â. đËàż THE PITT ARCHIVES đđËâ
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Michael "Robby" Robinavitch (dr. robby x doctor!reader masterlist!)
A Slice of Life Anthology:
Hold me, Console me light angst/fluff
Dr. Professor fluff
Da-da (whether you like it or not) fluff
Held close all the time, knowing I'm half of you ANGST (new fic!)
Dinner, makeup remover, and a ring I bought for you months ago (upcoming...)
ââ ââ more incomingâ â ââ
Frank Langdon (dr. langdon x doctor!reader masterlist!)
I've seen it (upcoming...)
ââ ââ more incomingâ â ââ
Jack Abbot (dr. jack abbot x doctor!reader masterlist!)
Batman and Robin (a medical mystery) fluff/humor
Summary: Nine years is a long time to know somebody. In those nine years, she and Jannik have changed so much; grown as people, as players, rose to fame alongside each other. But some things, some rituals never change.
wc: 1k
Headphones in, head down. That was her most usual form about an hour before a match. Anything fast with a good rhythm would do - even better if it can keep up with her racing heart.
Nerves usually aren't an issue. Loud cheering crowds, chaotic coaches, phones ringing - loved ones wishing her good luck - it was a norm that she accepted early on in her career. However, they had never gotten that far before. This is it. Australian Open, Mixed Doubles Final, 2023.
Her eyes closed as a breath pushed out of her lungs, like waves rushing to shore, before opening once again and focusing on the task at hand. Her fingers worked with a practiced precision, the movement bringing an odd comfort to the room, as she carefully wrapped the white material around the grip of Jannik's racquet.
"I can do it myself, sai?" (you know?)
He comments from his place on the floor, while he stretches his hamstrings.
She looks at him blankly, noticing his mouth moving, yet hearing no sound over her blaring music. Gently tugging an earbud out, she raises a brow in question.
The response she receives is a gentle chuckle and a playful shake of the head.
"I'm not fifteen anymore, I can grip my own racquets."
(Note; he could always grip his racquets, just not up to her pristine standards. 'You're not doing it right,' she would complain back at the academy, before taking initiative and doing it herself - she was not going to risk losing due to his sloppiness.)
She simply shrugged, finishing her task with a slightly embarrassed smile.
"I don't want to jinx it."
She knew how silly it sounded, nevertheless, she did it. For the past seven years - on and off due to injury and scheduling conflicts, of course - she has known him, and re-gripped his racquets before their matches.
They were good. They were great. Two young rising stars, both in singles and doubles. She wasn't going to change the routine now. It worked, didn't it?
"I play just as fine when I do it myself, bella."
He responded with an small, amused smile.
"You have your superstitions, I have mine. Do you want to win or not?"
Her hand twitched, the way it did when she tensed, when her voiced carried a certain sharpness, threatening to crack under the weight of stress. He saw. He knew. Before she could apologise for her minor - yet sudden outburst, he repositioned himself to sit on the floor in front of the bench she is sitting at. He firmly tied the stubborn lace of her left shoe, giving her leg a reassuring pat.
"AndrĂ tutto bene. We've got this, no?" (everything will be fine)
How can he be so calm, so collected?
After a generous exhale, she nodded. He noticed that the whole scene lacked conviction, sure, but fake confidence was considerably better than no confidence. That was enough for him. She was enough for him.
They were enough for eachother. A universal truth that was further proven two hours later, when they lifted the silver trophy together.
Their lips met the cold steel at the same time, the ability to stand fueled purely by adrenaline after a grueling three set match. Another hour later, his lips would find hers for the first time. Yes, fueled by adrenaline, but mainly by the years spent by her side, watching her, knowing her. A simple silent admiration that he refused to suppress for any longer.
He has two grand slams to his name. She has three.
Together, they have four doubles majors under their belt, aiming for five.
Australian Open, Mixed Doubles Final, 2025.
Headphones in, head down. Brows gently furrowed in concentration, as the white material drags and stretches between her fingers, rotating his racquet with her other hand.
Sitting next to her, Jannik gently pulls an earphone out of her ear, careful not to startle her.
"Pronta, bella?" (ready?)
He nudges her shoulder with his in an encouraging gesture.
Finishing her practiced ministrations, she shrugs, placing the last racquet in his bag.
"Not really." She says with a nervous smile. It never gets easier. The contrary, if anything. The more you win, the more people admire you. The more people admire you, the more people you can dissapoint.
A tender smile creeps onto his face, and his comforting hand slips into hers, fingers lacing for the nth time.
"Honesty looks good on you. Come tutto, a dire il vero." (So does everything, to be fair)
She laughs lightly, shaking her head at his blatant flirting. Italian charm; foolproof.
"E niente." (And nothing) He says with a boyish grin, leaning in slightly.
She knows what he's doing, of course she does. Laughter is the best distcraction - anything to ease her nerves. And so, she lets him.
Her laughter thickens, her nose scrunching the way it often does when she is trully amused.
"You're ridiculous." She simply comments, her wide smile contrasting her words while she double-knots the laces of her shoes.
Jannik's undoubtebly witty retort is interupted by a knock on the door, and the tournament manager's nasally voice - "Five minutes!"
Brought back into the reality of the situation, she sighs as her smile drops slightly. Standing up, she picks up her bags, throwing them over her shoulder with a certain determination.
"It's just you and me out there." He reminds her, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear with his calloused fingers.
She nods with a thankful smile, placing his cap on his head.
"That's enough for me. I don't need anything else."
She seals her words with a quick, yet tender kiss. It is less a statement, more a promise. His hands - rough but oh so gentle - linger on her cheek, for just a moment more. Whatever happens out there, he's enough for her. They're enough for eachother.
Summary: Landoâs a little clingy tonight, which is how you end up sitting beside him off-camera while he streams CS with Max. Itâs all going fine⊠until he notices the powdered sugar on your lips. One impulsive kiss later, the chat is in chaos, Max is traumatised, and Lando refuses to wipe the evidence away.
Warnings: fluff, established relationship, public but private couple, clingy!lando, streamer dynamics, brief kissing, chat chaos, max third-wheeling against his will, tooth-rotting sweetness
Not verbally, heâll never say it outright on stream, but you can always tell.
Itâs in the way his hand keeps reaching for yours between rounds.
The way he swivels his chair slightly toward you even while focused on his monitor.
The way heâd texted you âcome sit w me plsâ from three feet away before going live.
So now youâre there.
Curled into the chair beside his, just out of camera frame like always. Public relationship, but private moments, the balance youâd both agreed on early. The viewers knew you existed, knew you were together⊠they just didnât see you often.
Tonight was one of those rare nights you hovered just off screen because he wanted you close.
And because youâd brought snacks.
A small open box of mini powdered donuts rested on your lap, and you were halfway through your third one while scrolling TikTok with the volume low in your earbuds.
On his monitor, Landoâs game of CS was⊠not going well.
âHOWââ he cut himself off, leaning back in his chair. âHow is he there? That makes no sense.â
From his headset, Max Fewtrellâs voice crackled in instantly.
âYou say that every time you die.â
âBecause itâs always stupid,â Lando shot back, clicking his mouse aggressively.
You snorted quietly beside him.
His head turned immediately.
The annoyance on his face melted the second he looked at you, it always did, and his eyes dropped to the donut in your hand.
Then to your mouth.
You didnât even realise what he was staring at until he smiled.
A slow, soft, fond smile that made your stomach flip.
âWhat?â you mouthed.
He didnât answer.
Instead, he leaned sideways out of camera frame, quick, casual, one hand bracing lightly on your knee as he pressed a kiss to your lips.
Soft. Sweet. Brief.
You giggled instantly into it, surprised, powdered sugar dusting from your lips onto his.
He pulled back just as quickly, grinning like it was the most normal thing in the world, and turned back to his screen as if nothing happened.
You blinked.
Then laughed quietly to yourself, wiping your fingers on a napkin before picking up another donut.
On stream, Maxâs voice cut through again.
ââŠWhy did you just disappear off camera?â
Lando froze mid-buy menu.
âWhat?â he said, too casually.
âYou leaned out like you were kidnapped.â
âI did not.â
âYou did,â Max insisted. âChatâs literally asking where you went.â
Lando frowned, glancing at his second monitor where the chat was flying.
LANDOOOO WHERE DID U GO
bro vanished đ
did his wifi die orâ
wait⊠WAITâŠ
WAS THAT A KISS???
NO WAY
NOOOO WAYYY
POWDER ON HIS LIPS HELLO????
LANDO U HAVE SUGAR ON UR MOUTH
He blinked.
ââŠWhat?â
You clapped a hand over your mouth to stop laughing.
He frowned deeper, instinctively opening his stream preview, and there it was.
A faint dusting of powdered sugar across his bottom lip.
thats exactly what I mean when I say, that I hate that posts, videos and entire movies are made, kind of glorifying crashes, or saying they make things interesting.
No.
We lost so many people to crashes and we are so lucky for everyone who came out of a crash and lived.
If you joke about a driver crashing, I hate you.
If you hope for a driver crashing, I hate you.
If you downplay a driver talking about the issues they faced after a crash, I hate you.
Just think about all the people we lost, and the people who lost a loved one like charles did.
okay ive been lowkey losing my mind over this but can someone help me fic an oscar piastri series fic where he found out that lando and reader slept together before r! and oscar were in a relationship and he gets like very mad over it.
ive been looking for it for an hour and i can't remember who wrote it T_T
â mornings in monaco â â husband!charles leclerc x fem!reader
set in monaco where mornings are slow and soft, and husband!charles is a little too affectionate about his sleepy wife, refusing to let her start the day without a dozen small moments of love and attention.
warnings: pure fluff, established relationship, clingy charles, use of y/n, not proofread
word count: 793 , masterlist , a/n : charles crashing at barcelona-catalunya gp.. oof⊠but congratulations to lewis for p1!! first ferrari win yayy!!!đ€
mornings in monaco were always too bright. like the sun had no idea people were trying to sleep.
you were curled up on the couch in one of charles hoodies. blanket halfway on the floor, hair tangled in a messy bun you threw in before you fell asleep.
charles walked into the living room and stopped immediately.
he was frozen.
you didnât even open your eyes, you just heard him walking. âif you say anything about my hair iâm divorcing you.â
he laughed. âi wasnât going to say anything.â
you peeked one eye open. âliar.â
he walked closer slowly, an energy drink in one hand, phone in the other, looking way too put together for someone who had been up late with you.
he crouched down in front of you on the floor.
ây/n,â he said softly.
âhm?â
he tilted his head. âwhy are you sleeping like a small animal.â
you opened both eyes now. âwhat??â
he smiled. âlike a cute raccoon.â
you stared at him.
ââŠa raccoon?â
he nodded very seriously. âyes. very cute one.â
you sat up slightly. âthatâs not a compliment.â
âit is,â he said immediately. âi like raccoons.â he says with a smitten smile.
you threw the blanket at him but it was weak and he just caught it like it was nothing.
âyouâre insane,â you mumbled.
âyouâre cute,â he corrected, leaning in and wrapping his arms around your waist anyway, pulling you slightly forward so your forehead bumped his shoulder.
you sighed. but you didnât move away.
âyouâre supposed to be getting ready,â you said into his hoodie.
he hummed. âi am ready.â
you pulled back slightly. âyouâre literally not..â
he looked at you like you were the confused one. âi have clothes on.â
âcharles.â
he smiled. âwhat?â
you narrowed your eyes. âyou have a meeting in forty minutes.â
he paused.
ââŠoh.â
you blinked. âoh?â
he checked his phone.
paused again.
ââŠoh.â
you leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. âyou forgot.â
âi didnât forget,â he said quickly. âi just⊠lost track of time.â
âyou forgot.â
âi was cuddling you,â he said like that explained everything in the universe.
you pointed at him. âthat is not an excuse!â
he leaned forward again immediately, resting his head on your shoulder. âit is a very good excuse.â
you tried not to smile. failed.
âyouâre unbelievable.â you said.
he kissed the top of your head lightly.
âyouâre warm.â
âthatâs not relevant.â
he sighed dramatically and stood up, finally starting to actually move around the room.
âokay okay, iâm going,â he said, grabbing his watch.
you watched him for a second. âyouâre stressing.â
âi am not stressing.â
you raised an eyebrow.
he looked at you.
ââŠiâm slightly stressing.â
you nodded. âbetter.â
he grabbed his shirt, then paused again, looking back at you.
you were still sitting there, blanket falling off your shoulder, watching him with half lidded eyes.
he stopped completely again.
âwhat now?â you asked.
he walked back over.
you sighed. âcharles.â
he crouched in front of you again. âjust one second.â
âyou said that five minutes ago.â
âthis is different.â
âhow is it different?â
he didnât answer right away but instead he just pulled you forward gently by your hands so you were closer to him again.
âwhat?â you said softer now.
he just looked at you for a second then smiled a little.
ânothing,â he said.
you narrowed your eyes. âyou always say nothing and then do something weirdly emotional.â
âi just like you,â he said simply.
you froze a bit. he noticed instantly and smiled more.
âdonât start,â you warned.
âiâm not starting anything,â he said, still holding your hands. âi just⊠needed to see you properly before i go.â
you blinked. âyouâre going to be late.â
âi know.â
âyouâre not being very responsible right now.â
âi know.â
you scoff. âyouâre impossible.â
he nodded. âi know.â
you tried to pull your hands back but he didnât let go immediately.
just held them a second longer.
âcharles,â you said again, softer.
âhm?â
you looked at him properly now. âgo.â
he smiled at your words. he didnât want togo but he did eventually let go.
he stood up, walked two steps away, then turned back again.
you groaned. âwhat now.â
he pointed at you slightly. âgoodbye mon amour.â
you stared. âbye charles.â
he stood there and starred at you, smiling
you rolled your eyes. âgo!â
he nodded, walked away again, paused at the door, looked back one last time.
you threw a pillow at him this time for real.
âGO!â you yelled.
he laughed and finally left.
ten seconds later you heard him shout from the hallway
âi love you!â
you yelled back without thinking, still half buried in blankets
âi love you too idiot.â
and even though he was already gone, you could practically hear him smiling.
Max Verstappen x mercedes!driver!reader
Toto Wolff & driver!reader (boss/driver dynamic)
Summary: You were supposed to be Mercedes title hope. Instead, Monaco gives the win to Kimi, the podium to Toto, and the heartbreak to you. Furious, overlooked, and terrified of losing your seat, you turn to the only person who tells you the truth â Max.
Warnings: angst, team politics, driver rivalry, emotional breakdown, secret relationship, suggestive smut (no smut description), Toto being ruthless.
Word count: 6k
a/n: I wanted to write something more angsty this time. Lately, Iâve been thinking about how George might feel this year with everything happening around the title fight, so I put the reader in a similar position â talented, frustrated, overlooked, and scared of being replaced.Â
In this AU, George drives for Red Bull alongside Max, while Kimi is the readerâs Mercedes teammate and Totoâs golden boy, which makes the whole Monaco mess hurt even more. And yes, I added Max because I enjoy making things messier. He brings spice, tension, and emotional chaos.
Monaco is supposed to love you. That is the lie you tell yourself when you wake up on Sunday morning.
Monaco loves precision. Monaco loves courage. Monaco loves drivers with enough arrogance to put a car between walls and pretend fear is something that happens to other people.
You are very good at that. Fear has never looked good on you.
But anger does.
So does a black leather jacket, combat boots, tattoos on display, and a motorbike helmet tucked under your arm while Toto Wolff stands in the Mercedes hospitality with the expression of a man regretting every life choice that led to managing you.
âYou rode here?â he asked that morning.
You gave him your sweetest smile. âNo, Toto. I teleported in leather.â
His jaw tightened. âWe discussed this.â
âYou discussed. I listened artistically.â
âI forbade it.â
âYou forbid many things. I collect them.â
He looked at you over his coffee. âOne day you will give me a heart attack.â
âOne day I will win you a world championship.â
âThat was the agreement,â he said.
And for a second, you believed it again. Because this season was meant to be yours. After Lewis left for Ferrari, Mercedes became your team. Your garage. Your fight. Toto told you that himself. He stood in his office after the announcement, one hand on the back of his chair, serious and calm, and said you were ready to lead.
You believed him.
Then came Kimi. Young. Fast. Polite. Annoyingly talented. Mercedes new wonder boy with a smile like he still asked permission before taking the last biscuit.
You like him. That is the worst part.
Kimi is impossible to hate. He brings Susie coffee when she visits. He let Jack climb into the simulator and pretend to drive. He calls you âbossyâ once and then immediately apologize because your stare nearly ends his career.
He is sweet. He is also your teammate. And this year, he is winning. From the first race, everything had started going wrong for you.
