop you. Not even Max."
Lando had looked at him, searching for sincerity in his eyes. "You really believe that?"
"I know it."
----
The memory faded. The man before him was no longer the doubting kid. He was the champion. His champion.
"You were right," Lando whispered, as if he had followed the thread of his thoughts. "About everything."
Carlos didn't answer with words. He leaned in and placed a kiss, soft as a promise, on his forehead. Then another on his closed eyelid. Lando shivered, a little sigh escaping him.
"Carlos...," he murmured, his name becoming a prayer on his lips.
That was too much for Carlos. The restraint, the pride, the emotion held back all evening exploded into an uncontrollable wave of desire and pure love.
He captured his lips.
This was not a kiss. It was a claim. A celebration. A consecration.
Carlos's mouth seized his with a sudden and brutal hunger, sweeping away any trace of preliminary gentleness. It was a kiss of possession, of pride, of wild joy. Lando, surprised for a split second, responded with equal ardor, his hands flying up to desperately clutch Carlos's shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor himself to reality.
The taste of champagne, bittersweet, and sweat mingled on their tongues. Carlos groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction, and pushed Lando more firmly against the door. Lando's body arched instinctively, offering better access, a greater surface of contact. The heat between them became stifling, electric.
One of Carlos's hands left Lando's cheek to plunge into his damp hair, gripping it, tilting his head to deepen the kiss even further, as if he wanted to drink in every particle of his triumph, of his essence. The other hand slid down his side, stopping at his hip to pull him closer, eliminating the last space between them.
Lando moaned against his mouth, a hoarse, broken sound, and Carlos felt the shudder that ran through his entire body. It was too much and not enough. It was the summit of everything. The summit of Lando's career, the summit of their long-concealed feelings.
The kiss grew deeper, more desperate. Their tongues sought, dueled, submitted. It was a battle where they were both victors. Carlos tasted the salty tears that had mixed with the champagne on Lando's face, and it added a note of raw emotion to the already burning passion.
When they finally had to break apart to breathe, they remained forehead to forehead, panting, their ragged breaths mingling in the air charged with desire and fulfillment.
"Champion," Carlos murmured, the word a burning caress against Lando's swollen lips.
Lando opened his eyes, his dilated pupils drowning out the blue of his irises. "You own part of this title too," he breathed, his voice bearing a new gravity. "You're a big part of it."
Carlos shook his head, a tender smile on his lips. He placed another kiss, softer this time, on the corner of his mouth. "No. It's yours. All yours. But I am so, so proud to be the one watching you have it."
He pulled him into a strong, enveloping embrace, and Lando surrendered to it completely, his head nestled in the crook of Carlos's neck. They stayed like that for a long time, soothed by the silence and the frantic beating of their hearts.
Later, lying on the bed, limbs entwined, Lando traced idle patterns on Carlos's chest.
"Do you remember the first time, in the simulator?" he asked, his voice drowsy.
"How could I forget?" Carlos replied, playing with a strand of his hair. "You looked like a fawn on ice. And you smelled of fear."
Lando gave him a little tap on the stomach. "Hey! I was impressed! You were Carlos Sainz!"
"And now, you are Lando Norris. World Champion." Carlos leaned over to look at him. "And you are mine."
Lando's beaming smile returned, tired but luminous. "Forever."
The kiss that followed was soft, peaceful, laden with the quiet certainty of those who have shared everything, the doubts, the laughter, the defeats, and now, the most brilliant of victories. And as the Abu Dhabi night enveloped their love and the newly won title, Carlos knew one thing: having been the first to believe in Lando was an honor. But being the one who loved him, now that he was at the summit of the world, was the greatest privilege of his life.
Within the paddock microcosm, one fact had become an amusing certainty: Charles Leclerc's jealousy was a force of nature, as predictable as a red flag in Monaco and far more entertaining. Compared to Max Verstappen, whose possessiveness manifested as an icy silence and a gaze capable of freezing engine oil, Charles resembled a kitten unsheathing its claws. A determined kitten, certainly, but a kitten nonetheless.
"Verstappen Jealousy" was a rare and dreaded phenomenon. One day, a young engineer from a rival team had spent twenty minutes discussing strategy with Charles, occasionally brushing his arm to emphasize a point. Max had said nothing. He had simply observed, motionless, arms crossed, from the other side of the garage. The temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees. The engineer had eventually left, pale and visibly uncomfortable. Max had then joined Charles and taken his hand, a simple gesture that seemed to say, "Sorry for the cold, my love."
"Leclerc Jealousy," on the other hand, was a public and often hilarious spectacle. Like that morning in Singapore, when a Dutch journalist, clearly a Max fan, asked an interminable question during the briefing, concluding with: "Max, you are simply perfection on two legs. A true god of the steering wheel." Before Max could open his mouth, Charles, sitting beside him, leaned towards the microphone. "He snores, you know, very loudly. And he hates sharing his fries. Even gods have their little flaws." The silence was followed by general laughter in the room. Max had rolled his eyes, but a small smile had played on his lips.
Or again, at the British Grand Prix, when an overzealous photographer asked Max to remove his polo for a "more relaxed" photoshoot. As Max began to shake his head, Charles appeared as if by magic, slipping between the lens and his partner. "Sorry, but his abs are classified as an industrial secret by Red Bull, too much downforce generated," he declared with expert-level seriousness, while sliding a possessive arm around Max's waist. The disconcerted photographer left empty-handed.
But the most memorable remained the incident with Lando Norris. The latter, joking in front of the cameras, had placed a hand on the RB19's cockpit during a media session. "She's so beautiful, I could almost marry her." Charles, who was talking a few meters away, turned his head as fast as if he'd heard a checkered flag. He approached and delicately but firmly removed Lando's hand. "Hands off the merchandise, Lando," he said with a smile that held no joy. Then, turning to the car, he murmured, loud enough to be heard: "Don't worry, beautiful. Papa is here." Lando was left speechless, caught between amusement and fear.
That evening, after a long day of private testing in Barcelona, they were finally alone in the Red Bull driver room. The silence was restful after the engine roar. Max was sprawled on the small leather sofa, analyzing data on his tablet. Charles entered, closing the door behind him.
"So?" Max asked without looking up. "Did you manage to mark your territory all over the paddock today?"
Charles ignored the jab and came to stand in front of him, gently taking the tablet from his hands. "Did you like my performance with Lando?" he asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Max finally looked up at him. "You're pathetic."
"Pathetic and effective," Charles retorted, sliding a knee on either side of his hips, straddling him to sit on his thighs. He took Max's face in his hands. "And you love it."
Max didn't answer. His hands settled on Charles's hips, pulling him closer. His eyes, so often icy blue, began to burn with an intensity that took Charles's breath away.
"You're insufferable," Max murmured, but his voice was hoarse, laden with desire.
"I know," Charles whispered, leaning in.
The first contact of their lips was electric. It wasn't a gentle invitation, but a claim. Max's lips, firm and demanding, crashed against his with a hunger contained all day. Charles responded with equal ardor, his fingers digging into Max's blond hair.
It was a power struggle, a silent duel where Max's tongue traced a burning path in his mouth, tasting, exploring, marking his territory with a wild passion only Charles was allowed to see. Charles moaned, a muffled, vibrating sound, and arched against him.
When they broke apart to breathe, breathless, their foreheads remained pressed together.
"My jealous little kitten," Max growled against his swollen lips, his hands moving up under Charles's t-shirt.
Charles shivered. "Your little kitten," he breathed in affirmation, capturing his lips again.
This kiss was different. Less battle, more communion. Max's hands drew feverish circles on his back, then descended to grip his buttocks. Charles let out another moan and rolled his hips, creating a friction that drew a synchronized groan from them both.
The air was thick, charged with the scent of their sweat and the tenacious hint of gasoline. The outside world no longer existed.
When Max broke the kiss, they were both panting. "You know, if you keep up your antics, I'll end up locking you in my motorhome."
Charles laughed, a hoarse, happy sound. "Promise?"
Max answered by pulling him in for another kiss, a promise murmured mouth to mouth. Max's cold jealousy and Charles's unsheathed claws were just two sides of a love as intense as their on-track rivalry. And in the stolen intimacy of the driver room, they were just Charles and Max, the kitten and his tiger, perfectly in sync.
In the private lounge of the Monaco hotel, Max Verstappen was a different man. Slumped against Charles on the sofa, his head rested on his shoulder, a hand slipped under his t-shirt, drawing lazy circles on the warm skin of his stomach. He was murmuring words in Dutch against his neck, phrases Charles didn't understand but whose possessive, tender tone sent a pleasant warmth spreading through his chest.
"You're clingy tonight," Charles had whispered, his fingers playing in Max's blond hair.
Max had simply grunted, snuggling closer. "Shut up." Then he had drawn Charles into a slow, deep kiss that made the latter forget his own name.
This was Max in private. A man with porous boundaries, eager for contact, almost excessively tactile. And Charles, who adored this physical language, let himself be overwhelmed, seduced by this vulnerability that no one else saw.
But outside, it was a different story.
The next day, at an informal barbecue at Daniel Ricciardo's, the change was brutal. The moment they crossed the threshold, Max's shoulders straightened, his face neutralized. Charles, out of habit, raised a hand to brush against him as he passed. Max didn't push him away, but he didn't reciprocate the pressure either. He just gave a small nod and headed for the beer fridge, leaving Charles empty-handed and his heart a little tight.
The whole evening was like that. Charles laughed with Lando and George, threw glances at Max, looking for a sign, a complicity, a spark of the man from the night before. But Max kept his distance. He discussed strategy with Fernando Alonso, smiled politely at the other drivers' partners, but his body was a closed fortress. At one point, Charles had approached, leaning in to whisper a joke in his ear. Max had smiled, a real smile, but his hands remained buried in his jeans pockets, and he hadn't tried to close the space between them.
It wasn't rejection. It was worse: an icy neutrality that left Charles doubting everything. Was it awkward for Max? Was he ashamed? Were they even really together, or was it a game that only worked behind closed shutters?
Charles's confusion turned into a persistent unease. If Max never initiated contact in public, Charles, afraid of hitting a wall or seeming forced, had stopped doing so too. They ended up forming a strange couple: close and connected in private, but perfectly parallel as soon as the world, even reduced to a circle of friends, entered the room.
A few days later, at a party at Pierre Gasly's, Charles reached a breaking point. He saw Max arrive, give him a brief nod before going to talk with Alex Albon. A knot of anxiety formed in Charles's stomach. Instead of joining him, he turned on his heel and went to sit alone, near the bar, ordering a drink he didn't really want. He preferred solitude to the torture of this phantom proximity.
It was then that Pierre's friend, Chloé, joined him.
"So, Charles, sulking all by yourself?" she asked kindly.
"No, no, I… just enjoying the view," he lied, swirling his glass.
Chloé followed his gaze, which wandered awkwardly before settling, despite himself, on Max, who was now laughing with Carlos.
"Ah. I was wondering where Max was. You didn't arrive together?"
The question, innocent, hit Charles like a slap. I was wondering where Max was. Not "where is your boyfriend," nor "where are you and Max." Just Max. Because in others' minds, they weren't an entity. They were two separate individuals, even here, among friends.
"Uh, no, he arrived before me," Charles replied, his voice a bit strangled.
Chloé nodded, then her smile faded. "Is everything okay between you? I mean… we never really see you together at these parties."
Charles stared at her, and the wall of doubts he had built collapsed. It wasn't in his head. Others noticed it too. He suddenly felt transparent, ridiculous.
"I… I don't know, actually," he admitted in a whisper, looking down at his glass.
He spent the rest of the evening avoiding Max, his heart heavy with a confusion he could no longer contain.
The return to Max's apartment was in a leaden silence. Barely was the door closed when Charles felt Max's arms wrap around him from behind, his lips pressing against his neck.
"I missed you," murmured Max, his voice low and already a bit sleepy.
The tenderness of the gesture, so natural, so expected in this setting, was the last straw. Charles gently disengaged.
"Max, we need to talk."
Charles's voice was so serious that Max immediately let him go. He moved around to face him, his expression shifting from fatigue to worry.
"What's wrong?"
Charles took a deep breath, crossing his arms to protect himself.
"It's… the contrast. Here, you are…" He made a vague gesture, unable to find the words. "…you're all over me. And it's good. I love you like that. But outside… even at friends' places, it's like we're… colleagues. Less than that, even."
He saw Max's eyes harden, not with anger, but with surprise.
"I never push you away," Max objected, his voice firmer.
"That's the problem! You don't push away, but you don't initiate anything either! You don't touch me, you don't seek me out… At Pierre's party, Chloé asked me why I wasn't with you. Because we didn't exchange a single word all evening! I ended up moving away so I wouldn't have to wonder if I was bothering you."
Max's face closed off. He ran a hand through his hair, turning his back to Charles to look out the large window.
