⋆˚♡｡ hi, i'm dean. writer. sports fan. currently making it everyone else's problem.
you'll find a little bit of everything here:
— formula one
— nba basketball
— playlists
— fanfiction
— late-night thoughts
join the taglist | request a fic | @courtsidearchive
formula one
lando norris °⋆ "and you too divine to just be mine" — mac miller
🏁 traitor
Y/N's French bulldog falls in love with a stranger outside a bookstore. Unfortunately for her, the stranger turns out to be Lando Norris, and her dog seems determined to choose him over her at every possible opportunity.
status: complete
🏁apartment #12 | pt. 2
Your upstairs neighbor is unbelievably loud. One day he decides to leave you a note to apologize, but will that be enough?
status: complete
🏁quarterly reports & other disasters
When one of Wall Street's brightest rising stars leaves investment banking for a position at McLaren Racing, the entire business world is left wondering why. Lando Norris is wondering something else entirely: why the intimidating woman from the finance department suddenly makes him forget how to form complete sentences. What starts with spilled coffee and reluctant apologies quickly turns into a secret relationship neither of them expected - and one neither of them can hide forever.
status: complete
🏁 plus one
When your cousin's wedding invitation arrives, so do the inevitable questions about your nonexistent love life. Lando's solution is simple: he'll pretend to be your boyfriend for the weekend. The problem is that your family loves him almost immediately... and you might be starting to as well.
status: complete
🏁 what it's like dating....
Just headcanons on what dating Lando would be like
status: complete
🏁emergency contact
After a minor accident lands you in the hospital, a nurse asks for your emergency contact. Half-dazed and unable to think straight, you give them the first number you know by heart: Lando's. The problem is that he shows up immediately - and suddenly, it's impossible to ignore what has been sitting between the two of you for far too long.
status: complete
🏁 yuzu melon
Lando discovers that your daily routine somehow includes an alarming amount of Monster Energy, and immediately decides he needs to intervene. Unfortunately for him, you're deeply committed to your caffeine addiction and refuse to be judged by a man whose profession involves driving in circles at 300 km/h. What follows is a battle of wills, hidden energy drinks, and one very concerned boyfriend.
status: complete
charles leclerc °⋆ "you're the only thing I like" — brent faiyaz
🏁 liked by charles_leclerc (smau)
pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | pt. 6 | pt. 7 | pt. 8
What starts as a random comment under a photo of coffee and books slowly turns into something much harder to ignore.
status: ongoing
🏁 margin notes
A gossip columnist who dreams of becoming a book editor finds herself covering the Monaco Grand Prix and accidentally develops a mutual dislike for Charles Leclerc.
status: complete
🏁 language of flowers
Camille owns a flower shop in Monaco. She knows every flower's meaning. She knows every regular customer. One day Charles stumbles into her shop, and as it turns out he doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon.
status: complete
🏁 what it's like dating....
Just headcanons on what dating Charles would be like
status: complete
🏁 redbull gives you wings
There are many things Charles Leclerc expects to find around the Formula One paddock. Red Bull cans in Ferrari hospitality are not one of them. Unfortunately for him, you seem physically incapable of existing without one.
status: complete
george russell °⋆ "'cause I make it so easy to fall in love" — olivia dean
🏁 what it's like dating....
Just headcanons on what dating George would be like
status: complete
🏁 brits
The public thinks you're an untouchable artist. Lando Norris knows you're the life of every party. George Russell is about to discover that both versions are real.
status: complete
lewis hamilton °⋆ "heaven can wait we're only watching the skies" — jay-z
🏁 pole position
Lewis Hamilton has a habit of appearing where he shouldn't. What begins with a spilled coffee outside a London café turns into months of friendship, missed opportunities, and feelings neither of them are brave enough to name. Unfortunately for both of them, everyone else notices first.
status: complete
max verstappen °⋆ "you're still the one I run to" — shania twain
🏁between shifts
everyone in the paddock knows kimi antonelli. very few know he has an older sister, and even fewer know that max verstappen has been hopelessly in love with her since the moment she asked him if he'd eaten.
status: complete
🏁distance
when a Grand Prix weekend collides with the biggest assignment of your career, neither of you expects it to become the fight that changes everything.
status: complete
oscar piastri °⋆ "i can't help falling in love with you" — elvis presley
🏁 what it's like dating....
Just headcanons on what dating Oscar would be like
🏁 noise-cancelling
you have a habit of filling silence. oscar has a habit of never interrupting you. it isn't until you apologize for talking too much that you realize he'd been listening all along.
you were trying to text your friend about him. unfortunately, you sent it to him instead.
nba
victor wembanyama °⋆ "bitch, ça fait très très longtemps que j'y pense à comment se mettre bien, moi j'ai pas ton élan" — yamê
🏀 the fantasy section
Owning a bookstore means dealing with all sorts of customers. Y/N just didn't expect one of them to be a seven-foot-four French basketball player with a love for fantasy novels, Star Wars, and increasingly transparent excuses to keep coming back. Fortunately for Victor Wembanyama, she likes seeing him just as much.
status: complete
🏀 film
a short blurb on what happens when vic invites you over to watch game film
status: complete
stephon castle °⋆ "we'll never be those kids again" — frank ocean
🏀 rookie mistake
Getting hired as a photographer for the San Antonio Spurs was supposed to be simple: take photos, stay professional, and avoid becoming the story. Unfortunately, Stephon Castle develops a very obvious crush on you almost immediately - and while the entire team seems to notice, you're the last person to figure it out.
status: complete
request rules
♡ be kind
♡ please specify the driver/player if you're requesting fanfiction
♡ i reserve the right to decline requests i'm not comfortable writing
♡ patience is appreciated - i'm a student, working two jobs and write for fun
my requests are officially open! if you've ever had a fic idea sitting in your notes app, a trope you've been dying to read, a specific driver/player pairing, a random scene that won't leave your head, or even just a single sentence you think would make a good story...
send it my way 🤍
formula one, nba, fluff, angst, social media aus, one-shots, "dating would include...", fake dating, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, accidental hard launches, media chaos, whatever your little heart desires.
please don't worry if your idea isn't fully developed! some of my favourite fics have started as "what if..." and one completely unhinged sentence. i can't promise i'll write every request, but i read every single one and i genuinely love seeing what you all come up with.
when a Grand Prix weekend collides with the biggest assignment of your career, neither of you expects it to become the fight that changes everything.
warnings: angst, established relationship, argument, somewhat happy ending
note: hello ♡ here is some max angst, as promised! do not yell at me if i've made it a bit too sad. i was following instructions. also, please do give me your thoughts, this is one of my first attempts a full-fledged angst :) - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
The fight starts over breakfast, the way most devastating disasters start: in stillness.
The apartment smells faintly of vanilla and coffee. Sunlight spills lazily across the kitchen table, catching on the rim of your mug. Outside, Monaco glitters beneath a cloudless sky. Inside, everything feels comfortingly familiar.
You've just settled into your chair, one leg tucked beneath you, laptop open beside your coffee. Across from you, Max is talking about summer break. Plans of trips you'd both bookmarked a while ago, but had no time for, races, the second half of the season.
You only half listen, smiling occasionally, adding the occasional hum of agreement while scrolling through emails from London. It feels mundane, domestic - the same morning you've shared a hundred times before, the kind that shouldn't end in heartbreak.
Then-
"Good thing you'll be there."
You glance up from your laptop.
"Hm?"
Max is scrolling through his phone, attention divided between you and whatever message Red Bull has just sent him.
"The race." He shrugs. "The one after summer break."
"Oh." You take another sip of coffee. The answer comes naturally; no trace of hesitation. "Actually, I won't."
The atmosphere changes so subtly that neither of you notices it at first. A thread pulled loose. A crack appearing beneath fresh paint. Max looks up.
"What do you mean?"
You lower your laptop slightly.
"I told you about the London assignment."
"The fashion thing?"
You blink. "The fashion thing?"
"That's not what I meant."
"No, but that's what you said."
A small crease appears between his brows. The first sign. Max rubs a hand across his jaw.
"You'll be gone the whole weekend?"
"Yes."
The answer comes a tad too calm for his liking. To you, this conversation is already finished. The assignment has been booked for months. Flights confirmed, hotels reserved, schedules finalised. Your editor-in-chief spent half a year fighting for this access. The feature has already been approved by three different departments.
You've worked too hard for too long to even consider saying no. Of course you're going. Of course. The certainty feels obvious, until you look at him and realise it isn't obvious to him at all.
"Can't someone else cover it?"
You stare. For a moment you genuinely think you've misheard him.
"What?"
"The feature."
"No."
"Why not?"
The laugh that escapes you isn't amused. It's disbelief, pure disbelief.
"Because I'm the editor."
"So?"
"So?"
You carefully set your coffee down. The porcelain clicks softly against the table.
"Max."
"I'm asking."
"No." You shake your head. "You're not." A breath. "You're asking me to miss work."
His expression shifts, just enough for you to feel it.
"I'm not asking you to miss work."
"You literally are."
"I'm asking you to be there."
"For your job."
"It's not just my job."
"Then what is it?"
The question settles between you. Max looks away first; toward the window, toward the city, anywhere but you.
"You know what I mean."
"No." Your voice sharpens despite yourself. "I actually don't."
And suddenly you're angry too. Not because he wants you there, not because he misses you, not because he's disappointed. Somewhere beneath all of it is an assumption that your plans were always the ones most likely to move, that your career was somehow more flexible than his. Less important. Less fixed.
"You'll be racing."
"Yes."
"I'll be working."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
Max stands. The legs of the chair scrape harshly across the floor - a jarring sound in an otherwise beautiful morning.
"The problem is I wanted you there."
Finally, there it is: the truth. Not the race, or the logistics, or the scheduling. You.
For one brief second, your anger softens. You see it all; his disappointment, the vulnerability hidden beneath frustration. You almost reach for him. Almost.
Then-
"I don't think I'm asking for much."
And everything shatters. You stare at him.
"You're asking me to walk away from the biggest assignment I've had all year."
"That's not what I said."
"It's exactly what you said."
"No."
"It is."
"No."
You stand too now. Your breakfast forgotten. The coffee cooling untouched between you. The laptop abandoned.
"You know what?" Your voice is calm. "Sometimes I think you forget."
Max frowns. "Forget what?"
"That I have a career."
His expression hardens immediately, like a door slamming shut.
"That's unfair."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me why you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You are."
"No."
"Max."
His jaw tightens and there it is. The thing he's been trying not to show. Disappointment, hurt, anger - not at you; more at the situation, the timing; the fact that wanting someone beside you can sometimes feel embarrassingly close to needing them.
"I just wanted you there."
You close your eyes, because now you understand and somehow understanding doesn't make it hurt less. It makes it hurt more.
"You're not a child."
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. The instant they land, you wish you could take them back, because they're cruel and you know it. Max goes still, the stillness of something breaking.
"I know." His voice is quiet. "I know I'm not."
The silence that follows feels endless. The apartment is suddenly too small. The sunlight is too bright. Neither of you speaks - there's nothing left to say, because there is far too much.
Finally, he reaches for his keys. You watch him do it. He doesn't look at you. You don't stop him, maybe because you're still angry, maybe because you're waiting for him to stop himself. Neither happens.
"Max."
He pauses. For one fragile heartbeat, you think he might turn around. He doesn't. The door closes softly behind him. No shouting or dramatic exit, just the quiet click of a lock. And somehow that hurts worst of all, because for the first time in two years, the silence that follows doesn't feel like home.
The silence lingers for days, that bleed into weeks. At first, it feels temporary - just a bout of bad weather.
You spend the first morning expecting a text, the second expecting a call. By the third, you're checking your phone every twenty minutes without realising you're doing it.
Nothing comes, nothing from him, nothing from you either. Pride is a strange thing. It hurts almost as much as heartbreak.
London arrives quickly. Too quickly for your comfort.
The city is grey when you land, rain collecting along the edges of taxi windows and turning the skyline into watercolour smudges. Usually, you'd text him a photo.
Something sarcastic. Something like:
London looks exactly how London feels.
You don't. Instead, you settle against a coffee shop window and open your laptop.
The assignment is everything you'd hoped it would be. Exclusive access to new collections, private fittings, design houses that normally don't answer emails suddenly opening doors. The opportunity people spend years chasing.
You should be ecstatic and you play the role well enough for everyone to assume you are. Your editor certainly does.
"You've done brilliant work."
"Thank you."
"The feature's coming together beautifully."
You smile.
"Still needs work."
She laughs.
"Perfectionist."
You don't tell her the truth - that you've edited the same paragraph six times because concentration feels impossible when your life is quietly falling apart.
Iris, on the other hand, isn't fooled. She's known you a few years too long to be.
"You haven't spoken to him?"
The question arrives one evening over room service and garbage reality TV. You don't look up from your laptop.
"No."
"And he hasn't spoken to you?"
"No."
Iris stares.
"That's insane."
You continue typing.
"It is what it is."
"It absolutely is not."
You sigh.
"Iris."
"No." She points at you. "No."
"What?"
"You love him."
The words hit harder than they should, because they're true, in spite of it all. Painfully true.
"I know."
"Then why are you acting like this?"
You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen. The answer is complicated; loving someone doesn't magically make hurt disappear, every time you think about calling him, you remember standing in your kitchen feeling like your career had been reduced to an inconvenience, because you know he didn't mean it and because somehow that makes it worse.
Across Europe, Max is equally miserable, which would almost be a funny sight to behold if it weren't so tragic. Max Verstappen has spent years handling pressure - championship pressure, media pressure, expectation, failure, victory. He knows exactly what to do with all of those things.
This? Not so much.
By the time summer break ends, he there is exhaustion settled behind his eyes, nobody talks about it, because they know better than to pry.
The paddock notices immediately. They notice because you're not there; your absence becomes visible in all the little places - no coffee waiting in hospitality, no camera around your neck, no sarcastic comments from the corner of the room, no familiar face beside the garage, no you.
Lando is the first to ask, naturally.
"Where's Y/N?"
Max doesn't look up.
"Working."
The answer is too quick, clearly a sore spot. Lando immediately narrows his eyes.
"Oh."
George asks next, then Charles, then half the paddock. Every conversation follows the same pattern.
"She coming later?"
"No."