You were supposed to be the title favourite. Instead, Kimi leads the championship.
You are third. Still close enough to fight. Still fast enough to scare everyone. Still angry enough to burn the whole paddock down if somebody handed you matches.
Monaco was meant to reset the story. Pole position. Your pole position.
Kimi second. Max third in the Red Bull, already furious because George had outqualified him the previous race and they were currently communicating through hostile silence, aggressive overtakes, and media quotes so fake polite they should have come with warning labels.
The lights went out. You launched perfectly.
For forty laps, you controlled everything. The car was sharp. The tyres behaved. The walls stayed exactly where you expected them. Kimi followed, close enough to pressure you, too far to touch you.
You breathed with the circuit. Turn 1. Massenet. Casino Square. Mirabeau. Hairpin. Tunnel.
Monaco loved you.
Then Stroll crashed at the Swimming Pool. The safety car came out.
Your radio exploded with voices. You drove slowly past the debris and already felt it, the cold little twist in your stomach.
âBox me,â you said.
Silence. Then your engineer: âStand by.â
You nearly laughed. Stand by. At Monaco. Where track position was oxygen.
âKimi is boxing,â your engineer said.
Your hands tightened on the wheel. âWhat?â
âKimi boxes this lap. You stay out. We are coveringââ
âCovering what?â you snapped. âA ghost?â
âToto says stay out.â
There it was.
Toto says.
The magic phrase. The final commandment. The holy law from the pit wall.
You stayed out. Kimi pitted. Kimi came out with fresh tyres.
You waited one lap. Two. By the time they called you in, you already knew. You knew from the tone. You knew from the quiet. You knew from the way the garage stopped sounding like a racing team and started sounding like people trying very hard to avoid responsibility.
You came out behind him. In Monaco. Behind Kimi. Your teammate. Totoâs golden boy.
The restart came, and you drove like fury itself had borrowed your gloves.
You filled Kimiâs mirrors. You attacked every corner where logic said there was no space. You made space with the kind of audacity that made commentators raise their voices and engineers stop breathing.
Kimi defended cleanly. Too cleanly. Too well. Of course he did. The kid was brilliant. You hated him for five laps.
Then your engine coughed. Once.
Your stomach dropped. âNo,â you said.
The dashboard lit up.
âNo, no, no, noââ
The car lost power exiting the tunnel. Kimi vanished ahead. The walls closed in.
Your radio filled with instructions that meant nothing because you already knew the feeling of a dying Mercedes.
You coasted toward the Nouvelle Chicane, steering heavy, pulse roaring louder than the crowd.
âEngine is gone,â you said, voice flat.
âWe are checking.â
âCheck faster. Iâm parked.â
You stopped the car. Five laps from the end. Again.
The marshals moved toward you. You sat still for one second longer than necessary, gloved hands resting on the wheel.
There was no screaming, no dramatic gesture. The rage was too big for that. It settled inside you like something ancient.
Then you climbed out. You did not wave. You did not look at the cameras. You did not touch the barrier with some tragic little farewell gesture for the Netflix edit.
You walked. Helmet still on. Visor down. Because if the world wanted a woman in Formula 1 to cry, it could pay for therapy and earn the privilege.
By the time you reached the Mercedes garage, Kimi was crossing the line. The entire place erupted. Mechanics shouted. Engineers hugged. Someone cried.
You stood at the back, helmet in one hand, sweat cooling under your fireproofs, and watched your teammate win the Monaco Grand Prix.
The Monaco Grand Prix. The one race every driver wanted to win.
And then you looked up at the screen. Toto was going to the podium. For him. For Kimi.
Your whole body went cold.
Toto hated podium theatrics. He avoided them whenever he could. He always sent someone else. Technical director. Sponsor. Board member. A smiling Mercedes person with good hair and no emotional complications.
You had won six races for this team. Six. Toto had never stood on the podium with you.
Kimi won Monaco, and Toto walked up there.
The cameras loved it. Of course they did. Toto Wolff, tall and proud, standing beside the teenage Mercedes winner while the anthem played. Kimi soaked in champagne, laughing like he had just been handed the moon. Toto clapped him on the back, smiled at him, pulled him into a hug.
A real hug. Warm. Proud. Fatherly. The kind Toto gave you in private corridors after hard races. The kind he never gave you where the world could see.
Your hands curled around your helmet. Someone said your name carefully. You did not answer.
On screen, Kimi sprayed champagne over Totoâs shoulder.
Toto laughed. You felt something inside you tear.
Then Toto looked down from the podium. For one tiny second, through the camera angle, it almost seemed like he was looking toward the Mercedes garage. Toward you.
You turned away first.
He finds you twenty minutes later. Toto has always known where to find you. Empty corridors. Quiet corners. Garages after everyone else leaves. Places where you can breathe without cameras licking at your wounds.
This time you are in his office.
You are standing by the table, still in your race suit, half unzipped, hair damp with sweat, helmet on the chair beside you.
You should be in debrief. You should be in media. You should be congratulating Kimi with the grace of a mature professional athlete.
Instead, you are staring at the wall and imagining how satisfying it would feel to throw Totoâs laptop into the harbour.
The door opens.
He steps inside. Still wet from champagne. His black Mercedes shirt clings slightly to his shoulders. His hair is damp. There are golden drops on his collar. He smells like victory.
Kimiâs victory.
You smile before he speaks. It is not a nice smile.
âCongratulations,â you say.
Toto closes the door behind him. The click sounds too final.
He looks tired. Careful. Angry too, somewhere under the control.
âYou left the garage.â
âI had a dead car and a living temper. Seemed safer.â
âYou missed the team celebration.â
You laugh once, sharp and joyless. âCelebration? I had nothing to celebrate. A funeral, maybe.â
His jaw tightens. âDo not start.â
You laugh. âOh, darling, I started around lap forty-one.â
His eyes sharpen at the word.
You use it sometimes to irritate him. Usually he rolls his eyes and tells you to behave. Today, he does not.
Today he looks at you like you are a problem with too many variables. You hate that.
âYou smell like champagne,â you say.
His face shifts. A direct hit. Good.
âI came straight from the podium.â
âYes. I saw.â
Silence.
You turn away and pick up a towel from the table. You twist it once between your hands.
Toto steps closer. âI know you are angry.â
The towel hits the wall before you fully realize you have thrown it. Soft and pathetic.
You stare at it in disgust. âEverything in this office is useless for violence.â
Toto exhales through his nose. âThat is comforting.â
âDonât joke with me.â
âI am trying to keep you from doing something you regret.â
You turn on him. âToo late.â
His expression hardens. âCareful.â
There it is. The boss voice. The voice sponsors obey. The voice engineers fear. The voice that once made you feel safe because it meant someone powerful was standing between you and the wolves.
Today, it only reminds you that Toto owns the door. The contracts. The seat. Maybe your future.
âNo,â you say. âYou donât get to âcarefulâ me today.â
âI am still your team principal.â
âAnd I am still the driver you left out while you saved his race.â
His eyes flash. âThat is not what happened.â
âFunny. Because I watched it happen from inside the car.â
âThe safety car created a split-second decision.â
âAnd you chose Kimi.â
âWe covered the highest probability outcome.â
âYou covered him.â
Totoâs face goes still.
You step closer. The anger is clean now. Sharp enough to cut your own hands open.
âSay it,â you demand.
âSay what?â
âThat the team is shifting.â
His brows draw together. âThis is not a conversation to have while you are emotional.â
You laugh. âOh, there it is. The classic. The woman is emotional. Somebody bring a blanket and a sedative.â
âYou know that is not what I meant.â
âDo I?â
âYes.â
You hate that he says it like a fact. Because he knows you. Too well. He knows when you are performing. He knows when you are hurt. He knows when your rage is a shield, and your pride is bleeding behind it.
That used to matter. That used to make him feel like home.
Totoâs voice lowers. âI have defended you from that kind of talk for years.â
You flinch. Tiny. He sees it. Of course he sees it.
âYou have,â you say.
The words come out quieter.
And that is the problem. Toto has defended you. When reporters asked if you were too aggressive. When sponsors wanted you softer. When a former driver said women lacked the instinct for Formula 1 and Toto nearly dismantled him on live television with a smile.
Susie supported you too. Always. She hugged you after your first podium, gave you advice before your first rookie season, sent you messages after bad qualifying sessions, and let Jack run into your arms every race weekend like you were his favourite chaos aunt.
Jack loved you. You loved him too.
You loved that family in dangerous little ways.
Maybe that was your first mistake. You thought being loved by people near Mercedes meant Mercedes could love you back.
Toto moves closer. âLook at me.â
You do. Bad decision.
His brown eyes are tired, still warm despite everything. His face has champagne drying on it. There is a small sticky mark near his jaw, and some absurd part of your brain remembers Jack once getting ice cream on Totoâs shirt and Toto pretending to be furious while letting the boy climb into his lap.
Your chest hurts.
âI know today was bad,â he says.
You stare at him. âBad?â
His mouth tightens.
âBad is missing a braking point,â you say. âBad is a slow pit stop. Bad is a puncture. This was Monaco, Toto. I was leading Monaco.â
âI know.â
âI was leading, and you gave Kimi the pit priority.â
âIt was the call.â
âIt was his call.â
âIt was the teamâs call.â
âYou are the team.â
The words land between you. Toto does not answer quickly enough.
You smile, bitter and bright. âAt least the silence is honest.â
His eyes narrow. âDo not confuse silence with guilt.â
âThen explain it.â
âWe had to protect against Lewis.â
You laugh so sharply it almost hurts. âLewis? Lewis was stuck behind us with a car that looked like it wanted to retire itself out of shame.â
âTrack position mattered.â
âYes, and you gave it to Kimi.â
Totoâs voice hardens. âHe won.â
You freeze. For one second, even he seems to regret saying it. Too late. The words go through you like a knife.
He won.
Simple. Brutal. The only thing Formula 1 really respects.
You nod once. âRight.â
Toto says your name.
You lift a hand. âNo. I understand.â
âYou are twisting this.â
âNo, I am finally hearing you clearly.â
He takes another step. âYou are one of the strongest drivers I have ever worked with.â
âOne of,â you repeat.
His jaw tightens. âStop doing that.â
âI used to be the driver here.â
âYou still are.â
âNo.â You shake your head. âI am the difficult one. The stubborn one. The one who rides bikes too fast and tells sponsors their questions are stupid when they are stupid.â
âThey often are.â
âDo not make me laugh. I am trying to hate you.â
His face softens for half a second. That makes it worse.
You turn away.
âI was supposed to fight for the title this year,â you say. âThat was the plan. That was what you told me.â
âAnd you still can.â
âKimi is leading the championship.â
âThere are many races left.â
âI am third because this car keeps breaking, the pit wall keeps gambling with my race, and I keep driving like I have something to prove because every single weekend I do.â
Totoâs voice lowers. âYou donât have to prove anything to me.â
You spin back around. âYes, I do.â
âNo.â
âYes, Toto!â Your voice cracks. âEvery single day. Because Kimi walks into this team and gets treated like the future. I walk in and get told to control my temper.â
âYou threw a towel at the wall.â
âI wanted to throw your laptop.â
âThat would have been expensive.â
âI am expensive.â
For one insane second, his mouth almost twitches. Then your face changes, and the almost-smile disappears.
âYou stood on the podium with him.â
The room goes quiet. Toto looks at you.
You hate yourself immediately. That was too honest. Too small. Too wounded.
He takes a breath. âIs that what this is about?â
Your eyes burn. âNo,â you lie.
He says your name again, softer this time.
You hate that too.
âYou have never stood there with me,â you say. âSix wins. Not once.â
His expression shifts. There is something like pain there.
Good. Let him have some.
âI didnât know that mattered to you,â he says.
You laugh, but it comes out broken.
âOf course you didnât.â
âI should have.â
âYes.â
Another silence.
He looks at the champagne on his sleeve like he has only now remembered it is there.
âYou are important to this team,â he says.
You look at him. âDonât.â
âIt is true.â
âDonât give me the family speech.â
His eyes hold yours. âMercedes is your home.â
There it is. Your chest closes around it. Home.
Again.
You step back as though the word touched you.
âMy home put him on fresh tyres and left me out to die.â
His face hardens. âEnough.â
âNo, Toto. It isnât enough. It hasnât been enough all season. Every time something goes wrong, I am told to be patient. Every time Kimi wins, I am told to be happy for the team. Every time I ask what the hell is happening with my side of the garage, I get numbers and excuses.â
âYou think I would push you out?â
The question is quiet. Too quiet.
You stare at him. And the truth is awful. Because you do not know.
A year ago, you would have laughed in his face. Toto? Push you out? The same Toto who threatened to lock your motorbike away? The same Toto who let Jack put stickers on your helmet? The same Toto who once stayed in the medical centre with you after a crash until Susie arrived with coffee and a look that said both of you were idiots?
That Toto protected you.
This Toto just held Kimi on a Monaco podium.
âI think,â you say slowly, âyou are capable of anything if you believe it will make Mercedes win.â
His face goes still.
There.
You both know it. You have said the one thing he cannot deny.
Toto Wolff loves people. He protects them. He remembers birthdays, notices exhaustion, sends doctors, blocks journalists, and looks at Jack like the world begins and ends with his sonâs laugh.
He is also ruthless.
Mercedes first.
Always.
Even love must wait outside the strategy room.
âI need drivers who deliver,â he says.
Quiet. Controlled. Professional.
You feel the sentence wrap around your throat.
âI was delivering before the engine died.â
âI know.â
âBefore your strategy put me behind him.â
âI know.â
âThen what do you need from me?â
He does not answer.
That silence is the loudest thing in Monaco.
You nod. âRight.â
You grab your helmet.
Toto moves toward the door, blocking it without meaning to. Or perhaps meaning to. With him, the difference is often paperwork.
âWe are not finished.â
âYes, we are.â
âYou will attend the debrief.â
âI will attend because my contract says I have to.â
His eyes sharpen. âDo not speak to me like I am your enemy.â
You look up at him. You wish he had shouted. It would have been easier.
âI donât know what you are anymore.â
His face changes. For one second, Toto looks genuinely hurt.
You open the door and walk out before that hurt can become yours too.
You do the debrief. Barely.
You sit there with your hair still damp from a rushed shower, face clean, expression deadly calm. Kimi keeps glancing at you from across the room like a puppy standing beside a broken vase.
He is sweet enough to look guilty. That almost makes you angrier.
He did nothing wrong. He drove well. He won Monaco.
You should congratulate him. You do, eventually. After the data. After the technical excuses. After Toto speaks in that measured tone and everyone pretends this room does not smell like burned trust.
You walk up to Kimi near the door.
He straightens. âIâm sorry,â he says before you can speak.
Your anger slips for half a second.
âDonât be stupid.â
His eyes widen.
You sigh. âYou drove well.â
âI know the strategyââ
âYou drove well,â you repeat. âTake the win.â
He looks at you, uncertain.
You force a smile. It costs you something.
âAnd stop looking like I kicked your dog.â
He smiles faintly. âI donât have a dog.â
âThen stop looking like I kicked George. Same energy.â
That gets a real laugh from him. Small. Nervous.
You squeeze his shoulder once. Then you leave before you start crying in front of the boy everyone thinks will replace you.
Media is worse. The questions come dressed as sympathy.
âDifficult day for you.â
âHow frustrating was it to see Kimi win after the strategy split?â
âDo you feel the team could have done more?â
âIs Kimi now the number one contender for Mercedes?â
That one makes your PR officerâs soul leave her body.
You smile.
It feels sharp enough to draw blood.
âKimi drove a strong race,â you say. âI had a car issue. The team will investigate. Monaco is cruel. Thatâs racing.â
Thatâs racing.
The most useless sentence in the world. It means everything and explains nothing.
By the time you reach your driver room, your phone is already full.
Susie texts first.
Susie: I know today hurt. Call me when you can. Jack says you are still his favourite and Kimi only won because your car âwent sleepy.â
That breaks something in you.
You sit on the floor with your back against the sofa and press the phone to your chest.
Jack. Sweet, loyal Jack.
You can picture him perfectly, little serious face, convinced Mercedes cars have personalities and yours simply needed a nap.
You laugh once. Then you cry. Quietly. Angrily. For exactly two minutes.
Then you wipe your face, stand up, and text Max.
You: Where are you?
His reply comes fast.
Max: My apartment. You coming?
You stare at the screen.
You should say no. You should sleep. You should apologize to Toto. You should take the mature route, which sounds horrible and involves herbal tea.
Instead, you grab your bag.
You: Lock the door.
Max opens before you knock twice.
His Red Bull shirt is wrinkled. His hair is messy. His face has the same dark post-race fury you feel in your bones.
