No warnings just pure fluff and fate working together, it is impliedthat the reader is american
Summary: You and a boy exchanged letters as children through a school program but eventually lost touch. Years later, while cleaning out old boxes, you post one of the letters online. An F1 driver recognizes it immediately.
Requested: No
Requests open
word count: 1570
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The cardboard box smelled faintly of dust, cedar, and old scholastic book fair bookmarks, specifically those lenticular ones that clicked when you ran your thumbnail over them. It was a suffocating, comforting scent, the olfactory equivalent of a time capsule. It was the kind of deep-cleaning afternoon where progress is measured not by how much trash goes into the black plastic bags, but by how long you sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor, paralyzed by a sudden, heavy wave of nostalgia. A pile of discarded clothes lay forgotten to your left; a stack of old textbooks gathered dust to your right.
Among the high school yearbooks, plastic wrapped prom corsages, and faded concert tickets to bands that had long since broken up, sat a bundle of loose-leaf papers. They were bound together by a thick, beige rubber band that had long since lost its elasticity; it had dried out into a brittle, crusty ring that snapped at the slightest touch, leaving a chalky residue on your fingers.
You pulled the top sheet from the pile. The paper was standard wide-ruled school paper, slightly yellowed and brittle at the edges, bearing the distinct blue lines that used to dictate the boundaries of childhood thoughts. The page was covered in the overly careful, slightly cramped cursive of someone writing with immense deliberation—the handwriting of a child trying very hard to please a teacher in a language that was not entirely their own. The ink was a pale, vintage fountain pen blue, faint but perfectly legible.
Dear Y/N,
Thank you for your letter. Monaco is very nice today. The sun is shining and I can hear the cars outside. Today I practiced my English with my teacher, and then I went to the karting track. My father says if I work hard, I can be a champion one day. What is your favorite sport? I hope your English is better than mine.
Your friend,
Charles
A sudden rush of memory hit you, sharp and vivid. The third-grade international pen-pal program. Your elementary school teacher, Mrs. Gallagher, had set up a cultural exchange, pairing everyone in the class with students from European schools to help them practice their English conversational skills. You remembered the fierce excitement of waiting for those international stamps to arrive in the mail—brightly colored squares with foreign monarchs or landmarks—and tracing the textured postmarks with your thumb. You and Charles had exchanged letters for nearly two years, sharing the beautiful, mundane details of childhood life across an ocean. You had sent him a drawing of your dog; he had sent you a sticker from a local French bakery. Then the school year ended, middle school distractions took over, interests shifted, and the correspondence quietly faded into the background of growing up.
Amused by the earnestness of his eighth-grade vocabulary and the sweet simplicity of his ambition, you took a quick, aesthetic photo of the letter on your phone. The lighting from the bedroom window hit the page just right, highlighting the faded blue ink, the slight ink smudging on the capital letters where his hand had dragged across the page, and the innocent, naked declaration of a childhood dream.
You opened your social media app, uploaded the photo without thinking twice, and typed out a casual, lighthearted caption:
“Cleaning out my childhood bedroom and found these. Shoutout to my middle school pen-pal Charles from Monaco. I hope you made it to the karting championship, buddy. Your English was actually great.”
You locked your phone, tossed it onto the mattress of your unmade bed, and went back to sorting through old varsity sweatshirts and mismatched socks. You didn't think about it again for the rest of the afternoon.
Many time zones away, the paddock of the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya was buzzing with the chaotic, high-octane energy of a Formula 1 race weekend. The late afternoon sun beat down on the tarmac, and the air was thick with the scent of burning rubber, high-grade fuel, and expensive catering. Engineers were hovering over banks of monitors displaying complex telemetry data, mechanics were executing synchronized, blink-and-you-miss-it pit-stop drills in the garage, and the media pen was a chaotic sea of cameras, boom mics, and aggressive journalists.
In the quiet, air-conditioned sanctuary at the back of the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality suite, Charles Leclerc slumped into a pristine white leather sofa. He was exhausted, his hair damp with sweat and flattened by his balaclava after a grueling secondary practice session where the car's balance had felt completely uncooperative. His trainer handed him a protein recovery shake and a chilled towel. Charles wiped his face, sighing, and instinctively reached for his phone to kill the twenty minutes of downtime before his mandatory engineering data debrief.
He scrolled mindlessly through his notifications, templated sponsor tags, high quality fan edits set to trending audio, analytical race previews, and standard public relations alerts. It was a deluge of digital noise until a specific image caught his eye. It wasn't the kind of polished, high definition motorsport photography that usually filled his feed. It was a poorly lit, amateur photo of old, lined school paper, sitting on what looked like a bedroom floor.
Charles paused. The scrolling stopped. He zoomed in on the handwriting.
A strange sensation, a disorienting mix of vertigo and intense, buried familiarity, washed over him. He knew that handwriting. He recognized the specific, slightly exaggerated way those lowercase 'g's and 'y's looped at the bottom, a stubborn habit his childhood tutor, Madame Bonnet, had spent months trying to correct with a red pen. He read the English words, and a memory locked deep in the vault of his childhood suddenly broke wide open.
Monaco is very nice today... I went to the karting track.
"No way," Charles muttered under his breath, sitting up straight on the sofa, the recovery shake forgotten in his hand.
His trainer looked over from his laptop, raising an eyebrow. "Everything okay, Charles? Something from the data?"
"Yeah... no, it's nothing about the car," Charles murmured, his green eyes scanning the username of the account that had posted the photo. Y/N. The name instantly connected the scattered dots of a memory from fifteen years ago. Suddenly, he wasn't in a high tech paddock in Spain; he was ten years old, sitting at the wooden kitchen table in his family's apartment in Monaco. He remembered his mother cutting up slices of apple for him while he looked up English verbs in a heavy, French-English dictionary, determined to write a response that would sound smart and impress his friend across the Atlantic. He remembered the genuine heartbreak he had felt when the school program concluded, and the letters abruptly stopped coming—swallowed up by the relentless, demanding, and stressful schedule of junior karting championships that eventually consumed his entire youth.
A small, genuine smile broke across his face, entirely different from the practiced, media ready smiles he gave to the television cameras. He didn't notify his public relations team. He didn't ask for permission from the team principal. He simply tapped the direct message icon, his thumbs flying across the glass screen with far more speed, confidence, and fluency than the little boy who had struggled over that letter fifteen years ago.
Back in your bedroom, your phone buzzed against the mattress.
Then it buzzed again. And again. A rapid-fire succession of haptic vibrations caused the device to slide an inch across the sheets.
Within an hour, your notification feed had turned into an unreadable, runaway blur of activity. The screen was a continuous scroll of red numbers. You picked it up, thoroughly confused, assuming a stray hashtag had accidentally caught the attention of a rogue bot network or a crypto scam.
But when you opened the app, the notifications weren't random strings of spam numbers or automated advertisements. They were thousands of real comments, thousands of retweets, and an exponentially skyrocketing count of direct messages. Formula 1 fans, internet sleuths, and casual observers had intercepted the post, and it was spreading across the internet like wildfire.
“Is this a joke? Tell me this is a joke. There is no way this is real.”
“Bro casual dropped the most historic, multi-million-dollar flex in internet history.”
“Imagine having an F1 race winner as a childhood pen-pal and just finding out today??”
“OP, check your DMs right now, I am screaming for you.”
Baffled and feeling a sudden spike of adrenaline, you tapped on your direct messages icon. At the very top of the primary request folder, sitting beneath a prominent, verified blue checkmark and a professional profile picture of a handsome man wearing a red racing suit, was a message sent just ten minutes prior.
Charles Leclerc (@Charles_Leclerc)
“I did make it to the championship, actually! It took a lot of practice, just like the English. I cannot believe you still have this letter, it brings back so many good memories. How have you been, Y/N?”
Your breath caught sharply in your throat. You stared at the verified badge, then at the profile with its millions of followers, and then back down to the faded, yellowing piece of school paper sitting on your messy bedroom floor.
The little boy who had spent his sunny afternoons dreaming of racing tracks while struggling with foreign grammar had actually done it. And against all statistical probability, the vastness of the internet had just brought him back.
authors note: i don’t know if i like the plot or not, i had this written in my notes for so long and decided to post it, should i make a part 2?
hi mic!! as a fellow swiftie could you please write something for either lando or osc based off right where you left me ?? doesn’t need a happy ending i love a bit of angst that hurts my feeling 😅
right where you left me - ln1 au
sorry this took a while but better late than never. hope you like it!
lando x reader, angst, 1,6k
masterlist
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They said you're supposed to know. She has heard the cliche phrase her entire life: “when you know, you know”.
When she met him, she thought she finally got what they meant.
She had been invited to the race by a brand.
She had never watched Formula 1 before, didn't care that much about it. But once she set foot in the paddock, the atmosphere swept her off her feet. The noise. The fierceness. The speed.
They were invited to the afterparty, somehow. Her friend knew everyone and everyone knew her.
When they arrived at the club, she dragged her to say hello to Carlos, congratulate him on winning the race. Carlos smiled at them and thanked them.
By his side, there was a younger man. Curly-haired. Pretty grin. He extended his hand towards her.
“Lando Norris,” he introduced himself. He had been on the podium, she remembered.
She felt for him just as fast as the race cars moved on track.
She was never a stranger to famous people or rich people—most of the time, both. She didn't get starstruck or flustered in front of beautiful people. But those green eyes with tiny specks of gold, looking at her with curiosity and amusement, was the first time she thought to herself “Oh, fuck—I'm in trouble”.
Her friend elbowed her and she realized she hadn't shaken the hand he was extending. She took it trying to fight the blush creeping up.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, trying to ignore the lightning bolts of electricity shooting up her forearm. She knew she had a deer-eye expression and wondered in embarrassment if he was noticing any of this. A little part of her also wondered if maybe he felt it too.
He made no effort to leave their side the rest of the night. Not even when her friend excused herself to go greet an old friend, not even when people came to congratulate him on his podium, or when girls tried to flirt with him. He gave polite smiles and turned his attention back to her.
It was dizzying. It was addicting. Each time he leaned closer, whispered something in her ear to try to keep the conversation going on top of the loud music, arms brushing and knees touching, her stomach did summersaults. She felt as if she was floating in a cloud.
Suddenly, he perked up, an idea clearly dancing in his eyes. He tilted forward, a cheeky grin “Are you hungry?”
She tilted her head, confused, and nodded. It was the right response.
He nodded back, clearly satisfied at her answer. His hand engulfed hers and he started walking, moving them through the crowd.
She let out a carefree laugh, not caring about the people giving them curious looks.
“Lando,” she protested but it didn’t hold much weight as she giggled. “What are you doing?”
“Just trust me,” he shouted back, barely audible above the music.
And so she let him guide her out of the party, into the car, and eventually into a restaurant.
They were clearly overdressed for the place. Despite the dim lighting, the place was simple. Stone walls decorated with landscape photographs and a strong smell of yeast.
Lando collapsed into a chair, table near the window, and gestured at her to do the same. She stood there fidgeting, unsure about what was going on.
“What are we doing here?” she asked.
Lando grabbed the menu, hummed at her absentmindedly as he read.
“Eating,” he replied, as if it was obvious.
She guessed it kind of was. They were at a restaurant, after all, but—
“You can’t be serious. Did we leave your friend’s win celebration for…dinner?”
“Not just dinner,” he replied. He closed the menu, seemingly satisfied with his decision, and stood back up to pull out the chair for her. She sat down, tilting her neck to keep watching him. “This place has the best pizza I've ever had. You can’t miss this, I promise.”
She had met him a few hours ago. It made no sense to keep trusting him. He was practically a stranger, in every sense. But still she did. Her gut or her intuition or something deeper in her believed in him in a way that was inexplicable. Perhaps they had met in a past life. Perhaps it was her crush, messing with her head. Anyhow, at that moment, she thought she was willing to do or give him anything he asked for. She was helpless to fight this feeling.
They ordered and the pizza was in fact amazing. She moaned when she first tasted it and his lips quirked up.
“Told you so,” he said, softly and satisfied. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She took a sharp intake of breath, dizzy with the proximity, the casual intimacy of it all.
She pursed her lips. “Why me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could have had most women in that party. So why me?”
He looked at her with gleaming eyes, shrugged. He was smirking.
“You are the only one I want.”
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Four years later, the place looks the same. The tablecloths, the curtains, even the waiters look familiar. Everything except the mood.
The mood is not light and flirty. Nothing like that first date.
Instead it’s heavy. Mourning.
“Sorry, what?” she asked. Because she must have heard wrong.
Lando took another deep breath before speaking again, “I think we should break up.”
She couldn’t comprehend the sentence. She couldn't make peace with the idea.
Coming back to this place should be special. A reminder of where they started. For the past years, it had been their place of celebrations. Birthdays. His first win. His championship. It held every important memory of their relationship—a place of their own.
She couldn’t believe it was gonna hold this one too.
She had been sure, when they entered the familiar location, that the night was going to be memorable. She thought it might end up with a ring.
Of course she was only 23, perhaps too young for it, but people had long engagements all the time, right? And it’s not like they didn’t have the money to make it work. And Lando was older, and they had been dating for years, and they lived together, except when he was traveling for work—
She never imagined what was unfolding in front of her eyes. Her head felt underwater. She knew people were chatting, laughing and moving around her, but everything seemed to happen far away.
She thought she heard a glass breaking and shocked screams but she couldn’t come back to Earth.
She didn’t even think she was breathing.
A hand engulfed her. It took her back to that first night and her heart squeezed in pain inside of her chest.
“Look at me. Breathe,” Lando was instructing her. Breathing in and out for her to copy. To ground her.
She couldn't.
She felt drops in her exposed feet. She was wearing sandals. Why were her feet wet? She looked down at the table and realized the glass she heard break earlier must have been hers. Wine was spilled on the white cloth like blood, like an ironic joke. She heard herself laugh manically. Lando looked at her worried.
“Are you hurt? Did the glass cut you?”
“Those questions have two very different answers,” she muttered, but shook his head, fighting the fog in his brain. “I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
She stared at him with glassy eyes. His eyes so familiar.