"It's not you, Charles," he said finally, his voice lower. "It's never you."
"Then what?" insisted Charles, frustration piercing his voice. "Are you ashamed?"
Max turned around sharply, his blue eyes suddenly intense, almost burning.
"Ashamed?" he repeated, as if the word were an insult. "Jammen. Never."
He stepped closer, but not with his usual softness. There was tension in his body, an urgency.
"You don't understand, Charles. In the car, I control everything. The track, the data, the risks. Outside the car, in public… the world, the stares, it's a variable I don't control. And I…" He hesitated, searching for his words, which was so rare for him. "…I've spent my life building walls. Showing no cracks. Because in our world, a crack is a weakness. And a weakness is exploited."
He moved even closer, until they were only centimeters apart.
"With you, here, the walls come down. I don't have to control. I can be… this." He gestured towards the sofa where they had snuggled a few hours earlier. "But outside… it's a reflex. A fortress that closes automatically. It's not a choice against you. It's a habit for me."
Charles looked at him, his heart pounding. It wasn't rejection. It was protection. An archaic, deeply ingrained defense.
"And our friends? At Daniel's, at Pierre's… they're not enemies, Max. They're people who care about us."
"I know," Max admitted, a glimmer of frustration in his eyes. "I know. My brain knows. But my instinct…" He shook his head. "It's stronger than me."
A silence settled. Charles's anger and hurt dissipated, replaced by a painful understanding. He now saw the internal battle. The man who let himself be loved versus the soldier who armored up.
"You could have told me," murmured Charles.
"I didn't know it hurt you this much," Max admitted, his gaze becoming vulnerable. "I thought you understood. That it was… normal."
Charles took a step, closing the last few centimeters between them. He raised a hand and placed his palm flat on Max's chest, feeling the strong, rapid beats of his heart under his hand.
"It's not normal for me, Max. I need to know you're with me. Even when we're not alone. No need for a spectacle, just… a hand on my shoulder. A glance that lasts a second too long. A sign that I'm not dreaming."
Max closed his eyes for a moment, as if Charles's words were breaching a final barrier. When he reopened them, his gaze was different. More determined. More open.
"Okay," he breathed.
Then, he grabbed Charles's face between his hands.
It wasn't a soft or questioning kiss. It was a collision. An affirmation.
Max's lips crashed against his with a wild urgency, as if he sought to erase all doubts, all distances, by the sheer force of his desire. It was a kiss of thirst and possession, charged with everything that had been left unspoken and withheld.
Charles, surprised by the sudden intensity, moaned against his mouth and gripped his shoulders to keep from falling. Max took advantage of his openness to deepen the kiss, his tongue plunging boldly, exploring, claiming. It was brutal and delicious, a sensual assault that reduced Charles to kindling.
One of Max's hands left his cheek to plunge into his hair, gently pulling his head back for a better angle. The other hand slid down his back, pressing firmly against the base of his spine, arching him against Max's hard, familiar body. Every point of contact was a spark.
Charles responded with equal fervor, nibbling Max's lower lip, tasting the very essence of the man – a mix of determination, vulnerability, and a raw desire that took his breath away. The outside world no longer existed. There was only the heat of Max's mouth, the pressure of his hands, the taste of his skin, and the muffled sound of their mingling breaths.
When Max finally pulled away, they were both panting, foreheads pressed together, bodies still fused.
"You're not dreaming," Max growled, his voice hoarse and low, laden with a promise. "You're mine. Here. And everywhere."
He placed another kiss, softer this time, on his bruised lips.
"And tomorrow, at whoever's house, I will touch your shoulder. And I will look at you as if you were the only person in the room. Even if it terrifies me."
Charles laughed, a laugh of relief and pure happiness, and pulled him into a new embrace. The kiss had been much more than a passionate reconciliation. It had been a rupture. The fortress had a breach, and Charles was ready to help him, brick by brick, dismantle it. For the first time, he no longer doubted. He felt, in the fervor of that kiss, the truth that surpassed all fears: they were together, and they would be, no matter who was watching.
Two weeks later - Party at Daniel Ricciardo's, Miami
The atmosphere was already warm when they arrived. Daniel's house, facing the ocean, vibrated with music and laughter. Charles felt the familiar tension rising in him. He glanced sideways at Max, mentally preparing for another evening of polite distance.
But as they crossed the threshold, a hand settled on the small of his back. A firm, warm, possessive pressure.
Charles started, turning towards Max, eyes wide.
Max wasn't looking at him. His face was neutral, but his hand was a clear message. It didn't move, remaining anchored there, guiding Charles through the crowd.
"Guys! Finally!" Daniel yelled when he saw them, a beer in hand. He hugged them one after the other, his sharp gaze moving from one to the other without lingering on Max's hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
They headed to the garden where most of the guests were gathered. Lando and George were in the middle of an animated discussion near the barbecue. Carlos was talking with his partner. As they passed, Max nodded a greeting to Alex, but his hand didn't leave Charles's back. It was disconcerting. Audacious. Incredible.
Charles felt the heat of that palm through the thin fabric of his shirt like a brand. It was small, insignificant to others perhaps, but for him, it was an earthquake. A silent declaration.
When they stopped near the bar to get a drink, Max leaned towards his ear.
"Okay?" he murmured, his warm breath against his skin.
Charles couldn't suppress a shiver. He nodded, unable to form words. Yes. More than okay.
Max handed him a beer, and their fingers brushed. A deliberate contact, this time. Then, instead of moving away, Max stood next to him, his shoulder against Charles's, watching the scene. They formed a duo. A couple.
Lando, seeing them, gave them a big smile and an exaggerated wink before returning to his conversation. No one seemed shocked. No one was staring strangely. They were just… them. Together.
Later in the evening, as they sat side by side on an outdoor sofa, listening to Pierre tell an anecdote, Max let his arm slide behind Charles's back. Not an embrace, just his arm resting on the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly brushing his shoulder.
Charles leaned back against him, feeling the solidity of his arm. He looked up at Max's profile, who was listening to Pierre with a smile. He saw the slight tension in his jaw, the small effort this public gesture cost him. But he was doing it. For them.
When Pierre went to join others, Max turned his head towards Charles.
"So?" he asked in a low voice. "Better?"
Charles felt his heart tighten with an emotion so strong it took his breath away. He didn't answer with words. He leaned in and placed a soft, quick kiss on his lips. Right there. In front of everyone.
Max's eyes widened in surprise, then crinkled into a genuine, relaxed smile.
"Much better," Charles whispered against his mouth.
Someone, in the distance, whistled. Daniel yelled "Finally!". Knowing laughs rose around them.
But Max didn't stiffen. He laughed, a real, deep, liberating laugh, and grabbed Charles's hand on his knee, intertwining their fingers.
The fortress wasn't entirely dismantled. It might never be. But that night, in Miami, a breach wide enough had opened to let in the light. And for Charles, seeing Max Verstappen, the most controlled driver in the paddock, hold his hand in front of their friends, was worth all the world championships. It was a much more intimate, and much sweeter, victory.
The Spanish sun was already beating down hard on the green of the private golf club on the outskirts of Madrid. Lando, a cap screwed onto his head and sunglasses masking a slight nervousness, adjusted his glove while eyeing the woods lined up in his bag with suspicion. Carlos, impeccable in a white polo and beige golf trousers, seemed perfectly at ease in this chic, orderly environment.
"Okay, fine, I admit it," Lando blurted out, picking up a 7-iron and swinging it in an unsettling manner. "I might have exaggerated my golf skills a bit. 'Not bad' actually meant 'I sometimes manage to hit the ball'."
Carlos smiled, his warm, beaming smile lighting up his face. "Tranquilo, toro. It's not a Grand Prix. The important thing is to have a good time." He stepped closer and gently adjusted Lando's cap. "And not to get injured before the next race weekend."
Lando relaxed a little. That was their dynamic. Carlos, the reassuring, teasing big brother, and him, the slightly chaotic free spirit. Except for the past month, it had been different. Glances lingered, hands brushed intentionally, and laughter was charged with a new tension, electric and delicious. This golf day was their first real official "date," far from the paddocks and prying eyes.
They warmed up on the driving range. Carlos's swings were fluid, powerful, the ball shooting straight and far into the blue sky. Lando's were… creative. Sometimes the ball went off on a weird ricochet, other times he missed completely, taking a divot of turf large enough to bury a small animal.
"Fuck, this sport is impossible!" Lando grumbled after yet another catastrophic slice.
Carlos came to stand behind him. "It's your grip, cariño. Too tight." His voice was soft, close to Lando's ear.
Lando felt a shiver run down his spine. Cariño. Carlos had started using that term recently, and every time, it had the same effect on him.
"Let me show you," Carlos offered.
And that's when he dropped the bombshell, with a casualness that contrasted with the intimate gesture he was about to make.
"Oh, and by the way, I ran into Miguel and Sofia yesterday. They have their booking right after us. They might stop by to say hello."
Lando froze, the club held mid-air. Miguel and Sofia? Close friends of Carlos, whom he knew by sight but had never really interacted with.
"Your… friends?" asked Lando, trying to sound relaxed and failing miserably.
"Sí. Very good friends. Don't worry, they're super cool."
But Lando's worry wasn't social. It was linked to his driver's ego, already bruised by his disastrous golf performance. He could already see himself, "Carlos's lame boyfriend," unable to master a golf club in front of his long-standing, elegant friends. His… his what, exactly? They hadn't even defined the terms yet.
"Carlos…," he began, embarrassed. "I… I'm not going to make you look ridiculous, am I? With my level of… walking catastrophe?"
Carlos stopped adjusting his posture and stood in front of him, lifting his chin with a finger. His gaze was serious.
"Listen to me, Lando Norris. The only thing that could make me look ridiculous would be to be ashamed of you. And that will never happen." His tone was so firm, so sincere, that Lando's doubts dissipated like the morning mist. "You are a champion. On the track. And in my life. Golf, we don't care about."
With those words, Carlos repositioned himself behind him. This time, he didn't just offer verbal advice. He pressed himself against Lando's back, encircling his body with his own. His hands closed over Lando's, which were holding the club. His cheek was so close that Lando could feel its warmth.
"Relax," murmured Carlos, his warm breath against Lando's ear. "Let your shoulders drop. Let the club do the work. You guide, you don't force."
Lando closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sensation wash over him. The scent of Carlos's cologne, the sun on his skin, the solidity of the body against his. It was incredibly intimate. And terribly exciting.
"Now, let's go. Gently. A fluid motion."
Guided by Carlos, Lando began the swing. It was different. More controlled, more graceful. The club brushed the grass and struck the ball with a satisfying "thwack." The ball rose, not as high or as far as Carlos's, but it went straight, landing neatly on the fairway.
"YES!" Lando yelled, turning around within Carlos's embrace, a huge grin on his lips. "Did you see that?! It went straight!"
Carlos laughed, his arms still around him. "I told you. You just need the right coach."
It was at that precise moment that they saw them. Miguel and Sofia, smiling, were approaching them on the path. They had just witnessed the entire scene.
A wave of panic overwhelmed Lando. He tried to pull away slightly, but Carlos's arms tightened, holding him close. Carlos wasn't hiding. On the contrary, he greeted his friends with a nod, still entwined with Lando.
"Hola, guapos!" Sofia called out with a broad smile.
"Looks like you're training hard," added Miguel, looking amused and completely at ease.
Lando, paralyzed by embarrassment, stammered a barely audible "Hi." But Carlos was perfectly relaxed.
"Lando is learning the subtleties of the swing," he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be glued to his boyfriend on a driving range.
A conversation started, light and friendly. Miguel and Sofia were indeed "super cool," as Carlos had promised. And most importantly, they didn't seem the least bit surprised or shocked by their physical closeness. After a few minutes, Lando completely relaxed, even laughing at a joke from Miguel about his own golf handicap.
When their friends left for their tee time, Lando let out a long sigh of relief.
"See? Nothing dramatic," Carlos said, taking his hand without worrying about other potential players around them.
"Did they know? About us?"
"Sí. I told them last week." Carlos gave him a sidelong glance. "I don't want to hide who I love, Lando."
The words, simple and direct, melted Lando. He squeezed Carlos's hand tighter.
The day continued, much more relaxed. Lando, freed from his fear of judgment, actually had fun, even improving his game a little. The sun was beginning to set, tinting the sky orange and pink, when they decided to finish with one last hole near a small pond.
They were alone, bathed in the golden light of dusk. The world was quiet, disturbed only by the birdsong and the sharp crack of the balls.
Lando had just missed a ridiculously simple putt. He groaned, then burst out laughing as he turned to Carlos.
"Right, I think we have to face the facts. I'm a disaster."
Carlos didn't laugh. He looked at him, leaning on his club, a soft smile on his lips, his brown eyes drowned in the evening light.