His race had been bad too. In fact, his race barely even started. The engine died right at the start, and that was his race over. George on the other side of the garage pretending not to enjoy his misery, which meant absolutely enjoying it.
Max looks at you once. âMonaco loves drama.â
You push inside. âMonaco can choke.â
He shuts the door. You throw your bag down.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he says, âYou watched the podium.â
You look at him. That is all it takes.
Max crosses the room and kisses you hard. No careful hello. No sympathy. No soft little question about whether you are okay.
Good.
You are not okay. You want heat, not pity.
You shove him back against the wall, fingers in his hair, mouth fierce on his. He gives you three seconds of control because he is generous in the way predators are generous.
Then he turns you, pins you there, and kisses you like he has been waiting to ruin your composure all day.
âAngry?â he asks against your mouth.
You laugh, breathless. âInspired.â
His eyes darken. âDangerous.â
âYou like dangerous.â
âI like winning.â
âRough day for you too, then.â
He bites your lower lip lightly. You gasp. He smiles. âCareful.â
You drag your nails down his chest. âYou first.â
That is the thing about Max. He never treats your anger like a problem to solve. He treats it like fuel.
His hands are firm on your waist. Yours are impatient at his belt. Clothes become obstacles, and both of you have always hated obstacles. His shirt goes first. Your hoodie follows. You kiss him like a fight. He holds you like he knows exactly how much pressure your body needs before your thoughts finally shut up.
The room turns into heat. Breath. Skin. Hands pulling, gripping, demanding.
Max moves with that same brutal confidence he has in a car, direct and relentless, except here you can answer back. You do. With nails, teeth, sharp little orders against his mouth. He laughs once, low and rough, then makes you forget the sentence you were trying to throw at him.
You hate how well he knows you.
You love it too.
He knows when to slow down until you swear at him. He knows when to push until your head falls back.
He knows how to hold your wrists and make you look at him when you try to disappear into your own anger.
âThere,â he murmurs, voice rough. âStay here.â
You want to mock him. You want to say something cutting.
Instead, your breath breaks. Because for a few minutes, there is no Mercedes. No podium. No Kimi. No Toto wet with champagne, looking at you like he wants to protect you and replace you in the same breath.
There is only Max. His mouth. His hands. His weight. The heat of him dragging you out of your head and back into your body.
Afterward, you lie tangled in the wreckage of the bed, breathing hard.
Your hoodie is on the floor. Maxâs watch is under a chair. One of the pillows has given up and fallen sideways like it also had a difficult Grand Prix.
You stare at the ceiling. Max lies beside you, one hand moving slowly along your stomach.
For a while, the silence is almost kind. Then he says, âThey fucked you.â
You close your eyes. âHow romantic.â
âI am serious.â
âI know.â
âThey chose Kimi.â
You swallow.
The sentence hurts more because Max says it with no pleasure. No rivalry. No paddock politics. Just truth.
âYes,â you whisper.
His hand keeps moving.
âI hate that I like him,â you say.
âKimi?â
âYes.â
âHe is hard to hate.â
âHe apologizes when I insult him. It is extremely inconvenient.â
Max huffs a small laugh.
You turn onto your side, facing him. He looks tired now. Still sharp, still Max, but without the armour he wears in the paddock.
Your secret with him began as a mistake. A post-race drink. A bad mood. A kiss that should have stopped. A night that should have stayed singular.
Then it became easier to go to him after races than to go back to your room and stare at the ceiling. Max never asked you to be softer. He never asked you to explain your ambition in a way that sounded less threatening. He never told you to smile.
That alone was almost love language. Almost.
You study his face. âBe honest with me.â
His hand stops. He already knows the question. You hate that.
âHas Toto spoken to you?â
Max looks away. Your stomach drops.
You sit up. âMax.â
He exhales. âYes.â
The room goes cold.
âAbout Mercedes.â
âYes.â
You grip the sheet in your fist. âWhen?â
âEarlier this year.â
âHow serious?â
He sits up too, running a hand through his hair. âPreliminary at first.â
Your laugh is sharp and empty. âAt first.â
His mouth tightens.
You stare at him. âHow serious now?â
âThere is a framework.â
âA framework,â you repeat.
The words taste expensive.
âA multi-year offer,â he says.
You stand so fast the sheet slips from your lap.
Max does not look away, because Max has never pretended you are something delicate.
âHow generous?â
His silence answers.
You nod, slow and furious. âOf course.â
âIt is not signed.â
âOh, thank God. My career is only being measured for the coffin.â
He gets up. âThat is not what I said.â
âNo, you said framework. Multi-year. Generous.â
âI should not have told you.â
âThen why did you?â
He looks at you. The room quiets.
âBecause you asked.â
Simple. Too simple.
Your throat tightens. You grab your shirt from the floor and pull it on with shaking hands.
âToto told me today Mercedes was my home.â
Maxâs jaw tightens.
âHe stood there,â you continue, voice rising, âstill smelling like Kimiâs champagne, and told me I belonged. He looked me in the eye and said I was important to the team.â
âYou are.â
âAm I?â You laugh. âBecause it sounds like he is shopping for my replacement.â
âIt could be Kimi.â
You stop. Then you laugh properly. Ugly. Disbelieving.
âPlease. Kimi?â
Max says nothing.
âTotoâs miracle child? The boy he just hugged on the Monaco podium like proud papa Wolff presenting the future of motorsport, like Simba being presented to the kingdom?â
Max winces slightly.
You point at him. âExactly.â
âHe is leading the championship.â
âYes. Thank you for the emotional support.â
âI am saying Mercedes could build around him and still keep you.â
âAnd bring you in where? As team mascot?â
Maxâs eyes sharpen. âYou know what I mean.â
You do. That is the problem. Mercedes has two seats. Kimi is winning. Max is Max.
And you are the woman who was supposed to win the title this year and instead keeps losing races to bad luck, team calls, reliability, and the teenage teammate everyone wants to crown.
You sit down on the edge of the bed. The anger drains fast. Too fast. It leaves something worse behind. Fear.
You hate fear. It makes you feel nineteen again. Too young, too watched, too aware that every mistake you make becomes proof for men who never wanted you on the grid at all.
Your tattoos. Your bikes. Your sharp mouth. Your refusal to be grateful for scraps.
They loved calling you difficult.
Toto used to call you extraordinary. Maybe extraordinary had an expiry date.
Max crouches in front of you. âAny team would take you.â
You look at him. âDo not do that.â
âWhat?â
âSay comforting bullshit because we just had sex.â
His mouth curves faintly. âI am not comforting.â
âTrue. You have the emotional range of a tyre blanket.â
âAnd you are still one of the best drivers on the grid.â
You look away. âOne of.â
Maxâs hand touches your knee. âYou are scared.â
You glare at him. âI am calculating.â
âYou are scared.â
âSay that again and Iâll throw your watch out the window.â
âIt is already under the chair.â
Despite yourself, a broken little laugh leaves you.
Then your eyes fill again. You turn your face away quickly.
Max sees. He stands and pulls you into him.
You resist for half a heartbeat, because resistance is your native language. Then you fold against his chest.
His arms close around you. No big speech. No useless promise. Just Max, warm and steady, one hand at the back of your head.
âI was meant to fight for it,â you whisper.
âI know.â
âThis was supposed to be my year.â
âI know.â
âI worked for this. I stayed when Lewis left. I trusted Toto.â
Max says nothing.
You close your eyes. That is what hurts most.
You trusted Toto. With your career. With your anger. With the ugly parts of being the only woman on the grid. With the soft parts too.
You let him become family.
Susie. Jack. The Mercedes garage. The mechanics who knew your coffee order. Totoâs hand on your shoulder after bad sessions. The way he said your name when he wanted you to stop pretending.
And all along, maybe he was already planning the future without you.
Maybe that is Formula 1. Maybe family is only a word people use until the data says otherwise.
Your phone buzzes. You freeze.
Maxâs arms loosen.
You already know. You pick up the phone from the floor.
Toto.
Toto: We need to speak again.
Toto: Properly this time.
You stare at the screen. Another message appears.
Toto: I know today I hurt you. I should have understood sooner.
Your chest aches. For one second, you want to believe him. That is the most humiliating part. You want Toto to explain it. To say Max misunderstood. To say the offer means nothing. To say your seat is safe, your place is safe, your home is safe.
You want him to be the man who protected you.
You are terrified he is only the man who will fire you gently.
Max watches your face. âYou going to him?â he asks.
You lock the phone. âNo.â
His brows lift slightly.
You wipe your face with the heel of your hand.
âI cannot hear him call Mercedes my family tonight.â
Max stands quietly beside you.
You sit back down on the bed, phone in your hand, staring at nothing.
For the first time all day, you are completely still. No rage. No shouting. No throwing towels at walls.
Just the awful weight of understanding.
Toto may care about you. He may even love you in his careful, protective, almost-fatherly way. He may worry when you ride too fast, smile when Jack runs to you, defend you when the paddock gets cruel, and look at you like he sees the fire under your skin.
And still, if Mercedes needs Max Verstappen, if Kimi keeps winning, if the board wants the future wrapped in a cleaner story, Toto will sit across from you in some glass office and tell you it is business.
He will say he is sorry. He will mean it. Then he will take your seat anyway.
That is what breaks you. Not Kimiâs win. Not the dead engine. Not the champagne. The realization that Toto can care and still choose against you.
Your phone buzzes again. You do not look.
Max sits beside you, close enough that his shoulder touches yours.
Outside, Monaco celebrates Kimiâs victory. The harbour glows. Champagne flows. Cameras flash. Somewhere, Toto Wolff waits for an answer.
You breathe in. Slow. Shaking. Then you place the phone face down on the bed.
âI need to win again,â you say.
Max looks at you.
Your voice is quiet now. That makes it colder. âI need to win so hard he regrets even thinking about it.â
Maxâs mouth tightens. âHe already will.â
You stare at the wall. âNo,â you whisper. âHe wonât.â
Because Toto Wolff does not regret decisions that make Mercedes stronger. He only regrets the people they hurt.
And tonight, finally, you understand the difference.
You sit there until your tears stop. Then you stand, pull on your jeans, find your hoodie, and pick your Mercedes cap up from the floor.
For a moment, you look at the silver star on it. Home. Family. Seat. Weapon.
You put it on.
Max watches you from the bed. âWhere are you going?â
You sling your bag over your shoulder. âTo sleep.â
He gives you a look.
You almost smile. âTo try,â you correct.
At the door, you pause. Your hand rests on the handle. You do not turn around when you speak.
âThank you for telling me.â
Max is quiet for a second. âYou deserved the truth.â
You close your eyes. That sentence hurts too. Because somewhere in another apartment, the man you once trusted most is still asking to explain.
And maybe he has reasons. Maybe he has guilt. Maybe he has a version of the truth wrapped in careful words and strategy documents.
But tonight, you do not need Totoâs reasons. You need the pain to stay sharp. Sharp enough to drive with. Sharp enough to survive with. Sharp enough to remember that Formula 1 has never given you anything because you were loved.
You had to take every inch. Every corner. Every win. Every breath.
So if Toto wants to replace you, he will have to look you in the eye while you make it the hardest decision of his life.
You open the door. Monaco waits outside, bright and cruel. You walk into it with your head high. And for the first time this season, you stop wondering whether Mercedes still wants you.
Summary You were the bright intern at Mercedes when you first met Lewis Hamilton, where a shared spark grew alongside rising trust. But just as things started to shift, life pulled you away from F1 and Lewis. Years later, Lewis ran into you again on the paddock, both of you in complete different colours. Old flames reignite on the opposite sides of the competition, and the story picks up where it never truly ended.
Warnings Mentioning of ill family member
A/N Writing about Lewis Hamilton makes me feel like this needs a more mature touch to it, it feels very different from writing about Lando and Yuki, the vibe is different, but I hope you'll like it!
It started quietly, just a few missed calls from your sister back home during a double-header weekend. You ignored them, thinking it could wait. But the messages that followed made your stomach drop.
Your father had collapsed. A small stroke, they said. Not life-threatening, but serious enough to need rehab, constant monitoring, and someone to manage the house. Someone to keep things from falling apart.
You didnât tell anyone at first. You buried it, the way you were trained to. Numbers, strategy, race prep, those were things you could control. But your thoughts started slipping during sessions. You missed small details. And people noticed. Lewis noticed most of all.
âYouâve been quiet,â he said one night after a strategy meeting. The paddock had gone dark, just the distant hum of generators and the click of his boots keeping time with your silence.
You tried to lie. âJust tired.â
He gave you a look, patient, but pointed. âThatâs not all.â
And maybe that was the moment you should have told him everything. About your dad. About how the team was starting to question your focus. About how the whispers around the paddock were growing louder, that you and Lewis were too close. That if you got offered a real contract, it would be because of him.
Instead, you deflected. âWe shouldnât keep doing this.â
He blinked. âDoing what?â
âWhatever this is.â You gestured between you. âThe long looks. The late talks. Itâs confusing, and people are talking.â
His voice was calm, but strained. âLet them talk.â
âI canât afford to let them. Not when Iâve worked this hard and slipping a bit.â
It wasnât fair. It wasnât him. But it was real.
Right after the race weekend, you formally requested the leave. You told HR there was a family health issue. They nodded without hesitation but disappointed about not able to keep you after the internship. You came back after the week and finished up the two races left, finished up your internship, and you left Mercedes. Your badge clicked against the lanyard as you handed it over to the receptionist at Mercedes HQ. No dramatic moment. No ceremony. Just a quiet return of your access pass and the weight that came with it. You had packed up the shared workstation the night before, long after everyone else had gone home. No one noticed. You liked it that way.
You didnât talk much to Lewis since the conversation, you knew you were leaving F1 for now, for your family. You told yourself it was temporary, that youâd come back, that F1 would wait.
You didnât say goodbye to Lewis in person. You couldnât. You left a note in his driver's room.
âYou were the part of this Iâll miss most.â
He never got to reply. The number he had was your work phone number. And that was how it ended. Not with a crash. Just a quiet exit from a world you thought would be yours forever.
You kept telling yourself that it was better this way. Cleaner. Simpler. The professional thing to do.
But as the cab pulled out of Brackley and the silver crest of the team logo disappeared in the rearview mirror, your chest tightened. Not from regret, but from the ache of something unfinished. Something you didnât allow to become real.
Albert Park always buzzed a little differently. New season, fresh paint, unfamiliar lineups. Everything looked sharper under the Australian sun, especially the Ferrari red. Lewis adjusted the collar of his new fireproofs as he stepped into the paddock, a place that had seen his rise, his heartbreak, and his reinvention.
The cameras flashed. People waved. Fans were loud.
But his focus drifted as he walked, eyes scanning out of habit rather than need. Until he saw a flicker of orange that crossed his line of sight.
McLaren.
He almost didnât think twice. Plenty of new hires. New faces. But something about the way one particular person moved, decisive, unbothered by the buzz, cut through the noise. Then she turned.
And for a split second, time folded in on itself.
It was you.
The sun caught your face just right, same eyes, steadier now. A little older, a little tougher around the edges. Clipboard in hand, headset around your neck, you laughed at something a mechanic said, eyes squinting in the light. You hadn't seen him yet.
Five years.
He thought he mightâve imagined you all this time. A ghost from Brackley. A mistake he never chased. But now you were here. In the paddock. Wearing McLaren orange like youâd never been gone. And God, you looked like you belonged. Lewis froze, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something harder to name.
You turned again, finally locking eyes with him. A beat. Then another.
And then, the smallest shift in your expression, recognition, hesitation, maybe even surprise. Of course, you expected him to be here. You watched him all this time, fighting his own battles, winning, losing, everything.
You didnât smile. Neither did he. But you didnât look away.
He took a step forward. Then another. But something stopped him.
It wasnât fear. Lewis Hamilton wasnât afraid of much, not speed, not people, not the press.
It was the silence between you. The five years he never reached out. He could have easily found your contact through HR, but the way you left without a word. The question of whether you wanted to be found at all.
His hand clenched slightly around his helmet.
Someone called you for something, and you smiled at them. He watched as you disappeared into the McLaren garage.
ââââThe sun in Susuka hadnât fully risen yet. Just that faint pre-dawn glow stretching across, casting soft blues and orange hues across the empty circuit. The grandstands were empty, the air crisp, the scent of dew still clinging to the asphalt.
You liked track walks like this, early, silent, yours.
Clipboard in hand, headset slung around your neck, you traced the racing line with quiet focus, murmuring notes into your phone. âTyre wear at Turn 6, surface grip better than last year.â Small things. Safe things.
Then, ahead, on the edge of Turn 7, you saw another figure, Lewis.
Walking slowly. Alone. No engineer, no entourage. Just his trainers and a cap pulled low over his forehead. His hands were in his pockets. His gaze was on the track, but something in him was already aware.