Four years of seeing pure love in the green orbits. She wondered when it had gone away.
“Why?” she asked.
Such a simple question. Such a heavy implication.
Lando cringed. He looked down at his hands on his lap, breaking eye contact.
“I met someone,” he admitted, voice barely stronger than a whisper.
And there it was.
She had no choice. He didn’t want her anymore.
This was it. End of the story.
She heard him apologize. Heard his explanations. Nothing stuck.
Because it didn't matter. None of it mattered.
In the end, Lando left. But she stayed. Confused. Staring at the empty chair.
If our love died young, I can't bear witness
She knew she was a sad sight. Running mascara, stupefied expression.
She knew people were staring at her with pity.
Or maybe they weren’t, not now, but she knew that was the reaction would be, when everyone found out.
“Oh poor thing, dumped by her rich formula one driver boyfriend. What’s gonna happen to her now?”
She had trusted him. Trusted him to not break her heart. Trusted him to stay. Trusted him to choose her.
She couldn’t get up. Leaving meant it was real. If she closed her eyes, she could still pretend the future held everything she envisioned before: weddings, kids, christmas.
Inside this place, time wasn’t real.
Did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen?
She didn’t dare to move.
How would he find her if she left too?
All she had to do was stay. In case he got it wrong. In case he wanted to come back.
She closed her eyes shut, pressed so tight it hurt. That was the new plan.
How it feels to stumble upon an author who writes a scrumptious fanfic of a character you’re obsessing/hyper fixating on and on top of that they have a master list FULL of fics dedicated to them
She’s silk, control, and literature.He’s leather, volume, and chaos. After a viral insult sparks a public feud, Moroccan icon Iman El-Mansouri and global superstar Bad Bunny’s are forced to headline the same festival — and neither plans on backing down.
( So I’m pretty sure everyone grew attracted to this lovely man right here here after the Grammys and Super Bowl, I read his songs lyrics and I don’t like the way he speaks of women unfortunately many others do the same but still get praised, but he’s lovely personality and sense of humor, I truly hope people enjoy this because no one writes bad bunny fan fics so I thought why not, anyways enjoy! )
Iman El-Mansouri had the kind of femininity that made people nervous, not because it was loud or exaggerated or curated for the male gaze, but because it was completely unbothered by it. She was rather feminine in the way her grandmother would approve of — long modest silhouettes that skimmed her curves instead of squeezing them, sleeves that grazed her wrists like silk secrets, waist defined but never advertised, hips generous and warm beneath embroidered fabric that moved when she moved, stomach soft enough to remind you she was raised in a house where butter was not feared and dessert was not optional.
She did not have the fragile thinness fashion magazines worshipped; she had the kind of mid-size hourglass figure Arab aunties pinch approvingly at weddings, saying, “Yes, this is a woman, not a bookmark.” And when she belly danced — which she did softly, deliberately, and without apology — it was not the exaggerated tourist version people expected but a controlled sway, a subtle undulation of torso and hips that required real balance, real strength, and real confidence, the gold coins stitched along the hem of her kaftans chiming faintly like they were whispering secrets to the stage lights. She did not thrash.
She did not over-perform. She let the movement breathe, and somehow that made it ten times more powerful, because restraint has always been more dangerous than desperation.
She adored gold in the way some people adore validation — excessively and without apology. Not plated, not dipped, not hollow, but real gold, heavy enough to leave faint impressions on her skin by the end of the night, bangles stacked thick along her wrists so that every lift of her hand created a quiet metallic applause, necklaces layered confidently across her collarbone like decorative armor, rings catching light like tiny suns. Stylists had once suggested she “simplify,” to which she responded with complete sincerity, “Why would I ration joy?” Her natural hair fell long down her back, sometimes soft waves, sometimes curls depending on humidity and patience, and she refused to flatten it into sleek submission because she had spent her childhood watching women oil their hair with care, braid it with intention, treat it like something sacred rather than something to be controlled. She was feminine, yes — deeply so — but not in a fragile way; hers was the kind of femininity that could feed you, outdance you, and correct you politely in the same breath.
She was also, unfortunately for certain men, very funny.
The morning the headline appeared, she was sitting cross-legged on her cream-colored couch in Los Angeles wearing a pale blush kaftan that pooled dramatically around her like she had accidentally wandered off a palace balcony and into her own living room, gold bangles clinking as she reached for her mint tea, when her assistant slid a tablet toward her with the kind of caution normally reserved for delivering medical results. “Just… read it calmly,” her assistant said.
Iman raised an eyebrow and took the tablet.
Her name.
His name.
Bad Bunny’s.
The headline screamed in dramatic uppercase:
HER SONGS ARE LITERALLY MEANT FOR CAFÉS, NOT TO INSPIRE PEOPLE.
She blinked once. Then her upper lip curled slowly, not in hurt, but in mild disgust, like someone who had just witnessed a man confidently misuse a word in public.
“Cafés?” she repeated thoughtfully. “Does he think cafés are emotionally irrelevant? Has he never cried over espresso? That feels like a him problem.”
Her assistant tried very hard not to laugh. Iman tapped the video clip and watched him — sunglasses indoors, chains layered like he was preparing to negotiate with nuance and losing — laughing as he described her music as ambiance.She paused the video mid-smirk and leaned closer to the screen.
“Is this his intellectual face?” she asked calmly. “Or is that just permanent?”
Her assistant collapsed into a chair.
Iman resumed watching, her expression shifting from amused to analytically entertained.
“With how frequently he discusses sleeping with women,” she said slowly, almost academically, “one might wonder whether he has ever actually remained in the presence of one long enough to understand her beyond a chorus.”
Her assistant froze mid-breath.
“You have to say that,” she whispered.
Iman nodded. “Obviously.”
But first — research, She opened another tab and began reading his lyrics aloud with the seriousness of a scholar examining historical artifacts. “Women. Women. Money. Women. Flexing. Women.”She looked up thoughtfully.
“Is there a deluxe edition where he discovers emotional nuance, or are we committing to the bit?”
Her assistant wheezed. Iman kept scrolling. “Ah,” she murmured. “We are firmly in the Hormonal Teen Boy Cinematic Universe.”
She set the tablet down gently. “He called me café music,” she said with a small smile. “That’s adorable.”
The interview two days later felt less like damage control and more like sport. Iman arrived wearing deep emerald silk embroidered in gold thread that shimmered under studio lights, long sleeves grazing her wrists, her waist defined elegantly beneath structured fabric, gold layered thick and unapologetic, her natural hair cascading freely down her back. She looked radiant, entertained, and extremely prepared.“So,” the interviewer began cautiously, “Bad Bunny’s recently described your music as more café ambiance than inspiration. How do you respond?”
Iman smiled sweetly.
“First of all,” she said, “I love cafés. Some of the most life-changing conversations of my life happened in cafés. So if that’s the insult, I’ll take it.”
The audience laughed.
“But do you agree with him?”
“Oh absolutely,” she replied smoothly. “If you’re a hormonal teenage boy.”
The audience gasped and then erupted into laughter.
“I think his music is perfect for that demographic,” she continued calmly. “It’s loud, it’s dramatic, it’s very ‘I just discovered desire and now it’s my entire personality.’”
The host visibly struggled not to laugh.
“And what happens when they grow up?”
“They realize it’s not literature,” Iman said gently. “It’s cardio.”
The room lost it.
“And you don’t think his music has depth?”
She leaned forward slightly, bangles chiming softly.
“With how frequently he discusses sleeping with women, one might wonder whether he has ever actually remained in the presence of one long enough to understand her beyond a chorus.”
Silence.
Then absolute chaos.
The desert at noon was unforgiving in a way that made tempers shorter than anyone liked to admit. The stage metal burned under the sun, cables coiled across the floor like snakes absorbing heat, and the air itself felt thick enough to chew. Rehearsals were never glamorous — no smoke machines, no dramatic lighting, no forgiving shadows — just exposed scaffolding, exposed mistakes, and in this case, exposed ego. Iman stood center stage in a lighter rehearsal kaftan, still long, still modest, still structured at the waist but made of breathable fabric that moved when she moved. Her hair was loosely tied back now, strands sticking to the side of her neck from the heat, thin gold bangles resting at her wrist because she refused to rehearse without at least something that felt like her. Around her, sound engineers hovered, stage managers barked cues, dancers shifted nervously, and somewhere behind the speakers, producers watched with the particular intensity of people who believed tension was marketable.
Bad Bunny’s stepped up from stage right with his team trailing behind him, sunglasses off but still in hand, sweat glistening faintly at his temples. He stretched his shoulders once and nodded toward the DJ booth. “Let’s try again,” he said, voice carrying unevenly across the stage.
The track began — her percussion first, steady, layered, controlled. Iman moved through the steps slowly, hips shifting in restrained rhythm, hands carving the air with deliberate softness. The choreography was designed to build — her rhythm leading, his beat sliding underneath gradually before he crossed toward her for the shared center segment. On paper, it worked.
In practice, his bass dropped too early.
It swallowed her rhythm whole. She stopped mid-step. The music cut. Everyone froze. Iman closed her eyes briefly, then opened them slowly. “No.” From the other side of the stage he frowned slightly. “What?”
“It’s too early,” she said, trying to keep her voice even despite the heat pressing into her skull. “It drowns the transition.” He walked a few steps closer, gesturing loosely with his hands. “It has to hit.”
“It can hit later.”
“It loses energy if it waits.”
“It loses structure if it doesn’t.” The sound engineer looked between them nervously. He ran a hand over his face. “You want soft-soft-soft and then boom. I want boom with you.”Iman blinked. “Boom with me is not the problem. Boom on top of me is.” A dancer coughed to hide a laugh. He looked briefly confused, then shook his head. “You know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” she replied, adjusting her earpiece. “And I’m telling you the layering is wrong.” He muttered under his breath in Spanish, low but not low enough. “Siempre complicado…”
Her head snapped slightly toward him. “Excuse me?”
“I said it’s complicated.”
“No,” she said calmly, “you said I’m complicated.”
He hesitated. “Maybe both.”
She exhaled sharply, looking toward the sound booth. “Lower his entry. Four counts later. And don’t let the bass override the drum line.”
He shook his head. “No, no, no, you cut my energy.”
She turned fully toward him now, sun hitting the gold at her wrist, sweat catching lightly along her collarbone. “Your energy is not fragile. It can survive four counts.”
The crew went silent again.
He stepped closer, not aggressively, but too close for the heat. “You don’t feel it,” he said, tapping his chest. “It needs to feel like—” He struggled for the word. “Explosion.”
“And I need it to feel like build,” she shot back. “Not like someone slammed a door in the middle of a sentence.”
He looked frustrated now, English slipping around the edges. “You want control every second.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t let it breathe.”
“It is breathing,” she said, gesturing to the track. “You are hyperventilating.”
A few crew members visibly turned away to avoid reacting.
He laughed once, incredulous. “You’re funny.”
“I’m tired,” she corrected.
And she was. The heat was oppressive, the repetition exhausting, and the fact that twenty people were watching them argue about counts and volume was beginning to itch under her skin. She hated being observed mid-frustration. It felt messy.
“Okay,” he said, spreading his hands. “Show me. Show me what you want.” She stepped back into position, nodded to the booth. “Run it.” The track restarted. Her percussion flowed again, steady, layered. She moved through the counts slowly, signaling with her hand for when the bass should enters
“One, two, three, four—now.”
The bass entered
He crossed toward her this time as rehearsed, their movements overlapping in the shared choreography — his sharper, heavier steps contrasting her controlled sway. They were close now, too close for comfort under the sun, sweat and rhythm and tension blending.
“See?” she said quietly without breaking step. “It breathes.”
He didn’t respond immediately, They finished the segment. The music cut again. He looked at her, eyes narrowed not in anger but in concentration. “It feels slower.”
“It feels intentional.”
He exhaled, wiping his forehead again. “You hate when I’m loud.”
“I hate when you don’t listen.” He stared at her for a long moment, then muttered something again in Spanish. “Dios, eres intensa…” Her eyebrow rose despite herself. “You’re doing that on purpose now.”
He smirked faintly. “You look mad every time.”
“I look focused.”
“You look like you want to fight.”
“Maybe I do.”
That surprised him.
“You’re serious?”
She stepped closer this time, closing the gap deliberately. “You came into my section like it was your stage. You drowned my transition. And now you’re confused that I’m correcting you.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“You think I’m trying to disrespect you,” he said finally.
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Then act like it.” That landed harder than the previous insults.
The sun pressed down.
Finally, he nodded once toward the booth. “Run it again. Her way.”
Her way.
The engineer restarted the track.
They ran it again. This time, he held back slightly at the entrance, watching her cue, adjusting instinctively instead of overpowering. The bass slid under her rhythm instead of crushing it. It felt… balanced.
They reached center again, Closer. Heat radiating between them.
“You get overstimulated?” he asked suddenly, low enough that the crew couldn’t hear.
She blinked, thrown by the shift. “What?”
“You look like you’re about to explode when too many people talk.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t like chaos I didn’t design,” she said quietly. He nodded once, like that made sense. They finished the sequence. The track ended. No one clapped. Everyone was waiting, Iman looked toward the booth. “Again,” she said, but softer this time.
He glanced at her. “You’re stubborn.”
She ignored him as they took their marks again. And this time, neither overpowered the other.
A shy cashier and a loud, beatboxing grocery bagger in Puerto Rico grow from teasing coworkers to first love, as she believes in Benito’s DJ dreams long before the world knows his name — and stands proudly by his side when he finally makes it big.
Paring. Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio x reader
I’m actually obsessed with this man now, I’m going try to write the hell out of him until I eventually get bored him of (which is never) and hopefully I’ll focus on my other fics which I should be writing at the moment seeing as I have a free day off but whatever, I honestly hope you guys enjoy this!!
The grocery store sat on a busy corner in Puerto Rico where the afternoon sun always made the front windows glow gold. The bell above the door was loud and dramatic, ringing like someone had just entered a royal ballroom instead of a neighborhood market. The floors were slightly uneven, the fridge in aisle three hummed like it was thinking deeply about life, and the same three songs played on the radio every single shift. It wasn’t special. It wasn’t glamorous. But for you, it was where everything important quietly began.