"You're perfect," he murmured.
The intensity of his gaze took Lando's breath away. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with a new electricity. The laughter and teasing of the day had vanished, leaving room for something deeper, more serious.
Carlos put down his club and approached. There was no more distance between them, no more room for doubts.
"Lando," he said simply, and his name, in Carlos's mouth, tasted like a promise.
He raised a hand and brushed Lando's cheek with his fingertips, a touch so light and yet so burning that Lando closed his eyes. Then, Carlos slid his fingers into the hair at the nape of Lando's neck, pulling him close against him.
The first contact of their lips was a revelation.
It wasn't a hesitant, early-relationship kiss. It was a kiss of affirmation, of thirst and gentle possession. Carlos's lips were firm, warm, and they knew exactly what they wanted: him. Lando responded with equal urgency, his hands moving up to grip Carlos's solid shoulders, feeling the muscles contract under the cotton polo.
Carlos deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing a line of fire along Lando's lower lip, asking for, and receiving, access. The taste of Carlos—a mix of coffee, sunshine, and something uniquely masculine—invaded Lando's senses, making his head spin. It was intoxicating, more than any victory on the track.
A muffled moan escaped Lando's throat, a sound of surrender and pure desire. In response, Carlos groaned, a low vibration against his lips, and pressed his body harder against Lando's. One of Carlos's hands slid down his spine, stopping at the small of his back to anchor him, to pull him closer still, until there wasn't a millimeter of space left between them.
The world had disappeared. The golf club, the electric carts, the other players, everything had ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of Carlos's body, the taste of his mouth, the pressure of his hands, and the fire spreading through Lando's veins, consuming all rational thought.
When they finally broke apart to catch their breath, they remained forehead to forehead, eyes closed, panting. Their ragged breaths mingled in the evening air.
"Wow," Lando breathed, his voice hoarse, his legs trembling.
Carlos let out a low, satisfied laugh. "Sí. Wow."
He placed another kiss, softer this time, on Lando's swollen lips, then one on his cheek, one on his temple.
"You see?" Carlos whispered against his skin. "Not embarrassed at all."
Lando laughed, a laugh of pure happiness and liberation. He nuzzled into Carlos's neck, breathing in his scent deeply.
"Me neither," he murmured.
They stayed entwined for a long time, in the golden silence of the twilight, as the first stars lit up above them. The missed golf ball was still there, an ignored witness to their first real kiss. Lando knew his swing still needed a lot of work. But there, in Carlos's arms, with the taste of their future on his lips, he felt for the first time in his life perfectly, incredibly, where he was meant to be. And that was a feeling far sweeter than any hole-in-one.
The winter air in London was crisp and joyful, filled with the scent of roasting chestnuts and the excited murmur of pre-holiday crowds. On Regent Street, the famous lights twinkled like a celestial vault over a sea of people. Lewis, bundled in a sober yet elegant cashmere coat, held Y/N's hand, letting himself be carried by the contagious festive energy. It was one of those rare days stolen from the frantic F1 calendar, a precious moment of normality he particularly cherished since they had been together.
Y/N, her face half-hidden by a thick wool scarf, snuggled against him, enjoying his warmth and the bubble his presence naturally created around them. After six months of dating, she had discovered a Lewis different from the public icon - softer, more attentive, and incredibly present in small moments like this one.
"Look at those decorations!" she exclaimed, pointing to an especially elaborate display in a department store window. "It's like the whole winter has gathered here."
Lewis squeezed her hand, his warm smile visible even in the dim light. "You're the one making this winter magical, you know." His compliment was sincere, without the slightest affectation. He had a way of looking at her that made her feel like the only person in the world.
They had been walking for about twenty minutes, laughing at the decorated windows, commenting on decorations that were sometimes kitschy, sometimes magnificent. The atmosphere was light, perfect, without the usual pressure of camera lenses or fans recognizing Lewis. In this London crowd rushing for last-minute shopping, they were just another couple among many.
And then he appeared, as if an obvious part of this fairy-tale setting. A Santa Claus, with a lovely, full white beard and a high-quality red velvet suit, far from the cheap costumes one sometimes saw. He stood near a chestnut stall, handing out candy to children with hearty, seemingly genuine "Ho ho ho!"s. His face, or at least what was visible between the beard and hat, had joyful wrinkles around his eyes.
Lewis, accustomed to being the center of attention, gave him a smile and a conspiratorial nod as they passed, as if greeting a colleague in costume. These moments of lightness, these simple, joyful interactions with strangers, were what he loved most about these public outings.
Santa spotted them and his face lit up with authentically joyful recognition.
"Well, look who it is! Lewis Hamilton himself! Merry Christmas to you!" he exclaimed in a deep, warm voice, without approaching intrusively, respecting their personal space.
"Merry Christmas to you too," replied Lewis, still smiling, stopping for a moment out of politeness and because the old man's kindness was rather touching.
He then felt a slight change in Y/N's hand. A subtle tensing, barely perceptible, like an involuntary reflex. He glanced at her quickly. She was still smiling, but it was a bit fixed, too perfect, and she had slightly shifted her position to be more in his blind spot, as if instinctively seeking his shadow without wanting to draw attention.
"A lovely evening for shopping!" continued Santa, still affable. His good cheer seemed genuinely contagious. "I bet you're looking for last-minute gifts. I know all of Santa's good tips, ho ho ho!"
"Something like that," confirmed Lewis, engaging in the conversation distractedly while keeping part of his attention on Y/N. He felt her hand becoming a bit clammy in his, and his thumb was stroking the back of her hand almost mechanically, as if to reassure her, without yet fully understanding what was wrong.
Santa, enthusiastic and visibly delighted by this improbable meeting, then pulled out his phone with an almost timid gesture. "I don't want to take up your time, but a quick photo? It would be a wonderful memory for me! Just one, quick, I promise!"
Lewis was about to agree, finding the fellow rather likable and touching in his enthusiasm. "Of course, no prob…"
His gaze then turned fully to Y/N to include her in the photo, and the words caught in his throat.
The smile had completely vanished from her face. She was ghostly pale, her eyes, slightly wide, were fixed on Santa's beard with an almost hypnotic intensity. She was barely blinking. Her body was stiff, and she was squeezing his hand with a force bordering on discomfort, as if it were a lifeline. She seemed to be holding her breath, completely frozen.
This was no longer simple discomfort or shyness. It was pure unease, a deeply rooted fear showing in every fiber of her being. Lewis's attempt at a joke to lighten the mood died on his lips. All trace of nonchalance vanished from his demeanor. His public smile faded, replaced by an expression of immediate concern and fierce protectiveness.
He turned to Santa, who, genial, was waiting with his phone raised, an uncertain smile beginning to form on his lips hidden by the beard.
"I'm sorry," said Lewis, his voice returning to that of the champion, calm but authoritative, leaving no room for discussion. "We have to leave. Immediately."
Without waiting for a reply, he slipped his arm around Y/N's waist, pulling her firmly but gently against him, and led her away with decisive steps, turning his back on Santa, whose smile had turned into an expression of surprise and confused disappointment.
Lewis ignored everything around them. He made his way through the crowd with a gentle but inflexible determination, guiding Y/N who seemed to walk like an automaton, her legs a bit stiff, her gaze still somewhat empty. He led her into an adjacent alley, quieter and dimly lit, away from the glitzy lights and deafening noise of the main street.
Once sheltered from view, in the bluish gloom of the alley where only the muffled sounds of the celebration reached them, he stood in front of her, holding both her shoulders, tilting his head slightly to meet her gaze.
"Y/N?" he called softly, his voice a murmur in the relative silence.
She didn't answer right away, her gaze was still a bit lost, glassy, as if she were looking through him. She was breathing a little too fast, too shallowly.
"Y/N, look at me. You're safe. It's me, Lewis." He spoke softly but with assurance, his hands firm but gentle on her shoulders.
She finally blinked, several times, as if slowly emerging from an unpleasant dream. Her gaze finally settled on his, and he immediately saw a deep shame, mixed with confusion, in her eyes.
"Lewis… I… I'm so sorry," she stammered, her voice barely audible, the words seeming to cost her immense effort. She looked away, fixing her eyes on the damp cobblestones at their feet.
"Shh. No. Don't be sorry." He drew her against him, enveloping her still-tense body in the thickness of his coat. "You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. Do you hear me? Nothing."
He held her close, feeling the last waves of tension gradually leave her body. He said nothing, simply rocking her gently, giving her time to collect herself. He breathed deeply, calmly, hoping his own calm would become contagious.
When she had calmed down a bit, when he felt her shoulders relax and her breathing return to a more normal rhythm, he pulled back just enough to see her face, without releasing his comforting embrace.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked, his voice incredibly soft, without any pressure. "What happened, sweetheart?"
She shook her head, her cheeks flushed with shame and embarrassment. She bit her lower lip, a tic he had learned to recognize as a sign of deep anxiety.
"It's… it's so stupid. Idiotic. You're going to think I'm crazy, or a capricious child."
He shook his head in turn, his gaze serious and full of an unmistakable affection. "Y/N, look at me." She finally raised her eyes to his. "Nothing you feel is idiotic. I promise you. I just saw the woman I love, usually so confident and radiant, turn into an ice statue because of a more-than-friendly Santa. So, please, help me understand. I want to understand."
Under his benevolent but insistent gaze, her defenses fell one by one. The words came out in a whisper, as if she were ashamed to speak them.
"Costumes… Masks… The ones that completely hide a face. I… I can't stand them. I can't." Her voice broke slightly.
She closed her eyes, as if it were physically painful to admit. "I can't see the expressions. I can't guess the intentions behind the mask. It's like a wall. A void. An absence. And it makes me… it makes me extremely uneasy. Deeply. Since I was a child. I don't even know why, there's no hidden trauma, just… this." She opened her eyes, her gaze pleading with his. "I know it's irrational. I know Santa was adorable. But my body, my mind, they react before I can reason."
Lewis listened, absorbing every word, his face a mask of empathetic concentration. He didn't interrupt her once, letting her unburden herself without the slightest judgment in his attitude. When she finished, he nodded slowly, a connection forming in his mind, suddenly illuminating many small details he had noted without understanding.
"So that's why," he murmured, as if speaking mostly to himself. "You never wear makeup. Or very little. Even for the most prestigious galas. Always natural."
She opened her eyes, surprised he had made the connection so quickly. She had never explicitly linked the two herself, but hearing it, it seemed a glaringly obvious connection. "Yes," she admitted in a whisper. "I hate that feeling. Like a mask on my skin. Heavy. Like I'm suffocating. I feel… hidden. Fake. Not myself."
A silence fell between them, filled only by the distant echoes of the celebration and the calm beating of their hearts. Lewis was thinking, his gaze lost in hers, assembling the puzzle pieces.
Then, a small, tender smile, devoid of any mockery, played on his lips. It was an understanding smile, almost relieved to finally have an explanation.
"You know, I'm terrified of onions."
Y/N blinked, disconcerted by the change of subject and the unexpected nature of the confidence. "… Onions?" she repeated, unsure she had heard correctly.
"Yes. Onions." He made a comical, exaggerated grimace, his eyes crinkling. "Well, when I have to cut them. Peeling them, chopping them…" He shook his head with a fake, dramatic sadness. "I burst into tears. It's a physical reaction, completely uncontrollable, I can't do anything about it. It's pretty pathetic, don't you think? The great Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion, defeated by a humble, layered vegetable."
A small laugh, weak but authentic, choked by the remnants of her emotion, escaped her. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." His smile softened, becoming more intimate. "So, you see, a fear of hidden faces, of masks… that's not ridiculous. It's not 'stupid'. It's your reaction. A part of you. Your brain, your instinct trying to protect you, even if the nice Santa on Regent Street, we can agree, is clearly not a threat to anyone."
The tears Y/N had been holding back finally flowed, but this time they were tears of pure relief. The crushing weight of shame and embarrassment dissipated, replaced by an immense feeling of understanding and acceptance. He wasn't making fun of her. He wasn't judging her. He understood, and he even found a way to reassure her, to normalize her fear by putting it in perspective with his own silly little weaknesses.
"I'm really sorry I ruined our evening," she murmured, snuggling again against his chest, her hands gripping the lapels of his coat.
"You didn't ruin it, Y/N," he corrected her softly, placing a prolonged kiss on her hair, breathing in her familiar scent. "You made it real. You trusted me. You showed me a part of you that no one else knows. And that, for me, is far more precious than any perfect walk under the Christmas lights."
He pulled back slightly, taking her hand. "Now, let's go home. We'll light the tree, make some hot chocolate with marshmallows, and curl up on the sofa under a blanket. An evening just for us, guaranteed no mascots, I promise."
Walking hand in hand towards the car, Y/N felt lighter than she had all evening. The crowd, the lights, everything seemed less oppressive.