You froze for a moment. Thought about turning around. Pretending you forgot something. Giving him the same silence you gave him five years ago.
But you didnât move. And he looked up.
A beat passed. Two.
Then Lewis slowed to a stop and gave you a faint nod. âDidnât expect to see you here.â
His voice was exactly the same, low, calm, steady. But you heard the edge. Not angry. Not cold. Just⊠measured.
You walked a little closer. âEarly walks help me think,â you said simply. âOld habit.â
He gave a soft, humourless laugh, barely audible. âYeah. I remember.â
Silence again. Not awkward. But heavy. Like the track between you wasnât asphalt, but everything unsaid.
He shifted his weight. âSo⊠McLaren, huh?â
You smiled a little. âThe opportunity presented itself. I took it.â
âYou didnât take mine.â
That stopped you. You looked at him fully for the first time. The same eyes. A little more tired around the edges, but still warm, still searching.
âI had to go,â you said softly.
âI didnât even get a goodbye.â
You inhaled. âI know.â Another long pause.
Wind rustled through the nearby trees. The world was waking up, but here, on this part of the track, it still felt like night. Like the moment hadnât caught up to reality yet.
âYou look good in red,â you said gently.
He gave you a small smile. âYou always said I could pull off anything.â
You turned away slightly, biting the inside of your cheek. âI didnât think youâd remember that.â
âI remember a lot of things.â
And there it was. The air shifted. You felt it in your chest. Like gravity had moved, like something was pulling again. But before you could say anything else, your comms buzzed faintly.
âDuty calls,â you said.
âRight,â Lewis nodded. âMe too.â
You hesitated, then started walking. Not toward him, just past. And he stood still for a second, letting you go.
But just as you reached the next turn, he called out, âHey.â
You stopped.
âWhen this weekendâs over... would you stay a little longer?â
You met his eyes across the track.
âHonestly, I donât know if itâs a good idea, Lewis.â
You left the words there on the track, turn 7, and you left Lewis there.Â
Miami was alive. The crowd roared through every corner as strategies unfolded like high-stakes chess. Two cars danced toward Turn 11, papaya and scarlet locked in battle.
McLaren had gone aggressive. You were making the call.
âLando, Mode 7. Brake later into Turn 13. Lewis is struggling on exits, weâve got him.â
Your voice was calm in the headset, but your chest was tight. You watched the telemetry pulse on your screen, heard the engine notes change as Lando responded instantly.
And in car #44, the comms crackled in Lewisâ ears.
The comms crackled in his ears. âBox opposite Norris if needed, heâs getting push from strategy.â
âCopy. Whatâs his delta?â
âHis engineer told him youâre struggling on exits.â
Lewis didnât reply.
In the Ferrari garage, eyes were darting across monitors. The battle was on. You werenât watching them, you were watching the margins. The data. The win.
On the next straight, Lando pulled closer. DRS open. A clean dive. Lewis held the outside, then gave just enough room. You could feel the electricity crackle through the radio.
And when Lando overtook, Lewis didnât fight back. Not really. Not like he couldâve.
Not when the voice pushing Lando forward was the same one that used to steady him.
Lando finished P2. Lewis P5.
There were cheers in the McLaren garage. Champagne mist. Back pats. You stood at the back, smiling, clipboard in hand, heart thudding beneath it.
And across the media zone, Lewis was watching you again. Not like before. Not like someone surprised. This time, it was like he finally saw you for what you were now: rival, equal, stranger.
He didnât approach. But as he walked past, you heard his voice low near his press officer, almost under his breath.
âShe always knew how to win a race.â
You werenât sure if it was admiration or accusation. Maybe both.
Later, you were leaning over your laptop, fingers flying as you compiled data summaries from the race. Around you, the engineering team buzzed with quiet adrenaline, half celebration, half analysis. The clink of bottles, the low murmur of strategy breakdowns.
Lando flopped into the chair next to you, still in his race suit, hair a little damp, cheeks flushed from the podium high.
âYou gonna tell me what that was about?â he asked, voice light.
You didnât look up. âWhat what was about?â
âThat call on Lap 38. The one where you went for Lewisâ throat like it was personal.â
You paused. Then glanced at him. âI was just doing my job.â
He tilted his head. âYeah. But that tone?â
You sighed, leaned back in your chair. âHe was slowing you down. You had the better tyres, the better line. I knew we could take him. And since when are you a vocologist ?â
Lando didnât let it go. âWhatever that is, I don't need to be one. I saw how he looked at you after the race, like he wanted to either congratulate you or burn down the motorhome.â
You said nothing. Lando waited a beat. Then tried again, quieter this time.
âYou knew each other, didnât you?â
You exhaled. âA long time ago. When I was still⊠just starting.â
He nodded slowly. âAnd now?â
You looked out the window for a moment, where the sun was starting to dip behind the stands.
âNow,â you said carefully, âweâre just on different teams.â
Lando studied you for a second, then grinned faintly. âRight. Sure. Just different teams.â
You shot him a look. âDonât start.âÂ
Lando put both of his hands up. âIâm just saying, if I ever see an unlabelled bottle of wine in the garage, Iâm not assuming itâs from Ferrari.â
You laughed, finally. A small one, but real.
And Lando, still smirking, leaned back and added, âBut⊠thanks. For the call. Even if it came with something thatâs probably more than that.â
You smiled at your screen. âAnytime, Norris. And itâs not that deep.â
The air outside the Monaco media pen still buzzed with race-day tension. Reporters huddled behind barriers, mic lights flashing, voices clashing in a dozen languages. You stood with the McLaren crew, headset still around your neck, scanning your phone for post-race notes.
And then you heard Lewis.
His voice cut through the noise, sharp. âUnnecessary. It was completely unnecessary.â
You looked up. He was mid-interview with Sky. Red Ferrari shirt, sweat still clinging to his brow. And though he was looking at the camera, you knew those words were aimed at you.
âWe had the pace. We were managing fine. That push from Norris felt like a strategic overreaction. Very unnecessary call from someone who clearly wanted to prove a point more than win a clean race.â
The journalist blinked. âAre you saying McLarenâs strategy was... personal?â
Lewis smiled, tight, unreadable. âYouâd have to ask their pit wall. Iâm sure someone over there has a lot to get off their chest.â
You froze. And so did the entire McLaren crew.
It was the first time heâd said anything like that out loud. Publicly. Later, as the interviews ended and drivers dispersed, you were in the corridor near the hospitality units when you heard his voice again.
This time, it was direct.
âYou didnât need to make that call.â
You turned. Lewis stood there, jaw tense, voice low, but not soft.
âBut I did, I had toâ You said simply.
âYou know you didnât. That was me out there. You knew I was managing tyres. You knew pushing Lando would force me to defend and burn more grip.â
âAnd you think I shouldâve held him back? For you?â you snapped.
âI think you knew exactly what you were doing,â he shot back. âAnd I think you wanted to remind me who you are now.â
You took a step closer, careful to keep your voice down even if your pulse was screaming.
âI made a race call. Thatâs my job. Iâm not in your garage anymore, Lewis. You donât get to accuse me of playing games just because you donât like how things are going.â
He shook his head slightly, like he couldnât believe what he was hearing. âFive years ago, you left without a word but just a note. Now you're back, and the first thing you do is use your strategy board to send a message?â
You stared at him, feeling like being caught on the spot.
âMessage received,â he added coldly, before walking off.
You stood there, stunned. The hallway felt colder somehow. Like the high from Landoâs podium had already burned off. For a second, you wanted to chase after him. Explain. But you didnât.
Because maybe, just maybe, he was right. Or maybe he was just angry that he finally had to race someone who knew him too well.
The energy from the race had long faded. Most of the garage had cleared out, laughter and celebration trickling elsewhere. But Lewis lingered behind Ferrariâs unit, restlessness keeping him pacing near the service corridor.
Thatâs when he saw Lando, still in half his race gear, holding a water bottle, standing in the soft orange glow of the McLaren side.
They made brief eye contact. It wasnât as friendly as it used to be.
âGot a minute?â Lando asked.
Lewis didnât answer. Just nodded once.
Lando stepped in closer. âI heard what you said. To the press.â
Lewis looked away. âYeah. Well, I meant it.â
âEven after everything?â Lando asked sharply. âI heard that youâve worked closely together, and you still think sheâs calling shots like that because she wants to?â
âShe made the call,â Lewis replied, jaw tense. âThatâs all I know. Plus, itâs been a long time, I donât think she's the same person I used to know now.â
âWell then, you need to look further.â Lando folded his arms. âSheâs been getting it hard from the upper management for months. They listen to her when itâs convenient. Ignore her when itâs not. And today? That push? It wasnât her plan, it was theirs. Sheâs the engineer. She had to wear that hat.â
Lewis blinked. Something shifted in his expression.
âAnd another thing,â Lando added. âSomethingâs clearly bothering her recently. She apparently signed almost two weeks to go home for family business, weâre moving all calls online. And McLaren doesnât sign that amount of day offs easily.â
Silence.
âI donât know what it is, but it seems serious, just donât push too hard on her, I know sheâs good and I know thereâs something with you two, just⊠take it easy on her. I need my engineer in good shape.â
He left Lewis standing there, a tangle of guilt and realisation tightening in his chest.
Summary You were the bright intern at Mercedes when you first met Lewis Hamilton, where a shared spark grew alongside rising trust. But just as things started to shift, life pulled you away from F1 and Lewis. Years later, Lewis ran into you again on the paddock, both of you in complete different colours. Old flames reignite on the opposite sides of the competition, and the story picks up where it never truly ended.
Warnings Mentioning of ill family member
A/N Bit longer than the usuals. A lottt of conversation in this one, and I personally love writing these conversations! Hope you enjoy it!! BTW I really appreciated the comments! keep them coming, it really motivates me a lot!
The glow of telemetry screens flickered across the glass walls, casting lines of green and red across your face. You sat hunched over the desk, still in uniform, still wired in, but the race had been over for hours.
The rest of the team had left, but you couldnât. Not yet. The numbers gave you something to hold onto. Something that didnât shift beneath your feet.
You rubbed your temple with the back of your wrist, eyes glassy but dry. Grief didnât always look like crying. Sometimes it looked like⊠silence.
The door clicked quietly open behind you.
You didnât turn. You were too tired to mask anything.
âDidnât think you were still here,â Lewisâs voice said, low.
You looked up just slightly, your voice flat.Â
âThese numbersâŠâ âDonât sleep.â He finished your phrase, one of your first conversations in Mercedes.
He stepped inside slowly, not in his usual commanding way. This was something gentler. Uncertain. He slowly sat down beside you, slightly turning the chair toward you.
âI⊠talked to Lando.â
You stiffened, eyes still on the screen. âLet me guess, he told you Iâm not a monster.â
Lewis winced, but didnât take the bait. âHe told me youâre under pressure. That what happened out there wasnât entirely your call.â
You let out a dry breath, almost a laugh. âNot entirely my call, no. But entirely my fault when it goes wrong.â
Silence again. You didnât look at him, but you felt him watching you.
âYou know, after I left Mercedes, I thought Iâd be more sure of myself,â you said suddenly. âLike, after everything⊠I thought coming back would feel like closure.â
He didnât interrupt.
âBut it's just hard. And they ask for more and more, âmake the bold call,â âbe decisive,â âbe the expert.â And when it works, itâs their win. When it doesnâtâŠâ
Lewisâs voice cut in quietly. âItâs your name on the report.â
You finally looked up at him.
âThey like to doubt, and itâs tough when thereâs no one to back you up.â
Lewis watched you, brows furrowed, he remebered how it was like when you were an intern.
âLando said youâre taking a while off, he said it seems serious.â He hesitated.
âAnd Lando needs to start keeping his mouth shut.â
Lewis didnât move, just sat there with you under the dim light room. The monitors cast a soft blue glow over your face, which you kept turned toward the data, though your eyes werenât really reading anymore.
âYou donât have to say anything,â he said softly. âBut if you need to talk about it⊠Iâm here.â
You shook your head once, sharp. âItâs nothing. Just⊠burnout, I guess.â
Lewis didnât buy it, you could tell. You werenât sure why you even tried.
âWe both know youâre not like that, you loved the work and the challenge weâre having around here, or you wouldnât have come back.â
That made you scoff. âYou donât know what kind of person I am anymore.â
He didnât flinch. âMaybe not everything. But I know you cared. I know you still do. If you want to just gain big cash, youâve got other places more comfortable and easier ways to it.â
Something in your chest ached, sharp and old and buried under four years of pretending you were made of steel.
You exhaled slowly, tired. âItâs been four years.â
Lewisâs head tilted, just slightly. He patiently waited for you to continue.
You paused. The words stuck in your throat, hot and unspoken. Your fingers dug into the edge of the desk. You werenât going to cry. Not in front of him.Â
âYou're right. I didnât leave Mercedes because of the job,â you said, voice barely a whisper.Â
âMy dad was sick. He⊠he got worse just after the internship ended.â
Lewisâs expression didnât change, but his posture shifted, softer somehow, like he was trying to take the weight of your words onto himself.
âI didnât know,â he said gently.
âI didnât tell anyone.â Your voice cracked on the last word. âI couldnât.â
âWhy?â
You shrugged, but the gesture was hollow. âBecause I thought if I said it out loud, it would be real. And if I stayed, Iâd fail at both, this job and being there for him.â
A long silence followed. You finally looked at him.
âI missed over half a year of life just sitting in a hospital room, pretending every hour mattered more than the last. And then he was just gone... The memorial is next week.â
Lewis didnât speak right away. He leaned gently against the desk beside you, not too close, just there.
âThatâs why you' took're taking the time off, and why you briefly left before the internship ended,â he said.
You nodded, eyes fixed on a distant point, somewhere past the screen.
âMomâs still emotionally not well. He was a big pillar in the family. I got interested in all this thanks to him. I know he'd be proud. Like this is the thing that connected us so much.â Your voice trembled a bit, remembering all the times you watched races with him, and he was thrilled that you were working at Mercedes with THE Lewis Hamilton.Â
âI didnât even know how to pick myself up, I did a bit of data analysis here and there. Nothing clicked right. Ended up throwing myself back into this. I thought if I worked hard enough and things ran fast enough, maybe it wouldnât hurt as much.â
âIâm sorry about that.â
âYou know, he actually liked you a lot. The times that he asked me to send him a picture of you.â You slightly smiled at the thought of it.
âShouldâve just asked me I wouldâve love to say hi, seemed like an amazing father.â
âHe was.â another silence, more at ease that now the truth was revealed.
âIâm sorry.â You said quietly after a while.
âWhat for?â
âI didnât mean to leave without saying goodbye. Especially to you. But I didnât know how to explain it then. It was a lot emotionally, and I just couldnât. I couldnât handle the goodbye. I wasnât ready to lose anything.â
âI wish you had,â he said. âBut⊠I get it now.â
His voice had none of the judgment youâd been bracing for. Just something warm. Heavy with understanding.Â
Lewis looked down, thumb tapping against his leg like he wanted to say something more, but couldnât yet find the shape of it.
âI said something today I shouldnât have,â he finally admitted. âI thought youâd changed.â
âI have,â you said. âJust not the way you think.â
He nodded. Quiet again.
âYou look tired,â he said after a long pause.
You let out a short laugh. âThatâs generous.âÂ
A few beats passed.
âI know weâre not in the same team anymore, but if you ever need⊠someone to talk to. Or not talk to. Just⊠sit and exist next to, you know where to find me, the red is probably pretty hard to miss.â
You didnât say thank you. You just nodded, eyes a little glassier now. That was enough.
As Lewis stood up quietly to leave, he paused at the door, then turned back.
âI still remember the girl who stood her ground and corrected Darren in front of the whole team,â he said with a small smile. âShe was right back then, too.â
Then he left you to your glowing screens and your quiet thoughts, but the air didnât feel quite so suffocating anymore.
The McLaren garage buzzed as always, tools clicking, tires stacked in columns, engineers calling out updates. But when you stepped in, it was like the noise dimmed just slightly.
You arrived directly in Singapore after your day off to spend time with your family for your fatherâs funeral anniversary. It has been a while, but it was still mentally hard for your mom. You really took the time to make sure she was okay. You still monitored and analysed the sim data almost in real time back home, just werenât at the HQ physically.
Lando spotted you first. âHey. There she is.â
You offered him a small smile. âGlad to be back.â
âWe survived. Barely. But we did.â he said
You gave him a mock salute. âNoted.â
You made your way to your workstation, setting your bag down. A few glances came your way, friendly but cautious. People werenât sure how much to ask, and that was fine by you.