You worked the register with careful precision. Your hair was always neatly tied back, your name tag straight, your uniform tucked in properly. You counted change twice before handing it over, even when the line was long. You apologized when customers bumped into you. You said “thank you” softly and meant it every time. You didn’t like drawing attention to yourself, and you certainly didn’t like breaking rules.
Benito, on the other hand, behaved like the grocery store was a stage that had simply not yet realized its potential
He bagged groceries like it was choreography. He stacked items in the bags with exaggerated care, narrating what he was doing under his breath like a cooking show host. He greeted customers as if they were long-lost family members. If someone bought one item, he asked about their day. If someone bought twenty items, he made commentary about their snack choices like he was reviewing them for an audience.
You would feel your stomach twist with secondhand embarrassment, whispering urgently from behind the register, “Benito, please just bag the groceries.”
“They love me,” he would respond confidently, flashing a grin that was impossible not to notice
The worst part was that sometimes they actually did.
The first time Mr. Alvarez assigned you both to restock shelves together, you immediately felt nervous. You liked tasks that were quiet and structured. You liked being left alone to organize things neatly and efficiently. Restocking aisle five should have been simple. Cans in order. Labels facing forward. Expiration dates checked. Done.
Benito treated aisle five like it was a rehearsal studio.
You were carefully arranging tomato cans by date when you heard the soft rhythm start behind you. At first it was subtle. A beat under his breath. Then a little bass sound. Then full beatboxing that echoed lightly between the shelves.
“Benito,” you whispered sharply without turning around, “please stop. Mr. Alvarez is nearby.”
“He appreciates talent,” he replied smoothly, stacking cans in rhythm with his beat.
“He appreciates silence.”
He suddenly grabbed two cereal boxes, holding one to his mouth like a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to aisle five, where we have discounts and rhythm.”
You froze, eyes widening as a customer slowly pushed their cart past you, staring openly. Your ears burned. “Put those down,” you hissed.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice but not enough. “You’re my assistant DJ.”
“I am not.”
“Yes you are. Say something cool.”
“I’m organizing inventory.”
He looked at you like you had personally disappointed him. “That is not cool.”
You were 90 percent sure you were going to lose your job because this boy did not understand volume control. When he suddenly reached toward your arm and pretended to scan it like a barcode, whispering “beep,” you lightly smacked his shoulder, trying not to smile even though you absolutely wanted to.
The thing was, he always stopped the second he sensed you were genuinely uncomfortable. When Mr. Alvarez actually appeared at the end of the aisle with that serious look, Benito instantly straightened his posture and began stacking cans perfectly, face completely innocent. If there was an award for dramatic personality switches, he would have won.
“See?” he whispered after the manager walked away. “Professional.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, though your lips betrayed you by curving slightly.
But when a customer once made a rude comment about how slow you were scanning items, Benito stepped forward without theatrics and calmly handled the situation, redirecting the mood and making the customer laugh instead. When you struggled lifting a heavy box of bottled water, he took it from you gently without making it a spectacle. He was loud and spontaneous, yes, but he noticed everything. Especially you.
Your breaks always overlapped, even though neither of you admitted it was intentional. Behind the store there was a small patch of shade from a tired-looking tree, and you both sat on the curb like it was reserved seating. Benito always brought two sodas without asking. Cola for you. Orange for him. He would pop the can open dramatically, then pass yours to you like it was an offering.
“You’re too quiet,” he told you once, leaning back on his hands and squinting at the sky
“I talk,” you said softly.
“You blink.”
You looked at him in disbelief. He grinned like that was the funniest thing he had ever said.
Then he would start talking about music. Always music. His hands moved when he spoke, describing beats in the air, explaining rhythms like they were living creatures. He talked about performing one day, about crowds shouting lyrics back to him, about not wanting to bag groceries forever.
You listened more than you spoke. Sometimes you didn’t fully understand the ambition in his voice, but you understood the sincerity. He wasn’t joking when he talked about it. Not really.
“One day people are going to scream my name,” he said once, completely serious. You took a slow sip of your soda and thought about it. “Okay.”
“That’s it? Okay?”
“I mean… that sounds loud.”
He stared at you like you were impossible. “You don’t get it.”
“I just don’t know why you want strangers yelling.”
“Because it means you made it.”
You studied his face then. The way his confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was hope. And without fully realizing it, you said quietly, “I think you could.”
He went quiet for once. He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours and didn’t joke about it.
The store was busy that afternoon. The scanner beeped repeatedly as you moved items across it in steady rhythm. You were focused, counting coins carefully while a customer took forever to decide between bills. You didn’t even notice Benito return from his break until you felt his presence leaning casually against your counter.
“Why are you standing there?” you asked under your breath.
“Working,” he replied confidently.
“You’re leaning.”
“That’s part of the job.” You shook your head but didn’t look at him. He watched you for a moment, unusually quiet. “I got invited somewhere tonight,” he said finally.
“Mm-hmm,” you responded, scanning a carton of milk.
“I’m DJing.”
That made you pause. You slowly turned your head. “Since when do you DJ, Benny?”
He looked almost offended. “Since always.”
“You don’t own equipment.”
“I borrowed some.”
“From who?”
“A guy.”
“That sounds concerning.”
He rolled his eyes but you could see the hint of nerves behind the bravado. “It’s a small gathering. Nothing big.” You studied him for a second longer than necessary. He suddenly looked less loud and more hopeful.
“Come with me,” he added, softer.
Your heart skipped unexpectedly. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to look stupid alone.”
You smiled despite yourself. “You won’t look stupid.”
“You don’t know that.”
You hesitated only a moment. “Okay. I’ll come.” The smile he tried to suppress failed completely.
It really was just someone’s backyard. The grass was uneven, a little dry in patches, and the plastic chairs were the kind that made a squeaky sound every time someone shifted their weight. String lights were hanging from one side of the fence to the other, slightly crooked, blinking lazily like they were trying their best. Someone’s aunt was inside yelling for people to stop going in and out of the kitchen. The speakers weren’t top quality. The table Benito was using as a DJ booth was clearly borrowed from someone’s dining room.
It wasn’t glamorous.
But when Benito stepped behind that little folding table and put the headphones over his curls, something changed.
You had spent months watching him joke around in the grocery store, beatboxing between cereal aisles, pretending cans were microphones and turning restocking into a concert rehearsal. You were used to the loud, playful version of him — the one who teased you until your ears turned red and made customers laugh even when you were trying to keep everything calm.
This was different.
He adjusted the controls with steady hands. He leaned forward slightly, listening carefully to the transitions. His shoulders relaxed in a way you had never seen at work. There was no performance for attention. No exaggerated jokes. No teasing commentary. Just focus. Just music.
When the first smooth transition hit and the small crowd reacted with surprised cheers, your heart jumped.
He did that.
You stood near the fence, fingers loosely laced together in front of you, trying not to look too obvious about how proud you felt. You weren’t loud like the others. You didn’t scream or jump. You just watched him carefully, memorizing the way he moved his head to the rhythm, the way he bit his lip slightly when concentrating.
Then he looked up.
His eyes searched the backyard quickly — scanning faces — and when they found you standing there quietly watching him like he mattered more than the music, his entire expression softened.
Not the big dramatic grin he used at work
A small one.
Private.
For you.
And after that, he played even better. More confident. Smoother transitions. Bolder song choices. Like he needed you there. Like you were proof that he wasn’t crazy for dreaming. When the party slowly started winding down and people began gathering their things, he packed up the borrowed equipment carefully, still riding the leftover adrenaline. You waited a little distance away, rocking slightly on your heels, pretending not to stare at him.
When he finally walked over, his hair slightly messy from the headphones and his cheeks still warm from excitement, he looked almost shy.
“Ready?” he asked casually, like he hadn’t just performed for everyone.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
The walk home was warm and slow. The streets of Puerto Rico at night had their own rhythm — distant music from other houses, a dog barking somewhere far off, the soft hum of passing cars. The air felt heavy but comforting, like it was wrapping around both of you.
For the first few steps, neither of you said much.
He kept glancing at you, You pretended not to notice. Finally he cleared his throat. “So?”
You looked up at him, confused. “So what?”
“What did you think?” He tried to sound relaxed, but there was something nervous under it. He kicked lightly at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. You didn’t answer immediately. You were thinking carefully, because you didn’t want it to sound like you were just being nice.
“You didn’t look scared,” you said softly.
He blinked. “That’s your review?”
“You didn’t look like you were pretending,” you continued. “You looked… like you belonged there.” He slowed his steps a little. “Really?” he asked, and this time the confidence wasn’t loud. It was hopeful.
“Yes,” you said simply. “You were really good.”
He let out a small breath like he had been holding it all night. “I messed up one transition.”
“No one noticed.”
“I noticed.”
“You always notice everything,” you said gently. He looked at you sideways. “You were watching that closely?” You immediately felt shy. “I was just standing there.”
“Mm-hmm,” he teased lightly. “Just standing there staring at me.”
“I was not staring.”
“You were.”
“I was observing.”
He laughed softly, the sound warm in the quiet street. “Observing, huh?” You tried to look serious. “Yes.” There was a small comfortable silence after that. The kind that doesn’t feel awkward.
“You really think I could do that for real?” he asked suddenly.
You looked at him again. Not at the loud grocery store boy. Not at the clown in aisle five. But at the version of him you saw tonight — steady, focused, happy.
“Yes,” you said without hesitation.
He didn’t joke about it this time. He didn’t brush it off. He just looked forward, absorbing your answer like it meant more than all the cheers from the party.
As you reached your street, the lights from your house glowing softly at the end of it, your hands brushed accidentally when you both slowed down at the same time. Neither of you moved away, Your fingers barely touched. Just the sides. Warm. Careful. He looked down at your hand for a second, then back at you. “You came,” he said quietly.
“Of course I did.”
“Even though you thought I was borrowing illegal equipment.
You smiled. “I still think that.”
He grinned, stepping a little closer as you reached your gate. “Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for asking.” There was a pause there. A soft one. The kind where something could happen, but doesn’t have to yet.
“You’re gonna get famous one day,” you said gently.
He tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at you like he wanted to say something bigger. Something braver. But instead he just smiled in that shy, softer way that only showed up when he wasn’t performing for anyone else.
“Goodnight,” he said.
“Goodnight, Benny.” You said softly and looked him in the eyes deeply, slowly you leaned in and pecked him on the lips delicately before smiling and chuckling, you covered you’re pink lips and quickly went to you’re house as the young boy stood there in shock.
As you walked inside and glanced back once, he was still standing there for a second longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, smiling to himself under the Puerto Rican night sky.
As the years passed after that first backyard party, life didn’t explode overnight. It grew. Slowly. Steadily. Like something being built brick by brick.
You moved from grocery store shifts to studio visits. From curbside sodas to late-night car rides while he played you rough demos through cheap speakers. You were there when he recorded in tiny rooms with foam panels taped to walls. You were there when his voice cracked from trying to perfect a hook. You were there when he doubted himself, when a song didn’t hit, when money was tight, when he questioned if he was chasing something too big.
But you never doubted him.
And he never stopped looking at you first after finishing a new song.
By 2018, everything was different. His name was bigger. His shows were louder. His schedule was full. But when he proposed to you at twenty-four, it didn’t feel rushed or crazy or young.
It felt right.
He didn’t do it in some over-the-top dramatic way. It was private. Emotional. Just the two of you somewhere quiet in Puerto Rico, the sun setting in soft orange behind him as his hands shook slightly while holding the ring.
“You’ve been with me since nothing,” he told you, voice unsteady. “Before anyone cared.”
You cried immediately.
“I don’t want any of this without you.”
You said yes before he even finished.
You married young. But it didn’t feel young. It felt like choosing your best friend. And for a while, it was beautiful. He cherished you. Publicly and privately. When he mentioned love in songs, when he talked about loyalty, when he hinted at devotion — it was about you. You knew it. His team knew it. His friends knew it.
But there were parts you struggled with, Sometimes he’d play you a demo in the car, looking at you expectantly.
“What do you think?” he’d ask, bouncing slightly in his seat.
And you would hesitate.
Some songs were raw. Sexual. Detailed in ways that made you uncomfortable. You understood artistry. You understood image. But sometimes it felt too exposed. Too graphic. Too much of something that felt private to you.
“You don’t like it,” he’d notice immediately, his smile dropping.
“It’s good,” you’d say carefully.
“But?”
You’d sigh softly. “It’s just… a bit much.”
“A bit much how?”
“It sounds…” You struggled for the word. “Repulsive.”
He would sit back, slightly defensive. “It’s real. It’s honest.”
“I know. I just don’t want to hear you describing that to millions of people.”
“It’s music.”
“It’s still you.”
Those conversations started gently.
But as fame grew, so did tension.
He began feeding off the attention. The screaming fans. The women throwing themselves forward at concerts. He didn’t cheat. But he liked being admired. You could see it. The way he’d hold eye contact a second too long. The way he’d smirk at the front row.
One night, after a massive show in LA, you snapped.
Back at home, still in your heels, adrenaline mixed with hurt, you turned to him sharply. “You just fucking eye fucked someone else at the concert!”
He looked stunned. “What?”
“You know exactly what!”
“I was looking into the crowd.”
“You were locked onto her.”
“There were thousands of women!”
“Oh fuck off,” you shot back, your voice sharp in a way it never used to be.
Silence filled the room.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’re overthinking.” Shocked by your reaction and the sudden swearing, sure you made it clear before you didn’t enjoy his lingering eyes and touches with others but today you seemed to be off like a fire.
“And you’re careless.”
He hated that word.
Careless.
The truth was, he didn’t see it the way you did. To him, it was performance energy. To you, it felt intimate. Personal. Disrespectful.
And slowly, without either of you realizing at first, you began to change.
You stopped laughing as easily. You stopped reaching for him automatically. Your softness retreated inward. You became quieter, but not in the warm shy way from the grocery store.
This was colder.
You answered shorter. You touched less. You smiled less in private, And he noticed, One night he watched you sitting at the kitchen island scrolling silently on your phone, and something twisted in his chest.
You used to lean against him while he talked.