"You know," Lewis said as he opened the car door for her with natural gallantry, "that settles the costume question for our first Halloween together. No ghosts, no skeletons, nothing with scary masks. At a push, I could dress as… an F1 driver. That would be in my comfort zone, and no mask."
She burst out laughing, a real laugh this time, which warmed the inside of the car and made her eyes shine. "You'd make a very convincing Superman, I think. Even without the cape."
"Superman, huh?" He laughed too as he started the engine. "Okay, but only if you promise to tell me if ever, and I mean even if it's for a reason that seems completely silly to you, I make you feel uncomfortable. Even with just a cap pulled too low over my eyes that hides my gaze."
"Promise," she murmured, squeezing his hand on the gearshift, her heart filled with a gratitude and love so strong they almost felt painful.
As they left London's twinkling lights behind them, heading for the warmth and intimacy of their home, Y/N knew she would never again have to bear the weight of this misunderstood fear alone. She had Lewis, her driver, her rock, the man who saw her fragilities not as weaknesses, but as parts of her he wanted to understand, protect, and cherish. And in the gentle quiet of their journey home, she found the most beautiful and comforting Christmas peace.
The calm that reigned in Max's Monaco home on this day off was almost as intense as the roar of his RB19 on a qualifying lap. It was a rare bubble, preserved from the chaos of the paddock. For a few weeks now, Y/N had been sharing this space with him more and more often. Their relationship was new, intense but still hesitant, like a cold engine searching for its rhythm. They hadn't crossed all the steps of intimacy yet, navigating an in-between space made of lingering glances, brushed hands, and eloquent silences.
That day, they were sprawled on the large living room sofa, legs intertwined, watching a documentary about sharks. The atmosphere was soft, peaceful. Max's arm was around Y/N's shoulders, his hand drawing absent-minded circles on her arm. She felt good, safe, incredibly attracted to this man so sure of himself on the track, but who proved surprisingly gentle and reserved in private.
The documentary became less captivating than the sensation of his skin against hers. She turned slightly towards him, her face a few centimeters from his. Her gaze settled on his lips, then rose to his blue eyes watching her with an intensity that took her breath away.
"Max," she murmured, her voice lower, huskier than she intended.
He didn't answer, but his gaze darkened, fixing on her lips. The air around them became electric. Slowly, he leaned in, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the contact.
Their first real kiss was full of contrasts. It began with infinite softness, a question whispered against her mouth. Then, like an engine revving up, it became more urgent, deeper, charged with all the unspoken words of the past weeks. It was even more incredible than she had imagined.
Carried away by the sensation, Y/N slid a hand over his chest, feeling the firm muscles of his abdomen contract under the thin cotton of his t-shirt. She smiled inwardly. He was so solid. Her fingers wandered lower, seeking to feel the warmth of his skin. She gently grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, ready to lift it an inch or two, just for that more direct contact.
The reaction was lightning fast.
Max stiffened as if he'd received an electric shock. The kiss broke off abruptly. He grabbed her wrist, not brutally, but with a firmness that brooked no argument, and moved her hand away from his t-shirt.
"Sorry," he said in a strangled voice, pulling back sharply on the sofa, creating a sudden space between them. "I… I forgot. I have a thing. About the data. From yesterday's session. I need to go check."
He stood up so fast he almost made himself dizzy, carefully avoiding her gaze, and headed towards his desk at the other end of the room, leaving her alone, confused and heart pounding on the sofa.
The cold of abandonment washed over her. What just happened? One moment they were connected, living a perfect moment. The next, he was fleeing as if she had the plague. She thought about his pathetic excuse. The data? Now? Even she, who knew nothing about race strategy, knew that was a pretext.
Confusion gradually gave way to deeper reflection. And that's when the flashes started to roll in her mind, like scenes from a movie she hadn't known how to interpret.
She saw herself again, on a sweltering afternoon the previous summer, around the pool on the rooftop terrace of his apartment. She was swimming, cooled by the water, while Max was lying on a lounger in the shade. He was wearing a dark cotton t-shirt and swim trunks, a towel over his legs.
"Aren't you coming for a swim?" she had called out, leaning on the edge of the pool. "The water's perfect."
"No, it's fine, I like relaxing here," he had replied, adjusting his sunglasses.
"But you must be terribly hot in that t-shirt, no?"
He had shrugged, a gesture she knew well and which, in retrospect, always seemed a bit forced in these situations. "I burn easily. I'd rather avoid."
Another flash, more recent, from a morning jogging session along the harbor. She had joined him, wearing leggings and a tank top. He, despite the already heavy humidity and the impending effort, wore a grey hoodie and sweatpants. After twenty minutes, his face was red and covered in sweat, the fabric of the hoodie dark with perspiration on his chest and back.
"Are you sure you don't want to take off your hoodie?" she had asked, panting. "Looks like you're melting."
"No, it's fine, I'm used to it," he had replied between ragged breaths. "It's for muscle recovery. Keeping the heat in."
She had found the explanation strange, but accepted it, putting it down to the weird routines of elite athletes.
Then came the memory of a dinner on the terrace a few weeks earlier. The evening was mild, and most of the men had taken off their jackets or sweaters, remaining in shirts or t-shirts. Max, however, had stayed in his light denim jacket, even when Y/N, sitting next to him, had touched his arm.
"Aren't you hot?" she had whispered.
"A bit, but I prefer it this way," he had murmured back, looking away towards the city lights. "I don't really like being shirtless in public."
At the time, she had interpreted this as simple modesty, a character trait. But now, connected to his panicked flight on the sofa, these moments took on a completely different dimension. It wasn't modesty. It was a strategy of avoidance. A constant.
She waited for him to return, sitting in silence, her heart beating a little less fast, replaced by a calm determination. He finally came back, dragging his feet, looking sheepish.
"The data was… fine," he announced, about as convincing as slick tires in the rain.
She didn't smile. She looked him straight in the eye. "Max, sit down. Please."
He hesitated, then obeyed, sitting on the edge of the sofa, stiff as a board.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly. "Really."
"Nothing. I told you, I just had…"
"No." She interrupted him, her voice firm but full of tenderness. "Stop. It's not the data. It's not the sun. It's not the pool. It's something else. And I want to know. Because I thought… I thought what was happening between us was good."
His face closed off. "It is good. Very good."
"Then why did you run when I touched your t-shirt?"
The silence that followed was heavy, palpable. Max stared at his hands, his jaw clenched. She could almost feel the battle raging inside him.
"Max," she insisted, moving a little closer without touching him. "You can trust me."
He finally looked up at her, and what she saw there squeezed her heart. It wasn't anger. It was shame. A deep vulnerability she had never seen in him.
"You're going to find this… pathetic," he murmured, looking away again.
"Try me."
He took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive into the deep end. "You see the others… Charles, Carlos, even Lando…" His voice was low, almost inaudible. "They're… cut. They have those abs, those bodies of… fitness models."
Y/N looked at him, not understanding at first. Then, the penny dropped.
"Me, I'm… me," he continued with a shrug that tried to be casual but was anything but. "I'm strong. I'm fit. I can drive a car for two hours at 5G. But I don't have… that." He made a vague gesture towards his own chest. "I don't have a six-pack. I'm just… soft."
The word "soft" came out like a spit, loaded with all the contempt he seemed to have for that part of himself.
Y/N stayed silent for a moment, letting his words resonate. The revelation was both incredible and tragic. Max Verstappen, the triple world champion, the most dominant man on the planet on a circuit, was insecure about his own body. He compared himself to the others, to those sculpted physiques displayed in magazines.
"Do you really believe that?" she finally asked, her voice tinged with gentle disbelief.
"It's a fact, Y/N," he said, a little louder, as if it relieved him to have said it. "Look at the pictures. I'm the most… normal of us all. I don't have the time or the desire to spend my life in the gym to get abs. I'm here to win races. But…" He hesitated. "…but sometimes, I think you must find it… disappointing."
"Disappointing?" she repeated, as if learning a new word.
She then stood up and knelt in front of him, forcing him to look at her. She took his face in her hands, her thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones.
"Max Verstappen," she began, her gaze not leaving his. "Listen to me. You are the most incredible driver I have ever seen. You're funny, unfailingly loyal, and much smarter than people think. You make me feel safer and more desired than anyone."
She paused, making sure every word was imprinting on him.
"And this body," she glanced down for a moment at his chest, then back to his eyes, "this body you find 'normal' or 'soft', is the body that handles a race car with the precision of a surgeon. It's the body that won four world championships. It's the body that holds me and makes me melt."
A glimmer of incomprehension, then hope, crossed his blue eyes.
"I don't care about six-packs, Max. Truly. What I want to touch is you. Not an image in a magazine. Not an idea of what a driver 'should' have. You. Your champion's body. The real one."
Max's defenses seemed to crumble one by one. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if overwhelmed by her words.
"You're not just saying that to…?"
"No," she interrupted firmly. "I'm not here for that. I'm here for you."
She leaned in and placed a soft, slow kiss on his lips. This time, he didn't pull away. He returned the kiss, one hand moving up into her hair to pull her closer.
When they separated, he kept his forehead against hers.
"I'm an idiot," he whispered.
"A bit, yes," she admitted, smiling. "But you're my idiot."
He took her hand and, after a brief hesitation, guided it under his t-shirt, pressing it against the warm, firm skin of his abdomen. There might not have been perfectly defined six-pack abs, but there was the palpable strength of real muscle, the warmth of life, the tangible proof of the power that made him unique.
"Okay," he whispered, his eyes shining with a new emotion. "No more secrets."
Y/N smiled, feeling under her palm not an imperfect body, but the fortress of the man she loved. She had just won a victory far more important than any Grand Prix: she had pierced the champion's shell to touch the heart of the man, insecurities and all. And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she wouldn't trade this "normal" body for any other in the world.
Lewis Hamilton x Tp (Y/N), Daniel Ricciardo x Heidi, Max Verstappen x Kelly
Title: Strength and the Crack
That morning, Monaco breathed the sweetness of life. From the hotel terrace, Y/N watched the harbor's bustle, a precious serenity at the heart of the Grand Prix tumult. Lewis was already at the circuit, immersed in the immutable ritual of technical briefings. Their own ritual meant she would join him later, avoiding the morning crowds.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Heidi. "Kelly and I are downstairs. Shall we go?"
A few minutes later, they met on the sidewalk, bathed in sunlight. Heidi had tied her VIP pass around her neck, the precious passkey shining in the sun. Kelly and Y/N had done the same, the passes hanging like medals from a parallel world.
"I love this walk," declared Heidi, adjusting her sunglasses. "A bit of calm in the middle of the chaos."
Smiling, Y/N simply nodded. These moments with Heidi and Kelly had become a precious ritual. Heidi, with her Australian calm and teasing sense of humor, and Kelly, the former model turned blogger, always poised and pragmatic, formed a tight-knit trio with her, a bubble of normality and mutual support.
They set off on the main avenue, lively and elegant. Luxury shops passed by, and café terraces were packed with tourists and locals enjoying the fine weather. Their passes, clearly visible, sometimes attracted admiring or curious glances. For once, Y/N didn't find them oppressive. They were part of the scenery.
They laughed about Daniel's latest antics, shared news from their respective lives. Kelly talked about her career, Heidi mentioned a travel project to Australia. Y/N felt light, happy in this solid friendship.
It was then that a group of four men, sitting at a terrace, noticed them. Their gazes, initially distracted, fixed on the glittering passes. One of them, a man with a hard face and imposing build, stood up and approached, almost blocking their path.
"Well, what do we have here?" he drawled, his voice contemptuous. "The F1 princesses out for a stroll? These little badges must open all the doors for you, huh?"
Y/N felt her stomach clench. "Let's ignore them," she whispered, trying to skirt around the group.
But another man, younger, positioned himself in front of Kelly. "You must be loaded, with your driver boyfriends. A little gesture for the less fortunate, no?"
The scene unfolded in broad daylight, on a crowded avenue. People passed by, cast a glance, but no one intervened. Some looked away, embarrassed. Others watched, frozen, as if witnessing a spectacle they didn't know how to handle. The crowd, instead of being a protection, became a silent and powerless wall.
"Let us pass," Kelly said in a clear voice, but Y/N could sense the tension in her posture.
The tallest man grabbed Heidi's pass and tugged sharply on the lanyard, making her stumble towards him. "Give me that, I'll take a tour of the paddock for you."
Y/N's heart began to race. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced her chest. But another, stronger emotion took over: a fierce determination. She wouldn't let this happen. She couldn't let this happen. Showing weakness was not an option. Without thinking, driven by a visceral instinct to protect, Y/N lunged forward and struck the man's arm. "Let her go!"
The reaction was lightning fast. The man, surprised and furious, shoved her violently. Y/N lost her balance and hit the sharp edge of a metal bollard, a flash of pain shooting through her side. She stifled a cry.