Your fingers brushed against your bagâs side pocket, where a folded note still sat, one youâd found tucked into a bouquet of white and pale orange roses that arrived at your hotel room three days ago.
âThinking of him. And of you.â No name. Just the flowers and the message.
But you knew. You knew it was him. You hadnât said anything. But the quiet gesture stayed with you like a warm hand on your back.
Then you heard the voice, low, familiar, grounding.
âMorning.â
You turned. Lewis stood just outside the garage entry, red Ferrari jacket unzipped, hands in his blue jeans pockets. His gaze met yours, steady.
âMorning,â you replied, voice quieter than intended.
A pause.
âYou good?â he asked.
You nodded. âGetting there.â
You lifted the piece of note with two fingers, showing him, and whispered to him a âThank you.â
He nodded, smiled warmly, like nothing had changed, like it was normal again. But the way his eyes lingered just half a second longer before he left? That said everything you needed to know.
The next morning, you were hunched over telemetry again, reviewing tire data with your headset on when Lando appeared at your side with a paper cup in his hand and a suspiciously smug expression.
He plopped it on your desk. âDelivery for the overachiever.â
You glanced at it. Your exact coffee order, strong, barely sweet, a bit sharp on the finish. Written in black marker on the cup:
Strong, not sweet. Like your calls, apparently.
Your heart skipped, just briefly.
Lando leaned in. âDonât act surprised. I saw him hovering earlier. He thinks no one notices.â
You tried to hide your smile, failing miserably. âThereâs no proof itâs him.â
âSure,â Lando said, rolling his eyes. âAnd I donât drive cars for a living.â
You lifted the cup, warming your hands around it. âThanks for delivering.â
âDonât thank me,â he said. âIâm just the messenger. But hey, if a random bottle of wine shows up next race, Iâm still not drinking it.â
You laughed, tension easing for the first time in days.
And later, as you passed Lewis near the media pen, you didnât say a word. Just let your eyes meet his, and lift the cup slightly as you pass.
A flicker of a smile played on his lips. Still no words. But maybe none were needed.
The sun had dipped low behind the hills, casting long shadows over the paddock. The podium ceremony was over, the noise now fading, just a few camera crews packing up, scattered media wrapping interviews, fans starting to thin out.
You hadnât planned to stay late, but your feet didnât take you back to the garage. Not yet. You wandered a little too far along the edge of the hospitality area, needing the space, the silence. The chaos of race day always came with a strange comedown, and Singaporeâs silence was almost haunting.
You heard the footsteps before you saw him.
Lewis.
Hair damp from the champagne, Ferrari red zipped halfway up, a medal still looped loosely around his neck. He didnât say anything at first, just stood beside you by the low barrier, overlooking the harbour lights.
âHell of a race,â you said, barely above a whisper.
âYeah.â A pause.Â
He turned his body slightly toward you. âThat coffee yesterday... I wasnât sure youâd accept it.â
âI didnât. Lando did.â You smiled faintly. âThen I did.â
He chuckled. âFigured.â
You let the quiet sit again, then finally asked, âI... also got the flowers.â
His jaw tensed just slightly, but he nodded. âDidnât want to make it harder. Just... like I said, I want to let you know that Iâm here.â
You swallowed. âHe would be really glad.â
âGuess we would have got along. I hated that I was upset about you leaving without saying anything this whole time.â
âI thought I needed to be alone for that.â
He nodded, slowly. âBut you didnât have to be alone.â
You blinked, the emotion hitting sharper than expected.
âNow you donât have to be aloneâ he said softly.Â
You nodded, lips pressed tight.
He looked at you like he had more to say. Maybe a dozen things. But all he said was, âIâm glad youâre here again, even though you are not really in the colour I wouldâve preferred.â
You looked up at him, you smiled a bit. âSo am I.â
And in that suspended moment, with engines quiet, Singapore circuit still in the buzz of the city, it felt like five years of distance had just taken one step closer to closing.
Landoâs car rolled into the pit box smooth as ever, and you didnât miss the half-second glance he shot toward the screen showing live feed of the Ferrari garage.
You barely looked up from your tablet. âDonât.â
âI didnât say anything... yet,â Lando said, tugging off one glove with dramatic innocence. âBut since weâre all not going to talk about it. Lewis went purple in sector one, and I swear I heard you grind your teeth.â
You gave him a flat look. âItâs called stress. You should try it sometime.â
He chuckled, swinging his legs off the side of the car. âStress or unresolved romantic tension with your former... driver⊠whatever he was? Because that feels more likely.â
You arched a brow. âYou want to give the strategy debrief today?â
âGod, no,â he said. âBut I do want you to admit that this little engineering chess match between you two is weirdly hot.â
You made a point of checking his tire temps instead of responding.
Then, you both heard Lewisâs radio hit the public feed.
"That McLaren callâs just a reaction. Let 'em chase."
Lando blinked. âWow. Bold. Did he really justâŠâ he looked at you, mouth twitching. âOkay, now heâs definitely trying to get under your skin.â
âHeâs trying to win quali.â
âYou say that like theyâre different things.â
You muttered something under your breath and passed the tablet off to another engineer.
Lando had disappeared into the garage, leaving you at the pit wall, arms folded tight across your chest. You werenât even pretending to look at data anymore.
Across the paddock, Lewis was doing interviews. The camera caught him in profile, calm, smooth, composed. You could practically hear the exact tone heâd use. Measured. Sharp when needed. Charismatic without trying. He was good at this. Always had been. On and off the track.
You turned away before your thoughts could wander somewhere they shouldnât. Again. But you didnât get far.
âDidnât think Iâd see you sulking trackside.â
You turned sharply at the voice. Lewis. Again. Out of the shadows of the McLaren hospitality canopy, like the universe was daring you to keep pretending.
You let out a breath. âIâm not sulking.â
He tilted his head. âYou sure? You looked a little... dented after that radio call.â
Your eyes narrowed. âDid you come all the way over here to gloat?â
âNo,â he said, too easily. âMaybe.â
You turned your body toward him slightly. âYou really want to play games right now?â
His voice softened. âNo. Not really.â
Silence pulsed again, not awkward, but tight. Like something coiled between you both, asking to be addressed and avoided all at once.
He stepped in just slightly, the crowd noise fading behind him. âI wasnât trying to rattle you. Not really.â
âYou did anyway.â
âI know.â
You looked at him then, fully. âWhy are you doing this, Lewis?â
He hesitated, and in that crack of silence, the mask dropped just a little.
âBecause itâs the only way I know how to keep you in front of me.â
That shut you up.
He exhaled, hands in his pockets. âI donât know what weâre doing. But if pretending Iâm just another car on track keeps me near whatever we were... Iâll keep pretending.â
Your chest tightened, the words hitting a place you thought youâd locked up tight five years ago. A beat.
You blinked slowly, grounding yourself before you slipped too far into him. âYou didnât have to try that hard, Lewis. I was already looking.â
His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but just then, your comms crackled to life again. Duty calling.
You stepped back. He didnât stop you. But his voice followed just as you turned.
âWhen this season is overâŠâ he said, low, âdonât leave just yet.â
You didnât turn around.
You just let the corner of your mouth lift. âI wasnât planning to.â
The bar was crowded, the kind of post-race energy that vibrated through glass and steel. McLaren engineers were already a few drinks in. Lando was somewhere near the dartboard, pretending he could play, and someone had put on a terrible remix.
You stayed at the edge of it all, sipping something cold and fizzy, still in your team colours. The noise buzzed behind your eyes, but you werenât really in it. Not when you knew who else might be nearby.
And then, you felt it. That awareness. Like gravity shifted. You turned and there he was. Lewis. Red still clinging to him in the collar of his Ferrari team polo, eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.
No one else noticed the moment stretch. But it did. He made his way over eventually, slow, like he wasnât sure if he was allowed.
âDidnât think Iâd find you here,â he said casually, voice smooth but low. âFigured youâd vanish before midnight.â
You gave him a look. âAnd miss Lando trying to dance horribly like that again? Not a chance.â
He huffed a laugh, eyes softening as he glanced past you to the chaos. âLooks like your teamâs celebrating hard.â
You didnât answer that directly. Just took another sip, then nodded toward the hallway. âToo loud in here, I can't hear anything. Come on.â
The lounge was quieter, dimmer lights, fewer people, just the gentle clink of glasses and low jazz hum beneath conversation. You slid into a booth tucked in the corner. He sat across from you, for a moment, neither of you spoke.
âLandoâs protective of you,â he suddenly said, almost offhand.
You raised a brow. âHe should be. Iâm the reason he doesnât pit himself into the wall.â
Lewis smirked, but there was something else in his eyes. âStill. He looks at me like Iâm about to break something important.â
You looked down at your drink. âYou might be.â
That made him pause. âYou think Iâm here to mess with you?â
You met his eyes now. Steady. âIâm not exactly sure what youâre here for, Lewis.â
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. âMaybe I donât either. I just know that Iâve been waiting five years to be across from you again, and now that I am⊠I donât really want to leave.â
The words hung there between you, electric and terrifying. You swallowed.
Before you could respond, the bartender passed, dropping off a drink you didnât order. You looked up, confused.
âFrom the gentleman,â the bartender nodded toward Lewis.
You stared at the glass. He smiled, a little smug. âDidn't know if you would take it from me directly.â
You rolled your eyes. âYouâre impossible.â
âStill works on you, though.â
âDo you miss it?â After a pause, he asked.
You glanced at him. âWhat?â
âBeing on the same side.â
You took a slow breath, eyes on the water just beyond the edge of the dock. âI miss not having to pretend I donât care when you race.â
He turned to face you fully. The air changed.
âI miss knowing what youâre thinking,â he said.
You swallowed. âI think about it, you know. What wouldâve happened if I didnât leave. If I just⊠told you.â
He stepped closer. His voice dropped. âI think about what wouldâve happened if you stayed.â
Your pulse kicked up. His hand brushed your arm, just once, but deliberate. You didnât move away.
âYou drive me crazy,â he said, low. âStill do.â
You smirked, breath catching. âYouâre not exactly a peacekeeper yourself.â
And then he did it, reached up, fingers brushing your jaw, barely there but enough to make your heart slam. Your eyes met. You could feel it, the kiss, the pull, the almost.
Then your phone buzzed.
Lando :
'Pls tell me youâre not out there making out with a Ferrari driver. I feel like Iâm too young for that trauma.
Also if you're not back in 10 Iâm drinking your champagne, and maybe telling the garage you smiled at Lewis. again.'
You let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. Lewis arched a brow.
âLando?â he asked.
You tilted the screen so he could see. âYour biggest fan.â
He chuckled softly. âReckon heâd be more supportive.â
âHe is,â you murmured. âIn his own unhinged way.â
âLike I said, you donât have to keep doing this alone,â he said, quieter. âWhateverâs weighing on you.â
You met his eyes. That same pull, that gravity, five years hadnât dulled it.
âI know,â you said, slightly nodding.
He didnât push. Didnât reach for you again.
And that was the hardest part.
âCome back in when youâre ready,â he murmured. âOr Iâll come get you.â
You watched him walk away, just far enough to not feel him, but not far enough to forget.
You slipped back through the crowd like muscle memory, trying not to look toward the red in the corner of the room.
You felt it anyway. That awareness. That pull.
Lando spotted you first, lifting his drink in triumph like heâd just won another race.
âAh, the forbidden lover returns!â
You groaned. âLandoâŠâ
âWhat? You were gone for twenty minutes and came back looking like youâve seen God or got kissed by him. Did he kiss you?â He squinted dramatically like a high school girl waiting for the gossips. âNo, donât tell me. Let me suffer in suspense.â
You rolled your eyes but stole a sip from his glass anyway, fruity and way too strong.
âYouâre lucky youâre winning lately,â you muttered.
âIâm always lucky,â he said smugly. âBut tonight? Thatâs not my doing. That look in those eyes? Thatâs Italian regret, darling.â
Your head whipped around before you could stop it. Lewis was across the room, in conversation, but his eyes met yours instantly. And even in a sea of people, noise, and glittering celebration, you felt it.
That connection. Still taut. Still real.
âYou know heâs been watching you all night, right?â Lando said casually, taking the glass back. âYouâre not exactly subtle either. The whole garageâs been placing bets.â
You blinked. âExcuse me?â
He grinned. âNot real ones. Just pride-based. Iâm losing though. I bet on you making the first move. Come on, donât let me down.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âYou love me.â
You rolled your eyes but stayed for a while before made your way toward the back of the room where the bar was quieter. The air was cooler. A few of the Red Bull engineers had claimed a table, but none of them stopped you. You needed a moment to breathe.
And then suddenly, he was beside you again. Lewis.
Not saying anything. Just handing you a glass.
âDidnât think youâd come back in,â he said.
You took the glass. âDidnât think youâd still be waiting.â
âDidnât say I was waiting.â A beat. âBut I was.â
This time, the pause between you didnât stretch awkwardly. It held. Soft and electric.
âDo you want to dance?â he asked.
That surprised you. âYou hate this music.â
He leaned in, voice low.
âI hate pretending I donât want to be near you more.â
Your chest tightened.
âI donât think thatâs a good idea,â you said quietly.
âThen maybe itâs time we stopped thinking,â he murmured.
And this time, when your arms brushed, he didnât pull back.
Summary You were the bright intern at Mercedes when you first met Lewis Hamilton, where a shared spark grew alongside rising trust. But just as things started to shift, life pulled you away from F1 and Lewis. Years later, Lewis ran into you again on the paddock, both of you in complete different colours. Old flames reignite on the opposite sides of the competition, and the story picks up where it never truly ended.
Warnings swearing
A/N Iâve been a bit distracted by the F1 weekend (how can we not!) and was a bit clearing up how this story should go. I tend to write as I develop the story instead of having the whole clear picture so it took me some time, but here it is!!! Hope you like it!
Your eye fluttered open. It was the kind of waking where you forget where you are, when it is, or even who youâre supposed to be for the day. The room was only dimly lit by the small slit of the drapes. Monday. Post-race travel day. No briefings. No data sessions. Your body softened into the mattress with a rare kind of relief.
But that didnât last long. You then slowly registered, somethingâs not exactly right.Â
You felt some weight around your waist. Then your senses finally came back, the warm breath on the top of your head, the warmth behind you. You thought your mind was playing games or you were still dreaming until you remembered what happened last night. You slowly turned around to see the person behind you, confirming whatever happened was not a dream or imagination. Lewis was still sleeping peacefully. His arms instinctively moved up to hold you on the back as you turned around. His lashes long against his cheek, lips parted just slightly.
Your mind travelled back to yesterday, the dance floor, and you didnât hold back. For once, you let yourself exist in the moment. You took whatever Lando handed you, you laughed louder than you had in months, and you didnât care who watched you anymore. Not when Lewis was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.
The words Lewis said, âI hate pretending I donât want to be near you more.â The way he pulled you closer, not just with his hands, but with the truth in his eyes. How his eyes were shimmering under the barâs light, you see the waves of emotions in his eyes, it was not something coming from a temporary fling, it was something heavier, deeper.
You were tipsy at the end of the night, but he was bright sober. He took your hand. You remember that. You remember Lando smirking like the smug little shit he was and muttering something about âfinallyâ as he watched you leave with Lewis. You dreaded at the thought of having to face Lando the next time you see him, which is probably sooner than you'd like.
You werenât sure if Lewis offered to take you home or if Lando demanded he do it. But the moment he touched your back to guide you toward the car, the world tilted into something quieter. Something more certain. The rest blurred. The elevator. The hotel door. You were asking him to stay, and his answer was silence, the kind where everything is said.
You rarely let yourself go like that. Not emotionally, not physically. You never felt safe enough. But last night you did.
You looked at him now. Still here. Still holding you. And thatâs when it hit you, the weight of what this meant. Of waking up tangled with a man who now wore red while you wore orange. Of loving someone you couldnât cheer for in public. Of needing someone you were supposed to out-strategise.
A soft ping from your phone interrupted your spiralling thoughts, you turned over to reach your phone, which was charging. He even plugged your phone.
âHowâs the hangover, McLaren? Or should I call you Mrs Ferrari now?â
Lando. Why is he not a dead asleep or hangover somewhere far away when you need him to be? You rolled your eyes. You knew how excited he was about the whole tea of yours. Annoyed, your fingers hovered above a reply, then stopped.
A soft groan pulled your attention back to Lewis. He shifted, you turned around as his arms pulled you a bit closer, his eyes blinked open, locking on to yours with a kind of sleepy softness you didnât expect.
âHey,â he said, voice rough with morning.
âHey,â you whispered back.
His thumb brushed the curve of your waist. âYou okay?â
You nodded, but not fully. Not with the kind of certainty he gave you just by looking. He watched you for a moment, eyes quietly tracing the uncertainty on your face.