You used to bump his shoulder playfully.
Now you felt… distant.
He knew why.
He knew it was him.
He loved you because you were kind. Open. Gentle. Bright. You grounded him. You were his calm. And now that calm felt frozen over.
That’s when he made a decision.
“We’re going home,” he said one day.
“What?”
“Puerto Rico. For a while. No America. No big shows. Just home.”
And you didn’t argue.
Back in Puerto Rico, things slowed.
Family dinners. Cousins dropping by unannounced. Familiar streets. Familiar air. Spanish flowing without translation. No paparazzi outside the gate. No screaming crowds. Just warmth.
You visited your family. You visited his. You walked through old neighborhoods. You drove past the grocery store one afternoon and both of you went quiet at the same time.
“I used to beatbox in there,” he said softly.
“You were so annoying.”
“You loved it.”
You didn’t deny it.
The beach day was what broke you.
He insisted on packing everything himself. Two big bags over one arm. A cooler tucked against his hip. A large towel thrown over his shoulder. He refused help even though you offered.
“I got it,” he said.
You walked behind him on the sand, watching the way he adjusted the bags carefully so nothing would fall. Watching him spread the large towel out gently, smoothing it flat with concentration like it was the most important task in the world.
The sun hit his curls. His expression was soft. Peaceful. Not performing. Not posturing. Just him.
The old Benito.
The one from aisle five.
The one who used to bring you soda without asking.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly, You didn’t even realize you were crying until your vision blurred. He turned around mid-motion and froze.
“Mi amor?” His voice dropped instantly.
He let the bags fall into the sand without caring and rushed toward you.
“Hey. Hey.” His hands came to your face gently. “What happened?”
You shook your head, tears falling faster now, and stepped into him, burying your face in his neck, gripping his shirt tightly. “I missed you,” you mumbled against his skin, voice breaking. “I missed you so much.”
His entire body went still.
He understood.
He wrapped both arms around you firmly, holding you like he used to after small grocery shifts when the world felt simple.
“I’m right here,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’m right here.” His own eyes burned. He pressed his lips together to keep them steady and held you tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I never meant to lose us.”
You cried harder at that.
Not because he cheated.
Not because he didn’t love you, But because fame had stretched something between you and you both finally felt it, On that beach, with the ocean loud and the sand warm under your feet, you held each other without ego. Without audience. Without performance.
Summary: You're running on deadlines, bills, and guilt. Max is running on devotion and blunt truth: if you want it, you get it. A fight, an emergency, and the slow realization that leaning on him doesn’t make you weak.
Word Count: 7.2K
F1 Masterlist | Holiday Masterlist
The bakery has a bell that sounds like a tiny apology.
It’s soft, polite, a little too cheerful for how the rest of your life feels most days—like the universe is gently suggesting you try happiness again. Every time you push the door open, warm air wraps around you. Butter, sugar, yeast. The kind of smell that gets into your hair and makes your shoulders unclench before your brain can argue about whether you deserve to unclench.
Your comfort spot.
Your one comfort spot.
And you’ve been rationing it like medicine.
You hover in front of the display case with your tote bag digging into the crook of your elbow, laptop weight still pulling at your shoulder from the library. Your phone is warm in your palm from checking your banking app twice on the walk here, like the numbers might magically rearrange if you stare at them hard enough.
Rent due soon. Utilities not far behind. A textbook you keep putting off because the professor “swears” you’ll need it for midterms. A grocery list you’ve become a champion at turning into half a grocery list.
And then there’s the registration fees for your siblings’ sports, sitting in your notes app like a countdown you don’t want to watch.
You stare at a pan au chocolat.
Flaky layers, glossy dark chocolate peeking through the folds like it’s showing off. The pastry looks exactly like what peace would taste like if peace came in a paper bag and wasn’t followed by a “payment declined” notification.
You swallow.
Not this month.
Not until the first hits. Not until the next paycheck clears. Not until you can breathe without doing math in your head.
You shift your weight and tell yourself you’re just here for the smell. That you’re allowed to stand here and soak in the warmth for a minute like a lizard on a heated rock, no purchase required. That it’s fine.
But your fingers curl around the edge of your tote a little tighter anyway, like you can physically hold yourself back from wanting.
“Hi.”
The voice isn’t from behind the counter.
It’s behind you, low and familiar, threaded with amusement like he caught you doing something adorable and illegal.
You freeze for half a second, pan au chocolat still in your line of sight like it’s about to betray you.
Then you turn.
Max Verstappen in a hoodie and a baseball cap looks unfairly normal and still somehow like Max Verstappen. Like he could blend in if the world wasn’t obsessed with recognizing him, but the world is, and you’re not immune to it either. His hands are shoved in his pockets. His eyes—sharp, bright, too awake—are locked on you.
You feel your face warm.
“I didn’t know you were in town,” you say, like your life isn’t a map of his travel schedule disguised as casual interest.
He shrugs, stepping closer, the bell chiming softly behind him. “Came early. Wanted to see you.”
That should feel like something you can accept without flinching. Like it’s normal. Like someone choosing you is something that happens all the time and doesn’t come with strings.
But your brain has a bad habit of translating love into logistics.
How much time is he losing for you?
How much does he have to rearrange?
What do you owe him now?
“You look like you’re plotting,” Max says, head tilting slightly.
You blink. “I’m not plotting.”
He lifts his eyebrows, eyes flicking to the display case, then back to you. “You’re standing here like you’re about to rob the place.”
Heat crawls up your neck. “I’m just… looking.”
Max steps beside you, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne under the bakery smells—clean, expensive, familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten.
He leans forward to inspect the pastries like he’s choosing tires.
“This one,” he says, pointing at the pan au chocolat you’ve been staring at like it’s your last hope. “Get it.”
Your stomach drops and your heart does that small, stupid flip it always does when someone sees what you want before you say it.
You clear your throat. “No.”
Max looks at you like you just told him the sky is green. “Why not?”
“I’m not—” You stop, because saying I’m not spending money on myself out loud feels pathetic. Like you’re admitting something that should be private. Like it’s a weakness.
Max waits anyway, expression patient in that way he can be when he wants something and thinks you’re being ridiculous.
You exhale. “It’s… next month. I’m sticking to a budget.”
He looks at the pastry again, then at you. “It’s like three euros.”
“It’s not three euros,” you say automatically, because of course your brain is already doing the conversion.
Max’s mouth twitches. “Okay. Four. Five. Still. Get it.”
You shake your head, the motion small but firm. “No. It’s not— it’s not a need.”
Max turns toward you fully. “But you want it.”
You press your lips together.
Wanting is the problem. Wanting is a trap. Wanting is how you end up with empty accounts and a full cart and the sick feeling of realizing you prioritized something silly when other people need you.
Wanting is how you get disappointed.
Max watches your face like he’s reading telemetry.
“You always do this,” he says quietly.
“I do what?”
He gestures vaguely at the case. “You look at something like you’re starving and then you say no like it’s going to kill you.”
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “It won’t kill me.”
Max’s eyes narrow. “That’s not the point.”
You don’t have a response that doesn’t sound like a confession.
Max steps closer, voice dropping. “Did you eat today?”
You blink. “Yes.”
He doesn’t believe you. You can tell by the way his gaze flicks down briefly, the way his jaw tightens.
“I had—” You stop yourself. Because you had coffee. Because you had half a granola bar in the library. Because you had the kind of “food” that exists purely to keep you functional.
Max exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to get mad in public. “Okay,” he says, and you can hear the decision click into place. “We’re getting you food.”
“Max—”
“Don’t start.” He nods toward the counter. “Two pan au chocolat and whatever else you want.”
“I don’t want anything else.”
Max tilts his head. “Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
He steps closer. “Look at me.”
You do. Reluctantly.
His eyes are steady, blunt in a way that makes your chest ache. Like he’s not playing a game. Like he’s not going to dance around the truth to make you comfortable.
“Stop lying,” he says.
Your throat tightens. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he says, calm and certain. “You want things. Everyone wants things. It doesn’t make you weak.”
Your cheeks burn. “You don’t understand.”
Max’s eyebrows lift. “Then explain it.”
You stare at him, the bakery noise suddenly too loud—espresso machine hissing, someone laughing at a table, the paper bags crinkling behind the counter.
Explain it.
Explain that your whole life is a tightrope and you’re balancing everyone else on your back and you can’t afford to wobble.
Explain that you’re scared that if you let yourself want, you’ll fall.
Explain that you don’t know how to be a person who gets treats just because.
Your voice comes out quieter than you want. “It’s not in the budget.”
Max’s gaze doesn’t move. “I gave you the card.”
Your stomach drops.
The card. The sleek black card he’d pressed into your hand weeks ago, casual like it was nothing, like he wasn’t handing you an emergency exit you didn’t know how to use.
You still had it in your wallet, tucked behind your ID like a secret you didn’t deserve.
“That’s for emergencies,” you say, immediately.
Max’s mouth flattens. “This is an emergency.”
You scoff. “A pastry is not an emergency.”
Max leans in slightly, voice turning sharper. “You want it. Get it.”
The directness makes your nerves spark. Like a wire rubbed raw.
“I don’t need it,” you repeat, because need is the only thing you allow yourself.
Max’s eyes flash. “You keep saying that like it’s the only reason you’re allowed to have something.”
You swallow. “Because it is.”
Max stares at you for a long moment, then looks away, jaw working. Like he’s holding himself back from saying something that will make a scene.
“Okay,” he says finally, voice clipped. “Then I’m buying it.”
“No,” you say instantly, too fast, too loud. A couple people glance over. You feel heat flood your face.
Max looks back at you, eyes hard. “Why not?”
Because it feels like charity. Because it feels like debt. Because it feels like the start of you becoming someone who relies on a person and then gets burned when they leave.
Because it’s too easy.
Because if you let him, you might never want to stop.
You lower your voice. “Because I’m not… I’m not going to be that person.”
Max’s brows knit. “What person?”
“The person who—” You make a helpless gesture. “Who spends your money on a pastry.”
Max blinks, then looks almost offended. “It’s not my money. It’s money. I have it. You want something. So you get it.”
“That’s not how it works,” you hiss, because you can feel your composure fraying and you hate that it’s happening here, in your one safe place.
Max’s gaze sharpens. “It is how it works.”
You shake your head, throat tight. “Not for me.”
Max leans closer, voice low enough that it feels like a secret. “Why are you so scared of letting me take care of you?”
The question lands in your chest like a weight.
Because you’ve been taking care of people since you were too young to understand why you had to. Because you learned early that help comes with conditions. Because you learned that relying on someone is just handing them a knife and hoping they don’t use it.
You swallow hard. “I’m not scared.”
Max’s eyes soften just slightly, like he doesn’t believe you but he’s not going to mock you for it. “Yes, you are.”
Your voice cracks around the edge of a laugh. “Okay, fine. I’m scared. Happy?”
Max’s jaw tightens. “No.”
The word is blunt, immediate.
You blink at him.
“No,” he repeats, quieter but just as firm. “I’m not happy that you feel like you can’t have a five-euro pastry because you’re… what? Punishing yourself?”
You flinch. “I’m not punishing myself.”
Max gestures vaguely at you, at the tote bag, the tired posture you can’t seem to fix no matter how much you sleep. “Then what is it?”
You stare at him, heart beating too fast.
“I’m being responsible,” you say, and your voice sounds like something you’ve rehearsed.
Max’s gaze flicks to the pastry again. “Responsible is paying your bills. Responsible is feeding yourself. Responsible is not breaking yourself so everyone else can keep going.”
Your throat tightens.
Max shifts, like he’s deciding something again. “Come on.”
He steps toward the counter.
You panic. “Max, don’t.”
He looks back, eyes sharp. “Why?”
Because if he buys it, you’ll want to cry. Because you’ll feel grateful in a way that tastes like shame. Because you’ll hate that you want it. Because you’ll hate that you want him.
You step forward, catching his sleeve. “Please.”
Max pauses, and you can feel the tension in him—annoyance, concern, something protective that doesn’t know where to go.
He turns back to you fully. “Talk to me.”
You swallow. Your voice comes out small. “I can’t… I can’t do this.”
Max frowns. “Do what?”
“Start relying on you,” you say, and the words feel like ripping open your chest. “Because if things don’t work out, I can’t—” You swallow hard. “I can’t afford to fall apart. I don’t have the luxury.”
Max’s face stills.
For a heartbeat, his expression goes blank like he’s processing a language he doesn’t speak.
Then his eyes narrow, sharp with something like disbelief. “What do you mean, if things don’t work out?”
The way he says it makes your stomach twist. Like the idea is ridiculous. Like it’s not even a possibility.
You almost laugh. Almost. It comes out as a shaky breath.
“Max… be serious.”
“I am serious,” he says, voice firm. “Why are you talking like we’re going to break up?”
Because people leave. Because life changes. Because nothing is guaranteed. Because you’ve lived your whole life in survival mode and you don’t know how to trust stability.
“Because it happens,” you say quietly.
Max stares at you like you just insulted him personally. “Not with me.”
Your chest aches. “You don’t know that.”
Max’s jaw clenches. “I do know that.”
You shake your head. “You can’t promise—”
“I can,” he snaps, the sound startling you. Not loud enough for the whole bakery, but sharp enough that it cuts. “I can promise that I’m not going anywhere.”
You flinch, instinctively bracing for anger.
Max exhales, visibly forcing himself to calm down. “Look,” he says, voice lower, controlled. “This is… this is stupid. You’re arguing about a pastry.”
“No,” you say, and your voice wobbles. “I’m arguing about my life.”
Max’s gaze flickers, and you see it—the moment he understands it’s not about the pastry. It’s about the fear underneath. The way you hold everything with white knuckles because letting go means drowning.
His voice softens. “Then tell me.”
You laugh weakly, eyes burning. “Tell you what? That I’m terrified of being rescued? That I don’t want to be someone’s project?”
Max shakes his head. “You’re not my project.”
“It feels like it,” you whisper, because it does. Because his world is so big and shiny, and your life is duct tape and deadlines and bank transfers.
Max’s expression tightens. “I’m trying to help you.”