"London?"
"Yeah."
"Everything alright?"
And every time, Max gives the same answer:
"I don't know."
The worst part is that it's true. He genuinely doesn't know; he doesn't know whether she's still angry, doesn't know if she misses him, doesn't know whether she's telling people they're on a break or broken up, or neither. He doesn't know anything.
And for a man who likes certainty, it's torture.
Race weekend arrives. The car is good. The setup is good. Everything should feel familiar. Instead, everything feels slightly wrong - like driving with one glove missing, like everything in the world has tilted on its axis.
Saturday evening finds him sitting alone outside the engineering office long after most people have left. The paddock is quieter now. The hum of generators replaces the noise of the crowd.
A familiar figure drops into the chair beside him. His mother.
She doesn't say anything immediately, neither does he. The silence stretches comfortably. Until:
"You miss her."
Max lets out a short laugh.
"That obvious?"
"Painfully."
Another pause. Then:
"We had a fight."
"I know."
"You do?"
She smiles.
"Max."
Fair point.
He stares out toward the dark circuit. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then:
"She chose work."
His mother doesn't answer right away. She takes her time peering off into the distance, before speaking again.
"And what would you have chosen?"
Max frowns.
"What?"
"If your race and she had conflicted."
The answer comes instantly, no hesitation.
"Racing."
Silence. Then:
"Oh."
The realization lands cruelly and beautifully. His mother watches it happen.
"You fell in love with her because she's ambitious." Max says nothing. "You admired it." Still nothing. "You don't get to be surprised when she's ambitious."
The words settle somewhere deep inside his chest. And suddenly, for the first time all summer, he understands. Not the fight, that he doubts he has the capacity to understand completely, but at least his part in it.
The next morning he wins the race and for the first time in a very long time, victory feels strangely empty.
The flight leaves three hours after the podium ceremony, which surprises no one. At least not the people who know him best.
Laurent learns about it first.
"You're doing what?"
Max doesn't look up from his phone.
"Going to London."
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"You have simulator work."
"I know."
"You have meetings."
"I know."
"You have media."
"I know."
Max continues typing.
Finally:
"Ah." A pause. "Her."
Max doesn't deny it, which tells Laurent everything he needs to know.
"Good."
The response catches him off guard, Max looks up.
"What?"
Laurent shrugs.
"About time."
The plane leaves just after midnight; the cabin is dark, quiet. Most people would sleep. Max tries, fails. Tries again, fails again. Eventually he gives up entirely.
Instead, he stares out the window at clouds, darkness, his reflection. The reflection of a man who spent an entire summer convincing himself he was justified.
Because the truth is, he'd spent weeks replaying the argument; every version, every possibility, every outcome, trying to find the moment where he wasn't wrong, the moment where she'd misunderstood him. He can't, not anymore.
The realization is strangely freeing, painful, but freeing.
London is raining when he lands. The city seems physically incapable of doing anything else. He doesn't go to the hotel or sightseeing; doesn't even change clothes. Instead, he goes straight to the studio.
The building occupies an old warehouse in East London. It's a marvel of large windows, exposed brick. People dressed in archival attire of some indie fashion labels. People carrying garment bags. People holding cameras.
Nobody pays attention to him, which is unusual and refreshing - he is nobody in this world, he is nobody in this world.
A production assistant stops him before he can wander too far.
"Can I help you?"
Max hesitates. For perhaps the first time in his life he has absolutely no idea what he's doing.
"I need to see someone."
The assistant smiles politely.
"That's usually why people come here."
Max almost laughs. Instead he gives your name. The assistant's face changes immediately.
"Oh." A smile - small, knowing.
"You're him."
Max closes his eyes briefly.
"Apparently."
The assistant visibly fights a grin. Loses.
"Right."
She gestures toward a set of double doors.
"Last studio on the left."
Then:
"Good luck."
The words don't exactly fill him with confidence.
Inside, the shoot is still in progress. The studio lights are blinding. Photographers move around giant white backdrops. Stylists adjust fabric. Someone is arguing about shoes, someone else is arguing about lighting. Everyone appears mildly stressed.
And in the middle of it all - you.
Max stops, completely. Somehow, this feels more intimidating than a championship decider.
You're standing beside a monitor, laptop tucked beneath one arm, hair pulled back, clipboard in hand, directing three people simultaneously.
"No." You point toward the backdrop. "The jacket." A pause. "No, the other jacket." Another pause. "Thank you."
Someone asks a question, you answer it. Another person appears, you solve their problem too. Then another and another and another.
The entire room seems to move around you, like a pit wall, a garage, a race team. For the first time, Max understands. Really understands.
This isn't just work. This isn't some side project. This isn't a hobby.
This is your world. The way Formula One is his.
And suddenly, the argument gets an even more bitter taste. He'd asked you to leave this, even temporarily, unintentionally. The realization twists somewhere deep inside his chest.
You haven't seen him yet. You're still focused on the monitor, still discussing layouts, still reviewing photographs.
Then, one of the assistants notices him. Her eyes widen and immediately slide toward you. The smile that follows is absolutely criminal. You notice, follow her gaze, turn and freeze.
Everything stops, not literally - the studio continues moving, people continue talking, cameras continue clicking. But for you, everything stops.
Max stands near the entrance. Rain still clinging faintly to his jacket, hair slightly messy from travel, looking exhausted and nervous... Real. For one awful second, neither of you speaks. Then:
"What are you doing here?"
The question comes out softer than intended. Max swallows.
"Can we talk?"
You stare at him for a very long time. The room has already noticed, though everyone pretends not to. You glance toward your assistant. She immediately looks away.
Finally, you look back at Max.
"I have ten minutes."
The relief that flashes across his face is almost painful to witness. Because you realize he was genuinely afraid you'd say no. And somehow, that hurts too.
The door closes softly behind you. Immediately, the noise of the studio becomes muted - a dull hum bleeding through concrete walls. For the first time all day, you're alone. Together.
The room is small. A storage office, probably. There are garment racks pushed against one wall, a folding table, three abandoned coffee cups, a stack of fashion magazines. You focus on those. Anywhere except him.
Max remains standing near the door, neither of you seems entirely sure where to begin. The silence stretches, uncomfortable, heavy, filled with two months worth of things unsaid.
Finally:
"You flew here."
Your voice is quiet, not accusing, just surprised.
"Yes."
"You had a race."
"Yes."
"You won."
A pause. Then:
"Yes."
You laugh once, disbelieving. Because somehow, that makes perfect sense for your boy.
"Max." You shake your head. "What are you doing?"
His eyes find yours immediately. For once, he doesn't look away.
"I came to apologize."
The words settle between you, simple, direct, very Max. You look down at the floor, at your shoes, anywhere.
"Okay."
The response catches him off guard.
"Okay?"
"You wanted to apologize." You nod. "I'm listening."
For a second he almost smiles. Almost. Because somehow, that's exactly the response he should've expected for his girl. You were never going to make this easy.
"I was selfish."
There it is - no excuses, no explanations, just the truth. You look up.
"I wanted you there." He swallows. "And when you said no..." A breath. "I got angry."
You don't interrupt.
"I told myself it was because I missed you." Another pause. "But it wasn't."
The words sound difficult, dragged out piece by piece.
"It was because I expected you to choose me." The room feels very crammed all of a sudden. "And that wasn't fair."
You stare at him. That hurts more than anything else, not because he's wrong, because he's right.
"I didn't want you to choose me." Your voice is softer now. "I wanted you to respect my choice."
"I know." The answer arrives instantly. "I know."
You cross your arms protectively.
"You made me feel stupid."
Max's face falls immediately.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "I don't think you do."
The words are calm.
"You made it sound like my job was optional. It isn't."
"I know that. I know."
You laugh, small, bitter around the edges.
"Do you?"
The question hangs in the air. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Max takes a step forward.
"I do now." The words are honest. "I didn't."
That one hurts him to admit. You can see it.
"I thought I understood."
His hands disappear into his pockets. A nervous habit.
"Then I came here." A pause. "And I watched you."
Your brows knit together.
"That sounds creepy."
A startled laugh escapes him. The first one all conversation.
"It probably was."
You smile despite yourself, only for a second, but he sees it. His heart nearly stops.
"I watched everyone listen when you spoke." The smile disappears. "I watched people come to you with problems. I watched you run that room." His voice softens. "And I realized..." The words catch. "I was asking you to miss your race."
The room goes silent, because that's what it was. Not an assignment, a photoshoot, a feature. Your race. And suddenly, for the first time since summer began, you feel your anger crack.
You look away first, because it's easier. Outside the office door, somebody laughs. A photographer shouts something. Life continues.
Inside, everything feels fragile.
"You really flew all the way to London for this?"
Max doesn't hesitate.
"Yes."
You close your eyes. That's the problem. You know he means it, every word, every mile, every sleepless hour and you still aren't ready to let him off the hook.
"Good."
His expression flickers - confusion.
"Good?"
You nod.
"You should've."
For the first time since arriving, Max smiles. Fair enough. He's earned that. Not forgiveness, not yet. But maybe, the chance to keep talking.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence no longer feels hostile, rather fragile - something being rebuilt from splinters.
Outside, somebody calls for a stylist. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams. The world continues, oblivious.
Inside, Max watches you and you hate that he still knows you so well. Because he sees it immediately. The hesitation, the way your shoulders have softened, the way your anger isn't gone, but no longer sharp enough to cut.
"You look tired."
The observation arrives quietly, not as a distraction or a way to change the subject. Just something he's noticed. You let out a humorless laugh.
"I am tired."
He nods, as though he'd expected that answer.
"You haven't been sleeping."
You raise an eyebrow.
"And how exactly would you know that?"
A tiny shrug.
"You get that crease."
"What crease?"
"The one."
He points to the little line between your eyebrows. You stare.
"That's not an answer."
"It is."
"No, it's not."
"It is for me."
For a second, the corner of your mouth twitches, then immediately flattens again. Traitor. Max notices that too. Of course he does.
"You know what the worst part is?"
The question catches him off guard.
"What?"
You look away - toward the racks of clothing, toward the window. Anywhere.
"The worst part is that I missed you."
The confession hangs in the air, raw and honest. Max closes his eyes briefly. This hurts more than if you'd told him you hated him. You laugh quietly.
"I was so angry." Another laugh. "Still am, a little."
"Fair."
"And every single day I wanted to call you."
The words come easier now, they've been waiting.
"But every time I picked up my phone..." You shake your head. "I remembered standing in that kitchen."
Max looks down.
"Yeah."
"I remembered feeling like I had to justify my career."
"I know."
"And then I'd get angry all over again."
"I know."
The second silence feels heavier. Neither of you is talking about the argument anymore. You're talking about the wound underneath it.
Max swallows.
"I never wanted you to feel that way."
"I know."
You look at him, really observe the way his upper lip twitches and the way he is picking at his fingers.
"I know you didn't." A pause. "That's why it hurt."
The words hit harder than anything else you've said. If he'd been cruel, if he'd been dismissive, if he'd been someone else... It would've been easier. But he wasn't. He was Max.
Max, who remembered how you took your coffee and carried your suitcase without asking and called you after every difficult day. Max who loved you. Which meant when he hurt you, it mattered.
"I've been angry at myself too."
You blink.
"What?"
Max laughs once. The sound is tired.
"You think you're the only one? I replayed that conversation every day." His gaze drops to the floor. "Every single day."
You don't speak.
"I kept trying to find a version where I wasn't wrong." Another laugh. "There isn't one."
The honesty steals the breath from your lungs, because Max doesn't do this. He'll admit mistakes. He'll apologize. But this? This vulnerability, this complete lack of defense. It's rare enough to feel sacred.
"You know..." Your voice softens. "I hated you a little."
That earns a real laugh.
"Only a little?"
"Don't get excited."
"That's fair."
"I was very committed to it."
"I can tell."
You finally smile. Max stares, like he's forgotten what it looks like. The realization makes your chest ache. Because maybe, just maybe, the summer wasn't easier for him either.
A knock sounds against the door. Three quick taps. Then:
"Y/N?"
Your assistant.
"Five minutes."
You close your eyes. Of course. Reality, work, the world returning. You look back at Max and suddenly the thought of him leaving again feels unbearable. Not because everything is fixed - it isn't. But because for the first time in what feels like years you're finally talking and you're not ready for it to stop.
when a Grand Prix weekend collides with the biggest assignment of your career, neither of you expects it to become the fight that changes everything.
warnings: angst, established relationship, argument, somewhat happy ending
note: hello ♡ here is some max angst, as promised! do not yell at me if i've made it a bit too sad. i was following instructions. also, please do give me your thoughts, this is one of my first attempts a full-fledged angst :) - dean
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The fight starts over breakfast, the way most devastating disasters start: in stillness.
The apartment smells faintly of vanilla and coffee. Sunlight spills lazily across the kitchen table, catching on the rim of your mug. Outside, Monaco glitters beneath a cloudless sky. Inside, everything feels comfortingly familiar.
You've just settled into your chair, one leg tucked beneath you, laptop open beside your coffee. Across from you, Max is talking about summer break. Plans of trips you'd both bookmarked a while ago, but had no time for, races, the second half of the season.
You only half listen, smiling occasionally, adding the occasional hum of agreement while scrolling through emails from London. It feels mundane, domestic - the same morning you've shared a hundred times before, the kind that shouldn't end in heartbreak.
Then-
"Good thing you'll be there."
You glance up from your laptop.
"Hm?"
Max is scrolling through his phone, attention divided between you and whatever message Red Bull has just sent him.
"The race." He shrugs. "The one after summer break."
"Oh." You take another sip of coffee. The answer comes naturally; no trace of hesitation. "Actually, I won't."
The atmosphere changes so subtly that neither of you notices it at first. A thread pulled loose. A crack appearing beneath fresh paint. Max looks up.
"What do you mean?"
You lower your laptop slightly.
"I told you about the London assignment."
"The fashion thing?"
You blink. "The fashion thing?"
"That's not what I meant."
"No, but that's what you said."
A small crease appears between his brows. The first sign. Max rubs a hand across his jaw.
"You'll be gone the whole weekend?"
"Yes."
The answer comes a tad too calm for his liking. To you, this conversation is already finished. The assignment has been booked for months. Flights confirmed, hotels reserved, schedules finalised. Your editor-in-chief spent half a year fighting for this access. The feature has already been approved by three different departments.