âYouâre thinking too much.â
You gave him a dry half-smile. âAnd youâre not thinking enough.â
âIâve done all the thinking already,â he murmured. âWeeks ago. Months, maybe.â
That pulled at something in you. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. âYou donât have to have it all figured out right now. Just... donât shut me out.â
You didnât promise him anything. Not in words. But you stayed. That morning bled into breakfast in bed, laughter over hotel robes and bad espresso. The hours passed like water, soft and warm, neither of you willing to disturb the quiet bubble youâd somehow created. By evening, you both flew back to London, privately. Quietly. Together. Just the two of you and a bottle of wine, his hand occasionally brushing yours between naps and casual conversation. For a moment, it felt simple. Possible. Like you could both have this, have each other and still return to your corners of the racing world.
You let the team know your itinerary had changed, no one asked anything more and you knew probably more than half of the team knew what was up with you. But you will have a couple of days before having to face that, you chose to be selfish, you chose to ignore all the alerts you had in your mind, at least just for a few days.
You spent two, maybe three days together. Time warped in that strange way it does when you're pretending nothing else exists outside of this little stretch of calm. Mornings when his arm found you before the sun. Afternoons wandering markets, cuddling with Roscoe, making dinner with music playing low in the background. Evenings when he'd pull you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He didnât push. He didnât make promises that sounded like ultimatums. He was just there. Present. Certain.
âIâm not going anywhere,â he said, one night as you lay on his chest, your fingers drawing idle shapes on his collarbone. âUnless you ask me to.â
And you wanted to believe that was enough.
But then came the calendar alert, your flight. His schedule. Media day. The season never really stops, not for long.
He dropped you off at your place. But just before you walked out of his car, he took your hand.
âI know itâs not going to be easy,â he said. âBut donât pull away just because it is hard.â
You nodded, but your chest was tight. You kissed him like you were afraid to make it too final.
It felt like only hours later, you were surrounded by screens and data again, the papaya walls closing in, when it hit you.
Youâd built your whole professional world around precision. Control. Boundaries. And Lewis, he was none of those things right now. He was the risk. He was Ferrari. A team whose job is basically to destroy them, be against them.
And for the first time since you let him into your hotel room, you wondered if you were strong enough to keep him in your life without letting the rest unravel.
Your phone buzzed later that night. His name is on the screen.
âMiss you already.â
Your fingers hovered over the screen. You wanted to answer. God, you did. But instead, you set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.Â
Soon, youâre texts started to shorten and slow, Lewis noticed, and heâs not afraid to talk about it.
He called one night, voice warm but cautious. âYou okay?â
âYeah. Just... tired. A lot on my plate.â
A pause. âIs this about us?â
You didnât answer right away. That was answer enough.
He exhaled slowly, not angry. Just knowing.
âLook, I get it. I really do. I wanted you to know that I donât need all of you all the time. But I need to know youâre still with me. Even in the grey areas. Weâre in this together.â
Your throat tightened. âI just need to think.â
âIâll wait,â he said. âBut I wonât pretend it doesnât hurt.â
You were reviewing data as usual, eyes dry from staring at screens too long. Lando slid into the seat across from you, sipping his smoothie obnoxiously loud.
âSo,â he said, not even bothering with small talk. âNo more morning conference with Ferrari 44?â
You didnât look up. âDo you ever shut up?â
âSure,â he grinned, âbut not when Iâm watching my best engineer in full-on emotional denial.â
You sighed. âIâm not in denial.â
He leaned in, elbows on the table. âYou had that man fly you back to London with champagne and caviar, hand-feed you strawberries in his kitchen like it was a damn rom-com. And now youâre pretending he doesnât exist?â
Your cheeks flushed. âYou need to stop daydreaming of these scenarios, and Iâm not pretending. Iâm being realistic.â
Lando's smirk softened. âNo, youâre being scared. Which is fair. But itâs okay to admit it, if you donât talk about it and bury yourself in work, it just wonât help.â
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
He leaned back, eyes gentler. âHe really cares about you. I mean I care about you, too. But not enough to fly you back on a private jet with me.â
That made you laugh, despite everything.
âBut seriously,â he added, voice quieter, âdonât push him away just because itâs complicated. The job is always going to be complicated. Doesnât mean you have to let your feelings go.â
The next day, you passed the break room on your way to the garage. You werenât trying to eavesdrop, not really, but your name caught your ear. And Lewisâs. Two junior engineers murmured low over coffee.
âI donât care if itâs off-season,â one said. âItâs just a bad look, right? Dating the guy weâre supposed to be beating?â
âI heard Zak said something about it last week after Singapore,â the other added. âThey canât tell her what to do, but come on. Itâs Ferrari. Itâs Hamilton.â
You froze.
âBet you anything if results start slipping, especially against Hamilton, itâs going to be on her.â
That one sentence landed like a punch. And for a terrifying moment, you felt small, like every earned moment of respect could be wiped clean with a single headline. You walked away before you could hear more.
You dreaded it, but the meeting came. You, your manager and HR.Â
They didnât waste time. âWe need to talk about perception.â
âWeâve heard things,â the PR rep said gently. âThere are murmurs in the paddock. Nothing too serious yet, but itâs gaining traction. And we are concerned about these doubts going around the team.â
You swallowed hard.
âItâs about Lewis,â you said, already knowing.
They nodded. âThis isnât about blame. We understand your work ethic and your devotion. But the optics matter more when youâre in your role. Your calls affect both drivers. Your analysis shapes strategy. Even if youâre neutral, it wonât look like you are.â
You hated how small your voice sounded. âSo what are you saying? That I have to end it?â
Your manager paused. âWeâre saying you need to make a choice. Either you recuse yourself from any direct influence on Landoâs strategy⊠or you might need to take a step back from race weekends entirely. Only three weekends left in this season, but you know these last ones are crucial.â
Your heart dropped. That wasnât a compromise. That was a soft exile.
âIâve never let this relationship affect my work,â you tried to defend yourself, even though you knew how useless that argument was.
âWe know,â they said, and it almost hurt more, the quiet empathy in their voice. âBut the paddock isnât about truth. Itâs about belief. And right now, too many people believe youâre compromised.â
You left the room with your badge still hanging around your neck, but your identity already shaken.
You didnât message Lewis. You just walked. Thought. Let the rage fade into clarity. And then, hours later, you found him waiting by your hotel door, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
âI heard,â he said.
âI donât want you to fix this.â You swallowed. You were exhausted, emotionally.
He raised a brow. âThatâs not what Iâm here for.â
You let out a breath. âThey want me to step back. From strategy. From weekends.â
He stepped forward, jaw tight. âTheyâre punishing you for being with me.â
You didnât argue. Just stared at the floor. It was the right way to put it. âMaybe theyâre right.â
âNo,â he said immediately. âTheyâre afraid. Thatâs not the same thing.â
âI donât want me to be the reason you lose the thing youâve worked your whole life for.â He continued.
The silence between you cracked open. But it didnât fall apart.
âWhat are you feeling?â he asked after the silence
âCan we just let the season blow over and then figure this out?â
He nodded unwillingly. He reached for your hand. âWe donât choose between us and the job. We find a way to fight for both.â
You left McLaren after the season. You said your farewells to Lando, and he tried to talk to you about you and Lewis, but you told him you really need some time off for that.Â
You left the F1 world again, for the second time in your life. You stayed with your mom, making sure she was doing better. Some family time, away from the noises of the engine. Lewis tried calling, texting. You did it again, you extracted yourself again from his world.
But this time he didnât keep his silence. You started to receive postcards. Somehow, he figured out your address, probably through Lando. Every city he went to, he sent you a picture and a postcard with a short message. You didnât reply, but you kept every one of them.
Monaco, it was he and Charles in the special white suits for Monaco.
The only time of the year you canât laugh at me being in red! âL
Silverstone, it was the circuit under the cloudy grey.
Home track. And it doesnât feel like home without you. âL
Singapore, it was the fireworks and neon lights.
Missing how you smiled that night and asked me to stay. âL
Even your mom started to notice the postcards, the handwritten Ls, the flowers that came for your fatherâs memorial and your birthday.Â
âHoney, donât leave the man hanging, you need to let him know, no matter whatâs on your mind and what your decision is. Hold on to the man that have you on his mind this whole time. Like how your father would.â
âDaddy really liked him.â
âAnd you know your dadâs good at judging people.â
She didnât push you more, just being there for you like you were there for her.
âIâll be frank with you. You were a huge headache for us last year, and itâs not smart for McLaren to let you go. Weâre looking for a new engineer for next season, and we need someone who knows how to challenge the data. Challenge the driver. Someone who wonât flinch.â
Then he added, âAnd we got a strong recommendation from someone.â
You both knew who he was talking about. Your heart thudded.
âWe had the conversation at the beginning of the season. He said he trusts you more than anyone in the sport. And I need a good engineer who works well with my driver.â
In the following weeks, terms were discussed, the contract was signed, and you had your heart racing way before the new season started.
Lewis was in his car, on the starting grid, waiting for the first morning testing session of the season in Barcelona. Something bothered him. He realised his talk with Fred probably didnât work as he didnât see you from the beginning of the season at the office. He didnât know what to think. He didnât know whether, after a whole year, he should continue to wait and send the postcards or accept the fact that he should just let you go. But the flowers were all successfully delivered and not once returned. He thought that had to mean something. But heâs not so sure of it anymore.Â
The buzz of the radio stopped his train of thought. He slightly sighed and was ready to get on to work.
âGood morning, Lewis, Radio check.â
He pushed the button to talk, but he paused.
âLewis, Radio check.â The voice repeated.
âIs that you?â He couldnât believe his ears.
âLong time.â You smiled into the microphone, waiting for his reaction.
âFuck am I hallucinating?â After a long pause, he finally spoke again.
âNo, and now I need you to get that car out for the testing before you can come back and check for yourself.â You smirked, and Fred gave you a thumbs-up next to you.
âCopy.â Simple, but you heard the dedication.Â
After a couple of rounds, the number 44 car drove back into the pit lane, where he saw you. After a whole year, finally. You were there, you stood with your headphones around your neck, you were in red, the exact same colour as him. His eyes were on you the whole time as the mechanics pulled him back in. He jumped out of the car the moment he could, and got rid of his helmet immediately. He ran to you.Â
Some stood aside and smirked at the scenery. It was a secret. That was part of the deal with Fred. You wanted to be recruited with the regular process. You didnât want to be chosen just because Lewis said so. You went through the interviews, the data working before the season starts, you secretly worked on all the data for Lewisâ testing and sims, giving feedbacks and suggestions for improvements, you took the time to prove to everyone in the team that you were there because you are worthy and not just because of Lewis. The red Italian family saw your dedication and value, and you were feeling more accepted than ever. Â
Lewis holds on to you as if he let go, you would disappear again. You wrapped your arms around him to let him know that you are here. When he finally let go, he held your face delicately and looked at you. His eyes looked like a lost puppy, desperately making sure it was really you.Â
âWelcome back.â He had tears in his eyes.
âIâm sorry it took me so long. Thank you for waiting.â You whispered for only the two of you.Â
âSheâs wearing red, and this is not just for today?â He asked, turned to look at Fred for confirmation.
Fred smiled, giving him a thumbs-up for confirmation. âAs long as you two give me a good result this year.âÂ
âThis time Iâm not going anywhere,â you whispered as he looked back at you.
Then his lips crashed onto yours.Â
The pair of you wrote history and legacy together. And he would always say that it was your call, he trusted it and he followed.
Oh, and if you really want to know, trust me, Lando bragged about how he delivered Lewisâs coffee, how he asked Lewis to take you back to your hotel, and how he gave Lewis your address, not just on your wedding, but for the rest of his life.
summary - youâre forced to do go karting with Lando even though youâre not a great driver
pairing - lando norris x girlfriend!reader
word count - ~1k
âI donât want to do this anymore.â
You pouted as Lando placed a helmet over your head, tucking your balaclava onto your chin properly to make sure you were safe.
He chuckled as he paid attention to what he was doing rather than you, making your pout impossible to disappear.
âYou agreed to do this.â He said.
âAnd why didnât you stop me, huh? Such a bad boyfriend.â You closed your visor aggressively, continuing your tantrum.
Your visor immediately went back up, Lando holding both sides of your helmet so he could focus your gaze on his now that he was finished.
âBad boyfriend?â He raised his eyebrows.
âHmph.â
âWho said heâd drive you to get you a McFlurry after this?â
âYou.â You rolled your eyes.
âDoes that sound like something a bad boyfriend would do?â
âNo.â Your eyes softened, hoping he didnât actually believe what you were saying.
Lando had known you for three years now, so there was part of you that hoped he would know when you were messing around. Like now, for example.
You were taking out your anxiety on him, which was unfair but Lando knew that thatâs all it was.
âYouâll be fine. Iâll be right out there with you.â He promised, resting his forehead against the top of your helmet to be closer to you.
âI know.â
âAnd itâs just for a socials video. Nothing life-altering.â
âItâll be life-altering if I crash.â
âI wonât let that happen. Plus you know if anyoneâs going to crash itâs going to be me, babe.â Lando laughed and it managed to pull a smile out of you too.
âOkay.â
âYou ready?â
âYeah.â You nodded.
Landoâs hands leave your helmet. You turned around to walk towards your kart, Lando patting your arse gently as you did so.
You turned around to give him a âreallyâ look and he just had the biggest grin on his face.
âWhat?â You asked.
âYou look so unfairly good in a racing suit.â He smirked, shaking his head as he blushed a little. It was crazy to think that you managed to get him this flustered still.
You gave him a quick pose before continuing to move to your kart.
You stood next to it and waited for Lando to give you a hand to step into it.
Next to you both were the social media managers for McLaren, along with a team of videographers, in order to film you both for some content.
You held onto Landoâs hand tightly as you stepped inside the kart, before weaning yourself down into the seat. Lando crouched down beside you to help put your seatbelt on correctly, checking it wasnât too tight.
âAll good?â
âYep.â You said.
âOkay. Letâs race.â
âWhat about your helmet?â You asked with concern.
âIâve had enough practice putting it on.â He laughed, rubbing your cheek with his thumb through the visor.
He then got up and walked towards the kart behind yours on the racing track. You turned around to make sure he got his helmet on okay and watched as he effortlessly got into his kart.
You held up a thumb for him.
He responded by putting up his thumb.
A worker of the go karting facility explained the rules and such you again, making sure you were okay, before leaving you to have a moment.
The lights above the starting line flickered red as they prepared you to start.
You heard Lando rev the engine of his kart behind you and you couldnât help but smile over how crazy this was. You were about to go head to head with an F1 driver and you had taken 4 times to pass your driving test.
The red lights started to light up in a row and you waited until they went green before stepping on the gas pedal.
Lando went straight past you, even though he was behind you to start, before you had even the opportunity to step on the pedal.
You could imagine him laughing to himself as he sped past.
You grumbled to yourself before speeding off yourself.
You took a left at the first bend, swerving so you wouldnât hit the barriers. Lando was well ahead by the time you came around the corner.
You pressed on the pedal again, flooring it until you came to the next corner. You steered sharply, clearing the corner before driving down the next straight.
It was a very easy course.
However, it wasnât something that Lando pointed out or even insinuated considering that this is probably the easiest course heâs ever driven.
Ten laps later and Lando having passed you four times already, you picked up a bit of speed to see if you could keep up with him.
It only took one turn for that to go wrong though.
You steered a little too excitedly into the bend and span in your kart.
You pressed your brakes immediately and tried to steer out of it, but you were already spinning.
âShit.â You swore repeatedly.
Then came the impact.
Your body shook as your kart impacted with the side of the wall. It wasnât as bad of an impact as if you hadnât pressed the breaks, but it ricocheted through your body all the same.
How did F1 drivers do this going five times faster?
Youâd only crashed for ten seconds before Landoâs kart pulls in swiftly behind yours. He doesnât check anything before leaving his kart and running over to you.
He lifted your visor first before lifting his. He had to see you with his own eyes, not through a screen.
âYou hear me?â He asked.
You nodded.
âAre you hurt?â
You shook your head because you didnât think so. Only your pride was.
He reached under your helmet to unclasp it, before taking it off for you.
His hands brushed over your face and hair to check for anything significant. Even though he could see nothing was visibly wrong, he was still worried.
âHad to prove me wrong didnât you? Had to prove that you could crash?â He tried to joke and bring a sense of humour to the situation, but even you could tell he wasnât too happy.
You smiled, but didnât laugh because your body was shaking a little from the shock.
âAlright câmon. Out you get.â He tucked his hands under your armpits and lifted you up as you pushed up with your legs.
âIâm okay.â
âJust give me peace of mind, please.â He insisted.