“And I didn’t ask you to,” you shoot back, because you can’t stop yourself now. The anxiety has claws. “You keep saying ‘we’ like we’re taking care of everything together, but you’re not taking care of anything. You’re just… paying. And then what happens if you decide you’re done?”
Max’s eyes flash. “I’m not going to decide I’m done.”
“You don’t know that,” you say, voice breaking. “You don’t know what it feels like to have to be the one who shows up no matter what. You don’t know what it feels like to have people counting on you and the second you drop a ball everything falls apart.”
Max’s jaw tightens, frustration simmering. “So what, you think I’m going to— what? Leave and laugh while you struggle?”
“I don’t think you’re a villain,” you say, tears threatening, humiliating in public. “I think… I think people can love you and still not be able to stay. I think things change. I think I can’t build my life on someone else’s money because if it disappears, I’m screwed.”
Max stares at you, breathing hard through his nose like he’s trying to keep it together.
“You think I’m playing hero,” he says, voice low.
You swallow. “It feels like it.”
Max shakes his head once, sharp. “You have no idea how insulting that is.”
Your throat tightens. “I’m not trying to insult you—”
“It is,” he cuts in. “Because I’m not doing this to feel good about myself. I’m doing it because I want to. Because I—” He stops, jaw working, then forces the words out like they hurt. “Because I love you.”
The sentence lands heavy between you, bigger than the bakery, bigger than the pastry, bigger than the budget.
Your heart stutters.
Max’s eyes don’t leave yours. “And you’re acting like I’m some temporary thing you can’t trust.”
Your stomach twists.
You can’t explain it properly. Every time you try, it turns into a mess of fear and pride and exhaustion and shame.
“I’m tired,” you whisper, and it sounds like a surrender.
Max’s expression softens immediately, anger draining into concern. “I know.”
You blink, startled by how gentle it is.
Max reaches out, thumb brushing your wrist where you’re still gripping his sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go.”
You swallow. “I don’t want to fight.”
“We’re not fighting,” he says, but his voice is still tight. “We’re… having a stupid conversation in a bakery.”
You let out a shaky laugh.
Max’s mouth twitches like he almost smiles, then he sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
Your throat tightens again. “I’m sorry too.”
Max studies you, then nods toward the door. “Come on.”
You hesitate, glancing at the pastry one last time like it’s going to call your name.
Max catches it and shakes his head, exasperated.
“I swear to God,” he mutters, then opens the door for you.
The bell apologizes again as you leave.
You go back to your routine like slipping into armor.
Strict budgets. No extras. No bakery unless you’re just “walking past.” Grocery store brand everything. Coffee at home. Apps uninstalled so you’re not tempted to order delivery at midnight after studying for six hours straight.
You tell yourself you’re fine.
You tell yourself you’re being smart.
But your comfort spot feels colder when you stand outside it and keep walking.
Max notices, of course.
He notices everything.
He starts showing up more, but quieter—less “let me buy you everything” and more “I’m here.” He brings you food when he knows you’ve been studying too long, sets it down like it’s not a big deal. He asks if you’ve slept. He asks how your classes are. He asks how things are at home in that careful way he uses when he knows you don’t like talking about it.
But you keep a little distance anyway.
Because the argument sits in your chest like a bruise.
Because you hate that you made him feel like a villain.
Because you hate that he made you feel seen and you don’t know what to do with that.
One night, you’re at his place—his temporary apartment, hotel-adjacent, all clean lines and expensive furniture that doesn’t feel lived in until you’re there. You’re folding a pile of his laundry on the couch because he’d tossed it into a heap with the confidence of someone who’s never worried about running out of socks.
Max is sprawled beside you, scrolling through something on his phone, eyes half-lidded like a cat pretending not to pay attention.
You hold up one of his shirts. “This one is inside out.”
He glances. “So? Flip it.”
You roll your eyes, but you flip it anyway.
A beat of quiet passes.
Then Max speaks, voice casual. “You know I’m not joking about the card.”
Your hands still.
You keep folding. “I know.”
“I want you to use it,” he continues, tone firm.
You swallow. “Max—”
“No,” he says immediately, cutting you off, eyes lifting to you now. “Listen. I’m not doing this to make you dependent. I’m doing it because you’re… you’re always taking care of everyone. And I want to take care of you.”
Your throat tightens.
You keep your eyes on the laundry because looking at him feels too much like letting the softness win.
“I don’t need taking care of,” you say, automatic.
Max snorts softly. “You do. You’re just stubborn.”
You shoot him a look. “You’re one to talk.”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah. But I’m right.”
You sigh, setting the folded shirt on the stack. “It’s just… it’s complicated.”
Max shifts closer, knee pressing against yours. “Explain it again. But… slower. Without yelling.”
The fact that he’s trying—actually trying—makes your chest ache.
You swallow. “I’m scared that if I start using it, I’ll get used to it. And then… if anything happens, I’ll be worse off. Because I’ll have built my life around something that isn’t mine.”
Max’s gaze doesn’t waver. “And I’m telling you I’m not going anywhere.”
You shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”
Max’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t snap this time. He exhales. “I can promise I’m not planning to leave. I can promise I’m here. I can promise that right now, you don’t have to do everything alone.”
You swallow hard. “But I do.”
Max’s eyes soften. “No. You don’t.”
Your voice cracks slightly. “You don’t understand what happens if I drop something. If I—” You stop yourself, because the panic rises fast, hot. “If I mess up, it’s not just me.”
Max’s hand reaches out, steadying your knee. “I know.”
You laugh weakly. “You don’t.”
“I do,” he insists, voice low. “Not exactly. Not like you. But… I know you’re carrying too much. I see it.”
You blink, eyes burning.
Max watches you for a moment, then his voice drops, gentler. “I’m sorry I pushed you in the bakery.”
You swallow. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you were— like you were trying to be a hero.”
Max’s mouth flattens. “It still annoys me.”
You huff a laugh through the tightness in your throat. “I know.”
He nudges your knee. “But I get it. A little.”
You look at him, surprised.
Max shrugs, like admitting emotional nuance is physically uncomfortable. “I’ve had people… want things from me. And when you don’t know if they’re real, you… you keep your guard up.”
Your chest tightens. “Yeah.”
Max’s eyes lock on yours. “But you’re real.”
The words hit like warmth to a cold hand.
You swallow. “Max…”
He doesn’t push further. He just watches you, steady.
“Okay,” you whisper, finally. “I’ll… I’ll try.”
Max’s expression shifts immediately—relief, satisfaction, something bright that makes your stomach flip.
“Good,” he says simply.
You glare. “Don’t get smug.”
He smirks. “I’m always smug.”
You laugh despite yourself, and for a moment the tension loosens.
But the fear doesn’t disappear.
It waits.
The emergency comes on a Tuesday.
Because of course it does.
It’s always a random weekday when your life decides to test you.
You’re leaving your last class, brain full of lecture slides and half-formed essay sentences, when your phone buzzes. You glance down, expecting a reminder from your calendar or a message from a group project.
Instead, it’s a notification from your bank.
Insufficient funds.
Your stomach drops so hard you almost miss a step on the stairs.
You stop in the hallway, heat rushing to your face. You open the app with shaking fingers, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.
A payment hit early. A bill you’d scheduled for the end of the week, a “safe” date, because you’d counted on your paycheck clearing first.
It didn’t.
You stare at the negative number like it’s a personal insult.
Your brain starts doing math at warp speed. Move money from savings—except there isn’t really savings, it’s just the “don’t die” fund. Delay something else—except everything else is already delayed. Call and beg for an extension—except you can’t risk it being denied.
Your throat tightens.
The words I can’t pulse through your mind like a siren.
And then your wallet feels heavy in your bag.
The card.
Max’s card.
For emergencies.
Your fingers hover over your zipper like it’s a grenade.
This is an emergency. This is literally the definition of emergency. This is the kind of thing you’ve stayed awake worrying about.
And yet—
Your hands shake.
Because using it feels like stepping off a cliff and trusting someone will catch you.
You swallow hard, blinking fast because you absolutely refuse to cry in a campus hallway. Not today.
You step into a quiet corner, back against a wall, and pull out your wallet.
The black card sits there like a dare.
You stare at it for a full thirty seconds.
Then you whisper, “Okay,” like you’re talking to your own fear.
You pull it out.
Your fingers tremble as you type in the payment portal details, heart racing, sweat prickling at the back of your neck.
This is stealing.
This is theft.
This is—
You hit submit.
The page loads.
Payment successful.
You exhale so hard you almost laugh, almost sob. Relief hits first—hot, dizzy, immediate.
And then the guilt crashes in right behind it.
Your stomach twists.
You look at the total again and your throat tightens like a fist.
You close your eyes.
Max is going to see it. He’s going to know. He’s going to— he’s going to be annoyed, or worse, disappointed. He’s going to think you’re using him.
You swallow.
You text him anyway, fingers moving fast before you can chicken out.
hey. i had to use the card. i’m sorry. i didn’t know what else to do. i’ll pay you back as soon as i can
You stare at the message after it sends, breath shallow, anxiety buzzing under your skin like electricity.
Then your phone rings.
Immediately.
Max.
Your heart leaps into your throat.
You answer, voice small. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Max says, and his voice is… happy.
Actually happy.
You blink, confused.
“I saw it,” he says, like he can’t stop smiling. “You used it.”
Your stomach twists. “Max—”
“You did it,” he repeats, voice bright, like you just won a championship. “Finally.”
You swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”
Max goes quiet for half a second.
Then, softer: “Why are you sorry?”
Because you can’t just take money from someone. Because you don’t deserve it. Because it feels wrong. Because it feels like being held, and being held is scary.
You swallow. “Because I— it was a lot. I shouldn’t have—”
“Yes, you should have,” Max cuts in, calm but firm. “That’s what it’s for.”
“I said emergencies,” you whisper.
“And that was an emergency,” he says, immediate. “So you used it. Good.”
Your eyes burn. “I’m going to pay you back.”
Max snorts. “No.”
Your chest tightens. “Max, I can’t just—”
“No,” he repeats, more firmly. “You are not paying me back.”
Your anxiety spikes. “Max, please. I can’t— it feels like theft.”
“It’s not theft,” he says, blunt. “It’s my card. I gave it to you.”
“I didn’t— I didn’t earn it,” you whisper, voice cracking.
Max’s tone shifts instantly, sharper. “Don’t say that.”
You swallow. “It’s true.”
“It’s not,” he says, and you can hear the frustration now—not at you, but at the thought. “You do so much. All the time. You’re always running. Always giving. Always—” He cuts himself off, exhales hard, then tries again, slower. “You are my girlfriend. You take care of me too.”
You laugh weakly through the tears threatening to spill. “Max, I don’t— I don’t do anything like you do.”
“Stop,” he says, immediate. “That’s not how it works.”
You press your forehead to the wall, eyes squeezed shut. “I cook for you when I’m there. I fold your laundry. I— I keep you company. I’d do that anyway.”
“That’s exactly the point,” Max says, voice low and intense. “You would do it anyway. You don’t do it because you want something. You do it because you love me.”
Your throat tightens.
Max continues, relentless in the way only he can be—straight to the truth, no soft landing.
“That’s why you deserve it,” he says. “Because you give without counting. Because you don’t ask for anything. Because you think you have to earn every nice thing by suffering first. And I’m telling you, you don’t.”
Your breath shakes.
“I can’t take your money for that,” you whisper.
Max’s voice goes quieter, but no less firm. “You’re not taking it. I’m giving it.”
You swallow. “But why?”
Because you’re scared he’ll say something like because I can, and then you’ll feel small. Like this is charity. Like it’s a power thing.
Instead, Max says, simply: “Because I want you to have options.”
Your chest aches.
“I don’t want you to panic when something happens,” he continues. “I don’t want you to be alone in it. I don’t want you to feel like you have to… drown quietly.”
Your eyes sting.
Max exhales. “And honestly? I wish you used it for more.”
You let out a watery laugh. “That’s insane.”
Max hums. “No. It’s normal.”
You sniff, wiping at your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I still feel bad.”
“I know,” Max says, softer. “But I’m not going to let you spiral about this. Okay?”
Your throat tightens. “I’m trying not to.”
“I know,” he repeats, and something in your chest loosens at the way he says it—like he sees you fighting yourself and he’s not mad about it.
Then his voice sharpens again, familiar. “But you used it. Good girl.”
Your stomach flips.
“Max,” you whisper, half scandalized, half… not.
He laughs quietly. “What?”
“You can’t just say that.”
“I can,” he says, pleased. “I just did.”
You feel warmth rise up your neck despite the tears. “You’re annoying.”
“I know,” he says, smug. “And you love me.”
You laugh through the ache. “Unfortunately.”
Max’s voice softens again. “I’m proud of you.”
Your breath catches.
“For paying a bill?” you whisper.
“For letting someone help,” he corrects.
The words settle into you like a small, careful warmth.
Max clears his throat. “I’m in a meeting soon. But text me when you’re home. And… use it again if you need. No asking permission.”
You swallow. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats, satisfied.
You hang up feeling wrung out and lighter and still terrified.
But you also feel… held.
Just a little.
The next time you go to the bakery, your hands still shake.
The bell apologizes softly when you walk in, warm air wrapping around you like a familiar sweater.
You stand in front of the case again.
The pan au chocolat is still there, glossy and perfect, like it has no idea it’s been the main character in your emotional breakdown.
You stare at it.
Your brain immediately starts doing math.
Then you remember Max’s voice: I want you to have options.
You swallow.
You order one.
The cashier asks, “Card or cash?”
Your fingers hover over your wallet.
Max’s card feels heavier than before.
You pull it out anyway, cheeks warming, heart racing like you’re committing a crime.
The machine beeps.
Payment accepted.
You take the bag with trembling fingers and walk out into the cold air like you just got away with something.
Your phone buzzes before you make it to the corner.
A notification: transaction.
You freeze, then laugh under your breath, because of course he has alerts.
Your thumbs hover over your messages.
Guilt floods in anyway, immediate and familiar.
i’m sorry i used it. you said i should. i did. but i feel bad.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Good. You did exactly as you were told.