Heidi, freed, screamed: "Help! Someone!"
Kelly, using her phone, briefly filmed the scene while dialing the security number. "I'm warning you, circuit security is on its way and I've filmed everything!" she shouted, her voice carrying over the ambient noise.
The combination of the unexpected resistance, the screams, and the threat of being filmed made the assailants hesitate. Their leader cursed, throwing a furious look around him, at the crowd which was finally starting to murmur, a few people pulling out their phones.
"Come on, it's not worth it," one of them grumbled.
They backed away and then melted into the crowd, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the panting breaths of the three women. Y/N, pale, was holding her side, a sharp pain stabbing her torso with every breath. Heidi was trembling, her pass now crumpled and twisted around her neck. Kelly, her face set, hung up her phone.
The three women looked at each other, panting, clothes disheveled, hair messy. Y/N's hands were trembling, but she clenched them into fists, refusing to show it.
"Is everyone okay?" asked Kelly, pragmatic, inspecting Heidi who nodded, her face pale.
"Yes. Just… shocked," murmured Heidi.
Y/N simply gave a sharp nod. She could feel the black eye starting to swell on her temple, where she had received an elbow, and a dull ache in her shoulder. But she stood straight, chin raised.
Security arrived in less than two minutes. The journey to the circuit, in the back of an armored 4x4, was tense and silent. Y/N stared at the passing landscape, refusing to meet her friends' eyes, afraid her mask would crack.
In the paddock, the medical center was a haven of cold light and the smell of antiseptic. The doctor examined them quickly. Heidi and Kelly had a few scratches and bruises. Y/N, in addition to her eye which was turning purple, had a mild sprain in her wrist.
Meanwhile in the Monaco paddock, the energy was at its peak. Christian Horner, his face unusually grave, strode down the central alley with purpose. He passed Toto Wolff near the Mercedes garages. Their eyes met, and without a word, an immediate understanding was established. Andreas Seidl, the McLaren team principal, joined them, drawn by their demeanor.
"Christian? Toto? Is something wrong?" asked Seidl.
Horner took a deep breath. "An incident. Kelly, Y/N, and Heidi. Assault in town. They're in the medical center. Shocked, but physically out of danger."
The three team principals exchanged a meaningful look. They knew what this meant.
"We need to tell them. Together," declared Wolff, pragmatic. "It's better they hear it from us, as a group, rather than through rumors."
They walked quickly towards the drivers' briefing room, a neutral space where several drivers, including Lewis, Max, and Daniel, were casually discussing the upcoming practice session. Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz were also present, talking with Lando Norris.
The solemn, grouped arrival of the three team principals immediately silenced the conversations. All eyes turned to them, sensing the urgency in the atmosphere.
Christian Horner spoke, his voice clear and measured, but carrying a gravity that chilled the room.
"Gentlemen, excuse the interruption. We have important and difficult news to share."
He paused, letting a silence heavy with ill omen settle.
"There was a serious incident in town about twenty minutes ago. Kelly, Y/N, and Heidi were walking to the circuit when they were assaulted by a group of individuals."
The news hit the room like a shockwave. Smiles vanished, replaced by horrified disbelief.
Lewis Hamilton turned ghostly pale. He stiffened, his hands gripping the chair in front of him. "Assaulted? How? Are they alright?" he asked, his voice oddly calm, but his eyes betraying an inner storm.
Max Verstappen froze completely. His face, usually so impenetrable, tightened like a fist. His blue eyes turned to glaciers, scanning the faces of the principals as if looking for a flaw, a mistake in this announcement.
Daniel Ricciardo, usually so expressive, was left speechless. His legendary smile had completely vanished, replaced by an expression of stupefaction and pure fear. "Heidi…," he managed to whisper.
Toto Wolff took over. "They are safe and sound. Circuit security intervened quickly. They have some bruises and are in shock, but nothing critical. They are currently in the paddock medical center."
Andreas Seidl added, addressing Daniel in particular: "They were very brave. They fought back."
The other drivers present, Charles, Carlos, and Lando, watched the scene, silent and supportive, understanding the gravity of the situation for their colleagues and friends.
The seconds that followed were electric. The three affected men seemed to be processing the information, the shock having first frozen them.
Then, instinct took over.
Max was the first to move. Without a word, without a glance at anyone, he turned on his heel and headed for the exit with quick, determined steps. His body was tense to the extreme, a raw and dangerous energy emanating from him.
Lewis followed almost immediately, his face remaining stoic but his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. He caught up with Max in a few strides.
Daniel, shaken from his stupor, joined them, his face marked by a worry rarely seen on him.
They formed a silent, wounded trio, moving with synchronized steps through the paddock. Their shoulders almost touched, an unspoken solidarity in the ordeal. They ignored the world around them, their minds already in the medical center, with their partners.
Charles, Carlos, and Lando watched them leave, motionless, their faces grave. The lightness of the paddock had suddenly vanished, replaced by the weight of a violent and brutal reality.
It was then that the medical center door opened. Daniel Ricciardo entered first, his usually cheerful face distorted by worry. He saw Heidi and rushed to her, hugging her with an audible sigh of relief. "My God, Heidi…"
Max Verstappen appeared next, his piercing blue gaze sweeping the room until it settled on Kelly. He crossed the room with quick steps, and without a word, pulled her against him. His embrace was firm, silent, but everything spoke of the inner storm. "Are you okay?" he finally murmured, his voice hoarse.
Then Lewis arrived.
He stood on the threshold, motionless. His gaze, intense and somber, scanned the room, assessing the situation, taking note of Heidi in Daniel's arms, Kelly held close by Max, and finally, Y/N, sitting upright and pale on the examination table, an ice pack on her temple.
He approached slowly, his eyes never leaving her. He said nothing. He simply placed a hand on her knee, a firm, warm contact that almost made her lose her precious control.
"Are you hurt?" he asked finally, his voice strangely low.
"Nothing serious. A sprained wrist. And this," she said, pointing to her eye, in a tone she tried to keep detached, but which trembled slightly.
He nodded, his gaze scanning her face with painful attention. He saw beyond the physical injuries. He saw the tension in her jaw, the veil of pride in her eyes, the superhuman effort to remain dignified.
The formalities with security over, they left the medical center. Daniel, an arm around Heidi's shoulders, was already joking to lighten the atmosphere, but his laughter sounded forced. Max, still silent, held Kelly's hand, his expression impenetrable but his body taut as a bow.
Lewis walked beside Y/N, his shoulder brushing against hers, a silent and vigilant presence. They returned to the Mercedes motorhome, a familiar and secure space.
Once inside, the door closed on the noise of the outside world, Lewis turned to her.
"Now, you can let go," he said softly.
It was as if a thread had been pulled. The wall of pride she had built stone by stone since the assault collapsed all at once. A sob, hoarse and strangled, escaped her. Then another. The tears she had held back with such force began to flow, hot and uncontrollable, tracing paths down her cheeks.
She trembled all over, her shoulders shaking with spasms. Lewis said nothing. He didn't try to console her with words. He simply opened his arms.
She threw herself against him, burying her face in the hollow of his neck, her hands clutching the fabric of his t-shirt. She cried out all the pent-up fear, all the humiliation, all the helpless rage. She cried for the violence of the hands on her, the ugliness of the stares, the frightening vulnerability she had felt.
Lewis held her very tight, one hand in her hair, the other tracing slow, soothing circles on her back. He rocked her gently, murmuring "shh" and "I'm here" into her hair. He let her drain herself of all that tension, offering a refuge to the strong woman who could no longer bear to be strong.
Long minutes later, when the sobs became less violent, when they were only trembling hiccups, she snuggled against him, exhausted.
"Sorry," she whispered, her voice broken.
"No," he said firmly, pulling back to take her face in his hands. His thumbs wiped her tears with infinite gentleness. "Never be sorry for that. You were incredibly brave. You fought back. You protected your friends. You held it together for them. But with me, you don't have to be brave. With me, you can be you. Weak, strong, it doesn't matter. You are safe."
She looked at him, her swollen eyes full of immense gratitude. He had understood. He had seen her inner struggle and offered her the only place where she could stop fighting.
He placed a soft kiss on her forehead, then on her closed eyelids, and finally, with infinite care, on the purple bruise on her temple.
"No one will ever touch you again," he promised, and it wasn't an empty declaration, but a cold, determined truth from a man who had just seen his most precious thing threatened.
That evening, curled up in the silence of their hotel room, Y/N felt different. The fear was still there, in the background, but it was counterbalanced by the sensation of Lewis's quiet strength around her. She hadn't needed to stay strong alone. She had been able to be strong, and then, finally, fragile. And he had loved her in both states. True strength, she realized, wasn't about never showing weakness, but about knowing who to entrust it to when it became too heavy to carry alone. And she had found that man.
Max Verstappen x Tp (Y/N), Charles Leclerc x Alexandra, Carlos Sainz x Rebecca
The Hôtel de Monaco glittered with the luxurious, hushed calm of Grand Prix mornings. From the suite, Y/N watched the Mediterranean Sea, a feeling of impatience mixed with serenity in her heart. Max was already at the circuit, absorbed in the final adjustments to his Red Bull. Their ritual was set: she would join him later, avoiding the early hours' bustle.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Alexandra, Charles Leclerc's partner. "Shall we go? Rebecca is joining us."
A few minutes later, they met in the lobby, a smiling, close-knit trio. Alexandra, elegant and composed, embodied a reassuring calm. Rebecca, with the Spanish sun in her eyes, overflowed with contagious energy. Y/N, more reserved, found in their friendship a precious anchor in the sometimes suffocating world of F1.
"Perfect weather for walking," declared Rebecca, adjusting her sunglasses. "These streets are so beautiful without the crowd."
They stepped out, their VIP passes discreetly attached to their bags. The first meters were a pleasant stroll. They talked about everything and nothing, about the previous day's race, summer plans, laughing heartily at an anecdote about their respective drivers. The bond uniting them was palpable, a bubble of normality in a mad environment.
They turned onto a narrower, sloping street that would lead them to the back of the paddock. The atmosphere changed imperceptibly. Luxury boutiques gave way to more anonymous residential buildings. The noise of the circuit was a distant bass, covered by the sudden silence of the alley.
It was then that a group of four men, leaning against a wall, noticed them. Their gazes, initially inquisitive, settled on the passes attached to their bags. Thick, laminated badges, displaying the F1 and team logos. A passkey to a world of privilege.
"Well, what do we have here?" one of them called out, a tall guy with a nasty smile, detaching himself from the wall. "Princesses getting lost?"
Y/N's heart raced. "Let's ignore them," she whispered to her friends, quickening her pace slightly.
But the group fanned out, blocking their path. The air was suddenly heavy, threatening.
"These badges must be worth a lot, right?" said another, shorter man, his eyes fixed on Alexandra's bag. "Or what's inside."
"Let us pass, please," Alexandra said in a firm voice, although Y/N perceived a slight tremor in her hands.
"We'll let you pass, don't worry, sweetheart," sneered the first man. "After a little exchange."
The situation escalated in a handful of seconds. One of them grabbed Rebecca's arm, who tried to pull away with a muffled cry. Another moved dangerously close to Alexandra. Y/N, paralyzed by fear, felt a hand close on her shoulder, pulling her backward.
Adrenaline then overwhelmed her terror. "LET GO OF ME!" she screamed, struggling with a strength she didn't know she possessed.
It was a confused and terrifying scuffle. Rebecca elbowed her attacker in the ribs, who let go with a grunt. Alexandra, backed against a wall, held her bag like a shield, her eyes blazing with cold anger. Y/N, freed, tried to grab her phone, but it slipped from her hands and skidded across the ground.
"Call security!" she shouted to Rebecca, who had managed to draw her own phone.
The noise of the voices and altercation had drawn attention. A door opened in a nearby building, and an elderly man came out, brandishing his cell phone.
"I'm calling the police! Get out of here!" he shouted in a loud voice.
The presence of a witness, the unexpected aggression of the three women, and the prospect of police intervention defeated the assailants. With a final threatening look and a curse, they turned on their heels and fled down the street, disappearing into a maze of alleys.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the panting breaths of the three friends. They looked at each other, shocked, trembling. Their clothes were disheveled, their hair a mess. Rebecca was holding her elbow, a bruise already beginning to appear. Alexandra clutched her bag to herself, her face as white as a sheet.
The F1 private security, alerted by Rebecca's call and likely by the resident, arrived in less than two minutes. Two agents with grave expressions immediately surrounded them, putting them safely into an armored vehicle.
The drive to the circuit was made in a leaden silence. Y/N stared out the window without seeing, the image of the men, their cruel smiles, their hands on her, imprinted on her retina. She could still feel the pressure of the fingers on her shoulder.