You've worked too hard for too long to even consider saying no. Of course you're going. Of course. The certainty feels obvious, until you look at him and realise it isn't obvious to him at all.
"Can't someone else cover it?"
You stare. For a moment you genuinely think you've misheard him.
"What?"
"The feature."
"No."
"Why not?"
The laugh that escapes you isn't amused. It's disbelief, pure disbelief.
"Because I'm the editor."
"So?"
"So?"
You carefully set your coffee down. The porcelain clicks softly against the table.
"Max."
"I'm asking."
"No." You shake your head. "You're not." A breath. "You're asking me to miss work."
His expression shifts, just enough for you to feel it.
"I'm not asking you to miss work."
"You literally are."
"I'm asking you to be there."
"For your job."
"It's not just my job."
"Then what is it?"
The question settles between you. Max looks away first; toward the window, toward the city, anywhere but you.
"You know what I mean."
"No." Your voice sharpens despite yourself. "I actually don't."
And suddenly you're angry too. Not because he wants you there, not because he misses you, not because he's disappointed. Somewhere beneath all of it is an assumption that your plans were always the ones most likely to move, that your career was somehow more flexible than his. Less important. Less fixed.
"You'll be racing."
"Yes."
"I'll be working."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
Max stands. The legs of the chair scrape harshly across the floor - a jarring sound in an otherwise beautiful morning.
"The problem is I wanted you there."
Finally, there it is: the truth. Not the race, or the logistics, or the scheduling. You.
For one brief second, your anger softens. You see it all; his disappointment, the vulnerability hidden beneath frustration. You almost reach for him. Almost.
Then-
"I don't think I'm asking for much."
And everything shatters. You stare at him.
"You're asking me to walk away from the biggest assignment I've had all year."
"That's not what I said."
"It's exactly what you said."
"No."
"It is."
"No."
You stand too now. Your breakfast forgotten. The coffee cooling untouched between you. The laptop abandoned.
"You know what?" Your voice is calm. "Sometimes I think you forget."
Max frowns. "Forget what?"
"That I have a career."
His expression hardens immediately, like a door slamming shut.
"That's unfair."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me why you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You are."
"No."
"Max."
His jaw tightens and there it is. The thing he's been trying not to show. Disappointment, hurt, anger - not at you; more at the situation, the timing; the fact that wanting someone beside you can sometimes feel embarrassingly close to needing them.
"I just wanted you there."
You close your eyes, because now you understand and somehow understanding doesn't make it hurt less. It makes it hurt more.
"You're not a child."
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. The instant they land, you wish you could take them back, because they're cruel and you know it. Max goes still, the stillness of something breaking.
"I know." His voice is quiet. "I know I'm not."
The silence that follows feels endless. The apartment is suddenly too small. The sunlight is too bright. Neither of you speaks - there's nothing left to say, because there is far too much.
Finally, he reaches for his keys. You watch him do it. He doesn't look at you. You don't stop him, maybe because you're still angry, maybe because you're waiting for him to stop himself. Neither happens.
"Max."
He pauses. For one fragile heartbeat, you think he might turn around. He doesn't. The door closes softly behind him. No shouting or dramatic exit, just the quiet click of a lock. And somehow that hurts worst of all, because for the first time in two years, the silence that follows doesn't feel like home.
The silence lingers for days, that bleed into weeks. At first, it feels temporary - just a bout of bad weather.
You spend the first morning expecting a text, the second expecting a call. By the third, you're checking your phone every twenty minutes without realising you're doing it.
Nothing comes, nothing from him, nothing from you either. Pride is a strange thing. It hurts almost as much as heartbreak.
London arrives quickly. Too quickly for your comfort.
The city is grey when you land, rain collecting along the edges of taxi windows and turning the skyline into watercolour smudges. Usually, you'd text him a photo.
Something sarcastic. Something like:
London looks exactly how London feels.
You don't. Instead, you settle against a coffee shop window and open your laptop.
The assignment is everything you'd hoped it would be. Exclusive access to new collections, private fittings, design houses that normally don't answer emails suddenly opening doors. The opportunity people spend years chasing.
You should be ecstatic and you play the role well enough for everyone to assume you are. Your editor certainly does.
"You've done brilliant work."
"Thank you."
"The feature's coming together beautifully."
You smile.
"Still needs work."
She laughs.
"Perfectionist."
You don't tell her the truth - that you've edited the same paragraph six times because concentration feels impossible when your life is quietly falling apart.
Iris, on the other hand, isn't fooled. She's known you a few years too long to be.
"You haven't spoken to him?"
The question arrives one evening over room service and garbage reality TV. You don't look up from your laptop.
"No."
"And he hasn't spoken to you?"
"No."
Iris stares.
"That's insane."
You continue typing.
"It is what it is."
"It absolutely is not."
You sigh.
"Iris."
"No." She points at you. "No."
"What?"
"You love him."
The words hit harder than they should, because they're true, in spite of it all. Painfully true.
"I know."
"Then why are you acting like this?"
You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen. The answer is complicated; loving someone doesn't magically make hurt disappear, every time you think about calling him, you remember standing in your kitchen feeling like your career had been reduced to an inconvenience, because you know he didn't mean it and because somehow that makes it worse.
Across Europe, Max is equally miserable, which would almost be a funny sight to behold if it weren't so tragic. Max Verstappen has spent years handling pressure - championship pressure, media pressure, expectation, failure, victory. He knows exactly what to do with all of those things.
This? Not so much.
By the time summer break ends, he there is exhaustion settled behind his eyes, nobody talks about it, because they know better than to pry.
The paddock notices immediately. They notice because you're not there; your absence becomes visible in all the little places - no coffee waiting in hospitality, no camera around your neck, no sarcastic comments from the corner of the room, no familiar face beside the garage, no you.
Lando is the first to ask, naturally.
"Where's Y/N?"
Max doesn't look up.
"Working."
The answer is too quick, clearly a sore spot. Lando immediately narrows his eyes.
"Oh."
George asks next, then Charles, then half the paddock. Every conversation follows the same pattern.
"She coming later?"
"No."
"London?"
"Yeah."
"Everything alright?"
And every time, Max gives the same answer:
"I don't know."
The worst part is that it's true. He genuinely doesn't know; he doesn't know whether she's still angry, doesn't know if she misses him, doesn't know whether she's telling people they're on a break or broken up, or neither. He doesn't know anything.
And for a man who likes certainty, it's torture.
Race weekend arrives. The car is good. The setup is good. Everything should feel familiar. Instead, everything feels slightly wrong - like driving with one glove missing, like everything in the world has tilted on its axis.
Saturday evening finds him sitting alone outside the engineering office long after most people have left. The paddock is quieter now. The hum of generators replaces the noise of the crowd.
A familiar figure drops into the chair beside him. His mother.
She doesn't say anything immediately, neither does he. The silence stretches comfortably. Until:
"You miss her."
Max lets out a short laugh.
"That obvious?"
"Painfully."
Another pause. Then:
"We had a fight."
"I know."
"You do?"
She smiles.
"Max."
Fair point.
He stares out toward the dark circuit. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then:
"She chose work."
His mother doesn't answer right away. She takes her time peering off into the distance, before speaking again.
"And what would you have chosen?"
Max frowns.
"What?"
"If your race and she had conflicted."
The answer comes instantly, no hesitation.
"Racing."
Silence. Then:
"Oh."
The realization lands cruelly and beautifully. His mother watches it happen.
"You fell in love with her because she's ambitious." Max says nothing. "You admired it." Still nothing. "You don't get to be surprised when she's ambitious."
The words settle somewhere deep inside his chest. And suddenly, for the first time all summer, he understands. Not the fight, that he doubts he has the capacity to understand completely, but at least his part in it.
The next morning he wins the race and for the first time in a very long time, victory feels strangely empty.
The flight leaves three hours after the podium ceremony, which surprises no one. At least not the people who know him best.
Laurent learns about it first.
"You're doing what?"
Max doesn't look up from his phone.
"Going to London."
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"You have simulator work."
"I know."
"You have meetings."
"I know."
"You have media."
"I know."
Max continues typing.
Finally:
"Ah." A pause. "Her."
Max doesn't deny it, which tells Laurent everything he needs to know.
"Good."
The response catches him off guard, Max looks up.
"What?"
Laurent shrugs.
"About time."
The plane leaves just after midnight; the cabin is dark, quiet. Most people would sleep. Max tries, fails. Tries again, fails again. Eventually he gives up entirely.
Instead, he stares out the window at clouds, darkness, his reflection. The reflection of a man who spent an entire summer convincing himself he was justified.
Because the truth is, he'd spent weeks replaying the argument; every version, every possibility, every outcome, trying to find the moment where he wasn't wrong, the moment where she'd misunderstood him. He can't, not anymore.
The realization is strangely freeing, painful, but freeing.
London is raining when he lands. The city seems physically incapable of doing anything else. He doesn't go to the hotel or sightseeing; doesn't even change clothes. Instead, he goes straight to the studio.
The building occupies an old warehouse in East London. It's a marvel of large windows, exposed brick. People dressed in archival attire of some indie fashion labels. People carrying garment bags. People holding cameras.
Nobody pays attention to him, which is unusual and refreshing - he is nobody in this world, he is nobody in this world.
A production assistant stops him before he can wander too far.
"Can I help you?"
Max hesitates. For perhaps the first time in his life he has absolutely no idea what he's doing.
"I need to see someone."
The assistant smiles politely.
"That's usually why people come here."
Max almost laughs. Instead he gives your name. The assistant's face changes immediately.
"Oh." A smile - small, knowing.
"You're him."
Max closes his eyes briefly.
"Apparently."
The assistant visibly fights a grin. Loses.
"Right."
She gestures toward a set of double doors.
"Last studio on the left."
Then:
"Good luck."
The words don't exactly fill him with confidence.
Inside, the shoot is still in progress. The studio lights are blinding. Photographers move around giant white backdrops. Stylists adjust fabric. Someone is arguing about shoes, someone else is arguing about lighting. Everyone appears mildly stressed.
And in the middle of it all - you.
Max stops, completely. Somehow, this feels more intimidating than a championship decider.
You're standing beside a monitor, laptop tucked beneath one arm, hair pulled back, clipboard in hand, directing three people simultaneously.
"No." You point toward the backdrop. "The jacket." A pause. "No, the other jacket." Another pause. "Thank you."
Someone asks a question, you answer it. Another person appears, you solve their problem too. Then another and another and another.
The entire room seems to move around you, like a pit wall, a garage, a race team. For the first time, Max understands. Really understands.
This isn't just work. This isn't some side project. This isn't a hobby.
This is your world. The way Formula One is his.
And suddenly, the argument gets an even more bitter taste. He'd asked you to leave this, even temporarily, unintentionally. The realization twists somewhere deep inside his chest.
You haven't seen him yet. You're still focused on the monitor, still discussing layouts, still reviewing photographs.
Then, one of the assistants notices him. Her eyes widen and immediately slide toward you. The smile that follows is absolutely criminal. You notice, follow her gaze, turn and freeze.
Everything stops, not literally - the studio continues moving, people continue talking, cameras continue clicking. But for you, everything stops.
Max stands near the entrance. Rain still clinging faintly to his jacket, hair slightly messy from travel, looking exhausted and nervous... Real. For one awful second, neither of you speaks. Then:
"What are you doing here?"
The question comes out softer than intended. Max swallows.
"Can we talk?"
You stare at him for a very long time. The room has already noticed, though everyone pretends not to. You glance toward your assistant. She immediately looks away.
Finally, you look back at Max.
"I have ten minutes."
The relief that flashes across his face is almost painful to witness. Because you realize he was genuinely afraid you'd say no. And somehow, that hurts too.
The door closes softly behind you. Immediately, the noise of the studio becomes muted - a dull hum bleeding through concrete walls. For the first time all day, you're alone. Together.
The room is small. A storage office, probably. There are garment racks pushed against one wall, a folding table, three abandoned coffee cups, a stack of fashion magazines. You focus on those. Anywhere except him.
Max remains standing near the door, neither of you seems entirely sure where to begin. The silence stretches, uncomfortable, heavy, filled with two months worth of things unsaid.
Finally:
"You flew here."
Your voice is quiet, not accusing, just surprised.
"Yes."
"You had a race."
"Yes."
"You won."
A pause. Then:
"Yes."
You laugh once, disbelieving. Because somehow, that makes perfect sense for your boy.
"Max." You shake your head. "What are you doing?"
His eyes find yours immediately. For once, he doesn't look away.
"I came to apologize."
The words settle between you, simple, direct, very Max. You look down at the floor, at your shoes, anywhere.
"Okay."
The response catches him off guard.
"Okay?"
"You wanted to apologize." You nod. "I'm listening."
For a second he almost smiles. Almost. Because somehow, that's exactly the response he should've expected for his girl. You were never going to make this easy.
"I was selfish."
There it is - no excuses, no explanations, just the truth. You look up.
"I wanted you there." He swallows. "And when you said no..." A breath. "I got angry."
You don't interrupt.
"I told myself it was because I missed you." Another pause. "But it wasn't."
The words sound difficult, dragged out piece by piece.
"It was because I expected you to choose me." The room feels very crammed all of a sudden. "And that wasn't fair."
You stare at him. That hurts more than anything else, not because he's wrong, because he's right.
"I didn't want you to choose me." Your voice is softer now. "I wanted you to respect my choice."
"I know." The answer arrives instantly. "I know."
You cross your arms protectively.
"You made me feel stupid."
Max's face falls immediately.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "I don't think you do."
The words are calm.
"You made it sound like my job was optional. It isn't."
"I know that. I know."
You laugh, small, bitter around the edges.
"Do you?"
The question hangs in the air. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Max takes a step forward.
"I do now." The words are honest. "I didn't."
That one hurts him to admit. You can see it.
"I thought I understood."
His hands disappear into his pockets. A nervous habit.
"Then I came here." A pause. "And I watched you."
Your brows knit together.
"That sounds creepy."
A startled laugh escapes him. The first one all conversation.
"It probably was."
You smile despite yourself, only for a second, but he sees it. His heart nearly stops.