Your stomach flips again.
maxxxxxx you type, because you don’t have a better response and you hate that he can make you feel like this with a few words.
He replies:
😊
You snort, shoving your phone in your pocket, cheeks burning as you bite into the pastry.
Flaky layers shatter, chocolate warm and bitter-sweet, and for a moment your whole body stops bracing.
For a moment, you just exist.
It doesn’t stick perfectly.
Of course it doesn’t.
You try. You really do.
But sometimes you still catch yourself asking, even when he told you not to.
Like the day you find a dress in a shop window—simple but stunning, something you could wear to the sponsor dinner he mentioned next month. Black, fitted, elegant in a way that makes you look like you belong in his world instead of hovering at the edges of it.
You stand outside the shop too long, staring, heart doing that stupid thing again.
You picture it on you.
Then you picture the price tag.
Then you picture the registration fees.
Then you picture yourself being foolish, being greedy, being irresponsible.
Your phone is already in your hand before you can stop yourself.
hey… can i use the card for something kind of stupid?
You wait.
No reply.
You glance at the time. He’s probably in meetings. Media. Team. Life. Everything.
Your heart squeezes. Your palms sweat.
You stare at the dress again.
It would be nice.
You want it.
You hate wanting.
You send another message:
it’s okay ignore me. sorry.
And then—because you cannot handle standing there feeling like you’re wasting the shop staff’s time, because you cannot handle the pressure of wanting something and not knowing how to allow it—you walk away.
Empty-handed.
Your phone buzzes ten minutes later.
Of course. Sorry. Was in a meeting. What is it?
Your chest tightens.
You swallow.
nothing. it was dumb. don’t worry about it.
Max replies immediately.
Not nothing. Tell me.
You hesitate, then type:
a dress. for that dinner. but it’s fine. i have one already.
Three dots appear.
Then:
Did you buy it?
Your stomach twists.
You stare at your screen, cheeks burning, guilt already crawling up your throat.
no. i left.
The typing bubble appears and disappears twice.
Then:
Where is the shop?
Your chest tightens.
max, you don’t have to—
Where. Is. The. Shop.
You exhale, defeated, and send the location.
Max shows up like a storm contained in a human body.
He doesn’t look angry when he finds you—more like focused, determined, eyes sharp.
“You left,” he says immediately.
You shrug helplessly, embarrassed. “I didn’t want to waste their time.”
Max’s eyebrows lift. “Waste whose time?”
“The shop,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “I was standing there forever.”
Max stares at you like you’re speaking nonsense. “You’re allowed to stand somewhere.”
You look away. “It’s fine.”
Max steps closer, voice low. “No. It’s not fine.”
Your throat tightens. “Max—”
He reaches for your hand. “Come on.”
You resist automatically. “No.”
Max pauses, eyes narrowing. “Why not?”
Because it feels like too much. Because it feels like spectacle. Because it feels like someone making a fuss over you and you don’t know how to be fussed over.
Max’s thumb brushes your knuckles, gentle. “You wanted the dress.”
You swallow. “I don’t need it.”
Max’s eyes sharpen. “Don’t.”
You blink.
“Don’t,” he repeats, more firmly. “Don’t do that right now. You wanted it. So we’re getting it.”
Your stomach flips. “Max, I’m sorry.”
He exhales, then says, brutally honest: “I know.”
You stare at him, startled.
Max’s mouth twitches. “But I’m also happy because I get to take you shopping. So… it’s fine.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” he says, smug. Then he tugs your hand gently. “Come on.”
The bell over the shop door chimes when you walk in, and your heart immediately starts sprinting.
The staff brighten when they see Max. Of course they do. Of course.
Someone recognizes him. Someone tries not to stare and fails. Someone offers help with that careful, excited professionalism reserved for people who might make their day a story later.
Max doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t hide. He doesn’t care. He just keeps you close, hand warm around yours, like the whole world can watch and he’ll still choose you anyway.
He nods toward the dress. “That one?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
The assistant brings it carefully, like it’s made of glass.
Max watches you like he’s waiting for you to argue again.
You take it, hands trembling, and disappear into the fitting room.
The dress fits like it was waiting for you.
You stare at yourself in the mirror, breath catching. The fabric hugs you in a way that makes you look… put together. Like someone who isn’t always running. Like someone who belongs in rooms with gold light and champagne.
You step out.
Max looks up from where he’s sitting, and his face changes—something soft and impressed and possessive in the best way.
His gaze drags over you, slow, like he’s taking his time. Like he wants you to feel seen.
“Yeah,” he says, voice lower. “That’s it.”
Your cheeks burn. “It’s too much.”
Max stands, steps closer. His hand settles at your waist, grounding. “It’s perfect.”
The assistant beams like she’s witnessing romance in real time. “You look amazing.”
You laugh nervously. “Thanks.”
Max doesn’t take his eyes off you. “We’re getting it.”
You inhale, ready to protest.
Max cuts you off before you can start. “No.”
You exhale. “Max—”
He leans closer, voice quiet and blunt. “You should have bought it earlier.”
You groan softly, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry.”
Max’s mouth twitches like he’s amused. “I know.”
Then, almost softer: “But I’m glad we came back.”
You blink, surprised.
Max gestures vaguely at the shop, the staff fussing, the shoes being brought over like you’re royalty. “I like seeing you like this.”
Your chest tightens. “Like what?”
He looks at you, eyes steady. “Taken care of.”
Your throat tightens again.
You look away, blinking hard.
Max’s hand squeezes your waist, a quiet reminder that he’s here.
The assistant brings shoes. Then another pair. Then jewelry options. The whole thing feels unreal, like you’re playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
Max sits back, watching like he’s enjoying every second.
When you finally come out with the dress and the shoes, cheeks flushed, half laughing, half mortified, the staff are openly delighted.
Max tips his head toward you, smug. “See?”
You glare. “Stop.”
He grins. “No.”
He pays like it’s nothing.
It makes your stomach twist again, but his hand slips into yours immediately after, warm and steady.
When you’re back in the car, the bag in your lap feels like a confession.
You stare at it, throat tight. “Max, you didn’t have to do that.”
He glances at you, expression flat in that very Max way. “I know.”
You blink. “Then why—”
“You should have just bought it earlier,” he says, like it’s obvious.
You groan. “I hate you.”
Max snorts. “No, you don’t.”
You swallow, voice softer. “I didn’t want to ask.”
Max’s eyes flick toward you again, sharper now. “You don’t need to ask permission.”
“I know,” you whisper.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”
You swallow. “No.”
Max nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
Then, because he can’t help himself: “Also… you look really good.”
Your cheeks burn again. “Max.”
He smirks. “What? It’s true.”
You look out the window, trying to hide your smile.
The sponsor dinner comes faster than you expect.
You stand in the mirror in Max’s hotel room, adjusting the dress with shaking hands, the fabric cool against your skin. The heels make you feel taller, steadier, like you can stand in his world without disappearing.
Max watches you from the bed, already in his suit, tie slightly loosened like he hates it. He looks expensive. Dangerous. Familiar.
You meet his gaze in the mirror.
He stands, crosses the room, and stops behind you. His hands settle at your hips, warm and sure.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
You swallow. “I’m fine.”
Max’s mouth twitches. “Liar.”
You exhale. “I’m just… not used to this.”
Max’s fingers flex lightly against your waist. “Used to what?”
“Being… spoiled,” you whisper, the word tasting strange.
Max leans in, mouth near your ear. “Good.”
You blink. “Max—”
“I like it,” he says, blunt. “I like giving you things. I like seeing you happy.”
Your throat tightens. “I’m happy.”
Max hums. “Not enough.”
You laugh softly, shaky. “You’re insane.”
Max’s hands squeeze your waist. “Maybe.”
He turns you slightly, forcing you to face him. His eyes are steady, serious.
“Hey,” he says, quieter. “Thank you.”
You blink, surprised. “For what?”
“For being here,” he says simply. “For… dealing with all of this.”
Your chest aches. “Max, it’s not—”
He cuts you off with a look. “It is. It’s a lot.”
You swallow.
Max’s thumb brushes your hip. “You do so much. You don’t get enough back.”
You shake your head. “I don’t do it for—”
“I know,” he says immediately. “That’s why I want to.”
Your breath catches.
Max leans in, presses his forehead to yours briefly, grounding you the way he always does—no dramatic speeches, just presence.
“I’m going to give you the world,” he says, like it’s a plan. Like it’s a promise he intends to keep.
Your throat tightens. “Max…”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Let me.”
You swallow, heart hammering.
Because you still don’t fully know how to be someone who leans.
But standing here, in this dress, with his hands on you like you’re the most important thing in the room, you realize something—slow and terrifying and relieving all at once.
Leaning on him doesn’t erase who you are.
It doesn’t mean you’ll stop working hard. It doesn’t mean you’ll stop showing up. It doesn’t mean you’ll stop taking care of the people who need you.
It just means you don’t have to do it alone.
You nod, small.
Max’s eyes soften. “Yeah?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
His smile is brief but real, like sunlight through clouds. “Good.”
Then, because he’s Max, his voice drops, smug: “Good girl.”
You groan, face flaming. “Max.”
He laughs, grabs his phone, and offers you his arm like you’re royalty.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go show them what they’re missing.”
You take his arm, and the warmth of him steadies you.
At the dinner, he keeps you close.
Not like a trophy. Not like a possession.
Like a choice.
He introduces you by name. He looks at you when people speak to you. He lets you answer. He listens like it matters. His hand stays at your lower back like a constant anchor, his thumb brushing small circles when the room gets loud.
When someone compliments you, he says, “I know,” like he’s proud.
When someone praises him, he redirects it with a shrug and a grin.
When you start to feel small, he leans in and says something quietly blunt that makes you laugh—something only for you.
And every time you glance at him, the same realization settles deeper:
He isn’t rescuing you.
He’s choosing you.
At the end of the night, when the crowd thins and your feet ache and you feel wrung out, Max pulls you aside into a quieter hallway.
He looks at you, serious.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He studies you. “Really?”
You smile, soft. “Really.”
Max’s shoulders loosen like he’s been holding tension in his body without realizing. His hand slides into yours.
“Thank you,” he says again, quieter.
You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to thank me for being your girlfriend.”
Max’s eyes sharpen, fond. “Yes, I do.”
You blink.
He steps closer, voice low. “You deserve everything. And I’m going to keep trying to give it to you.”
Your chest aches, warm and painful.
You swallow. “I’m… trying to let you.”
Max nods once, satisfied. “Good. Keep trying.”
You laugh softly. “Bossy.”
“Always,” he says, and his mouth curves into a small smile.
Then, gentler: “I love you.”
The words hit you like a slow, steady wave.
You breathe out. “I love you too.”
Max’s hand squeezes yours. “Use the card more,” he adds immediately, like it’s a serious mission.
You groan. “Max.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Promise.”
You hesitate, then nod, cheeks warm. “Okay. I promise.”
Max’s grin flashes, pleased. “Good.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart feels lighter than it has in months.
Because maybe—just maybe—it’s okay to be the eldest daughter and still be someone’s soft place too.
Maybe it’s okay to keep carrying the world and let someone take a corner of it from you.
And maybe wanting doesn’t have to be a trap.
Maybe, with Max, wanting can be answered.
Even if it’s just a pan au chocolat.
Even if it’s just a dress.
Even if it’s something small that tastes like peace.
SUMMARY: Max has baby fever and he's ready to take the next step. But now you have to tell him the truth you've kept hidden since the beginning: you don't want kids. It's a decision you made a long time ago, and you're terrified it might make him leave.
PAIRING: max verstappen x reader
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You and Max had been together for what felt like forever, but in the best way possible.
Your relationship had evolved into something solid, unbreakable or so you thought. Lately, though, Max had been acting... different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made your stomach twist with unspoken dread.
It started subtly. You'd be scrolling through your phone, and he'd lean over, pointing at a video of a friend's baby giggling. "Look at that little guy," he'd say, his blue eyes lighting up "So cute, right? Imagine if..." He'd trail off, chuckling like it was just a passing thought. But it wasn't. Not for him.
Then there were the hints that piled up like snowdrifts.
Walking through a park, he'd nod at families pushing strollers. "Kids change everything, don't they? In a good way."
Or during dinner with his family, when his sister Victoria's little ones would run around, and Max would scoop them up, playing the doting uncle.
You'd catch him watching you with them, a soft smile on his face, like he was picturing something more. "You're great with kids," he'd murmur later, pulling you close. "Natural."
You smiled through it all, but inside, your heart sank deeper each time. You hadn't told him. How could you? Over ten years ago, you'd made up your mind: no kids. It wasn't a phase; it was a decision rooted in self-awareness.
People, friends, family, even strangers had always dismissed it. "You'll change your mind when you're older." "No man will want you if you don't give him heirs."
Heirs. Like it was some medieval dynasty. You'd heard it all, and it had drilled into you a fear that if you said it out loud, especially to someone you loved, they'd walk away.
So you kept quiet, hoping it wouldn't come up. But with Max, it was getting harder. His baby fever was obvious, even if he hadn't said it outright. And God, seeing him so excited... it broke you a little more each day.
You knew what was coming. You’d known for months.
Tonight he finally said it.
You were brushing your teeth when he appeared in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame in just sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower.
“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.
You rinsed your mouth, heart already hammering. “Sure.”
Back in the bedroom you sat on the edge of the bed. He stayed standing for a second, then dropped down beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he was gathering courage.
“I’ve been thinking,” he started. “A lot. About us. About… what comes next.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I love you. You know that, right?”
You nodded, throat tight.
“And I keep picturing it. You, me… maybe a little one running around here. ” He looked at you then, hopeful and nervous all at once. “I think I want that. With you. I think I really want to try for a baby.”
The room went quiet except for the low hum of the aircon.
You felt frozen. Every rehearsed line you’d practiced in your head vanished.
Max watched your face, smile fading slowly. “Hey… you okay?”
You swallowed. “I...yeah. I just…” Your voice cracked. “Yes?”
He frowned instantly. “That didn’t sound like a yes.”
You covered your face with both hands for a second. “God, Max, I’m sorry.”
He shifted closer, voice dropping. “Don’t apologise. Talk to me. What’s going on in there?”