Once you were out of the kart Lando pressed his hands over crucial parts of your body to double check that everything was okay and nothing hurt.
Lando was assured that you were okay after you gave a quick kiss to the side of his helmet.
You couldnât help but get flustered - like every other time - at Lando wearing his helmet.
You watched Landoâs eyes crinkle, âWhat?â
âYou look good with your helmet on.â
âOh do I? Seems like someone is doing better than I thought then.â He chuckled, making you blush.
âIâm okay. Better with you.â You gave him a reassuring smile. âLetâs not do this again though.â
âYeah, too right. Iâll do all the driving from now on, otherwise Iâll be in an early grave thanks to you.â
âSounds fine to me.â
<âą>
Youâre getting changed out of your racing suit in the changing room when you notice it.
A big purple bruise on your thigh from where your body hit against the side of the kart. Itâs not huge but itâs big enough that it will hurt when you lay on it.
You slipped on your jeans and Landoâs borrowed hoodie, wincing when your jeans made contact with your skin.
Lando 𧥠: u ready yet? xx
You: 5 mins
You: think iâve hurt myself đ„Č
You didnât get a respond from Lando but a minute later he comes bounding into the changing room, a lady behind him shouting that he isnât allowed in here.
âHey.â He sounded rushed, running his hand through his freshly showered hair.
âWhat are you doing?â
âYou said you were hurt.â
You smiled and then pouted over how much he cared about you. It made your heart twinge with an overwhelming amount of love for him.
âItâs just a bruise on my leg.â
âWrapping you in bubble wrap next time.â He shook his head before giving you a soft kiss to your forehead.
âIâm okay with that.â
âAlright,â He gave you another kiss to your forehead, âWeâll get that McFlurry afterwards. You deserve it.â
âYes, because Iâm such a great driver.â You smiled, giving him a tight hug before he left you.
âI love you, babe, but even I canât agree with that.â
THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT đ you and oscar have a privacy sign on the door. (and on your whole world.)
â« starring: oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader.
â« word count: 1k.
â« includes: fluff, romance. established relationship, hint đ€ of suggestiveness. @binisainz requested paris by taylor swift.
â« commentary box: the people.. they yearn for oscar piastri.. đŠđČ đŠđđŹđđđ«đ„đąđŹđ
xoxo, gossip girl đ€« tracksidetea
#OscarPiastri spotted in đŒ right after the Belgium GP! He finished a comfortable P4 today; wonder where he'll be celebrating. xo
đš 45 â» 95 ⥠1.8K
user1
Replying to tracksidetea
does anyone else find it kind of odd that he went all the way from belgium to paris?? like that's THREE HOURS. ariana what are u doing here
user2
Replying to tracksidetea
Petition to leave drivers alone!!! You do you Oscar sweetie!!! đ§Ą
user3
Replying to tracksidetea
ok but i can name a thing or two that oscar and i can do in paris
Thereâs a âPlease Do Not Disturbâ sign on the door.
Oscar may be bone tired, but the sight of it puts a small smile on his face. He swipes his key card against the sensor. A low buzz, the sound of a click. The door unlocks; Oscar pushes it open.Â
Heâs not surprised to find that none of the lights are on. Itâs one of your little quirks. You donât like being wasteful of electricity, even if youâre in a four-star hotel with enough power to launch a rocket to the moon.Â
But then he hears the soft sound of your breathing. Okay, so maybe the lights are out because youâre asleep.Â
He toes off his shoes before padding further into the room, his steps quiet against the carpeted floor. Sure enough, youâre sprawled out on the queen-size bedâ the sheets tangled around your middle, the television still playing some long-forgotten romcom. The latter gives Oscar the impression you hadnât meant to fall asleep, and his suspicion is affirmed when he sees how your phone is still dangling precariously in your hand.Â
Heâs close enough to see the glare of his unanswered texts on your Notification Center. The ones that declare heading home to you now, baby and stuck in a bit of traffic, Iâm sorry and do you want me to grab dinner or are we just getting room service?Â
By the second text thatâd gone unanswered, he had figured you were either enjoying the tub or knocked out. As he ducks into the bathroom to brush his teeth, heâs just a little pleased to see the residual soap in the tub.Â
Oscar likes being able to read you like a book. Likes knowing you like the back of his hand.Â
He goes through the motions of his evening routine. He makes it a point to pull open the blinds, though, because heâs already preempting what you might ask for if youâre roused.Â
Really, Oscar tries his best. He doesnât want to wake you. Heâs sure youâre tired, sure you spent the entire day fretting and praying over his race.Â
But he canât help himself. He can never help himself when it comes to you.Â
He rests an arm over your middle, gently tugging your back into his chest. He thinks okay, thatâs enough, until heâs burying his face into your hair and taking in the familiar scent of your shampoo. And then itâs decidedly not enough, so Oscar has to press a chaste kiss to the side of your neck.Â
Maybe two. Or three. Four, for good measure.
You make him so greedy.Â
Oscar has moved on to planting kisses on your shoulder when your voice, thick with sleep, snaps him out of his mindless ministrations. âHave you eaten dinner?âÂ
There are so many things you could say and concern yourself with, but thatâs the first thing on your mind.
âNo,â he answers, his voice barely above a whisper. Heâs already so close anyway; his breath warm against the shell of your ear. âNot hungry.âÂ
âYouâre always hungry after races.â The way you say it, tooâ like itâs a fact, like all the years youâve known him have made him known to you in every way, shape, and form.Â
âNot tonight,â he says against your skin.Â
Itâs a bold-faced lie. He could go for something to eat, but that would mean letting go of you. Something so unimaginable in the grand scheme of things.
He snuggles a little closer, presses his face in the crook of your neck. Youâre half-asleep as you converse with him, but he addresses you like youâre completely lucid.
âWas the drive bad?â
âA bit.âÂ
âWhat did you tell your team?âÂ
âThat I was tired and I wanted to head back to my hotel.âÂ
âYouâre not missinâ out on anything?âÂ
âNever.âÂ
He probably is.Â
Oscar can imagine the night out everybody might be having in Belgium. Itâs never really been his sceneâ the flashing lights, the thumping music, the free-flowing alcohol. This is more like his speed. Pockets of peace with you.Â
There was boon and bane to a private relationship. Oscar couldnât post about you to his social media, couldnât have you trackside to his races. For the most part, he liked to think the pros outweigh the cons.Â
His eyes flit to the clock at the bedside table. 11:39 PM.Â
âAre your eyes open, baby?â he gently asks.Â
You respond with a hum of âmhmâ, which probably means ânoâ. Chuckling, Oscar ghosts his fingertips over your stomach until youâre squirming in his hold.Â
âStop,â you whine. âThat tickles.âÂ
âCome on, baby,â he urges. âOpen your eyes for a bit. You donât want to miss this.âÂ
âIâll see it tomorrow.âÂ
âWe wonât be here tomorrow.âÂ
âYouâre soââÂ
âBaby. Look.âÂ
Itâs one of those moments where Oscar just has to trust youâll listen to him. He feels your head tilt backwards just so, giving him the impression youâve peeled your eyes open to do as he asked.Â
He canât see your expression with the way your head is turned away and the room is still mostly dark. But he feels everything. Your breath hitching in your chest. Your fingers curling around his. And heâd bet money, too, that youâve got the sweetest smile on your face.Â
Oscar fights the urge to lean over and check. He contents himself with instead imagining your grin, with holding your joy in the palms of his hands.Â
Heâd do it all againâ three-hour drives, overpriced hotel rooms, keeping this secret from the entire worldâ if it meant having you here, soft and sleepy and so, so his.Â
âThat was so pretty,â you sigh. âNow letâs go to sleep.âÂ
A low laugh rumbles through Oscarâs chest. âAll that money to get you the perfect room,â he teases, âand you want to go to sleep?â
You grumble something inaudible before turning around. Finally, Oscar thinks to himself. He squints in the darkness until he can make out the shape of your faceâ a shadow in front of Parisâ most iconic landmark.Â
Heâs busy tracing your features with his gaze. Itâs why he misses the way you tilt forward, drowsily slotting your lips against his.
Oscar is so in love he thinks he might stop breathing. â
okay hello, just coming on here to say that i am still alive. college is done officially! i am on break right now and will definitely start working on those fics especially the frank one, but i just wanna rest for now since the very last 2 weeks of finals really drained me. i'm still here, just don't know when i'm gonna post.
and one of my professors just resigned, so that made finals even suckier than it already was. i'll miss him. and i miss you guys!
description: You are a sleepwalker. Lando got used to it over the years, and he always knows how to bring you back to bed.
Youâve never really been a good sleeper. When you were a kid, sleepwalking and sleep-talking happened often enough that your family stopped being surprised by it. Then, as the years went by, you mostly grew out of it.
Mostly.
It still shows up now and then when youâre stressed or overtired. When you and Lando started sleeping together regularly, you warned him. You genuinely did. You told him you might talk, or move around, or even get up without waking. He said, âyeah, yeah, no worries,â like it was no big deal.
Except he absolutely freaked out the first time it happened.
Over the three years of your relationship, though, he got used to it. He knows how to gently guide you back to bed, how to tuck you under his arm so you settle again, how to talk you down softly until your breathing evens out.
For him itâs just part of loving you. And of course, he loved to tease you about it. He just liked how flustered you got, how you tried to hide your face in your hands, how you whined his name like he was torturing you.Â
He never meant to mock you about it though. He knew youâve always found the whole thing incredibly embarrassing. It felt completely out of your control, and you hated the idea of anyone witnessing it. The first time he caught you wandering around, you wanted the earth to swallow you. You couldnât even look him in the eye the next morning. Yet, you preferred to know if you woke him with something, even if he always told you with that stupidly soft grin, looking absolutely delighted by your reaction. And although you hated when he did that, he somehow still made it feel less like a flaw and more like one of your quirks he secretly adored.
â
It was one of those rare nights when both of you were at home in Monaco and neither of you had to wake up early in the morning. Lando woke up to the soft creak of the bedroom door. He blinked, groggy, and turned his head. You werenât in bed.
 âBabe?â he called out, half-hoping, half-expecting you to answer from the bathroom.
Silence.
He waited. One, two, three seconds. Nothing. No sound of faucet, no toilet lid, no footsteps coming back.
He frowned, pushing himself up on his elbows. â...you good?â he tried again, voice low. Still no answer.
Then he heard a noise coming from the living room. Something that suspiciously sounded like⊠Rummaging?
 âOh, for fuckâs sake,â he mumbled, but there was no real annoyance in it. Just exhaustion and a kind of fond resignation. He sat up sighing, threw the blanket off and slipped out of bed, the wooden floor cold under his bare feet.
He padded out of the bedroom yawning, and followed the sounds into the living room in the darkness.
And there you were. Standing in front of the couch, perfectly still. One pillow was already on the floor, and another was in your hands, upside down.
Lando stopped in the doorway and rubbed his face. âOh, babeâŠâ
Yep. Sleepwalking. No question.
He approached you carefully, touching your arm in that gentle, practiced way heâd learned over the years. âSweetheart?â he whispered. âWhatâre we doing out here?â
You mumbled something incomprehensible and continued rearranging the pillow that absolutely did not need rearranging. Lando exhaled slowly, fighting a smile and a groan at the same time.
 âOkay, come on,â he said softly. âLetâs go back to bed.â
You let him take the pillow from your hands. You didnât resist when he slipped an arm around your shoulders and steered you toward the bedroom. Inside, he settled you back under the blanket, tucking you in gently. You sighed, drifting instantly into deeper sleep. Lando brushed a hand over your hair, kissed your forehead, and collapsed beside you.
 âYouâre gonna be mortified when I tell you this tomorrow,â he whispered tiredly. âAnd you know what? Iâm still gonna tell you.â
Helloo, do you write for Max? I really love your writing. Your stories feel so intimate and warm. If you do write for max, can you write domesticmax. Like him and the reader are expecting and he admits that he is afraid of not being a good father. The baby arrives and he turns to be an amazing dad to his baby boy. Showing him off to other drivers and being look at my son he's amazing (can you tell that i just listened to dear theodosia)đ„č Thank you!
âblonde hair, lemonade tea
dad!max verstappen x mom!female reader (established relationship)
love, mackie... what up party people! so so sorry to tell you that max is in fact a girl dad in this fic. i came back to read carefully but it was too late. I am sorry. please forgive me. also let me know if you can spot the dear theodosia references because there is a couple
warnings for: pregnancy and labor and birth and such. language and angst but only if you really really squint. christian horner. 4.4k words.