"I watched everyone listen when you spoke." The smile disappears. "I watched people come to you with problems. I watched you run that room." His voice softens. "And I realized..." The words catch. "I was asking you to miss your race."
The room goes silent, because that's what it was. Not an assignment, a photoshoot, a feature. Your race. And suddenly, for the first time since summer began, you feel your anger crack.
You look away first, because it's easier. Outside the office door, somebody laughs. A photographer shouts something. Life continues.
Inside, everything feels fragile.
"You really flew all the way to London for this?"
Max doesn't hesitate.
"Yes."
You close your eyes. That's the problem. You know he means it, every word, every mile, every sleepless hour and you still aren't ready to let him off the hook.
"Good."
His expression flickers - confusion.
"Good?"
You nod.
"You should've."
For the first time since arriving, Max smiles. Fair enough. He's earned that. Not forgiveness, not yet. But maybe, the chance to keep talking.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence no longer feels hostile, rather fragile - something being rebuilt from splinters.
Outside, somebody calls for a stylist. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams. The world continues, oblivious.
Inside, Max watches you and you hate that he still knows you so well. Because he sees it immediately. The hesitation, the way your shoulders have softened, the way your anger isn't gone, but no longer sharp enough to cut.
"You look tired."
The observation arrives quietly, not as a distraction or a way to change the subject. Just something he's noticed. You let out a humorless laugh.
"I am tired."
He nods, as though he'd expected that answer.
"You haven't been sleeping."
You raise an eyebrow.
"And how exactly would you know that?"
A tiny shrug.
"You get that crease."
"What crease?"
"The one."
He points to the little line between your eyebrows. You stare.
"That's not an answer."
"It is."
"No, it's not."
"It is for me."
For a second, the corner of your mouth twitches, then immediately flattens again. Traitor. Max notices that too. Of course he does.
"You know what the worst part is?"
The question catches him off guard.
"What?"
You look away - toward the racks of clothing, toward the window. Anywhere.
"The worst part is that I missed you."
The confession hangs in the air, raw and honest. Max closes his eyes briefly. This hurts more than if you'd told him you hated him. You laugh quietly.
"I was so angry." Another laugh. "Still am, a little."
"Fair."
"And every single day I wanted to call you."
The words come easier now, they've been waiting.
"But every time I picked up my phone..." You shake your head. "I remembered standing in that kitchen."
Max looks down.
"Yeah."
"I remembered feeling like I had to justify my career."
"I know."
"And then I'd get angry all over again."
"I know."
The second silence feels heavier. Neither of you is talking about the argument anymore. You're talking about the wound underneath it.
Max swallows.
"I never wanted you to feel that way."
"I know."
You look at him, really observe the way his upper lip twitches and the way he is picking at his fingers.
"I know you didn't." A pause. "That's why it hurt."
The words hit harder than anything else you've said. If he'd been cruel, if he'd been dismissive, if he'd been someone else... It would've been easier. But he wasn't. He was Max.
Max, who remembered how you took your coffee and carried your suitcase without asking and called you after every difficult day. Max who loved you. Which meant when he hurt you, it mattered.
"I've been angry at myself too."
You blink.
"What?"
Max laughs once. The sound is tired.
"You think you're the only one? I replayed that conversation every day." His gaze drops to the floor. "Every single day."
You don't speak.
"I kept trying to find a version where I wasn't wrong." Another laugh. "There isn't one."
The honesty steals the breath from your lungs, because Max doesn't do this. He'll admit mistakes. He'll apologize. But this? This vulnerability, this complete lack of defense. It's rare enough to feel sacred.
"You know..." Your voice softens. "I hated you a little."
That earns a real laugh.
"Only a little?"
"Don't get excited."
"That's fair."
"I was very committed to it."
"I can tell."
You finally smile. Max stares, like he's forgotten what it looks like. The realization makes your chest ache. Because maybe, just maybe, the summer wasn't easier for him either.
A knock sounds against the door. Three quick taps. Then:
"Y/N?"
Your assistant.
"Five minutes."
You close your eyes. Of course. Reality, work, the world returning. You look back at Max and suddenly the thought of him leaving again feels unbearable. Not because everything is fixed - it isn't. But because for the first time in what feels like years you're finally talking and you're not ready for it to stop.
you have a habit of filling silence. oscar has a habit of never interrupting you. it isn't until you apologize for talking too much that you realize he'd been listening all along.
warnings: fluff, established relationship, slightly angsty?? but osc saves the day
note: hello ♡ here is a short and sweet osc one-shot, as per your demand. this one's for everyone who's ever apologized for talking too much :) - dean
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Oscar learns very early in your relationship that your brain doesn't really believe in linear storytelling.
You'll begin talking about what you had for breakfast and somehow end up explaining why penguins have knees, which reminds you of that documentary you watched three years ago, which reminds you of a café in Amsterdam, which reminds you-
"Oh!" You point dramatically. "Did I tell you Mia got a new tattoo?"
Oscar looks up from the pasta he's stirring.
"You were talking about cereal."
"I know."
You continue as though the transition had been perfectly logical. Because to you it had.
Living with you meant accepting that conversations rarely have endings. They simply pause, as you disappear into another room and then return, continuing the exact same sentence.
"...and that's why I don't like swans."
Oscar doesn't even blink.
"Fair enough."
One evening you're sitting on the sofa, editing photographs on your laptop. Oscar is beside you reading. Or... Trying to.
"I think traffic lights are actually really comforting."
"Hm?"
"Just something about the colours and the timing."
He turns a page.
"Mhm."
"And imagine if trees could walk."
"That would pose some predicaments..."
"I know." A pause. "They'd probably apologise if they got in the way, though."
He smiles faintly.
"I hope so."
You continue editing.
"I think mushrooms are weird."
"Mhm."
"Did you know they can't classify them?"
"No?"
"They are just..." You gesture vaguely. "...Their own category."
Oscar looks over the top of his book.
"They're fungi."
"Exactly, their own category."
He nods thoughtfully.
"I see the issue."
You grin. He goes back to reading.
Lando experiences it for the first time during a group dinner. Not the talking, everyone experiences the talking. It's the way Oscar follows it that catches his attention.
The six of you are squeezed around a long restaurant table somewhere in Melbourne after qualifying; plates have long since been pushed aside, dessert menus remain untouched, because somehow the conversation has become more entertaining than the food.
"So anyway," you say, pointing your fork for emphasis, "that's why I think pigeons are actually misunderstood."
Lando blinks.
"...Pigeons."
"Mhm."
"They're just city doves."
Oscar nods.
"They are."
"THANK YOU."
You point triumphantly across the table.
"See?"
George looks between the two of you.
"I feel like I missed several steps."
"You did," Oscar says simply.
"It started with coffee."
"No," you correct.
"It started with architecture."
Oscar thinks for a second.
"Right."
"Architecture became birds."
"And birds became pigeons."
"And pigeons became public relations."
Lando slowly lowers his glass.
"...That somehow makes sense to you two?"
"Yes."
"Completely."
Lando shakes his head.
"I think you're both broken."
You laugh. Oscar smiles. Dinner continues.
About twenty minutes later, someone new joins the table. A friend of one of the sponsors, you don't catch his name, but he seems pleasant enough.
The conversation carries on. You tell a story about accidentally photographing a wedding proposal because you'd mistaken it for a street portrait. Everyone laughs. Lewis asks how the couple reacted. You answer, which reminds you of another story.
Which reminds you of-
"Oh!" You brighten. "And that actually reminds me-"
The man you've only just met laughs.
"Oh my God." He shakes his head. "Do you ever shut up?"
The table goes silent. His statement isn't loud nor dramatic. If anything it's the casualness that hurts; as if he'd said something completely reasonable.
You blink. The rest of your sentence dies quietly somewhere between your chest and your throat.
"Sorry." You look down at your lap. "I didn't realise..."
You laugh once, a torn sound, small and embarrassed.
"I talk a lot."
Nobody says anything for a second, not because they agree, but rather they're stunned.
Oscar has already put his cutlery down. He turns towards you first. Not the man. You.
"Hey."
You don't look up.
"I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologise for."
You shake your head.
"I know I can be a bit much."
"No."
Your voice is quieter now.
"I interrupt."
"No."
"I go off topic."
"No."
"I just..." You shrug helplessly. "...Keep talking."
Oscar reaches across the table until your hand is in his. His palm folds perfectly around your own. He waits until you finally meet his eyes.
"You never apologise for who you are." The restaurant around you seems to disappear. "I like the way your mind works. I like hearing every thought. I like that one story becomes five." You feel your throat tighten. "I like that you get excited." He squeezes your hand gently. "And I love that you tell me about it."
The smallest smile begins to return.
"You do?"
"I've never once wished you'd stop talking." His own smile is soft now. "If anything..." He shrugs. "I wish more people listened."
Across the table, George quietly changes the subject. Lewis asks Lando something about qualifying. Charles starts a conversation with the sponsor. No one acknowledges what happened; no one needs to.
Oscar never lets go of your hand, not until you're walking back to the hotel later that night. The city is quiet. The air is cool. You lean your head against his shoulder.
"I really do talk a lot."
He smiles.
"You do."
You groan.
"Oscar."
"What?"
"I thought you were helping."
"I am." He slips his fingers between yours. "You talk a lot." A beat. "And I could listen to you forever."
Your upstairs neighbor is unbelievably loud. One day he decides to leave you a note to apologize, but will that be enough?
warnings: fluff, angst, long fic
note: hello ♡ after many requests here is the long-awaited part 2 of apartment #12. apologies in advance for how much you will scream at y/n... in my defense - i did too :) - dean
pt.1 | masterlist | sign up for my taglist
The next note arrives sometime after midnight. You don't hear it. Instead, you find it the following morning tucked neatly beneath your apartment door, folded into the same careful square it always is.
Your coffee is still brewing. You stand barefoot in the hallway, hair still damp from your shower, reading it before you've even remembered to put your glasses on.
because now i know you're pretty.
You stare at the sentence for far longer than necessary and, against your own better judgement, you smile.
Life refuses to pause simply because your mysterious upstairs neighbour has unexpectedly developed the ability to make your heart skip inconveniently. Monday still arrives. As does work.
Your Ducati rumbles awake beneath you just after eight, the familiar engine settling into its steady rhythm as you weave through Monaco's narrow streets. The workshop sits tucked away just outside the busiest part of the principality, hidden between a tailor and a family-owned café that has somehow been there longer than anybody can remember.
The sign above the door reads:
L/N Moto Atelier.
Your surname. Your father's dream. Your home. Inside, everything smells faintly of paint, machine oil and fresh espresso, exactly as it should.
The notes continue, of course they do. Not every day, sometimes every other. Occasionally two appear within twenty-four hours of one another because one of you remembers something halfway through making dinner.
You learn that Apartment #12 still cannot assemble flat-pack furniture. He learns that you have a deeply unreasonable hatred for glitter paint. He complains about airport food. You complain about customers who insist motorcycles are "basically bicycles." He agrees.
Tuesday afternoon finds you balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear while polishing a fuel tank. Mia answers on the third ring.
"So."
"No hello?"
"You've had three weeks."
"Still no hello?"
"You still haven't introduced yourselves?"
You laugh.
"I knew this was coming."
"You've been exchanging handwritten notes with a handsome stranger for nearly two months."
"I don't actually know if he's handsome."
"You literally told me he was."
"I said he had nice eyes."
"And?"
"And..." You hesitate. "...the rest of him happened very quickly."
Mia groans dramatically.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"It was raining. He fell down the stairs. I was distracted."
"You've built an entire friendship based on fucking post-its."
You lean back against the workbench.
"When you say it like that... It sounds completely insane."
"It sounds like a Jane Austen novel written by a lovesick idiot"
You laugh loud enough that Luca pokes his head around the corner.
"Everything alright?"
"My best friend is bullying me."
"Good."
He disappears again. Traitor. Mia isn't finished.
"I'm serious."
"I know."
"You don't even know his name."
"I know."
"He doesn't know yours."
"I know."
There is a pause. Then,
"I'm coming tonight."
"I know."
"And before I leave Monaco..." She lets the sentence hang. "...I expect to meet Note Boy."
You snort.
"We are not calling him Note Boy."
"You've literally been calling him that."
"I've been calling him Apartment Twelve."
"You absolutely texted me 'Note Boy bought me cinnamon rolls.'"
"...Maybe once."
"Twice."
By the time you get home that evening, Mia has already landed. Her suitcase occupies approximately half your living room. Her shoes occupy the other half. The television occupies the remaining space. Formula One qualifying highlights play across the screen.
"Oh good." She doesn't even look up. "You're home."
You kick off your boots.
"I completely forgot there was a race last weekend."
"I noticed."
She gestures vaguely towards the television. You collapse onto the sofa beside her.
"Replay?"
"Mhm."
"Perfect."
You don't usually miss race weekends. Work had simply refused to cooperate. Two restorations, one emergency repair, three customers who apparently believed deadlines were optional. Monaco Grand Prix week always turns the city slightly mad. Apparently this year included your workshop.
The replay reaches the final laps. Max Verstappen appears on screen. Without thinking, you lean forward.
"Come on..."
Mia immediately notices.
"Oh."
"What?"
"You're still hopeless."
"What?"
"You've supported Max since we were sixteen."
"He's a phenomenal driver."
"He absolutely is."
A McLaren flashes across the timing tower. Mia points at the screen.
"I still think Lando takes it."
You wrinkle your nose.
"I don't."
"You just don't like him."
"I don't."
"Why?"
You shrug.
"I don't know."
"Yes you do."
Another shrug.
"I've just never..." You search for the words. "...understood the hype. He always seems to be dating somebody new. Always..." You wave vaguely at the television. "...all that."
Mia rolls her eyes.
"You know that's mostly the media."
"Maybe. I still don't buy it."
She points accusingly at you.
"You've never even met him."
"Exactly."
"So?"
"So I'm allowed an opinion."
"No. You absolutely are not."
Upstairs... Apartment #12 unlocks quietly. Lando slips inside sometime after eleven. Long day. Longer debrief. He drops his overnight bag beside the kitchen island and instinctively glances towards the floor below. Right on cue-
"COME ON, MAX!"
He stops, then laughs softly, shaking his head.
"So that's who you support."