The words came out in a rush, shaky and ugly.
“I never wanted kids. Not really. Not ever. I decided that years ago and… I never told you because everyone always says I’ll change my mind, or that no guy will stay if I don’t want to give him a family, and I was so scared you’d...”
Your breath hitched. “I was scared you’d leave. And seeing how happy you look lately when you talk about it, or when you’re with the kids… it kills me. Because I love you so much and I don’t want to take that away from you. But I also know I’d be a terrible mum. I don’t feel it. That instinct. I’d rather regret not having them than regret having them and messing it up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Silence.
Then Max’s hands were gently pulling yours away from your face. His thumbs brushed under your eyes even though you weren’t crying yet.
“Baby,” he said, voice rough. “Why the hell would I leave you over that?”
You blinked at him. “Because you want kids.”
“I want you.” He said it like it was obvious. “Kids would be nice,yeah, I won’t lie. I’ve been thinking about it more and more. But it’s not more important than you. Not even close.”
“But you’d be such a good dad,” you whispered. “And I’m… standing in the way.”
He shook his head hard. “You’re not standing in the way of anything. If we never have kids, then we don’t. We’ll adopt ten cats if you want, I don’t care. As long as it’s us.” He cupped your cheek. “I can live without imaginary kids. I can’t live without you. That’s not even a choice.”
You let out a broken little laugh-sob. “You’re too good at this.”
“I’m really not,” he muttered, pulling you into his chest. “I just know what I want. And it’s you. The rest we figure out. Together. Okay?”
You nodded against his shirt, arms wrapping around him like you’d never let go.
Summary: Six years ago Toto Wolff’s daughter disappeared from the paddock and from Max’s life. You were once inseparable, the paddock’s favourite duo. Then you vanished without warning. Now with your sudden return all eyes are on you and everyone wants to know: what really happened between you two… and why now? (Part 3/3)
17.8k words / Part 2 / Masterlist
Friday - 06:57AM
You’re awake before the alarm even dares to buzz. Heart pounding beneath your ribs, muscles tense as if you’ve just run a race in your dreams, and your mouth dry from the kind of sleep that barely skims the surface.
The window of your hotel room overlooks the circuit. From this high up, the view is misted in the cool hush of dawn, but you can still make out the faint blur of movement the track crew setting up barriers, adjusting signage, checking systems. The distant whir of generators hums beneath it all, a low mechanical heartbeat that pulses steadily through the morning stillness.
You haven’t really slept properly on race weekends in years. Not since everything changed. Not since Max became something you couldn’t look at without remembering what everything used to feel like. Not when every corner of the paddock echoes with memories you tried to bury, memories that now walk beside you in human form, with a name and a history and a grin that still curls into your thoughts like smoke under a door you can’t close.
Somehow, this morning, you know something is going to happen.
You don’t know what shape it will take whether it will come like a storm or a whisper, whether it will destroy you again or finally let you breathe. But you feel it in your gut, in your skin, in the way the air wraps around you tighter than usual.
In the hotel breakfast room, Toto watches you with a kind of quiet vigilance, as though he's bracing for a storm only he and you can see coming. His eyes linger too long, the way they did when you were fifteen and reckless and just starting to fall in love with what he thought were the wrong things. He’s not your boss today he’s your father and he looks at you like a man who’s lost his daughter once already and isn’t sure he can do it again.
You remember him pulling you into a long, fierce hug, voice low and firm against your hair as he murmured, “Don’t let him shake you.”
But it’s already too late for that. Because the shaking isn’t in your hands it’s in your core.
It only deepens when you walk into the driver’s briefing and see Max sitting there.
He’s late, but only just. Slipping into the room with the kind of casual dominance that would be insufferable if it wasn’t so earned. He doesn’t glance your way, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer the usual flicker of sarcasm or the teasing drawl he used to wield like a weapon only you knew how to disarm.
He simply sits, legs sprawled, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen and the FIA representative ahead silent.
Completely, unnervingly silent.
It rattles you more than any argument, more than any scathing remark he could have thrown across the table, because silence, from Max Verstappen is never passive.
It is not absence. It is intention. It is control.
You feel the tremor of it ripple through you like a warning, like the crack of ice just before it breaks. Something is going to happen today. You don’t know what but you’ll feel it when it does.
Schiphol Airport - 2020
The terminal feels wrong, too quiet and too still. The usual buzz of rolling suitcases, announcements over the loudspeaker, the distant rush of boarding calls has been dulled to a strange hush. People move like ghosts: faces masked, eyes darting, fingers glued to phones as alerts flood in by the minute.
You stand near your Gate, a departure screen blinking overhead.
Flight Cancelled.
The blinking cursor on your own flight confirmation feels surreal. Everything feels surreal.
You shift your weight, adjusting the straps of your backpack, your knuckles white where they grip your boarding pass. A mother hurries past with a child in tow. A flight attendant shakes her head and speaks low into a walkie-talkie. Somewhere behind you, the television near the bar replays the same montage of closed borders, empty streets, headlines screaming words no one was prepared for: global pandemic. national lockdown. indefinite postponement.
You glance down at your phone.
No new messages.
Your thumb hovers over a contact that’s still pinned to the top of your chat list. Max.
You type:
Guess you get to rest for once.
A half-smile tugs at your lips. He always used to complain about the calendar, too many triple-headers, no off-season, never enough time to breathe.
You stare at the message. Backspace.
One letter at a time.
Until it’s gone.
You lock your phone and slide it back into your jacket pocket. Tell yourself it doesn’t matter he’s not expecting to hear from you, maybe he isn’t thinking about you at all.
Monaco - 2020
A different time zone. A different kind of silence.
Max stands in the middle of his apartment, one hand on the balcony door, the other wrapped around his phone. The TV plays the same loop of race cancellations, the same rising numbers, the same familiar images turned unfamiliar.
His eyes are fixed on one name at the top of the screen.
He types:
This is crazy right?
Stares at it. Then deletes it.
He turns off the screen and walks into the kitchen. Doesn’t send anything.
He doesn’t know you were just standing in an airport with the same thought. The same urge to reach out. The same ache of shared history folded into silence.
Two messages, both unsent, both invisible, cross somewhere between Amsterdam and Monaco, two digital ghosts suspended in the air like radio signals with no one left to catch them.
No proof they ever existed. Only the familiar echo of each other’s name on separate screens.
Friday - 10:13AM
Lewis catches you just outside the briefing room, one hand resting lightly on your arm as you pass.
“You good?” he asks, voice low but steady.
You pause, nod. “Yeah. Just—long week.”
His eyes hold yours for a second longer than casual conversation calls for. He’s not pressing, just checking, the way someone does when they’ve known you long enough to see through the automatic answers.
He nods once, like he’s heard what you didn’t say out loud. “Alright. Just… if you ever need to get out of the noise, or talk—or not talk—I’m around.”
You smile. “Thanks,.”
He gives your shoulder a squeeze. “Anytime. And hey don’t let George wind you up too much. He lives for it.”
You call after him, voice teasing, “I’m always here if you need to escape Ferrari gossip by the way.”
He throws you a grin over his shoulder. “Tempting offer. I’ll keep it in mind.”
You huff a laugh as he disappears around the corner. The tension in your chest eases just a little.
11:48AM – Mercedes Motorhome
You’re half-focused, fingers working on muscle memory as you snap the earpiece into place, adjust the volume dial on your comms, and tug your jacket collar flat. The familiar rhythm of prep should steady you it usually does but today your hands feel too tight, too deliberate, like they’re mimicking calm rather than living it.
Your phone buzzes once against the desk beside you.
You ignore it.
Then it buzzes again. Then again, with the sharp insistence of urgency that doesn’t ask it demands.
By the fourth buzz, you’re already bracing for it, stomach knotting, pulse skipping uneven beats beneath your skin. You pick it up with reluctant fingers, the cold edge of the device biting into your palm as you swipe down.
The first notification lights up the screen like a match in the dark:
@redflag:
SOMEONE JUST SAW MAX AND JOS ARGUING BEHIND THE RED BULL GARAGE
Your breath catches before you can stop it. The next one flashes a second later.
@max4stappen:
They said Max was yelling?? Jos stormed off???
The words hit like static, messy, loud, and familiar.
You keep scrolling, each line worse than the last.
Sky Sports News:
“Tensions Flare in Red Bull Garage: Verstappen Senior and Junior Seen in Heated Conversation”
Max left shortly after. No comment from the Verstappen camp.
@behindthevisor:
Apparently Jos said something about “keeping your head on straight” and Max just… lost it?
And then…
@wolffwatchers:
Did Jos mention her name? 👀
Your name.
They mean you. They always do.
You swallow hard, the motion suddenly difficult, as if the weight of it all is pressing against your throat.
The stream of reactions doesn’t stop. They keep coming, faster now speculation, secondhand reports, half-truths laced with emojis and punctuation marks that feel far too casual for something this volatile. You don’t click into them. You don’t have to.
The air around you seems to shift, like the moment before thunder cracks. The motorhome is quiet except for the low murmur of engineers and strategists in the next room, unaware or pretending not to be. The buzz of electricity hums faintly through the walls.
Max never loses it. Not like that. Not anymore. Not in front of the garage. Not with cameras nearby. Not with him.
You set the phone down, screen still alight with chaos, and try to refocus on your comms but the world has already tilted off its axis, and you feel it in your bones.
It’s already started.
11:26AM – Red Bull Garage
He knew it would happen eventually.
Maybe not today. Maybe not behind the garage with the whole paddock one overheard breath away. Maybe not in this exact way with voices raised and tempers frayed and every nerve in his body pulled taut like wire, but some part of him has been bracing for this for years.
Since Abu Dhabi 2019, he hasn’t known a moment of peace. Not really. Not when the weight of what he lost clings to every silence, every what-if he never said out loud. He’s tried to move forward. Tried to bury it beneath trophies and titles, under the pressure of performance and the grind of race after race, but grief doesn’t work like that. Neither does guilt.
Now it’s here. Boiling over in the place he swore would be the one part of his life he could still control. Jos started it as always, with something small. A throwaway comment lobbed like a spark toward gasoline.
“You’ve been distracted all weekend.”
The words hit harder than they should, maybe because they’re true, maybe because they sound too familiar, or maybe because Max is already hanging on by a thread. He turns sharply, jaw clenched, dragging his father out of sight behind the garage trying to get away from prying lenses and watching eyes.
Then he snaps.
“You think I don’t know that?” he bites out, voice pitched low but vibrating.
Jos folds his arms, unbothered. “Then focus. You let that girl derail and distract you once Max. Don’t do it again.”
There it is. That word. That fucking word again.
Distraction.
The same word that tore her apart. The same word she was never supposed to hear the one that sent her packing without a single goodbye when he didn’t even realise what he’d done until it was too late.
“Don’t talk about her,” he spits, barely managing to keep his voice from shaking with rage. “You don’t get to talk about her. Not now. Not ever.”
Jos tenses. “I’m trying to protect your career.”
Max lets out a humourless laugh. “No. You’re trying to control it. Still.” His voice rises with each word, years of buried resentment breaking through like cracks in a dam. “I’m a grown man you don’t get to decide who I care about. Who I—”
He catches himself but it’s too late. The air changes between them.
Jos glares. “She left Max she didn’t even say goodbye. That wasn’t me. That was her choice. You don’t think she’ll do it again?”
Max steps forward close enough now that Jos has to meet his eyes. “You really think she just walked away without a reason?” He scoffs. “You don’t know anything. You never have.”
Jos goes silent but Max doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. The truth is burning a hole inside his chest and if he doesn’t say it now, it’ll eat him alive.
“You don’t even know what you did,” he says, quieter now, but with more weight than anything he’s said all day. “You don’t even realise what your words do. What I let them do.”
Jos shakes his head, but Max cuts him off.
“Look maybe it was me too,” he says, voice raw. “Maybe I’m the one who stood there and said nothing while you said things about her, about how she was a distraction, how she’d ruin everything and I didn’t say a damn thing. I didn’t defend her. I didn’t stop you. I just… stayed quiet like that would somehow protect everything, if I didn’t rock the boat it would be fine. We’d be fine.”
He shakes his head, eyes flicking up to meet his father’s. “But I wasn’t fine, I let her walk away because I was scared of what you’d think if I fought for her.”
Jos doesn't reply, jaw set.
“So don’t pretend you had nothing to do with it,” Max says, low and steady. “You spent years making me doubt the one person who’s done nothing but be there for me.”
There’s a pause, Max breathes through it.
“She didn’t deserve that. Neither of us did.”
The silence between them stretches thick, bitter, final. Max turns away before his father can respond. Whatever Jos says now doesn’t matter because for the first time in years Max isn’t biting his tongue. He isn’t burying his guilt under performance data and press obligations. He’s speaking for himself.
He’s done letting anyone else write the story.
Not his father. Not the media.
He’s done letting other people speak for him.
Sky Sports Broadcast
David Croft:
"Bit of movement down at Red Bull earlier we hear some of you watching the paddock feed might’ve seen that moment between Max and Jos Verstappen behind the garage. We don’t have confirmation on what was said, but... well, you could feel it, couldn’t you?”
Naomi Schiff:
"Yeah, whatever it was, it wasn’t just a typical pre-race exchange. Max doesn’t usually get into it like that, especially not in public. He’s intense, sure, but that… that looked personal.”
Ted Kravitz:
“I was actually down there a few minutes after. The mechanics were keeping their heads down, but you could tell something had rattled the energy a bit. Jos walked off pretty fast, didn’t even look back.”
Crofty:
“There’s been a lot of chatter lately, hasn’t there? About who’s been spending time in which garage… and who’s come back to the paddock this year. Whether it’s personal or professional, it’s clearly hit a nerve. He’s been sharp all year but you can’t underestimate the emotional toll something like that takes before lights out.”
Naomi:
“If I had to guess, I’d say Max is drawing some lines. And he’s doing it in front of everyone. Which… might be the point.”
Crofty, quieter now:
“He’s grown up in this paddock, hasn’t he? But maybe this is the first time we’re watching him fully step into his own.”