In the paddock, the atmosphere was electric, focused on the race. They were taken directly to the medical center, a sterile and quiet room. A doctor examined them quickly. No serious injuries, just scratches, bruises, and deep psychological shock.
Meanwhile, in the paddock, the atmosphere was at its peak. The engines of the preparing cars roared intermittently, barely covering the palpable excitement. Max Verstappen was glued to the data screens in his Red Bull garage, his headset on his ears, blocking out the external noise to concentrate on the final adjustments. His posture was that of a warrior in absolute focus mode: back straight, piercing gaze, a slight leg movement betraying his controlled impatience.
A few garages away, Charles Leclerc, leaning over the cockpit of his Ferrari, was discussing vigorously with his engineer, pointing at a detail on the front wing. His gestures were sharp, passionate. Carlos Sainz, meanwhile, was still smiling for a final interview, but his mind was already on the track, his gaze occasionally flicking towards the timing screens.
Suddenly, the immutable ritual was broken.
Christian Horner, his face unusually grave, approached Max and touched his shoulder. Max started, removing one earpiece.
"Max. We have a problem."
Max looked up, annoyed by the interruption. "What? The wing data?"
"No. It's Y/N."
In a fraction of a second, Max's expression changed completely. Irritation gave way to cold incomprehension, then to immediate worry. "What is it? Is she hurt?"
"She's safe and sound," Horner hastened to say, placing a calming hand. "But there was an incident on the way to the circuit. An assault. With Alexandra and Rebecca."
Max's world stopped turning. The noise of the engines became a distant buzz. Assault. The word echoed like a gunshot in his head.
"Where is she?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm, already standing up.
"In the paddock medical center. Security took them there. Nothing serious, but they're in shock."
Max didn't listen to the end of the sentence. He had already ripped off his headset and thrown it onto the stool, making his way through the garage with brutal urgency. He ignored the surprised looks from his mechanics.
At the same moment, in the Ferrari garage, Fred Vasseur drew Charles aside with a sharp gesture. Seeing the closed expression on his team principal's face, Charles felt his stomach clench.
"Charles, listen to me. Alexandra is fine. But there was a problem."
Charles's eyes widened. "Alex? What? Where is she?"
"In the medical center. She, Y/N, and Rebecca were harassed by a group while walking here. Everything is fine, they are safe," Vasseur repeated, seeing the panic rising in the Monegasque's eyes.
Charles turned pale. Without a word, he rushed towards the exit, almost shoving a photographer out of the way. His heart was pounding, nightmarish images invading his mind.
Carlos, finishing his interview, saw the two team principals speaking to their drivers with unusual urgency. Then he saw Max and Charles take off like madmen in the same direction. His smile vanished. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
He approached his engineer. "What's going on?"
A few seconds later, he was told the news. Rebecca. Assault. The words hit him like a physical blow. The air left his lungs. The phlegmatic, always-smiling driver felt a cold anger and fear mixing in his veins.
The three men converged almost simultaneously in the paddock's central alley, their gazes briefly crossing. No words were needed. In each man's eyes was the same storm: helpless rage, visceral fear, and a fierce determination to reach their partners.
They advanced with quick, decisive steps, forming a united and silent front, ignoring media calls, cutting through the crowd like ships parting waves. Their minds, usually occupied by the pressure of performance, were now entirely focused on a single goal: to see them, to touch them, to ensure they were real and in one piece.
When they pushed open the medical center door, the scene that greeted them twisted their hearts and guts. The three women, pale, with survival blankets over their shoulders, bore the visible marks of their ordeal.
It was then that the wave of retrospective terror truly overwhelmed them. Their hurried arrival, described above, marked the beginning of the long process of comforting and rebuilding their sense of security. The race, suddenly, seemed incredibly, trivially, distant.
A few minutes later, the medical center door flew open.
Max entered first. His gaze swept the room and fixed on Y/N, sitting on the edge of the examination table, a survival blanket around her shoulders. His face, usually so impenetrable, was distraught. Extreme pallor, a jaw clenched tight enough to shatter teeth, and in his blue eyes, a storm of rage and retrospective fear.
He crossed the room in three strides and, without a word, pulled her against him. His embrace was wild, almost brutal, as if he needed to assure himself she was real, solid, alive. He buried his face in her hair, and she felt his body tremble.
"My God, Y/N…" he murmured in a hoarse, broken voice. "When they told me…"
He couldn't finish the sentence. He held her tighter, and she snuggled against him, finally feeling the fear leave her, replaced by the dizzying relief of being safe in his arms.
A few seconds later, Charles burst in, followed closely by Carlos. Charles had wild eyes, darting from his wife, Alexandra, who was rising to meet him, to Y/N and Rebecca, as if to verify his whole world was still there. He grabbed Alexandra and held her tight, murmuring words in French, rapid, laden with raw emotion.
Carlos, meanwhile, was more contained, but his face was grave. He approached Rebecca, took her face in his hands to examine the nascent bruise on her elbow, and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "Mi amor…" he murmured, his voice laden with a worry that contrasted with his usual phlegm.
For long minutes, the room held only murmurs, silent embraces, the sound of breaths gradually calming upon contact with their loved ones. Track rivalries no longer existed. They were just three men terrified at the thought of having lost what mattered most.
Max finally pulled back, keeping his hands on Y/N's shoulders. His eyes scanned her face, searching for traces of the assault.
"Did they touch you? Did they hurt you?" he asked, his voice firmer now, but marked by a vulnerability she rarely saw in him.
"Just a bit shaken. We got through it," she assured him, placing a hand on his cheek to soothe him. "Thanks to Rebecca and Alexandra. We fought back."
Max turned his gaze to the other two women, and in his eyes, Y/N read immense respect and gratitude.
Charles, who still held Alexandra close, looked up. "They spotted them because of the badges," he said in a muted voice, a bitter observation.
Carlos nodded, pragmatic. "We'll need to review the discretion of those things."
The head of security returned, confirming that the Monaco police were on the case and that additional measures would be taken for the safety of family members during transit.
Later, as the initial shock subsided, the three couples found themselves in the paddock's private garden, away from prying eyes. The race was still ongoing, but for them, the world had recentered on this space, on this solidarity forged in adversity.
Max was sitting next to Y/N, not taking his eyes off her, his hand on hers like an anchor point.
"I should never have let you walk," he said finally, his voice low.
"It's not your fault, Max," she replied softly. "We couldn't have known."
He shook his head, his gaze dark. "I know. But it doesn't change anything. Seeing that… thinking about what could have happened…" He squeezed her hand. "Nothing and no one will ever touch you again."
It wasn't an empty promise. It was a declaration, cold and determined, from a man used to controlling everything who had just experienced the brutality of powerlessness.
As the sun began to set over Monaco, they were still there, gathered. The ordeal had left its mark, a fear that would take time to fade. But it had also cemented something stronger: the certainty that, in this world of speed and danger, their love and friendship were the only ramparts that truly mattered. And that evening, as the engines fell silent, the greatest prize they had won was being together, safe and sound, and more united than ever.
The gentle torpor of a Sunday afternoon in Monaco hung over the apartment. Lewis, lying on the white leather sofa, was scrolling through race data on his tablet, a lounge jazz playlist providing a soft soundtrack. Y/N, curled up against him with a book in hand, was slowly drifting into a nap, lulled by the warmth of the sun and the steady breathing of the man she loved. The peace was absolute.
Until she saw it.
A quick shadow, too large, too hairy, darting from the cushion towards the back of the sofa. A spider. Not a harmless little bug, no. A monstrous creature, with a body the size of a hazelnut and disproportionately long legs that seemed to cover a vast territory. A harvestman, as she would later learn, but at that precise moment, it was simply the embodiment of her most visceral terror.
A small, strangled, high-pitched cry escaped her. Her book slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. She instantly curled up, pulling her legs to her chest, eyes wide, fixed on the spot where the creature had disappeared.
Lewis jolted, his concentration broken. "What is it?" he asked, alarmed, following her terrified gaze.
"A... a...", she stammered, unable to say the word, her trembling finger pointing at the back of the sofa. "There. It's there."
Lewis leaned over, intrigued. He slightly moved the cushion. Nothing. Then he saw a thin, brown leg peeking out from a fold in the leather. The spider, frightened, had taken refuge in a crease.
"Ah," he said simply, straightening up.
Lewis's "ah," so calm, so devoid of any emotion, made her shiver. For her, it was a declaration of war. For him, it was... an insect.
"Kill it," she begged, her voice broken by panic. "Please, Lewis, kill it right now."
Lewis looked at her, really looked this time. He saw her ashen face, her dilated pupils, her hands gripping her knees so tightly her knuckles were white. This wasn't disgust. It was pure, animal, paralyzing fear. A phobia.
He put his tablet down and stood up with a slowness that almost made her scream with impatience.
"Lewis, now!"
"Shh, schatje. I'm handling it," he said in a soft voice, the kind you use with a frightened animal.
But instead of looking for a shoe or a newspaper, he headed to the kitchen. She heard him open a cupboard. What is he doing? Making a snack for the monster?
He came back with a large crystal glass and a sheet of stiff cardstock.
"What are you doing?" she asked, horrified.
"I'm going to release it," he announced calmly, as if giving the weather forecast.
"RELEASE IT?!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet on the sofa, ready to swim to Nice if necessary. "No! Lewis, no! It will reproduce and invade the apartment! It will come back! It will bite me in my sleep!"
He approached the sofa, ignoring her hysterical protests. "Y/N, breathe. Look." He leaned over with a sudden focus, the kind he usually reserved for on-track overtakes. "It's more afraid of you than you are of it."
He carefully slid the piece of paper between the cushion and the back, creating a platform. Then, with surgical precision, he placed the glass over the area where the spider was hiding. There was a tiny quiver under the glass.
"There. Captured."
Y/N, from her perch on the sofa, watched him, torn between admiration for his composure and the urge to snatch the glass from his hands and pulverize the critter.
Lewis slid the paper under the glass, trapping the spider without harming it. He lifted the whole thing and walked towards the large window leading to the terrace.
"No! Not that way! It will stay on the terrace and get in through another window!" she moaned.
He smiled, a real, beaming smile this time. "Would you prefer I keep it as a souvenir? In a little box on the mantelpiece?"
She shot him a look that could melt steel. He laughed and opened the French window. He walked a few steps onto the terrace, over a patch of plants, and released the intruder. The little creature darted away to hide in the leaves in the blink of an eye.
When he came back, he crossed his arms and looked at her, still perched on the sofa like a statue of Terror.
"Right. Now, we talk," he said, leaning against the doorframe.
"About what?" she asked, suspiciously scanning the floor as if an army of arachnids was preparing to attack.
"About this." He gestured towards the sofa. "About your fear."
She finally climbed down, her legs still wobbly. "It's a phobia, Lewis. It's not logical. It's... visceral."
He approached and pulled her against him. She snuggled in, seeking the reassuring warmth of his body.
"I can see it's not logical. But I also see it's very, very real for you." He kissed her hair. "Next time, tell me right away. Don't just stay there, paralyzed."
"I thought you'd find me ridiculous," she admitted in a murmur against his chest.
He pulled back slightly to look her in the eyes. "Ridiculous? Y/N, I've seen elite pilots panic because of a wasp in their cockpit. Fear is never ridiculous. It's just... there."
He had that look, intense and sincere, that always made her melt. "So, what do we do? Because I promise you, it has friends."
He thought for a moment, his engineer's mind clearly at work. "We establish a protocol."
"A protocol?"
"Yes. Like in F1. Code Red: spider detected. The driver – that's you – immediately signals the obstacle. The team – that's me – intervenes with the appropriate strategy. Capture and release in a safe zone, far from the start line."
She couldn't help but smile. "You're completely crazy."
"You're the one who just spent five minutes doing the samba on my 5000-euro sofa because of a two-gram insect. I'm not sure I'm the crazier one here."
She gave him a little tap on the arm, laughing. The tension had finally subsided.
"Okay," she said, hugging him again. "Protocol accepted. But..."
"But?"
"If you ever see one in the bathroom... you swear you'll never tell me? Even after you've released it?"
Lewis burst out laughing, a rich, joyful sound that filled the room. "Deal. I'll even sign a confidentiality agreement."
That night, as they slipped into bed, Y/N felt safer than ever. Not because Lewis had eliminated all the spiders in the principality, but because he had taken her fear seriously. He hadn't minimized it or mocked it. He had handled it with the same calm and efficiency as a technical problem with his race car.
As she was falling asleep, she murmured: "You know, for a guy who's afraid of nothing, you're pretty good at handling other people's fears."
He held her a little tighter. "I'm not afraid of nothing. I'm afraid of seeing you afraid. That's much worse."
In the darkness, she smiled. Her phobia was still there, stubborn. But she now knew she wouldn't have to face it alone. She had her own hero, armed with a crystal glass and infinite patience, ready to declare a Code Red for an eight-legged intruder. And that was the most powerful antivenom of all.