The television continues muffled through the floorboards. A few seconds later-
"NO, DON'T DEFEND HIM."
Lando raises an eyebrow.
"...Interesting."
He smiles to himself. Then disappears into the kitchen. Five minutes later... A folded square of paper slides neatly beneath Apartment #7.
congratulations to max. my ceiling nearly celebrated with you.
Mia is awake before you. This has always been deeply offensive. You stumble into the kitchen sometime after nine wearing one of your oldest university hoodies, only to find her already dressed, coffee made, scrolling through her phone with the kind of energy reserved exclusively for morning people and psychopaths.
"Good morning."
"It is not."
"It literally is." You grunt in response. She slides a mug towards you. "I heard something under the door."
You blink.
"What?"
"About twenty minutes ago."
She points towards the hallway.
"Your boyfriend left you mail."
You nearly choke on your first sip.
"He's not my-"
"Relax." She grins. "I know. ...Note Boy."
The folded paper is exactly where she said it would be. You pick it up. Still warm, somehow. You unfold it.
congratulations to max. my ceiling nearly celebrated with you.
You laugh.
"I wasn't that loud."
Mia raises an eyebrow from the kitchen.
"I heard you from the spare bedroom."
"...Fair."
You grab a pen from the little ceramic pot beside the front door. Hover over the paper. Pause.
"What?" Mia is suddenly standing directly behind you. "What are you writing?"
"I don't know yet."
She thinks for exactly three seconds. Then,
"Ask his name."
You glance over your shoulder.
"What?"
"His name."
"Mia."
"What?"
"We've been doing this for months."
"Exactly."
"And?"
"And maybe it's time."
You look back down at the paper.
"I don't know."
"Why?"
You shrug.
"It'll change things."
Mia softens.
"It doesn't have to." Another pause. Then she smiles. "Besides... If his name's something awful, you'll want to know now."
You snort.
"What if it's Nigel?"
"Exactly."
You finally write.
my apologies to your ceiling.
A beat.
Then, smaller beneath it-
can i ask you something?
The reply arrives before lunch. You find it waiting after taking the rubbish downstairs.
always.
You don't hesitate this time.
what's your name?
Upstairs... Lando stares at the question for a solid minute. Then another. He could write it. He should write it. Probably.
Instead... He thinks about tomorrow's headlines. His face on television. His name trending every other Sunday. The quiet little world between Apartment Seven and Apartment Twelve suddenly feels fragile. He doesn't want to lose it. Not yet. So he writes the first ridiculous thing that comes to mind.
bob.
He stares at it.
"That's terrible."
Unfortunately... He can't think of anything better. Before he has time to reconsider, he folds the note. Slides it beneath her door and immediately regrets every decision that led him here.
You unfold it less than five minutes later. Silence. Then you burst into laughter. Mia looks up from the sofa.
"What?"
"He said Bob."
"...Bob?"
You hold up the note. She reads it herself. Then starts laughing even harder.
"There is absolutely no way."
"I know."
"Nobody under seventy is called Bob."
"I know."
"You don't believe him."
"I absolutely do not."
Beneath the suspiciously ordinary name is another question.
you?
You look at the paper for a moment. Then simply write,
y/n.
No surname. No explanation. Just...
Y/N.
The answer comes before dinner. Three words.
pretty name.
You don't realise you're smiling until Mia steals the note out of your hands.
"Oh."
She looks between the paper and your face.
"Oh, you're gone."
"What?"
"You've got the smile."
"I do not."
"You absolutely have the smile."
"What smile?"
"The one women get when they're in trouble."
"I'm not in trouble."
She hands the note back.
"No." She grins. "But Bob certainly is."
The investigation begins approximately eleven minutes later. You are against it from the start. Mia, unfortunately, has never considered your opinions particularly binding.
"I'm just saying." She curls up on your sofa, laptop already balanced across her knees. "If his name really is Bob, this'll take five seconds."
"It isn't Bob."
"Exactly."
"So why are we looking him up?"
"Because lying about your name is suspicious."
"You've also never told him yours."
"I literally did."
"You told him your first name."
"So?"
"So..." She points triumphantly. "Mutually suspicious."
You sigh.
"Leave Note Boy alone."
"I haven't even started."
"You've opened Google."
"I'm investigating. I worry about you"
"Stop worrying."
She ignores you completely.
Across the ceiling... Apartment #12 looks remarkably similar. Lando sits at his own kitchen island. Coffee growing cold beside him, his phone unlocked. The search bar already open. He hesitates just for a moment. Then gather all the things you've shared over the part months and types:
Y/N Monaco motorcycle
Enter. The result appears immediately. He blinks.
"...Well."
That was... Unexpectedly easy.
The first result is a website. The second is Instagram. The third is an interview with a local magazine about independent restoration workshops. He clicks the first.
L/N Moto Atelier.
The homepage loads. A black-and-white photograph stretches across the screen, six people stand outside the workshop; paint on their jeans and branded coffee cups in their hands. Someone is laughing. Someone else isn't looking at the camera. And there you are, second from the left. Arms folded. Smiling, without his knowledge, exactly the way you smiled after reading-
because now i know you're pretty.
Lando leans back in his chair.
"...It's you."
Of course it is. The staircase, the rain, the eyes. He should have realised weeks ago.
Downstairs... Mia is having considerably less success. She types:
Bob Monaco
Nothing useful.
Bob mechanic Monaco
Even less useful.
Bob airport food hates flat pack furniture
You lean over the back of the sofa.
"...Really?"
"I'm eliminating possibilities."
"You are doing a shitty job."
She sits back dramatically.
"There are too many Bobs."
"There are probably four."
"I've found at least twelve."
"You've found Robert."
"They count."
"They absolutely do not."
Upstairs... Lando is still looking at your workshop website. The photographs, motorcycles. The little "About Us" section. He smiles when he reads:
Founded by Y/N L/N and her late father, the atelier specialises in vintage Ducati restoration and bespoke motorcycle paintwork.
"So that's why."
He finally understands. The smell of paint, the glitter hatred, the customers. Your Ducati. The way you wrote bringing old things back to life. when talking about your job.
He scrolls lower. A team photograph, another one. Then... A candid - you're laughing, head thrown back with hands covered in blue paint. He catches himself smiling, the kind Oscar has repeatedly informed him means he's "completely gone."
His phone buzzes.
Max: still alive?
Lando doesn't answer. Instead... He opens his wallet. Carefully unfolds a note that never made it to you on account of his inability to spell-
prety name.
Looks at it. Then looks back at your photograph.
"...Yeah." He says quietly to the empty apartment. "It is."
Downstairs... Mia suddenly freezes.
"Oh."
You look up.
"What?"
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"I forgot something."
"What?"
She turns the laptop towards you.
"You know who gets called Bob?"
You squint.
"...Who?"
She grins.
"Lando Norris."
You blink.
"...Excuse me?"
"His friends call him Bob all the time. It's a nickname, a joke."
You stare. She stares back. Neither of you says anything.
"No."
Mia points dramatically.
"I'm serious."
"No."
"He gets called Bob."
"No."
"Google it."
"No."
"You think your mysterious travelling car man who drinks too much coffee and disappears every other weekend might just-"
"No." You laugh. Actually laugh. "Absolutely not."
"Y/N."
"Mia."
"Think about it."
"He wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because..."
You stop. Because... He had said-
big week at work.
He travelled. He drove. He knew Monaco Grand Prix weekend had been busy. He'd congratulated Max. No. Surely not. You shake your head.
"No."
Mia slowly smiles.
"You just thought about it."
"I absolutely did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I refuse."
"You've entered the denial stage."
"I am not investigating Lando Norris."
Mia closes the laptop with a satisfied snap.
"You don't have to."
She grins.
"You can investigate Bob instead."
For the first time since the notes began... A tiny thread of doubt winds itself quietly through your mind. And despite your very best efforts it refuses to leave.
For the next twenty-four hours you refuse to think about it. This proves remarkably unsuccessful.
You paint a fuel tank. Think about Bob. You rebuild a carburetor. Think about Bob. You accidentally overfill your coffee. Still... Bob.
By lunchtime, Luca notices.
"You've sanded the same panel three times."
You blink.
"I have?"
"Mhm."
"You alright?"
You nod a little too quickly.
"Fine."
He studies you. Then wisely decides not to ask another question.
That evening, Mia is waiting with two takeaway pizzas and the expression of somebody who has spent the entire day planning something.
"I have an idea."
"No."
"You don't even know what it is."
"I don't need to."
"You do."
"I really don't."
She pushes a folded square of paper across the kitchen island. Blank. Waiting.
"You ask him something."
"I ask him something every week."
"No."
She shakes her head.
"You ask him something..." She smiles far too sweetly. "...only Lando Norris would know."
You stare.
"...Mia."
"What?"
"That's insane."
"It's genius."
"It is absolutely insane."
"If he's not Lando..." She shrugs. "...nothing happens."
"And if he is?"
She grins.
"You'll know."
You chew thoughtfully on the end of your pen.
"What would I even ask?"
She immediately answers.
"His favourite corner."
You snort.
"I don't know his favourite corner."
"Exactly."
"You ask which circuit he likes best."
"Too obvious."
"What he thinks about Monaco."
"Too normal."
"What he'd change about Formula One."
You stop.
"...Actually."
Mia notices immediately.
"What?"
You smile slowly.
"I've got one."
Later that evening... You slide the note beneath Apartment #12. It contains only one question.
be honest. papaya rules?
Lando reads it standing in his hallway. Then sighs, long and deep.
"...Oscar is going to kill me."
He walks inside, makes tea he absolutely will not drink, comes back. Reads it again. Because there are approximately twelve different ways to answer that question. Only one of them belongs to Bob.
The reply arrives almost an hour later. You unfold it immediately.
only when they're written down.
You frown.
"...What?"
Mia snatches the paper from your hand. Reads it once. Twice. Then slowly lowers it.
"I... I don't understand."
"Neither do I."
You spend the next fifteen minutes trying to decode it.
"Maybe he likes fruit?"
"No."
"Maybe he's colourblind?"
"No."
"Maybe he's making fun of you?"
"No."
"Maybe..." You look at the note again. "...Wait."
You grab your phone. Search:
McLaren papaya rules
The first result appears instantly.
Papaya Rules - the internal team orders McLaren introduced...
You stare, very slowly at the article, then back at the note, then at Mia.
"No."
Mia is already smiling.
"Oh."
"Oh no."
"Oh..." She points triumphantly. "He knew."
"He could've Googled it."
"So could you."
"I didn't."
"Exactly."
Silence. Long silence. Then,
"...That's a very Lando Norris answer."
"It is."
"It really is."
"It annoyingly is."
Upstairs... Lando buries his face in a cushion.
"What have I done?"
His phone buzzes. Oscar.
Oscar: you alive?
Lando types back without thinking.
lando: i think i've accidentally made note girl suspect i'm me
Three dots appear. Disappear, reappear. Finally-
Oscar: ...
Oscar: how does one ACCIDENTALLY do that
Lando stares at the message. Honestly... He isn't entirely sure himself.
The following morning begins with silence, the thinking kind. Mia sits cross-legged on your kitchen counter eating cereal directly from the box. You stand in front of the coffee machine.
Neither of you has mentioned Bob or Lando for almost twelve minutes. A new record.
Mia breaks first.
"So."
"No."
"You haven't even heard what I was going to say."
"I know exactly what you were going to say."
"I don't think you do."
"You were going to say-" You point accusingly with your coffee mug. "'Ask him another Formula One question.'"
She smiles.
"...Maybe."
"Mia."
"What?"
"I am not interrogating my upstairs neighbour."
"I'm simply suggesting..." She shrugs innocently. "...scientific research."
You roll your eyes.
"Fine."
She sits up immediately.
"Really?"
"One question."
"I'll take it."
"But if he answers like a normal human being... I'll drop it."
"And if he doesn't?"
She grins.
"I'll become unbearable."
"You already are."
That evening... Another folded square waits beneath your door. You smile despite yourself. Inside,
survived today?
You laugh softly. Then answer.
barely.
A pause. Then, underneath,
can i ask you something?
The reply comes while you're brushing your teeth.
always.
You think about Mia's suggestion. Think about the article. Think about,
only when they're written down.
Then... You write the first thing that comes to mind.
what do you actually do?
Upstairs... Lando closes his eyes.
"...Right."
He knew this question was coming eventually. He'd simply hoped not yet. He tries. Mechanic? No, too specific. Engineer? Technically... Not. Marketing? Absolutely not. Driver? Definitely not.
He sighs. Looks around his apartment as though somebody else might answer for him. Nobody does.
Eventually... He writes only,
i travel, mostly with cars. stream. it's less exciting than it sounds.
You read it twice, three times even, hand it to Mia without saying a word. She studies it.
"Hm."
"What?"
"He didn't answer."
"He answered."
"No." She taps the paper. "He described his job. He didn't tell you his job."
You hate that she's right. You write back immediately.
that wasn't an answer.
Lando laughs, one he reads it, rubs a hand over his face.
"You've got me there."
His reply arrives almost embarrassingly quickly.
fair. i've been told i'm difficult.
You smile and write back:
by who?
Lando doesn't even think.
my coworkers.
That answer somehow makes things even muddier. Because now you know, he definitely has coworkers. He definitely travels. He definitely works around cars. He definitely knows Formula One terminology. He definitely refuses to tell you what he actually does.
Mia slowly lowers the note.
"...Girl."
"What?"
"I think Bob is either..." She starts counting on her fingers. "A Formula One engineer, a mechanic. Or..." She looks up. "most certainly Lando Norris."
You groan dramatically.
"I hate all three options."
The note sits on your coffee table for the rest of the evening. You keep glancing at it, not because you're trying to solve him anymore, but rather for the first time you realise Bob is keeping something from you and that disappoints you more than it should.
Above, Lando folds another piece of paper. Then another. Neither one is good enough. The truth sits only three words away.
I'm Lando Norris.
He could write it. He almost does. Instead... He folds the blank page in half, slides it into his wallet beside the others. And whispers quietly to himself-
"...Just one more week."
He isn't sure whether he's asking for more time... Or borrowing it.
Mia leaves for her morning run just after seven. She steals one of your hoodies and complains about Monaco being "all hills." then disappears before you are properly awake. You fall asleep again almost immediately.