June 18th, 2023
It was poetic, almost. Disgustingly so, considering you were searching for anything but poetry in that chilly bathroom late Sunday afternoon. Max isnât even around. Heâs in Montreal, getting ready to race and blissfully unaware of your current realityâof his current reality.Â
You were just trying to clean the apartment, had been digging through the depths of the hall closet when the boxâalong with the first aid kit you were attempting to reachâfell down onto your head. After cussing out the plastic tote and feeling the lines of your face to be sure they hadnât been injured, you started to clean up the mess. The Clearblue box and all its royal blues and bright pinks glare at you.Â
You took it for fun, planned on sending a picture of it to Max to give him a little scare before revealing the negative result. It was so far in the back of your mind, in fact, that after you left it on the bathroom counter, you resumed your cleaning. It wasnât until hours later, when the idea of the joke didnât feel so funny anymore, that you tossed the plastic test into the bin.Â
As it clattered to the bottom of the now empty metal trash can, you realized thatâjust to be safeâyou should check the results.Â
It was then that the walls of the apartment sunk into the ground with your stomach, when the little life-defining stick defined your life. In the commercials for pregnancy tests, every woman always gets the result she was hoping for. You werenât even hoping, and still, it managed to give you the wrong one.Â
A thick blue plus sign stares back at you through the tiny indicator window and your life will literally never be the same as it was thirty seconds earlier. No matter what you do, no matter how it goes, you will always be pregnant at this moment. Forever and ever, you are pregnant on Fatherâs Day 2023, and you will live with that knowledge until you donât live any longer.Â
Your first thought is Maxâwell. Your third thought is Max. Your first thought is does plus mean itâs negative, and your second thought it what the fuck. Max is your third thought, and heâs the only one that really matters, you suppose.Â
You should call him. No, no. You canât tell him that you're pregnant a few hours before he gets into a race car. Heâll kill himself out there and your baby will grow up without a father. Your baby. You have the sudden urge to throw up every meal youâve eaten in the last week all at once. To heave and heave until there is nothing left in your system and then heave a little bit more.Â
June 20th, 2023
He comes home to you on Tuesday night. Youâve got eleven pregnancy tests sitting on the tank of the toilet in the master bath and a knot in your chest the size of North America. Youâre waiting for him, sweaty armpits and thumping heartbeat as you pace from one end of the bedroom to the other, Find My Friends open on your phone and sat face up on the dresser.Â
He calls out your name before heâs even shut the door behind him and you donât know where you find the voice to call back to him, âin the bedroom.â
âYou okay?â He asks, perhaps your voice is nowhere near as secretive as youâd originally thought.Â
âNo,â you say. âCan you come here?âÂ
Heâs never been particularly heavy footed, but today the sound of his socked feet creaking down the long hall echoes throughout the entire apartment with every squeal of the floorboards below him. He knocks on the unlatched door with a single knuckle before pushing it open. âWhatâs the matter?â
âIâm pregnant,â you blurt. Thereâs nothing sweet about the delivery, but then again, there was nothing sweet about pulling a plastic stick out of the trash either. Thereâs nothing sweet about any of this.Â
He stares at you blankly. âOkay.â
And, as if there was any other option, you feel the need to clarify the obvious for him. âItâs yours.â
âI⊠yeah,â he nods. You know heâs swallowing a no fucking shit, Sherlock, and youâre grateful for it. âHow⊠when did you find out?â
âSunday.â You croak, sit on the end of the bed because you donât know that you can stand here facing him like this for a moment longer. âI wanted to tell you in person, I guess.â
You can literally see his thoughts processing, his mind catching up to his reality. The silence of brainwork is deafening and you almost wish he would get upset. At least then, youâd have a clue as to his own introspection. âFuck,â he mutters.Â
âYeah,â you nod. âFuck.â
Itâs almost like he forgot you were even there, the way he repeats himself with so much more intention. âFuck, are you okay?â
You offer up a strained laugh, your eyes fixed on a single cat hair at the corner of the area rug, sitting on your sweaty palms. âAre you?â
âI mean,â you see him run a hand through his hair in your peripheral. The image of four year old him flickers through your mind, all blonde and blushed and sweet. You wonder if yours will look like him. âYouâre the one whoâsâŠâ
âPregnant,â you affirm, because itâs the only word youâve been able to think about for three days now.Â
He nods, looks like he might throw up. The thought of it gurgles your insides. âPregnant,â he whispers, almost entirely to himself. âYouâre the one whoâs pregnant.â
July 15th, 2023
Itâs been three days since you last shit and today is your first ultrasound. You read on Google over breakfast that it is the size of a blueberry and you wonder if by the end of this youâll ever be able to look at a fruit salad the same again. You and Max struggle to refer to the baby as anything but it, the blueberry-sized monster that has begun to wreak havoc on your body.Â
You canât feed the cats without dry-heaving, and Max handles it when heâs around but when heâs not⊠it isnât like you can not feed them. You had to invest in a robotic litter box that self-cleans so you can avoid handling the kitty litter that is apparently one of many things that have become incredibly toxic to you in the past several weeks.Â
Max drives to the appointment, and youâre starting to think heâs become a slower driver. Youâre nauseous that heâs already changing. âDo you think weâll hear its heartbeat?â You ponder aloud, twisting the cap of the Ginger Ale bottle in the cupholder.Â
âI dunno,â he says, eyes fixed on the winding road. âDoes it have one yet?â
âI dunno,â you shrug, muttering against the plastic lip of the bottle.Â
Thereâs a goosebump inducing silence that falls over the two of you when, almost an hour after your conversation about the heartbeat, the lub-dubs are filling the room around you. Nice and strong, your tech had commented with a beaming smile on her face. âHoly shit,â Max breathes.Â
âMaxie,â you squeaked out, reaching for his hand without looking away from the pattern on the bottom of the screen, the pattern of our babyâs heart. You feel suddenly like a child yourself, your hand enveloped in his. He kisses your temple hastily and everything is so fucking real.Â
August 20th, 2023
Max spends summer break with his hands in your hair, acting as a makeshift hair tie while youâre hunched over the toilet bowl. Youâre almost a third of the way there, you try to remind yourself at every opportunity, but particularly on the days where the only thing you can keep down is a large cherry slushie from the petrol station at the end of your block.Â
The two of you leave for Zandvoort a week early, make a stop in Maaseik with the intent of making exactly one thing known. Sophie is going to be a grandmother again, and Vic is going to be an aunt.Â
âSoph,â you started, Maxâs mom making her way across the back patio deck, a bowl of something unidentifiable in her hand. Youâre lounging beside Max, who just gave you the go-ahead nudge when Sophie appeared, and Victoria is sat on the wooden floor, a fork clinking against a ceramic plate of fruit on the coffee table. Tom chases the boys around the back grass and continues to warn them of dog poop piles. Life feels exactly like it should. âWhat do you think about coming to Monaco in March?â You ask. âVic, you too.â
âMarch?â Sofie laughs. âWhy so far?â
âWe thought you might like to meet the baby,â Max says, and even though you arenât looking at him, you can hear the smile in his voice.Â
âThe baby?â She questions, visibly confused.Â
Victoriaâs head shoots in your direction, wide eyes finding yours, squealing around a mouthful of fruit. âNo!â You smile hard, biting down onto your bottom lip as you nod. âOh my God!â She yelps, stumbling around the table to her feet, lunging on you with a giggly bear hug.Â
âOh my God, are you pregnant?â Sophie finally asks. You nod along with Maxâs verbal confirmation, watch a suddenly teary-eyed Sophie envelop her baby in her arms.Â
Her tears bring your own, when you and Max trade places, when Sophie has your cheeks cupped in her hands. She says your name so softly, whispers her kind words so they stay only for the two of you. âYou are made for motherhood,â she tells you. âYou already glow, darling.â
August 27th, 2023
He tells his father sometime that weekend when you arenât around. Itâs how you asked him to do it, had no interest in sharing that moment with Jos. The two of you have maintained a cordial relationship all these years, but if it was up to just you, Jos could find out when you show up with a six-month-old on your hip next year. He is important to Max, but he is no father to you.Â
Max tells you that it goes well, that Jos told him to give you a hug and a kiss and his best wishes. You smile and kiss him and wish he could understand how much better he deserved, how much better he has earned.Â
September 12, 2023
Max has been referring to the baby exclusively as Poopy for two weeks now. Youâd told him one morning that your bump was quote-en-quote, fucking huge, and heâd replied that it just looked like you needed to have a shit.Â
âAre you calling our baby poop?â Youâd quipped, running your hand along your bare stomach in the full-length mirror.Â
âNo,â he replied around his toothbrush. âPoop-y, because itâs cute.â
Heâs objectively right, your bump isnât nearly as large as it feels. All of your clothesâeven your shape hugging jeansâstill fit and not even the sixteen-year-old triple zeroes on TikTok have commented about you gaining weight.Â
In fact, youâve kept it all under wraps pretty well, considering youâve been at almost half the races this season. Max has become stupidly protective of you; he complains when youâre at home and there is nobody to feed the cats for you, and when you do show up, he doesnât let you out of sight.Â
Heâs lucky that heâs always been touchy, or he wouldâve given it away, the way his hand slots comfortably over your stomach every chance he gets. Thereâs nothing to feel, you would know, but heâs always there
On the way to your doctorâs appointment that afternoon, his hand is in its new favorite spot. He definitely drives slower now, there isnât a question about it. Youâll find out the sex at todayâs ultrasound, start speaking names into the world and hopefully something will stick before youâre signing Poopy Verstappenâs birth certificate.Â
October 20th, 2023
Max read online that her ears are fully developed now, and that itâs more than important to talk to her as much as possible. He talks and talks to his baby girl for hours on end, sometimes to the point that you feel like youâre interrupting something between the two of them.Â
Tonight, in a hotel room in Austin, Texas, youâre reading a gossip magazine. Itâs the only thing youâve been able to focus on for weeks now; any writing that requires your brain to think critically is a no-go. Max is propped up on a pillow halfway down the bed, talking to her about a whole lot of nothing.Â
You havenât been able to agree on a name yet. Your heart is set on Elle, on long blonde braids tied with green ribbons and his baby blues and sparkly pink jelly sandals. Max makes an argument for Nora, with pink cheeks and your nose and a belly laugh that people couldnât help but smile at. Neither of you wants to budge, so Poopy continues her reign.Â
Heâs silent for some time, and if it werenât for the aimless path his finger traces over your stomach, youâd think that heâd fallen asleep. âYou know, Poops,â he starts again, and you smile softly. âYou scare the hell out of me.â You donât comment, but a hand finds his hair, your fingers running mindlessly through the blonde locks. âYour Mum is going to be perfect, but youâre getting the short end of the stick with me.â Another pause. You wonder if you should speak.Â
You donât. He isnât talking to his girlfriend right now.Â
âI donât know how to be a dad, Poopy, but I know how much I love you.â
The tears burn in your eyes and blur the pages of the magazine. You want to tell him heâs a fool, that nobody will be a better dad than him. You want to screamâMax, Max, Max! Your Max. Her Max. You want to tell him that even though none of this was in the plan, there is not another person, not another soul in any other million universes and alternate lives that you would rather stray from the plan with. No one else could make a hard veer left into uncharted territory feel like a scenic drive around your familyâs hometown.Â
âIâm going to try harder than Iâve ever tried, though,â he continues. âAnd, just do you know, I have a pretty good record when it comes to the things I want, isnât that right, Mummy?â He shifts his head on the pillow to look at you. Youâre met with his smile, almost certainly expecting you to have not been paying attention, to meet him with an equally please smile and a curious hum.Â
Instead, heâs faced with your red, teary eyes and your pursed smile. âYeah,â you croak through a laugh. âYour daddyâs a winner, Poopy. The fucking best.â
Maxâs hand moves from your stomach to reach up to your cheek. He wipes the single tear that breaks through the damn, eyes laced horribly with concern, thumb softly circling the skin in the wake of the salty tear. You frown, silently affirm your convictions to him with a quick I love you.Â
I love you, he mouths back. So much.
You nod in agreement.
 Someday, youâre going to be able to tell your daughter without bursting into sobs that Dad doesnât understand his worry is proof enough heâs the best father. For now, youâll just have to settle for the hope that your thoughts can transfer to her the way her hunger transfers to you.Â
October 21st, 2023
GP and Christian find out youâre pregnant in the hours between FP3 and Qualifying. Itâs getting harder and harder to hide your bump, even with the incoming autumn weather. A sweatshirt that youâd bought just to conceal your stomach and Maxâs RedBull team jacket and youâre still paranoid that everyone around you can tell.Â
Youâre mid conversation with the three of them in hospitality while eating lunch. Youâre picking at your plate because Christian is eating a pasta salad of some kind. You can smell the cherry tomatoes and it makes you green.Â
You keep repeating the same thing to yourself, a silent mantra while you completely ignore their conversation. You will not be sick. You will not be sick. You will not be sick. Max can tell something is bothering you, his hand finding the space between your body and the back of the chair, rubbing comforting paths along your spine. His leg bounces anxiously under the table. Itâs truly a miracle youâve kept it a fucking secret for this long.Â
Itâs not the nausea that gives you away, surprisingly. Nor is it the baby bump hidden by layers of fabric. What gives the pregnancy away is the baby herself.Â
Max moves to collect the plates from the table and you thank whatever God might be watching over you that the cherry tomatoes are leaving your noseâs smell radius. Itâs when heâs on his way back, weaving his way through the tables and chairs with ease, a glass of a familiar carbonated beverage in his hand, that you feel itâherâthat you feel her.Â
Maxâs presence still gives you butterflies, but this. This is something different. This is a kick or a punch or a headbutt, this is your little girl getting comfortable, this is you feeling her getting comfortable. Max is sitting into the seat next to you with a sigh, setting the glass on the tabletop in front of you and youâre not even thinking about where you areâmuch less who your company isâwhen you grab his wrist and move his hand to your stomach. Itâs just you and him and her.Â
âWhat?â He asks, visibly worried at the grip you have on him.
âFeel,â you say, push his hand flat against the fabric. She moves again. âDo you feel that?â
He nods, âyeah.â
âThatâs her,â you smile, eyes fixed on him, on his reaction.Â
âThatâs her?â He laughs, eyes darting between yours and his hand. âShit.â
When the moment is broken, when sheâs comfortable and ready to go back to sleeping or whatever she does in her infinite free time, the two of you are met with GP and Christianâs matching expressions. Itâs a sight to behold, the two men and their raised brows and wide eyes and confused smile as they lean forward in their seats.Â
âUh, are youâŠ?â Christian asks you quietly.Â
You nod, âitâs a secret,â and both of them nod.Â
Christian reaches across the table for you, gives your arm a weighted squeeze. âCongratulations, both of you,â he says, barely above a whisper. GP follows suit, in his own GP way.Â
âScary world where there are two of either of you,â he quips. âYou guys will handle it, though.â
When they excuse themselves, they both give Maxâs shoulder a heavy smack and a squeeze, their own shared, silent congratulations.
 âWell,â you say when itâs just the two of you left at the table, drawing shapes in the condensation on the glass of ginger ale. âI guess now we donât have to find a way to tell them.â
November 17th, 2023
Youâre MIA for Mexico and Brazil, and show up to the paddock in Vegas on Friday with Max, a form-fitted midi-dress and sandals for the desert heat. Thereâs no room for interpretation or guesses or assumptions, no gray area where they can feel entitled to commenting on your weight. Itâs black and white, from the bump to the waddle to the placement of your hand when you walk.Â
The World Champion is going to be a dad, hear the little lion roar.Â
December 13th, 2023
Things are starting to feel very, very real. Like, youâre two and a half months from having a baby in your arms and she still doesnât have a name, real. Nesting is in full force, and it feels like every single corner of the apartment is filled with baby toys and furniture and outfits and books.Â
Max has been working in the nursery since the two of you got home from Abu Dhabi. He wonât let you anywhere near it, and makes you wear a mask when you even walk down the hall past the freshly painted bedroom. Each night you think he couldnât become more protective over you, and each morning youâre surprised to find that somehow, he is.Â
The paint is finally dry, the room fully aired out, and your guest room is no longer a guest room. The bikes and the extra rack of clothes and the spare sleeping space have all been replaced by a rocking chair and throw blankets and an insanely expensive crib, with the worldâs tiniest socks and sweet little mittens because when you finally meet her she'll be helpless against even her own finger nails.Â
Pictures fill the shelves and the walls and the table next to the rocking chair, of you and of Max and of you and Max. Of your friends and your family and all the people who will love your baby girl almost as much as the two of you do.Â
Itâs a bedroom fit for only the worldâs finest.Â
âYou have the worldâs best daddy,â you say, standing in the middle of the nursery with Maxâs arm around your shoulder, your hand carefully cradling your stomach. âHe outdid himself, Poops. Wait until you see this.â
He presses his lips against your temple. âWe have to find her a name.â
âWe have names,â you say, admiring the mobile hung over the crib, the different farm animals swaying in the breeze pouring in from the open window.Â
Max laughs. You hope she has his laugh. You hope she has his everything, even his unrelenting competitiveness and his roll of the dice temperament and his sweet, sweet lisp. âWe have to agree on one of the names.â
February 27th, 2024
Max Verstappen to Miss Pre-Season Testing. The headline is everywhere, Maxâs phone blowing up with texts and calls and emails since Red Bull made the announcement some days prior. Some days, you say, because youâve been in the hospital for almost three now and theyâre beginning to blend together.Â
Testing is the last thing on either of your minds, literally couldnât be further from the forefront at this moment.Â
âI think,â you whisper through gritted teeth, cut off by your own contraction. You squeeze his hand like your life depends on it, like heâd challenged you to break every last metacarpal. The hand that survives mutilation is brushing sweat stucken hair from your forehead. He learned to stop attempting to talk you through them hours ago.Â
This is a whole new level of exhaustion, a different kind of pain. The look in your eyes will haunt his nightmares, he thinks.Â
âI think we should name her Nora,â you finally find the space to speak.Â
He laughs, but itâs not the laugh you hope she has. Itâs nervous, anxious, scared fucking shitless. âWe donât need to worry about that right now,â he tells you.
âShe doesnât have a name, Max,â you say, voice laced with exhaustion and frustration and desperation. âShe needs a name and Nora is a name.â
âNora isnât her name,â he insists, and you know he's right. She isnât Nora. She isnât Elle, either. She sure as fuck isnât Poopy, that dumb fucking nickname. Heâs never nicknaming anything, ever again.Â
âEleanor. Her name is Eleanor,â you grit, squeezing his hand and groaning through another contraction.
Max nods. âEleanor,â he smiles. Eleanor. âShe has your eyes and my nose and beautiful blonde hair and sheâs perfect in all of the ways.â
February 28th, 2024. Sometime after 3:17 am.
Max is wrong about half of it. She has your nose and his soft blue eyes. Her hair is soft and barely more than fuzz and is white as white can be. She has ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes and a smile that at least two people would kill to keep on her itty bitty lips.Â
She looks so small in his arms, like a real-life baby doll, like a sight that you could never tire of seeing.Â
âNow, youâre not so scary,â he whispers to her, and everything about him is quiet: his voice, his breathing, his lips kissing her head and his smile to you. âI bet you canât even fight. Youâre just a little thing, Poopy.â
âUh-uh,â you hum. âNo more Poopy.â
He laughs, dead silent. Itâs impressive, almost. âDonât listen to her, Poops.â There is something so incredibly human about this moment, about seeing your person speak to the person you created together. She is you and she is him and you donât know why this wasnât always the plan. âMum is as crazy as she is beautiful.â
September 1st, 2024
âItâs a shame,â Daniel speaks to Max, bouncing Eleanor on his hip, giddy smile on both of their faces. âEverytime I see her she looks more like you and less like her mother.â
âAy, Daniel!â Charles laughs, squeezing Eleanorâs foot. She follows the voices with her big blue eyes. âBe nice, mate,â now that he has her attention, he speaks only in a baby-voice. âYes,â he says, âtell Uncle Daniel to be nice to Papa.â
There have been a lot of moments in the past six months that have left you in awe of your partner, but none strike you quite the way that watching him introduce your daughter to the grid does. Heâs so in his element, his two worldâs colliding as he gets to show off his girl.Â
His girl, who, like Daniel teases, looks more and more like him every day. Pride is not what you feel watching them together, your guy and your world. It isnât a strong enough word for what youâre faced with. You would die for her, you would kill for her. There is a certain solace in knowing he might be the only person in the world who feels exactly the same way.Â
âThis is our daughter,â he begins every introduction, even though he could just as easily say my daughter. No, he could never, not when he falls more in love with you everytime he looks at her, not when he picks up on every minuscule thing she does that reminds him of you.Â
Never could it be his daughter. Not when youâve created the best thing to ever come of him, when even here, in Monza and the sea of red and prancing horses and tifosi pride he knows that nobody on planet Earth has the supporters that he does.Â
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