The paddock this morning in Monaco was a fashion show in full swing. The technical sponsor suits, the guests' light dresses, the impeccable outfits of the executives… It was a world where appearance was second nature, an extension of performance. And at the center of this stylized whirlwind, Lewis Hamilton was a beacon of elegance. Dressed in a beige linen jacket, precisely cut trousers, and sneakers that cost more than most people's monthly rent, he embodied a studied coolness, a perfect blend of streetwear and haute couture.
By his side, or rather, more and more often, behind him, Y/N was weaving her way. That day, she was wearing an old gray university hoodie, slightly misshapen from repeated washing, and comfortable jeans. Passing through the access gate, she had felt the inquisitive gaze of a photographer shift from Lewis's impeccable outfit to hers, and a wave of heat had risen to her cheeks.
It wasn't the first time.
At the beginning of their relationship, she loved walking by his side, proud, happy. But as time went on, she felt more and more transparent, or worse, mismatched. Like a grease stain on a masterpiece. Lewis moved through this world with natural ease, greeting people, smiling for the cameras. She felt like she was dragging her feet in a stage costume that wasn't hers.
"You coming, sweetie?" he had called out to her that morning, reaching for her hand to cross the garage towards the track.
"Uh, go ahead, I'll catch up!" she had replied a little too quickly, pretending to look for something in her bag. "I forgot to... check a message."
Lewis had raised an eyebrow, but an engineer had grabbed his attention and he had left, absorbed in the preparations.
Y/N's avoidance strategy had been implemented gradually. She lingered behind the group, stopped to "admire a car," or disappeared into the motorhome under a flimsy pretext. In public, she reduced physical contact – no more spontaneous hand-holding, no quick hugs. She stood a little apart, like a discreet shadow in a hoodie.
One afternoon, when they were supposed to go together to a partner briefing, she had insisted on going separately. "You'll be busy, and I promised Angela I'd help her with... the towels." The excuse was so pathetic she had blushed.
Lewis had stopped short, staring at her. "The towels?" he repeated, skeptical.
"Yes, the towels. It's... very important. Hygiene and all that."
He hadn't said anything, but his gaze, usually so warm, had darkened with a slightly hurt perplexity.
The tipping point came at a gala dinner. Lewis, in a bold purple tuxedo that fit him like a glove, was radiant. Y/N had brought out a simple little black dress, the most "dressy" one she owned, but next to him, she felt dull, colorless. Throughout the evening, she had been nervous, defensive, dodging photographers, answering in monosyllables.
In the car on the way back, the silence was heavy.
"Alright, what's the real problem, Y/N?" Lewis asked suddenly, his voice calm but firm in the darkness of the vehicle. "For two weeks, you seem to want to blend into the walls whenever we're in public. Did I do something?"
The question, direct and full of sincere concern, twisted her heart.
"No! No, of course not, Lewis," she hastened to say, her eyes fixed on the passing lights of Monaco.
"Then what? Because the towels, I don't buy that for a second."
She clenched her hands on her knees, taking a deep breath. The truth burned on her lips, so childish she was ashamed of it.
"It's... my clothes," she murmured finally.
A silence. Lewis looked at her, clearly not following.
"Your clothes?"
"Yes. Look at you." She made a vague gesture in his direction. "You're always... perfect. You're Lewis Hamilton. And I..." She looked down at her jeans and sneakers. "I'm the one in the hoodie. I look like a lost groupie, not the girlfriend of a... of a..." She didn't finish her sentence.
Lewis remained silent for a long moment. Then, he let out a small laugh, not mocking, but incredulous. "Seriously? That's why you're avoiding me?"
"It's not just 'that'!" she defended herself, tears welling up in her eyes. "You don't understand! All those looks, those photos… I see the comments online sometimes. 'But why is he with her? She doesn't even try.' I don't want people to say I'm not good enough for you."
The car stopped in front of their residence. Lewis cut the engine and turned completely towards her. In the dim light, his gaze was intense.
"Listen to me, Y/N," he said, his voice soft but filled with absolute conviction. "You could wear a trash bag and you'd still be the most radiant person in the entire room."
She wanted to protest, but he took her hand.
"My style… it's my armor. It's my art, my business, a part of my public persona. But it's not me. The real me is the one with you on the sofa, in old sweatpants, eating pizza and watching reruns." He squeezed her fingers. "You, in your hoodie, you are the most real, the most authentic person I know in this whole circus. You are my anchor. You're the one who reminds me who I am when the rest of the world wants me to be 'Lewis Hamilton™'."
He then pulled out his phone and, to her horror, Y/N saw him open his Instagram feed. He scrolled to a photo of them taken a few weeks earlier, after a rainy race. She was soaked, her hair plastered down, her old gray hoodie was splattered with mud. Him, beside her, covered in champagne and sweat, was holding her close, and his beaming smile was wider and more genuine than on any podium.
"You see this photo?" he asked. "It's my favorite. Not the one in the tuxedo. This one. Because we're happy in it. Truly. And you are you. Not a polished version to please who knows who."
Y/N looked at the photo, then at Lewis's face, and felt the wall of embarrassment and insecurity she had built begin to crack.
"I don't want you to change," he continued. "I love you as you are. Confident, funny, smart… and yes, incredibly sexy in that damn gray hoodie. So please, stop hiding. Because when you're not by my side, that's when I feel truly underdressed."
The tears she was holding back finally flowed, but this time, they were tears of relief. She threw her arms around his neck, laughing through her sobs.
"You're the worst, Hamilton. You could be a model and you're giving speeches about old hoodies."
He kissed her, a soft, deep kiss that sealed his words. "And you are the best. Now, promise me that tomorrow, you'll walk by my side. And if a photographer has a problem with your style, I'll personally explain to him the difference between fashion and happiness."
The next day, as they walked hand in hand through the paddock, Y/N wore her gray hoodie like a armor of pride. A photographer pointed his lens at them. She felt an old pang of panic, then she looked at Lewis, who squeezed her hand and gave her a wink.
She smiled, a real, beaming smile, straight into the lens.
The photo was published an hour later. In the caption, a fan had written: "Lewis and his best girl. They look so real. #CoupleGoals"
When Lewis showed her the post, Y/N laughed. She understood. His style was the art of performance. Hers was the art of being herself. And together, they created a picture far more harmonious than any custom-made suit ever could. The greatest fashion statement, in the end, wasn't what you wore, but the confidence with which you wore it, hand in hand with the person who loved you for who you were, au naturel.
The Monaco sun flooded Max's apartment with light, making the precisely aligned trophies glitter and warming the light wood floor. The air smelled clean, new, and carried a hint of anxiety. This wasn't just any Saturday. It was D-Day. The day their two worlds were to officially merge.
“They’re going to love him, Max. Seriously. Stop stressing.”
Charles Leclerc tried to appear relaxed, leaning against the ultra-modern kitchen counter, but his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the marble. At his feet, Leo, his year-and-a-half-old golden retriever, waited patiently, his tail wagging peacefully. He was the very embodiment of canine kindness, a heart on four legs who only wanted to be loved.
Max Verstappen, on the other hand, paced the living room like a caged animal, checking for the umpteenth time that all potential exits were secure. “You don’t know them, Charles. You don’t understand their psyche. Sassy, the Chartreux, is not a cat. She’s a little Napoleonic general in gray fur. She has a plan for world domination and I’m her only authorized servant. Jimmy, the Siamese mix, is a sensitive artist. A scaredy-cat who startles at his own reflection and considers the slightest noise a personal attack. And Piquet…” He stopped, closing his eyes as if summoning strength. “Piquet is an anarchist. A true little terrorist in tabby fur. They have a territory. Rules. A protocol. And a ‘big’ dog that smells like ‘not-Max’ and has already drooled on my world championship trophy is a violation of the canine non-proliferation treaty.”
Charles smiled despite himself, unable to resist the contrast. Seeing Max Verstappen, the triple world champion, the man of steel who broke his opponents' will on the track with relentless coldness, reduced to a ball of nerves by his three cats was a rare and rather adorable spectacle.
“Where are the sacred monsters?” Charles asked, looking around the immaculate apartment, far too clean to house real animals.
“In strategic confinement in the bedroom. I followed the protocol to the letter: pheromone-diffusing toys, premium salmon treats, a cozy bed with a familiar smell, and a state-of-the-art baby safety gate at the door.” Max spoke as if preparing for a Grand Prix, listing points on his fingers. “Phase one: we bring Leo in, let him explore and smell their scent through the gate. Passive observation phase. Phase two: we open the perimeter under close surveillance and total control. Phase three: we assess and adapt the strategy.”
Charles approached and pulled him by his jeans belt loop. “You’re completely adorable when you’re in feline operations commander mode.” He made him lean down and planted a kiss on his tense lips, trying to melt the tension. “It’s going to be fine. It’s Leo! He gets adopted by the pigeons on the Promenade des Anglais.”
Max relaxed for a moment in the kiss, letting himself be lulled by Charles's confidence. “If you say so. But remember, you signed up for this. Okay. Phase one.”
Max went to open the bedroom door. Behind the white gate, three pairs of eyes gleamed in the dim light. Sassy, the imposing Chartreux, was sitting upright on the bed, her gaze disapproving and full of contempt, like a queen surveying unworthy subjects. Jimmy, the Siamese with a timid face and piercing blue eyes, was crouched under the desk, barely visible. And Piquet, the mischievous little tabby, was already scratching the gate with alarming determination, making little plastic grating noises.
Leo, intrigued by the new smells, approached, his tail wagging softly in a joyful propeller motion. He sniffed the air enthusiastically, then moved towards the gate to sniff the bars. A low, deep, almost imperceptible growl came from Sassy's throat. It wasn't a meow. It was a warning. A "stay in your place, barbarian." Leo backed away, his ears drooping, and looked at Charles as if to ask, "Who's this crazy lady? What did I do?"
“Observation phase over,” Max declared, pale. “Negative. Abort mission. We retreat. We reconfigure.”
“No, no, that’s normal!” Charles assured, much less convinced than he seemed. His own heart was starting to beat a little faster. “They’re establishing their hierarchy. It’s like a first practice session. Leo is gentle, he won’t pick a fight. He just wants to play.”
On that note, Piquet, the little terrorist, found a flaw in Max's security system. He managed to twist and squeeze between two bars of the gate, landing in the living room with a triumphant little "meow," like a spy who had successfully infiltrated.
That was the spark that ignited the powder keg.
Sassy, seeing her soldier in enemy territory and judging the security faulty, leaped over the gate with an elegant but deadly jump, landing silently on the parquet floor. Her gaze was fixed on Leo, promising retaliation. Jimmy, driven by the panic of being left alone facing the enemy or by an unlikely feline solidarity, followed by slinking like a shadow, hiding behind anything he could find.
Leo, surprised by this blitz attack, barked joyfully, taking it for the start of a fantastic game. He ran towards Piquet, who, mischievously, darted under the designer sofa, hissing like an angry ferret. Sassy growled, her back arched, tail puffed up, planted like a sentinel between the dog and her charge. Jimmy, completely frantic, chose vertical flight and scaled the cream silk curtain like a mountaineer in a panic attack, snagging the precious fabric with his claws.
“NO! Jimmy, not the curtains! They’re from Hermès!” Max yelled, horrified, as if watching his race car crash.
“Leo, sit! Here! Come!” Charles shouted, desperately trying to catch his dog who, for the first time in his life, completely ignored him, too excited by this new game of cat and mouse (literally) unfolding in this paradise of new smells.
The minutes that followed were a nightmare set against a backdrop of Monegasque marble and minimalist design. Piquet ran back and forth under the furniture, launching lightning raids to tease the dog's paws. Sassy launched preemptive attacks on Leo's paws whenever he got too close, each swipe accompanied by a blood-curdling hiss. Leo, meanwhile, barked and spun in circles, trying to understand the rules of this strange game. Jimmy, perched atop the now fatally torn curtain, let out dramatic meows worthy of a Greek tragedy.
Max and Charles, like disorganized pit crews, desperately tried to separate the warring parties. Max grabbed Sassy by the scruff, holding her at arm's length as she struggled like a demon, to lock her in the bathroom. Charles grabbed Piquet by the scruff of the neck as he darted towards the bedroom and stuffed him into the walk-in closet. Jimmy, too high up to be reached, was left to his fate for the moment. Leo, finally subdued by Charles, was escorted to the kitchen and the door closed.
Silence fell again, heavy and devastating. The apartment was a battlefield: leather cushions scattered, a green plant knocked over with its soil spilled on the floor, curtains torn and hanging sadly, and fur from three different species floating in the sunbeams like memories of an absurd war.