The bakery sits only two streets away. Mia has been gone barely twenty minutes when she joins the queue carrying absolutely no intention other than buying croissants. Then somebody behind her says:
"Sorry."
She steps aside automatically. The man reaches around her for a loaf of sourdough. Dark hoodie, baseball cap, sunglasses despite the fact it's barely eight in the morning. The cashier smiles.
"The usual?"
"Please."
The voice. Mia blinks.
"...No way."
She doesn't react, doesn't even look twice. Instead she pays for the pastries and quietly watches in the reflection of the display cabinet. The man thanks the cashier, picks up his coffee and walks outside, turns into your street.
Mia follows, not in a creepy way, but in what she later describes as "an emotionally invested best friend way." There is apparently a difference.
She watches him disappear into your apartment building. Waits exactly forty-three seconds and walks in herself. The lift is occupied. She takes the stairs. Halfway up... she hears a door close. Apartment #12.
Her mouth falls open.
"...Oh my God."
You wake to the sound of your bedroom door flying open.
"MOVE."
You groan into your pillow.
"Mia."
"GET UP."
"Mia."
"SIT UP."
You squint at her.
"...Did Monaco explode?"
"Worse."
You sigh dramatically.
"What?"
She points towards the ceiling.
"I saw him."
You blink.
"...Who?"
She stares.
Then very slowly says:
"Bob."
Your brain takes several seconds to catch up.
"You... what?"
"I saw him."
"Outside?"
"No."
"In the building."
"He lives upstairs."
Silence. Long silence.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"You are joking."
"I followed him."
"You what?"
"Respectfully."
"There is no respectful way to follow somebody."
"There absolutely is."
"There absolutely isn't."
She waves both hands dramatically.
"That is not the point."
"It absolutely is the point."
"The point..." She points upwards. "...is that your mysterious travelling Formula One maybe-engineer definitely-not-Bob neighbour..." She takes a deep breath. "...is Lando Norris."
The apartment suddenly feels very quiet. You stare at her waiting for the punchline. It never comes.
"You recognised him?"
She nods.
"Immediately."
"You didn't say anything?"
"I wasn't about to introduce myself."
Another silence.
"He lied."
Mia's expression softens.
"Y/N..."
"He lied."
The hallway remains empty all morning. No footsteps, no crashes and absolutely no notes. You tell yourself that you're relieved. You are. Probably.
Just after lunch... The familiar scrape finally comes. A note slides beneath your door. You don't move. Mia looks at it.
"Aren't you going to..."
"No."
"You always..."
"I know."
Neither of you speaks. The note remains exactly where it landed. For the first time since the correspondence began... Apartment Seven says nothing at all.
The second note arrives the next morning. You don't open it. Mia watches you step over it on your way to make coffee.
"You know..." She says carefully. "...he doesn't know that you know."
You don't answer.
The third note arrives that evening, still folded, still carefully tucked beneath your door, still unanswered.
By Friday... There are four perfect little squares of paper stacked neatly on the console table in your hallway. You haven't opened a single one. You tell yourself it's because you're angry. You try very hard not to acknowledge that you're also curious.
Upstairs... Lando has stopped expecting replies. He writes anyway. The notes grow shorter, almost uncertain.
hope work wasn't awful.
i passed by your workshop today, but you weren't there. it smelled like fresh paint.
somebody nearly backed into my car. thought you'd appreciate that.
Nothing. Not one answer.
Oscar notices first.
"You look miserable."
"I'm fine."
"You've worn the same hoodie three days in a row."
"...That's unrelated."
"It never is."
Lando sighs.
"I think I upset somebody."
Oscar looks up.
"The note girl?"
Lando freezes.
"...How do you guess it was about note girl?"
"Dude." Oscar gestures vaguely. "You smile at folded paper."
"I..."
"You literally keep notes in your wallet."
"I..."
"You've become the least subtle person alive."
Lando drops his head into his hands.
"I don't know what happened." Oscar waits. "I didn't change anything."
"You sure?"
"I guess she suspects, who I am, but there is no-"
Lando thinks back. Bob. The questions. Papaya Rules. The job. The concision all of them taken together lead to. His stomach sinks.
"Oh."
Oscar immediately notices.
"What?"
"I think..." He exhales slowly. "I think she figured it out."
Downstairs you finally pick up the oldest note. Not to read it, just to move it. Your thumb catches on the fold. It would be so easy. One glance. One sentence.
Instead... You place it back on the table face down.
Saturday evening arrives wrapped in music. Mia insists that sitting around sulking is "deeply unattractive." You insist she stop using words like "deeply." She ignores you. Naturally.
By nine o'clock the apartment smells like pizza, perfume and the expensive bottle of wine she'd insisted on buying "for emotional support." The playlist grows louder. So do the two of you.
Above... Lando stands in his kitchen with a passport on the counter and a suitcase half packed. Another race week. Another flight tomorrow morning. He looks automatically toward the floor. Nothing. No scrape of paper. No laughter. No notes. Just... Music.
He smiles despite himself. Then remembers, she still hasn't answered not once in four days. His smile disappears.
He writes one more note anyway. He folds it. Walks downstairs and stops outside Apartment #7. The paper feels strangely heavy in his hand. He crouches to slide it beneath the door. Then hesitates.
For the first time... He doesn't. Instead, he raises his hand and knocks once. It is quiet and almost purposefully small. The music inside doesn't stop. He almost leaves, but he's already gotten here, so he knocks again, a little louder.
The apartment falls silent. Footsteps., two sets. One laughing. One slower. The lock turns.
For a moment nobody opens the door. Lando almost laughs. Of course, he deserves that. He shifts his weight. Looks once toward the stairs. Maybe-
The lock clicks. The door opens.
You're standing there barefoot, one of Mia's oversized university sweatshirts slipping off one shoulder, hair slightly messy, a wine glass still in your hand. You look exactly like the girl from the workshop photographs, like the girl from the staircase, like the girl he'd imagined every time he'd unfolded another note.
Except you're looking at him as though you don't know him at all.
Neither of you speaks. Not immediately. Finally,
"So." You lean against the doorframe. "Bob."
Lando closes his eyes.
"...Yeah."
"I have to admit." You smile. It doesn't reach your eyes. "I wasn't expecting that one."
"I can explain."
"I imagine you can."
"I'd like to."
"You've had weeks."
The words aren't loud. They're somehow worse because they aren't. Behind you Mia quietly appears in the hallway. She takes one look at Lando, at you and silently retreats back into the apartment, closing the living room door behind her very deliberately.
Lando notices.
"You know."
"I do."
Another silence.
"I wasn't trying to lie."
You laugh. A short one.
"Really?"
"I wasn't."
"You told me your name was Bob."
"I know."
"You knew mine."
"I..."
"You knew exactly who I was."
He doesn't deny it. Because he can't.
"I found your workshop." He says it quietly. "After you told me your name. I Googled it. I recognised you. I should've told you."
"You should have."
"I know."
"But every time I tried..." He shakes his head. "...I kept thinking you'd stop writing."
You stare at him. He laughs once without humour.
"Turns out... I was right."
Something twists painfully inside your chest.
"You don't get to say that." His head lifts. "You don't. You don't get to make this my fault."
"I wasn't-"
"You let me keep writing."
"I know."
"You let me tell you things."
"I know."
"You knew exactly who I was. And I knew absolutely nothing about you."
He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you're right.
"I liked Note Boy." You admit quietly. "I trusted him."
The sentence lands somewhere deep inside him. Because he knows exactly what comes next.
"I don't know Lando Norris."
The silence stretches. The music from inside the apartment has started again, quieter now, almost distant. Lando nods.
"That's fair." You hadn't expected him to agree. "I don't know what people have told you." He says after a while. "I don't know what you've read. I don't know what you think you know." Another pause. "But..." He looks at you, really looks at you. "I wish you'd let me be the one to tell you who I am."
Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass.
"I gave you that chance."
His shoulders fall, because you did. Neither of you says anything for almost a minute. Then Lando quietly reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, pulls out a folded square of paper. The last note, still unopened.
"I wasn't going to leave this." He places it gently on the little table beside your door. "I was going to slide it underneath. I just..." He shrugs. "...Thought maybe talking would be better."
You don't reach for it. He notices. Of course he notices. He nods once.
"I've got to leave tomorrow." No response. "A race." Still nothing. "I won't bother you again." That finally makes you look up. "I mean it." He smiles, small and broken. "You've made it pretty clear." He steps backwards. One step then another. "You deserved honesty. I should've given it to you sooner." Another step. "I'm sorry."
This time he leaves - no dramatic goodbye, no last look - just the quiet sound of footsteps disappearing up the stairs. The same footsteps that had been the soundtrack to your evenings for months. Only now... They sounded unbearably far away.
You remain standing in the doorway long after his apartment door closes. The folded note still rests untouched on the console table. Mia appears again. Wordlessly, she looks at you then at the note.
"You gonna read it?"
You don't answer. You quietly close the apartment door, leaving the note exactly where he left it.
You don't read the note that night or the next morning. It remains exactly where Lando left it.
Sunday is strangely quiet. Mia doesn't push, she makes coffee, opens every window in your apartment, waters the little basil plant on your balcony and pretends not to notice every time your eyes drift towards the hallway table.
Monday arrives. Then Tuesday. The note remains unopened.
By Wednesday morning, Mia's suitcase sits beside the front door.
"I have to leave in an hour."
You nod.
"I know."
She zips her bag shut then walks over to the console table. She doesn't touch the note. Just looks at it.
"You know..." She says softly. "...not reading it doesn't mean it stops existing."
"I know."
"It just means you're letting your imagination write it instead."
You don't answer, because she's right. You've already imagined a hundred versions. None of them have made you feel any better.
The doorbell rings, neither of you is expecting anyone. Mia frowns.
"I'll get it."
It's a florist, a very confused florist, holding an enormous bouquet of white lilies, pale pink roses and eucalyptus.
"Delivery for Miss Y/N L/N?"
You blink.
"...That's me."
He smiles.
"As well as..." He checks the card again. "...two paddock passes."
Silence. Mia makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
"I KNEW IT."
The florist hands over a cream-coloured envelope, much heavier than it should be. You already know whose handwriting is waiting inside. You recognise it immediately. This time it doesn't begin with anonymous black ink or Apartment #12, or Bob. At the bottom of the page there is only one signature.
Lando.
Your hands tremble ever so slightly as you unfold it. The paper is covered on both sides. No crossings out. No hesitation. Just... Lando.
Y/N,
I think I owe you more than an apology. I owe you an introduction. My name is Lando. Not Bob. Bob was stupid. Oscar laughed for a full five minutes when I told him. I deserved it.
You laugh despite yourself. Mia notices, says nothing.
You were right. You gave me every opportunity to tell you the truth. I didn't. Not because I wanted to trick you. Because I was selfish. For the first time in years, somebody liked talking to me before they knew who I was. I didn't want to lose that. The problem is... I lost it anyway.
Your throat tightens.
You once asked me what I did. I never answered. Here's the real answer. I drive racing cars. I spend most of my year in airports. I make too much noise when I walk. I'm terrible at building furniture. I drink coffee that's far too strong. I apologise with cinnamon rolls. I still don't know how vacuum cleaners work. And somewhere along the way... I became the man who waited every evening to see whether there'd be another note beneath his door.
You stop reading, just for a second, to breathe.
I can't ask you to forgive me. I haven't earned that. But I am asking for one thing. Come and see for yourself. Not headlines. Not interviews. Not social media. Me. I've arranged passes for both you and Mia. The plane leaves Friday morning. If you come... I'll answer every question you've ever wanted to ask. If you don't... I'll understand. Either way... Thank you for every note. You made Apartment Twelve feel like home.
— Lando
Silence fills the apartment. You read the final paragraph twice, then a third time. Mia quietly takes the letter from your hands and reads it herself. When she reaches the end she folds it carefully and places it back inside the envelope. Looks at you.
"So."
You already know.
"No."
"Y/N."
"No."
"You are absolutely getting on that plane."
"I don't-"
"You don't have to forgive him." She steps closer. "But..." She presses the envelope gently back into your hands. "...don't spend the rest of your life wondering whether Note Boy was real."
You look down at the letter, at the careful handwriting, the same handwriting that had slipped beneath your door for months, the same handwriting you'd memorised without realising it. For the first time you notice something - every anonymous note had ended with a period. Every single one. This one doesn't. It simply ends with: Lando. No full stop. As though he isn't trying to end the conversation. Only finally begin it.
You say no. Three times.
The first time is immediate.
"No."
Mia nods.
"I expected that."
The second time comes Thursday morning.
"No."
She slides your passport across the kitchen table.
"I packed it."
"You packed my passport?"
"I know where you keep it."
"Mia."
"What?"
"That's concerning."
The third comes Friday, standing outside Monaco Heliport, suitcase in hand, because somehow... Somewhere between Wednesday and Friday... "No" had quietly become... "Fine."
"I hate you."
"I know."
"You manipulated me."
"I encouraged personal growth."
"You blackmailed me emotionally."
"I inspired healthy communication."
You glare. She grins.
"You'll thank me later."
"I absolutely won't."
The helicopter ride is mercifully short.
The private terminal afterwards is not. Everything feels polished, effortless; people know exactly where they're going. You very much do not.
A woman in a McLaren polo smiles the moment she spots you.
"Y/N?" You nod. "And Mia?" Mia waves enthusiastically. "Perfect."
She hands each of you a pass, around your neck. Your name, your photograph, the McLaren logo. Reality settles a little deeper into your stomach.
"This way."
You don't realise how enormous Formula One actually is until you're standing in the paddock. Television never captures the noise, the movement, the organised chaos. Mechanics pushing equipment, engineers carrying laptops, photographers running backwards. Someone speaking Italian, someone else speaking French. Three different conversations happening simultaneously.
It feels alive.
"You okay?"
Mia nudges your shoulder.
You nod.
"I think so."
"Liar."
"...A little overwhelmed."
She smiles.
"Normal."
You make it exactly twenty metres before somebody calls your name.
"Y/N?"
You turn. A familiar grin and bright blue eyes. Max Verstappen standing three metres away. You blink.
"...Hi."
He smiles.
"So you came."
You stare. Then slowly... Very slowly... Look at Mia.
"You..." She immediately raises both hands. "I didn't tell him. I swear."
Max laughs.
"I figured it out."
"How?"
"Lando's been miserable."
"...Right."
He steps closer glances between the two of you.
"He asked me not to interfere." A beat. "I'm interfering anyway." Mia snorts. Of course he is. "He really likes you."
You sigh.
"So everyone keeps telling me."
"No." Max shakes his head. "I don't think you understand. He talks about you. Constantly. He made us eat cinnamon rolls because apparently 'they're important.'"
Your eyebrows lift.
"What?"
"I still don't understand. I don't think Oscar understands either. We just accepted it."
You laugh despite yourself, a tiny one. Max notices.
"He isn't..." Max searches for the words. "The person people think he is."
You look down at the pass hanging around your neck.
"I know."
He frowns.
"You do?"
"I read the letter."
Silence. Then Max nods once.
"Good." He gestures towards the garages. "Go."
"What?"
"He's pretending to work. He hasn't looked away from the hospitality entrance in twenty minutes."
Your heart immediately starts beating far too quickly.
"I... I don't know if I'm ready."
Max smiles.
"Neither is he." He starts walking backwards. "But somebody has to make the first move."
Then he's gone, just like that, leaving the two of you standing alone. Mia links her arm through yours.
"So."
You already know.
"No."
She laughs.
"Come on."
You take one deep breath. Then another.
Somewhere beyond the crowd... Beyond the cameras... Beyond the orange shirts... Note Boy is waiting. You aren't walking towards Lando Norris. You're walking towards Apartment Twelve.
The first time you see him... He doesn't see you or at least pretends not to.
He's standing with three engineers around a timing screen, headphones around his neck, a race suit tied around his waist, one hand buried in his hair. He looks busy, a far cry from glamorous.
You stop walking. Mia notices immediately.
"There."
You nod.
"I know."
"You gonna-"
"No."
She looks surprised.
"I thought..."
"So did I."
You watch him for another few seconds.
"I think..." You exhale slowly. "...I just want to see him."
So you do. For almost an hour, you never once approach him. Instead, Formula One happens around you.
A mechanic drops a wheel gun. Lando is the first person to pick it up. A little boy waits nervously beside the garage with a McLaren cap clutched in both hands, security politely tries to move him. Lando notices, walks over himself, signs the cap, then kneels down to ask the boy his name. You can't hear the conversation. You don't need to. The smile on the child's face says enough.
Later... One of the catering staff accidentally spills coffee across a table. Lando is halfway through a conversation with an engineer. He stops. Grabs napkins. Starts helping clean before anyone even asks. Nobody seems to notice. Except, well, you.
"You're staring."
Mia appears beside you carrying two iced coffees.
"I know."
"You've been staring for fifteen minutes."
"I know."
She hands one to you.
"So?"
You don't answer immediately.
"He says thank you."
"What?"
"To everyone." You gesture vaguely towards the garage. "The mechanics. The hospitality staff. The photographers. He..." You frown. "...He thanks everybody."
Mia smiles into her coffee.
"I know."
The final straw comes entirely by accident. You wander away from the hospitality unit in search of somewhere quieter. You round the corner just in time to hear somebody laughing.
Oscar. Max. Lando. The three of them stand beside a stack of tyres. You instinctively step back before they notice you.
"You still keeping the notes?"
Oscar asks. Lando doesn't even hesitate.
"They're in my wallet."
Max laughs.
"I told you."
Oscar rolls his eyes.
"Mate... You've carried folded paper around Europe for months."
Lando shrugs.
"They're important."
Oscar looks at Max. Max looks at Oscar. Neither says anything until Oscar sighs.
"You are painfully in love."
Lando smiles.
"...Yeah."
"So fix it."
"I'm trying."
"No." Oscar shakes his head. "You apologised. You invited her. You wrote the letter."
"I know."
"You've done enough."
Lando looks down.
"I don't think I have."
Something inside your chest shifts, almost imperceptibly. He isn't saying those things for you. He doesn't know you're standing there.
You step away before they can see you.
Mia is waiting exactly where you left her.
"Well?"
You stare at the ice slowly melting inside your coffee. Then... Very quietly...
"I think..." She waits. "...I judged him before I ever gave him a chance."
Mia doesn't smile. Doesn't say "I told you so." She simply hooks her arm through yours.
"You ready now?"
You look back towards the garage. Lando is laughing at something Oscar has said. Completely unaware you've been watching him all morning. You smile.
"Yeah. I think I am."
You find him almost by accident or perhaps he finds you. The afternoon has settled into that strange lull between sessions. The paddock grows quieter: engineers disappear into garages, journalists migrate towards the media pen, even the constant hum seems softer somehow.
You're standing beside the fencing overlooking the circuit, watching marshals reset a barrier, thinking. Mostly about folded pieces of paper.
"You came."
The voice is almost cautious. You turn. Lando stands a few metres away, hands buried inside the pockets of his hoodie.
"I did."
Silence follows. The comfortable kind once lived between you. This one... Still needs rebuilding.
"I wasn't sure."
He admits quietly.
"I know."
"I thought maybe..." He smiles faintly. "...you'd throw the letter away."
"I thought about it." His smile disappears. "I didn't."
Another silence. Then-
"Thank you."
He blinks.
"For what?"
"The letter. You didn't owe me one."
"I did."
"You really didn't."
"I did."
You shake your head.
"No. You owed me honesty. The letter..." You look down at the pass around your neck. "...that was a gift."
Lando laughs softly.
"I nearly rewrote it twelve times."
"I can tell."
"You can?"
"You didn't misspell one word."
He freezes.
"What?"
"You always misspell. The letter didn't have one error. I noticed."
For a moment... He simply stares.
"You noticed my spelling."
You shrug.
"I noticed everything."
Something in his expression softens. It isn't relief, it's quieter. More fragile.
"I really am sorry." He says.
"I know."
"I should've trusted you."
"You should have."
"I thought..." He laughs once. "...I thought if you knew who I was..."
"I'd stop writing." You finish for him. He nods. "I know." You look back towards the circuit. "I probably would've."
He winces.
"I know."
"But not because you're Lando Norris." He frowns. You take a slow breath. "It would've been because..." You search for the right words. "...I would've assumed there was no point. You live this enormous life. I restore motorcycles. You fly around the world. "I spend most Tuesdays arguing with carburetors." He laughs despite himself. "It's not exactly the same."
"No." He agrees. "It isn't." He takes one careful step closer. "But you know..." He smiles. "I spent months looking forward to somebody who argued with carburetors."
Your heart betrays you immediately.
"I liked Note Boy."
You admit.
"I know."
"I trusted him."
"I know."
"I..." You stop. He waits. "I don't think I stopped." His eyebrows lift ever so slightly. "I just..." You laugh quietly. "...got angry because I realised Note Boy didn't trust me back."
For the first time all afternoon Lando closes the distance between you.
"So..." He says. "What do we do now?"
You look up at him. Really look. The hoodie, tired eyes, the smile that's somehow both hopeful and terrified. And suddenly... You don't see headlines anymore. You don't see interviews. You don't see social media. You see the man who apologised with cinnamon rolls. Who lost arguments to vacuum cleaners. Who signed every note with perfect punctuation. Who carried months of folded paper around the world.
"I think..." You smile. "...maybe we start over."
His entire face changes.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"No Bob." You laugh.
"Definitely no Bob."
"No lies."
"No lies."
"And..." He hesitates. "...maybe coffee?"
You tilt your head.
"We've technically already been on about sixty dates."
He laughs.
"I suppose we have."
"They just happened under a door."
This time when he reaches for your hand you let him. His fingers fit between yours as though they'd been waiting. Maybe they had.
"Can I kiss you?"
The question surprises you, because he asked, after everything... He still asks. You smile.
"You've been waiting months."
"I know. I've been very patient."
"You've been Bob."
He groans.
"Oh, I'm never escaping that, am I?"
"Absolutely not."
You rise onto your toes, closing the last inch yourself. The kiss is soft and careful. Almost uncertain. Until... It isn't. Until months of folded paper and almost meetings and quiet apologies collapse into something warm and real. When you finally pull away you're both smiling.
"So..." Lando murmurs. "What happens to Apartment Twelve?"
You pretend to think.
"I suppose..." You squeeze his hand. "...Apartment Seven finally comes upstairs."
He laughs, the kind of laugh you've imagined for months. Only... It sounds even better in person.
liked by charles_leclerc ♡ charles leclerc ig au (pt. 8)
pairing: charles leclerc x female reader
Y/N is not an influencer. She's not famous. She's not in motorsport. She is an ordinary girlie, who just happens to like books a lot. One day a certain F1 driver stumbles upon her account and as faith would have it - their taste in literature is awfully similar.
warnings: ig au, slowburn
note: hello ♡ thank you all so much for all the love! as always if you want to sign up for my taglist you can do so by clicking the link below! here is to part 8 of the charles leclerc ig au, inspired by @collapselist - dean
pt. 7 | masterlist | sign up for my taglist
📸 yourusername
liked by charles_leclerc and 157k others
yourusername two years. thank you for making every ordinary day feel extraordinary. happy anniversary, mon amour. ❤️ @.charles_leclerc
comments:
charles_leclerc: the easiest two years of my life. i love you. ❤️
yourusername: i love you more 🤍
landonorris: TWO YEARS?????? WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN ❤️ liked by author
oscarpiastri: you were there.
landonorris: I KNOW BUT STILL
carlossainz55: happy two years you two! here is to many more!!! ❤️ liked by author
arthur_leclerc: happy anniversary!! ❤️ liked by author
georgerussell63: congratulations you two ❤️ liked by author
charles_leclerc: thank you mate
twitter
clfan1
can't believe it has been TWO YEARS since "went to the ferrari gala, left with a boyfriend." 😭😭😭
thef1gossippage
HOLD ON. CHARLES LECLERC AND Y/N HAVE BEEN TOGETHER FOR TWO YEARS???
formulafiles
TWO. YEARS. WHERE DID THE TIME GO 😭
papayaszn
remember when he soft launched her with a single white heart on his story 😭
f1tea
need everyone to appreciate that he still comments under literally every single post she makes.
charlesnation
they're literally soulmates. i've seen enough.
f1wagsdaily
manifesting an engagement announcement before the end of the season.
🏎️ charles_leclerc
liked by yourusername and 500k others
yourusername 730 days. thank you for choosing me every single one of them. i'd choose you in every lifetime. ❤️ @.yourusername
comments:
yourusername always. ❤️
f1gossip EXCUSE ME??? "I'D CHOOSE YOU IN EVERY LIFETIME."
formulaobsessed OH THAT MAN IS PLANNING SOMETHING.
f1tea does anyone else remember him saying he wanted to get married young...
arthur_leclerc 🥹🤍
lorenzotl ❤️❤️
landonorris charles mate are you trying to make everyone cry.
oscarpiastri happy 2 years, guys!
georgerussell63 happy anniversary ❤️
carlossainz55 happy for you both ❤️
📸 yourusername
story post
good luck today, lovely!
charles_leclerc resposted your story
delete this immediately.
comments:
yourusername no. ❤️
📸 yourusername
liked by charles_leclerc and 152k others
yourusername somewhere between airports and race tracks, we built a little life.
comments:
charles_leclerc: my favourite one ❤️ liked by author
yourusername: the espresso?
charles_leclerc: no. you.
f1gossip: that's ferrari's daughter-in-law at this point.
formulaobsessed: last slide 🥹
🟠 landonorris
story post
someone tell charles to hurry up. we have been here FOR HOURS 😭😭😭
i am hungry and cranky.
liked by charles_leclerc ♡ charles leclerc ig au (pt. 8)
pairing: charles leclerc x female reader
Y/N is not an influencer. She's not famous. She's not in motorsport. She is an ordinary girlie, who just happens to like books a lot. One day a certain F1 driver stumbles upon her account and as faith would have it - their taste in literature is awfully similar.
warnings: ig au, slowburn
note: hello ♡ thank you all so much for all the love! as always if you want to sign up for my taglist you can do so by clicking the link below! here is to part 8 of the charles leclerc ig au, inspired by @collapselist - dean
pt. 7 | masterlist | sign up for my taglist
📸 yourusername
liked by charles_leclerc and 157k others
yourusername two years. thank you for making every ordinary day feel extraordinary. happy anniversary, mon amour. ❤️ @.charles_leclerc
comments:
charles_leclerc: the easiest two years of my life. i love you. ❤️
yourusername: i love you more 🤍
landonorris: TWO YEARS?????? WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN ❤️ liked by author
oscarpiastri: you were there.
landonorris: I KNOW BUT STILL
carlossainz55: happy two years you two! here is to many more!!! ❤️ liked by author
arthur_leclerc: happy anniversary!! ❤️ liked by author
georgerussell63: congratulations you two ❤️ liked by author
charles_leclerc: thank you mate
twitter
clfan1
can't believe it has been TWO YEARS since "went to the ferrari gala, left with a boyfriend." 😭😭😭
thef1gossippage
HOLD ON. CHARLES LECLERC AND Y/N HAVE BEEN TOGETHER FOR TWO YEARS???
formulafiles
TWO. YEARS. WHERE DID THE TIME GO 😭
papayaszn
remember when he soft launched her with a single white heart on his story 😭
f1tea
need everyone to appreciate that he still comments under literally every single post she makes.
charlesnation
they're literally soulmates. i've seen enough.
f1wagsdaily
manifesting an engagement announcement before the end of the season.