Max slumped against the corridor wall, sliding slowly to the floor, eyes closed. He looked like he'd just raced 70 laps in scorching heat. “It’s over. They hate each other. It’s a territorial war. We can never live here.” His voice was flat, desperate. He looked at Charles, his face marked by defeat. “You have to choose. It’s me or the dog. There’s no other way.”
Charles slid down to the floor beside him, just as exhausted and discouraged. He put an arm around Max's shoulders. “Max, no. Stop. It was just the first time. It was… intense. It takes time. It took us time to understand each other too, didn’t it?”
“Time?” Max let out a short, bitter laugh. “Sassy will poison his kibble. I know her. She’s probably already identified the traitor. And Jimmy will never come down from that curtain. He’s going to set up a base camp there.”
They sat on the floor among the debris of their dream, their morale in their boots. Leo, on the other side of the door, must have been pouting, sensing the tension. The plan to move in together, which they had cherished, planned, and anticipated for months, seemed to have crashed against the wall of the harshest zoological realities.
“Right,” Max sighed after a long silence, getting up with difficulty. “We have to let them out. They must be thirsty, and terrified. And we have to save Jimmy from his perch.”
They got up, heavy as if carrying the weight of their failure. Max cautiously opened the bathroom door. Empty. Sassy had vanished. His heart sank. He opened the walk-in closet. Piquet had also disappeared. Panic gripped them again, cold and slimy. Where were they? What had they done? They searched everywhere, calling their names with increasingly frantic voices, dreading finding a massacre, a sofa shredded to bits, or worse.
It was Charles who found them first.
He froze in the doorway of the bedroom, his hand on his chest, mouth agape. “Max,” he whispered, without even turning around. “Max, come see. Gently.”
Max rushed over, his heart pounding, expecting the worst, imagining the worst.
And there, on the unmade king-size bed, was sprawled the most improbable, peaceful, miraculous scene they had ever seen.
Sassy, the empress, was lying right in the middle, her back pressed against Leo’s warm, comfortable flank. The golden retriever, lying on his side, was breathing deeply and peacefully in his sleep, one paw outstretched. Curled up against his belly, in a purring, perfectly content little ball of fur, slept Piquet, the little terrorist, his muzzle buried in the golden fur. And even Jimmy, the scaredy-cat, must have felt safe enough to come down from his curtain and dare to approach; he was snuggled against Leo’s neck, a delicate paw placed on his ear as if to make sure he wouldn’t run away.
They were all asleep. In a perfect, harmonious, and silent pile. No sign of the apocalypse that had reigned an hour earlier. Just a picture of absolute peace.
Max and Charles stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak, overwhelmed by total astonishment. The tension, fear, and despair evaporated, replaced by a wave of tenderness so strong and sudden it took their breath away and brought tears to Charles’s eyes.
Charles was the first to find his voice, a barely audible thread. “I… I think Leo negotiated a non-aggression pact and offered them central heating services as a bonus,” he murmured, his voice choked with emotion.
Max shook his head, an incredulous, radiant, and completely relaxed smile illuminating his face for the first time that day. “No. I think Sassy simply inspected the installation, deemed the temperature and consistency of the canine mattress up to standard, and granted him permission to stay. Permanently. She’s probably already issued an invoice for services rendered.”
They watched the little group sleep for a long moment longer, the spectacle acting like a magical balm on their frayed nerves. The animal pile breathed in unison, an impromptu monument to peace.
“Do you think we can… join them?” Charles finally whispered, not daring to break the magic. “Or will that trigger the maximum alert protocol?”
Max grabbed his hand and gently pulled him toward the bed. “There’s only one way to find out. We implement phase four: infiltration and integration.”
With the caution of bomb disposal experts, they slipped onto the large bed, on either side of the animal pile, lying down facing each other to keep watch. Leo opened one eye, wagged his tail weakly when he saw them, let out a little grunt of satisfaction, and fell back asleep immediately, without disturbing any of his new feline friends. Sassy half-opened an eye, emitted a brief purr that could pass for a "be discreet," and went back to sleep.
Charles snuggled against Max’s back, putting an arm around his waist. Max grabbed his hand and kissed it softly in the palm.
“Well,” Max murmured into the bedroom silence, broken only by Piquet’s purring and Leo’s steady breathing. “I guess that means we can start looking for a scratch-proof sofa. And a proper bed for Leo. A bigger one.”
Charles laughed against his back, feeling the vibration of his laugh against his spine. “And a replacement curtain. A much, much sturdier one.”
They lay there, intertwined, watching their improbable little family suddenly united by sleep and the need for warmth. The race had been chaotic, full of red flags, off-track excursions, and strategies that had blown apart. But in some inexplicable and totally unforeseen way, they had crossed the finish line. Together. All five of them.
The air in the Singapore paddock was heavy, humid, and charged with that unique electric tension that always precedes qualifying. Under the neon lights and spotlights, the Marina Bay circuit glittered like a serpent of light in the night.
In the Red Bull garage, the mood was focused but confident. Max Verstappen, helmet on his head, was a block of pure concentration. He listened to his engineer's final advice, nodding, his eyes already fixed on the track ahead. Everything in his posture screamed assurance, the certainty of the dominator, the reigning world champion.
Then his gaze, out of reflex, crossed the alley. And froze.
In the Ferrari garage, barely fifty meters away, Charles Leclerc was laughing. And not with just anyone. He was leaning over the data screen, alongside Carlos Sainz, of course, but also Pierre Gasly, who had come over to his side of the paddock. And all three were laughing like old regatta buddies, relaxed, complicit. Pierre said something, Charles gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder as he leaned back, his crystalline laugh carried by the warm air right to Max's ears.
Clunk.
Max's glove gripped the simulation wheel he was practicing on a little too tightly. His engineer looked at him, intrigued.
"Max? Everything okay?"
"Perfectly," he grumbled, looking away. Perfectly. The word had become a reflex, a shield.
But inside, nothing was perfect. A dull, illogical, and furious emotion had just ignited within him. Jealousy. A stupid jealousy, because Charles was laughing with a friend. A friend who wasn't him.
It was ridiculous. They were rivals. Fierce rivals. The blood and tears shed on the asphalt between them were real. Their battles were legendary, sometimes on the brink of a crash, always on the limit. But off the track… off the track, it was different. It was a no-man's-land, blurry, made of glances exchanged in briefings, silences heavy with implication in the paddock corridors, and that night, three months ago, after a grueling race in Monaco, where things had shifted in a hotel room, between frustration and adrenaline, never to truly go back.
They didn't talk about "us." They were an "us," silent, secret, and incredibly intense.
And seeing Charles, his Charles, laughing so freely with someone else… especially with Gasly, whom he'd known for years, with whom he shared a childhood history, a complicity Max could never have… it felt like a grain of sand in the perfectly oiled engine of his concentration.
Qualifying began. Max was a metronome of precision. Lap after lap, he improved his time, relentless. But his gaze, during breaks, always returned to the screens showing the Ferrari garage. To Charles.
When Charles set his first flying lap, taking provisional pole, his face lit up with a pure, joyful, beaming smile, which he directed at his team.
Max's final attempt was a masterstroke. Aggressive, on the limit, perfect. The RB19 screamed through the corners, glued to the track. He snatched pole. Over the radio, it was just a professional "Well done, Max." He got out of his car, acknowledged his team with a curt gesture, but his eyes were already searching for his rival. His lover.
Charles, in second, had gotten out of his car. He'd taken his helmet off, looking a bit frustrated but sporting. And Pierre was there, clapping him on the shoulder, talking into his ear to console him. Charles nodded, offering him a small, grateful smile.
That was the last straw.
Max headed to parc fermé, ignoring the media, his gaze fixed on the two men. When he reached them, his expression was stony.
"Good attempt, Charles," he said, his voice neutral, too controlled.
Charles turned, surprised by the tone. "Thanks, Max. Yours was… impressive." His compliment seemed sincere.
Pierre, however, immediately felt the atmosphere change. "Hey Max. Great lap."
Max barely looked at him. "Gasly. On vacation?" The question was cutting, full of implication.
Charles frowned. "Max?"
"Nothing. Congrats on P2." Max turned on his heel and left, leaving the two men perplexed.
The evening was torture for Max. Sitting alone in his motorhome, he watched the qualifying replays, but his mind was elsewhere. He saw Charles's smile, his hand on Pierre's shoulder. He felt stupid, possessive, irrational. He hated it. He hated losing control, especially over his own emotions.
A small knock on his door made him jump.
"Go away, Christian, I've seen the data," he growled.
The door opened. It wasn't Christian Horner.
Charles stood on the threshold, arms crossed, a determined expression on his face.
"What was that performance earlier?" he asked without preamble.
Max stood up, surprised and defensive. "What performance?"
"The one where you talked to me like I'd run over your dog, and were rude to Pierre."
Max scoffed. "Sorry for interrupting your moment."
Charles's eyes widened, then narrowed as he suddenly understood. "Seriously?" he breathed, incredulous. "That's it? You're… jealous?"
The word, thrown out like that in the silence of the motorhome, seemed absurd. Max Verstappen, the triple world champion, the most dominant driver of his generation, jealous like a teenager.
"Don't be ridiculous," Max retorted, turning away.
"But that's it!" Charles insisted, an incredulous smile on his lips. "You're jealous I'm talking to Pierre! Max, we've known each other since we were six! We did karting together!"
"I know perfectly well who he is!" Max growled, turning back, his blue eyes flashing. "And I also know how he looks at you."
Charles burst out laughing, a frank laugh that seemed to exasperate Max even more. "He looks at me like his buddy who just got his pole stolen! Fuck, Max, you're completely crazy!"
"And you, you laughed with him like you never laugh with me!" Max shot back, his voice suddenly louder, betraying the frustration he'd been containing.
Charles's laughter stopped dead. Silence fell again. They stared at each other, the truth hanging between them.
"… Is that the problem?" Charles asked, more softly. "That I laugh with him?"
Max clenched his fists, looking at the ground, ashamed of his own admission. "We don't laugh often, you and I. We fight. We're… serious."
Charles stepped closer slowly. "We're serious because what we have is serious, Max." He raised a hand and brushed Max's tense jaw. "You think I laugh like that with just anyone? You think I let just anyone kiss me like you do?"
Max looked up, his gaze meeting Charles's, intense and sincere.
"Pierre is a friend. A brother. You, you are…" Charles searched for the words, a blush rising to his cheeks. "… you, you're the race I always want to win, even when I know I'm going to lose. You're the red flag I never see coming. You are…"
Max interrupted him. In a sharp movement that brooked no protest, he grabbed Charles by the nape of his neck. His fingers, accustomed to the hardness of the carbon steering wheel, closed in Charles's soft, slightly damp hair, pulling him in unceremoniously.
The kiss wasn't tender. It was a collision. A claim.
Max's lips crashed against his with a brutal urgency, a rough mix of possession, pent-up frustration, and a panicked fear of losing what he had only just acknowledged as his. It wasn't sweet, it was necessary. It was a release for the acidic jealousy that had been gnawing at his gut for hours.
Charles jolted, startled by the suddenness and intensity of the gesture. A small, muffled sound of surprise escaped him against Max's mouth. He tried to pull back a centimeter, but Max's hand, firm and unyielding on his neck, prevented it, holding him in place. Then, after a second of surprised resistance, Charles yielded. His body relaxed, his mouth opened under Max's in a sigh that was both a surrender and a response.
Max felt this release and took advantage to deepen the kiss, becoming more insistent, almost desperate. He tasted the residue of his energy drink, sweat, and that unique flavor that belonged only to Charles. It was a language far more eloquent than words. Every movement of his lips, every press of his fingers buried in Charles's hair said: "I'm sorry for being an idiot," "You are mine, only mine," and "Don't ever laugh like that for anyone else."
When they separated, breathless, lungs burning, Max kept his forehead pressed against Charles's, eyes closed. Their panting breaths mingled in the small space between them. Max's hand was still tangled in Charles's hair, as if he was afraid he'd escape if he let go.
"Sorry," he murmured, his voice hoarse and broken, far more vulnerable than minutes before.
"Yes, you are," Charles agreed, his own breath still short. A small smile found its way back to his lips, swollen from the kiss. "A jealous idiot." He placed a softer, almost apologetic kiss on his lips. "But you're my idiot."
Max let out a grunt that was meant to be a laugh. "He'd better keep his distance."
"Or what? You'll overtake him in a corner?" Charles teased.
"Worse. I'll be nice to him next time. It'll traumatize him for life."
Charles laughed, that crystalline laugh Max adored, and which, this time, was entirely for him. "My God, spare him that, I beg you."
Max pulled him into a strong embrace, burying his face in his neck, breathing deeply his scent mixed with that of the track. "Were you scared today? In quali?" he asked against his skin.
"When you passed me doing 300 kph? Always." Charles snuggled against him. "And you? Were you scared?"
Max thought for a moment. "Yes. But not on the track."