🏎️ charles_leclerc
liked by yourusername and 500k others
yourusername 730 days. thank you for choosing me every single one of them. i'd choose you in every lifetime. ❤️ @.yourusername
comments:
yourusername always. ❤️
f1gossip EXCUSE ME??? "I'D CHOOSE YOU IN EVERY LIFETIME."
formulaobsessed OH THAT MAN IS PLANNING SOMETHING.
f1tea does anyone else remember him saying he wanted to get married young...
arthur_leclerc 🥹🤍
lorenzotl ❤️❤️
landonorris charles mate are you trying to make everyone cry.
oscarpiastri happy 2 years, guys!
georgerussell63 happy anniversary ❤️
carlossainz55 happy for you both ❤️
📸 yourusername
story post
good luck today, lovely!
charles_leclerc resposted your story
delete this immediately.
comments:
yourusername no. ❤️
📸 yourusername
liked by charles_leclerc and 152k others
yourusername somewhere between airports and race tracks, we built a little life.
comments:
charles_leclerc: my favourite one ❤️ liked by author
yourusername: the espresso?
charles_leclerc: no. you.
f1gossip: that's ferrari's daughter-in-law at this point.
formulaobsessed: last slide 🥹
🟠 landonorris
story post
someone tell charles to hurry up. we have been here FOR HOURS 😭😭😭
i am hungry and cranky.
okay but if you're willing i'm still waiting for part 2 of apartment #12???? it was soooo good
STOPPPP 😭🤍 the way i gasped reading this because i genuinely thought apartment #12 had been forgotten!! consider this your official reminder that i absolutely need to write part 2. i've had a few requests, some queued fics, and i've been away on a work trip, so it ended up getting pushed back, but you've officially convinced me.
let's do it. 🫡🤍
i can't promise it'll be the very next fic, but i'm moving it back up my list. thank you so much for still thinking about it after all this time, that genuinely means the world to me. 🥹
a short blurb on what happens when vic invites you over to watch game film
warnings: fluff
note: hello ♡ i hope you enjoy this fluffy short headcanon. - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
The first time Victor invites you over to watch game film, you assume he's serious. Which is your first mistake. The second is showing up with a notebook. Victor answers the door in sweatpants. You immediately realize one of you misunderstood the assignment.
"What's that?" he asks.
You glance down.
"My notebook."
Victor stares.
"Why?"
"You said we were studying film."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh."
"Oh?"
"I didn't think you'd actually take notes."
You narrow your eyes.
"Victor."
He laughs and just like that, your chances of learning anything about basketball disappear. Forty minutes later, the game is paused. Victor is explaining absolutely nothing. You're sitting cross-legged on the couch and somehow the conversation has shifted from defensive rotations to your favorite childhood movies.
"So this wasn't really about film study, was it?"
Victor pretends to think about it.
"No."
"You tricked me."
"A little."
"You invited me over under false pretenses."
"I invited you over because I wanted to see you."
The words land softly, as though he hasn't just short-circuited your brain.
Victor glances over, notices your expression, smiles.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The look."
"What look?"
"The one where you realize I'm smarter than I look."
You throw a pillow at him. Victor catches it effortlessly. The game remains paused for another three hours.
a short blurb on what happens when vic invites you over to watch game film
warnings: fluff
note: hello ♡ i hope you enjoy this fluffy short headcanon. - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
The first time Victor invites you over to watch game film, you assume he's serious. Which is your first mistake. The second is showing up with a notebook. Victor answers the door in sweatpants. You immediately realize one of you misunderstood the assignment.
"What's that?" he asks.
You glance down.
"My notebook."
Victor stares.
"Why?"
"You said we were studying film."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh."
"Oh?"
"I didn't think you'd actually take notes."
You narrow your eyes.
"Victor."
He laughs and just like that, your chances of learning anything about basketball disappear. Forty minutes later, the game is paused. Victor is explaining absolutely nothing. You're sitting cross-legged on the couch and somehow the conversation has shifted from defensive rotations to your favorite childhood movies.
"So this wasn't really about film study, was it?"
Victor pretends to think about it.
"No."
"You tricked me."
"A little."
"You invited me over under false pretenses."
"I invited you over because I wanted to see you."
The words land softly, as though he hasn't just short-circuited your brain.
Victor glances over, notices your expression, smiles.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The look."
"What look?"
"The one where you realize I'm smarter than I look."
You throw a pillow at him. Victor catches it effortlessly. The game remains paused for another three hours.
Hii I love your post of what its like dating george rusell can you do one with oscar piastri??
what it's like dating.... ♡ oscar piastri
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
Just headcanons on what dating Oscar would be like
warnings: fluff
note: hello ♡ thank you so much for the request anon! enjoy. - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
Oscar's love language is acts of service before anything else. Your phone somehow always being charged because he notices it dying before you do. Him silently moving you to the inside of the pavement whenever you're walking together. Your coffee order becoming permanently stored in his brain after hearing it exactly once. Pretending not to listen when you ramble, only to bring up something you mentioned three months ago. Constantly having conversations like "I told you to bring a jacket." "Sorry, babe, I forgot." "You can wear mine." Rolling his eyes while draping it over your shoulders anyway.
Oscar never being overly dramatic about his feelings. Instead of saying "i miss you" every five minutes, he'll simply text, "when are you home?" and somehow it means the exact same thing.
Oscar treating you like you put the stars up in the sky for him and him only. You don't suspect a thing, but to him, it's like you actually have. You are the only person who consistently makes him laugh loud enough that everyone nearby turns around and he will be damned if he ever does anything to upset you on purpose.
Oscar being overly affectionate and clingy, when nervous pre-race. Lando pretending to throw up every time he catches the two of you being disgustingly cute. "Mate, get a room." "Shut up." "You lot are disgusting." "Shut up."
Oscar secretly loving you stealing his hoodies, because it means he'll eventually get them back smelling like your perfume.
Oscar loves taking youlate-night drives with no destination. It's all comfortable silence. Playlists instead of conversations. Your hand resting on the centre console until he reaches over without looking and intertwines your fingers with his.
Oscar never making a big deal out of anniversaries, because he knows you don't like it, but somehow always remembering them. Getting you flowers "just because", saying they simply reminded him of you while he was walking past a florist.
Oscar being surprisingly competitive over the smallest things. Mario kart becoming a genuine threat to the relationship. "You're cheating." "I'm winning." "Same thing."
Oscar's dry humour getting progressively worse the longer you're together. You eventually becoming fluent in Oscar, recognising that a tiny smile means he's ecstatic, that "not bad" means he absolutely loves something, that "yeah, alright" is basically a declaration of affection.
Hii I love your post of what its like dating george rusell can you do one with oscar piastri??
what it's like dating.... ♡ oscar piastri
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
Just headcanons on what dating Oscar would be like
warnings: fluff
note: hello ♡ thank you so much for the request anon! enjoy. - dean
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Oscar's love language is acts of service before anything else. Your phone somehow always being charged because he notices it dying before you do. Him silently moving you to the inside of the pavement whenever you're walking together. Your coffee order becoming permanently stored in his brain after hearing it exactly once. Pretending not to listen when you ramble, only to bring up something you mentioned three months ago. Constantly having conversations like "I told you to bring a jacket." "Sorry, babe, I forgot." "You can wear mine." Rolling his eyes while draping it over your shoulders anyway.
Oscar never being overly dramatic about his feelings. Instead of saying "i miss you" every five minutes, he'll simply text, "when are you home?" and somehow it means the exact same thing.
Oscar treating you like you put the stars up in the sky for him and him only. You don't suspect a thing, but to him, it's like you actually have. You are the only person who consistently makes him laugh loud enough that everyone nearby turns around and he will be damned if he ever does anything to upset you on purpose.
Oscar being overly affectionate and clingy, when nervous pre-race. Lando pretending to throw up every time he catches the two of you being disgustingly cute. "Mate, get a room." "Shut up." "You lot are disgusting." "Shut up."
Oscar secretly loving you stealing his hoodies, because it means he'll eventually get them back smelling like your perfume.
Oscar loves taking youlate-night drives with no destination. It's all comfortable silence. Playlists instead of conversations. Your hand resting on the centre console until he reaches over without looking and intertwines your fingers with his.
Oscar never making a big deal out of anniversaries, because he knows you don't like it, but somehow always remembering them. Getting you flowers "just because", saying they simply reminded him of you while he was walking past a florist.
Oscar being surprisingly competitive over the smallest things. Mario kart becoming a genuine threat to the relationship. "You're cheating." "I'm winning." "Same thing."
Oscar's dry humour getting progressively worse the longer you're together. You eventually becoming fluent in Oscar, recognising that a tiny smile means he's ecstatic, that "not bad" means he absolutely loves something, that "yeah, alright" is basically a declaration of affection.
There are many things Charles Leclerc expects to find around the Formula One paddock. Red Bull cans in Ferrari hospitality are not one of them. Unfortunately for him, you seem physically incapable of existing without one.
warnings: fluff
note: hello! ♡ this is request by @madiexuberant heavily inspired by my Lando Norris fic Yuzu Melon, except apparently we've traded melons for approximately enough caffeine to power a small city. please do not use this fic as medical advice. drink some water. unlike reader. enjoy! - dean.
The first time Charles makes note of your Red Bull addiction, he assumes it's an isolated incident. You're leaning against the Ferrari hospitality counter, quietly talking to one of the PR coordinators, a bright blue can balanced casually in your hand.
He doesn't think much of it, people drink energy drinks especially around Formula One. The weekends are long. The schedules are brutal. It's understandable. He promptly forgets about it until the next morning.
You're walking through the paddock. Same tote bag, same sunglasses, different outfit, same Red Bull. Charles blinks - coincidence, probably.
By Saturday afternoon, he has counted four separate cans, not flavours, cans consumed by the same person. You. He finds himself watching in mild horror as you effortlessly crack open yet another one while scrolling through your phone. He looks towards Carlos' old race engineer.
"Has she..." A pause. "...been drinking those all day?"
The engineer barely glances up.
"Since yesterday."
Charles laughs.
"No, seriously."
"I'm serious."
"...Oh."
Sunday morning, Ferrari hospitality. Charles walks in determined to prove to himself that he's exaggerating. You smile politely as he passes.
"Morning."
"Morning."
His eyes immediately drift towards your hand, Red Bull, again.
"You know..." He begins carefully. "...they do sell water."
You look down at the can. Then back at him.
"They do?"
"Yes."
"Interesting
."
"You've... never considered it?"
"I have."
"And?"
"I preferred this."
You take another sip. Charles watches you with the exact expression of a man witnessing a horrific crime.
"How many have you had today?"
You think.
"...Including this one?"
"There are others?"
"Three."
"It is only nine in the morning."
You shrug.
"I woke up early."
Charles closes his eyes for a brief moment. Somewhere behind him, Fred walks into hospitality. He takes one look at the can in your hand, then at Charles.
"No."
You blink.
"What?"
"Not in Ferrari hospitality."
You glance around innocently.
"I don't see a rule."
"There is one now."
"You've just made it up."
"I have."
"You can't do that."
"I literally own the team."
"...Good point."
Charles has known Fred for years. He has never seen him look quite so personally offended by a beverage.
Charles' intervention begins approximately twenty minutes later. He corners you outside hospitality. You are, unsurprisingly, holding another can. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Listen."
"Hm?"
"I have accepted that I cannot stop you."
"Very mature of you."
"I'm not finished."
You raise an eyebrow.
"We are Ferrari."
"I know."
"We are not associated with Red Bull."
"I also know."
"So..." He gestures towards the can. "...could you maybe not drink those so... publicly?"
You look down at it, then back at him.
"So the problem isn't that I'm drinking it."
"The problem is where you're drinking it."
"Exactly."
"That seems manageable."
Charles leaves that conversation feeling strangely victorious.
The following morning, he cannot find you anywhere, which, in hindsight, should've worried him. Instead, he assumes you've listened. He should know better. He rounds the corner beside the Ferrari garage. There you are, crouched behind a tire trolley, drinking a Red Bull through a metal reusable straw.
"Y/N..."
You freeze.
"...Hi."
"What are you doing?"
"Hiding."
"I can see that."
"So can you really call it hiding?"
Charles sighs.
By the afternoon, you've evolved. This time, you've poured the Red Bull into an entirely unlabelled reusable bottle. Charles almost walks straight past you, then he watches you take a sip. Your face immediately does the tiny little wince it always does after the first mouthful.
"You decanted it?"
"I adapted."
Saturday. You somehow acquire an iced coffee cup, Ferrari branding, lid, straw. Charles smiles. Finally, progress. Then you take a sip.
"That isn't coffee."
"No."
"You put Red Bull in a coffee cup."
"I wanted to blend in."
"You've become a criminal."
By Sunday, the situation has spiralled completely out of control. You are sitting beside Lewis, happily sipping from what appears to be a water bottle. Charles is almost proud.
Until Lewis quietly says, "You know that looks like piss, right?"
You both look down. The Red Bull is, in fact, visible through the clear plastic.
"...I forgot bottles were transparent."
That evening, Charles gathers you, Fred and two very confused Ferrari engineers around one of the empty meeting tables. Fred folds his arms.
"This is an intervention."
You look genuinely touched.
"For me?"
"Yes."
"I've never had one before."
Charles slides an entire case of bottled water across the table.
"We've made alternatives."
You stare at it.
"...Where's the Red Bull?"
"There isn't any."
"I don't understand."
Fred sighs.
"I'll be honest."
"We've tried."
Charles nods.
"We've really tried."
"You've hidden them."
"Yes."
"You've replaced them with water."
"Yes."
"You even made Carlos check my bag."
Charles looks mildly embarrassed.
"...Yes."
You smile sweetly.
"I had another bag."
Fred slowly turns towards Charles.
"I'm beginning to understand why you've looked so tired this weekend."
Charles drops his head onto the table.
"I can't win."
You reach over, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
"You can't."
Finally, Charles lifts his head.
"Fine."
Your eyes light up.
"Really?"
"Drink your Red Bull."
"I will."
"But."
You stop.
"You are no longer allowed to drink it in Ferrari hospitality."
"Fair."
"Or within sight of Fred."
"Also fair."
"Or where photographers can see you."
"Reasonable."
"And preferably..." He points accusingly at you. "...not behind our tire trolleys."
You grin.
"No promises."
Charles groans. Fred simply stands.
"I'm going home."
As he walks away, he mutters just loudly enough for the two of you to hear, "At least she's not drinking Monster."
You beam.
"See?" You turn towards Charles. "It could be worse."
Charles looks at the can you've somehow produced from absolutely nowhere.
"...Please tell me you didn't have that in your pocket."
You crack it open with a satisfied hiss.
"A magician never reveals her secrets."
Charles sighs dramatically.
"I'm dating an energy drink smuggler."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
He watches you take another sip. Then, despite himself, smiles.
I honestly wouldnt mind. Although it would be funny if it wasn't a redbull team. The s/o acting all "*gasp* betraying me for redbull I see!" I have no preference! Thank youuuuu!!!