The camera cuts to Max in the garage helmet on, eyes locked ahead, posture calm but coiled. Behind him, the space where Jos once stood is conspicuously empty.
Monaco - 2021
It’s the win they used to whisper about like a shared secret. Late-night simulator sessions. Strategy arguments at 2 a.m. on a flight back from Singapore. Rainy afternoons spent watching archival footage of Senna’s pole laps. Even when Max had barely broken into Formula 1 and you were still being introduced as “Wolff’s daughter” rather than a strategist in her own right, Monaco had always been the dream. The crown jewel. The one race that mattered more than any other even for those who’d pretend it didn’t.
"One day," you said, years ago, curled beside him on a hotel sofa somewhere in the middle of nowhere, "you're going to win Monaco, and when you do I’m going to be right there watching from the pit wall with your name on my wrist."
But she’s not there now, not in the garage, not in the crowd, not anywhere in his periphery. She hasn’t been for over a year.
Max steps onto the top step of the podium, drenched in champagne and sunlight and the deafening roar of a crowd that’s waited too long to see him there. His first Monaco win. The moment he once built castles around in his mind.
It doesn’t feel how he thought it would, at least not entirely, he lifts the trophy and smiles for the cameras. He enjoys himself in the moment. Does the interviews, the handshakes, the protocols. From the outside, he looks unstoppable the championship lead in hand, Monaco conquered, nothing in his way. But later when the lights have dimmed and the motorhome is quiet when the only sound is the whir of a distant generator and the faint echo of a party somewhere down the harbour, he sits on the couch phone cradled in one hand.
The champagne still feels sticky on his skin. He hasn’t changed yet. Hasn’t showered. The adrenaline’s gone now and all that’s left is the ache.
His thumb hovers over a name in his contacts:
He opens the message thread. No new texts. Just the ghost of the last conversation left hanging like so many things between them.
He types three letters:
Hey
Stares at them. Deletes them. Closes the app. Opens it again.
Did you watch?
Deletes that too. He tosses the phone onto the far end of the couch like it’s burned him.
Then he just sits there, staring at the wall, while the greatest win of his life fades quietly into the background. He doesn’t sleep that night his brain won’t stop running corners he’s already won, not on the track in life.
Across the continent in a small apartment lit only by the soft blue hue of a laptop screen, you watch the replay alone. The moment he crosses the line you don’t cheer. Your breath catches. Your heart twists and your fingers hover over your phone before you even realise what you’re doing.
You unlock it. Scroll down.
You did it.
Then delete it.
Congratulations. I always knew you would.
Delete.
You lock the phone. Drop it facedown beside you and bury yourself deeper into the couch. You remember exactly what you’d said all those years ago. You remember dreaming of this day like it was yours too. You wonder if he thought of you if he felt the silence as loudly as you did. You fall asleep to the soft hum of the post-race analysis still playing on the laptop, head resting on the arm of the couch, heart a little heavier than before.
r/formula1gossip
Posted by u/missverstappen
[DISCUSSION] Max Said Something Weird in His Post-Monaco Interview??
During the Dutch post-race segment after Monaco, Max was asked how it felt to finally win the race he’s always called “the big one.” He gave the normal answer at first special, proud of the team, surreal moment, etc.
But then he added this very random line:
“It felt… different than I thought it would.”
The interviewer asked how different, and Max sort of shrugged and said:
“Just not the way I pictured it. That’s all.”
Then he immediately changed the subject. Is this just Max being Max or… what was that?
u/tyrewizard32
Yeah I saw this too. He said it with this TONE™ like he was thinking of something super specific.
u/vercedes_wifecollective
okay but let’s talk about how he looked genuinely SAD for a second??? at monaco?? like the win they’ve all wanted since karting??
u/gr3yflag
Right?? People acting confused like the entire paddock didn’t grow up watching those two run around together.
u/veryapping
For newer fans: they’re talking about Toto Wolff’s daughter. She used to be everywhere with Max from like 2015–2019. Pit wall, grid, garage, track walks, inside jokes during media days… they were basically a duo. Then she left the paddock out of nowhere and hasn't been back since.
u/f1highlights
There’s an old clip of them watching Monaco quali together in 2018 where she says something like “When you win this race, I’m going to be right there.”
u/vercedes_wifecollective
So him saying “not the way I pictured it”…
Yeah. I know exactly what picture he meant.
u/lando_would_never
It’s not that deep… except it absolutely is. He used to talk about Monaco with her all the time.
u/senna4ever
Okay but if he was thinking of her, then “it felt different than I pictured it” is actually devastating.
u/hardslicksforsofthearts
Not to feed a fandom theory but… that’s not something you say unless the memory in your head includes another person.
u/archivistofpain
Max not sleeping after winning Monaco because he’s trying not to text his ex is the most human thing he’s ever done.
Friday – 6:47pm
The rain starts without warning the sky darkening just enough to feel it in your chest before the first drops fall. It isn’t heavy yet, just a slow, rhythmic tapping against the roof of the metal awning you're standing beneath. The world smells like asphalt and electricity the sharp scent of wet concrete mixing with the lingering heat from the day.
You’ve been here a while, tucked behind the garages, away from the cameras and briefing rooms and careful glances. You needed air maybe even silence but instead you got rain. You don’t mind. You always liked how it softened everything blurred the edges of what was too sharp to name.
Footsteps approach. You know them without turning.
He says nothing as he joins you beneath the awning, his hoodie already damp from the walk across the paddock. Rain clings to the ends of his hair, dripping slowly down the back of his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t look at you right away. Just stands beside you, like that’s always been his default.
The rain picks up, a little heavier now, a little more insistent. After a moment, Max speaks, voice low.
“You used to say rain meant something.”
You glance sideways. “I did.”
He looks at you then, brows raised slightly in the way he does when he’s remembering something he never really understood at the time.
“I thought it meant change,” you say finally. “Or that something was coming, rain always felt like a signal.”
Max’s eyes don’t leave yours. “You still believe that?”
You exhale slowly, watching the droplets streak down the edge of the awning. “I don’t know. Maybe. I want to.”
A long pause stretches between you.
You glance down at your hands, thumb brushing a rain-wet line on your wrist. “Brazil. Last year,” you say quietly. “I watched that race three times. Couldn’t stop.”
He blinks, caught off guard. “You did?”
“Of course I did.”
There’s a beat of silence, deeper now.
“Just because I left,” you continue, voice steady, “doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”
Max doesn’t move, but his whole body shifts like the words are sinking into him.
“You were unstoppable that day,” you say. “I’ve never seen you drive like that. Everyone else was scrambling for grip, and you… it was like watching someone actively choose their own destiny.”
Max swallows. Looks out over the paddock, the sky pouring now.
“That was one of the only races that year I actually enjoyed,” he says eventually.
“I could tell,” you say.
His voice drops. “I just wanted to win.”
“You needed to win,” you correct. “That’s what it looked like, the rain certainly wasn’t going to stop you because when you want something you fight for it. That’s always been the difference with you Max. You never give up not when it really matters.”
His head dips slightly. He nods once.
“True,” he says. “But sometimes…” He trails off, then glances back at you. “Sometimes you don’t realise what you have until it’s already gone and then… then it’s too late to fight for.”
You don’t look away. His words land between you like something fragile and unfinished. “I’m not sure anything is ever too late.”
The rain hisses softly above, steady now, casting everything in a haze of movement and sound.
You speak again without thinking. “Did you think I was gone for good?”
Max is quiet. His fingers twitch slightly in his hoodie pocket. “I didn’t let myself think about it,” he says. “Because if I did… I would’ve had to admit that I let it happen.”
Your breath catches. “I should’ve stopped you,” he adds, softer now. “I should’ve said something… anything. But I just waited there and let you drift further and further away. Told myself it was easier than saying the wrong thing.”
“It wasn’t,” you say. “Not for me.”
“I know,” he says. “I know that now.”
Max turns slightly, shoulders squaring toward you, eyes dark and intent.
“I don’t want to do that again,” he says. “Watch you walk away.”
You hold his gaze. “You want something,” you say quietly. “Then fight for it.”
He breathes out a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. Just disbelief. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t close the distance. He just stands there, in the rain, looking at you like the weight of all the years between you has finally landed and he’s ready to carry it. You stay beside him, two people standing still under the same storm not running from it.
Vienna - 2023
You’re sitting in the corner of a small café just off the Ringstrasse. The TV above the counter is playing the race on mute, subtitles flickering across the bottom of the screen. The other customers glance up now and then, but no one is really watching not the way you are.
He’s on screen again. Dominant. Composed. Effortless. A man in complete control.
It’s his tenth consecutive win, a record, the commentators mouth words like historic and unbreakable, and the crowd in Monza is electric. You can see the flags, the smoke, the faces pressed against the fences. You can practically feel the noise even with the sound turned off.
You stir your coffee once. Twice. You tell yourself you don’t care anymore. That this is just muscle memory glancing up, tracking lap times, calculating gaps out of habit, not out of feeling. You’ve built a life far from this world now. A quiet one. One without flight schedules and timing sheets and press releases.
It’s a lie.
You know it before the thought can even finish forming because as soon as the camera cuts to him, that familiar shot of him climbing from the car, pulling off his gloves, face breaking into a grin that’s half disbelief, half relief, your heart stutters. The same way it always has.
You shouldn’t still know the way he smiles when he’s truly happy, the subtle difference between triumph and satisfaction, the way he glances upward first, just for a moment before facing the cameras.
Yet you do.
The champagne sprays. The anthem plays. The commentators are visibly running out of superlatives. You catch the word dominant in the captions again, repeated like gospel.
Then as he lifts the trophy the golden reflection catching light against the stormy Italian sky you see it.
Your breath stops. The thin silver wristband around his left wrist. The one you gave him in 2017.
It looks scratched now, dulled from years of wear, but unmistakable. You remember how it used to glint against the steering wheel when he’d remove it only minutes before he was due on track. You remember the night you gave it to him, sitting side by side on a hotel balcony somewhere between races, the world asleep, your laughter soft against the hum of the city below.
“It’s not expensive or anything,” you’d said, a little shy as you held it out. “But I thought it’d be kind of nice you know, matching ones. Just us.”
Max had taken it from your hand, turning the simple bracelet between his fingers and then he looked up at you.
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said quietly. “Not if it’s from you.”
Then he’d smiled, that quiet, rare smile that only ever meant one thing… he wasn’t teasing. He meant it.
You thought he’d stopped wearing it. You had. After everything fell apart you tucked yours away in a drawer you never opened not because you didn’t care, but because it hurt too much to look at. It wasn’t on your wrist anymore, but you always knew exactly where it was. Bottom right corner. Next to an old photo strip from Monaco and the corner of the note he’d left you on the last day of your first trip to his hometown. You never forgot.
So when you stopped seeing his bracelet in post-race photos, when it stopped peeking out beneath the edge of his glove or the cuff of his sleeve, you told yourself he’d done the same. That he’d moved on. That he’d outgrown the thing a long time ago just like he’d outgrown you.
But there it is, gleaming faintly beneath the podium lights.
Your chest tightens. The café suddenly feels too small, too loud, even with no sound. You stand abruptly, nearly knocking over your cup. The waitress glances up, startled, but you just mumble something and push through the door into the open air.
You lean against the wall, staring down the empty road, the faint echo of the broadcast still visible through the window behind you. You can see him on the screen even from here smiling, waving, wiping champagne from his face with the bracelet still there, flashing silver for half a second under the floodlights.
You inhale sharply, try to shake it off. Tell yourself it’s nothing. Tell yourself it doesn’t mean what you want it to mean. But deep down you know it does, because if he’s still wearing it after all this time, after everything… then maybe you were never as erased as you thought.
Sunday - 4:28pm - Merced Garage Post-Race
The buzz of the paddock has dulled to a low thrum by the time you find yourself back in the debrief room. Most of the Mercedes crew has filtered out, voices still echoing in the hallway, but you’re still there your brain’s still running even though your body’s trying to crash.
You don’t even hear George enter until a protein bar lands beside your keyboard with a soft thud. He’s still in his fireproofs, hair damp, energy surprisingly light. “You’ve officially hit your 'hangry' phase.”
You blink. “What?”
“You get that look,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward your face. “Very do not approach unless bearing data or snacks.”
You huff, but your mouth pulls into a reluctant smile. “Fine. Thanks.”
He leans against the wall, arms crossed. “That double-stack call? You nailed it.”
You shrug, uncomfortable with praise. “It was a gamble.”
“Calculated,” he counters. “Smart. Got us track position we wouldn't have otherwise had.”
Bono smiles, real and tired but warm. “Good instincts. You’ve got a feel for the field not many have.”
You nod, unsure what to say. They leave after that off to physio, or media, or sleep and you sit back in your chair, finally letting yourself breathe.
Monaco Afterparty - 2017
The yacht rocks gently beneath your heels, its polished deck crowded with the usual blur of music, light, and half-recognisable faces. Drivers, PR people, and Monaco’s usual hangers-on drift between champagne flutes and sponsored photo ops.
You lean against the railing, drink in hand, eyes on the glittering water even though you can feel him at your back. Max, somewhere in the crowd. Close enough to track without trying. You can hear his laugh now and then, low and familiar, over the music. The kind of laugh he only uses when he’s trying not to look like he’s checking on you too.
He’s talking to a girl you don’t recognise, gorgeous, leggy, Monaco-polished and wearing a dress that clearly wasn’t designed to be sat in. She laughs too loudly at something he says, touches his arm once, twice. You glance over, quick and neutral.
Your date says something beside you. You don’t catch it.
“What?”
He repeats the joke, and you give him a polite smile, then sip your drink to hide it. Across the deck, Max shifts. Subtle. He’s not even looking at the girl anymore. He’s looking at you.
You raise your eyebrows slightly, as if to say What?
He tilts his head, sips his drink, and shrugs. Nothing.
Eventually, he drifts over. Not right away, not obviously. Just… eventually once your date has left to grab more drinks.
“You look like you’re ready to jump in,” he says casually, nodding toward the railing.
You roll your eyes. “Just thinking about how far I’d have to swim to escape this playlist.”
He snorts. “You’re the one who always wants to come to these things.”
“I like the free drinks,” you say, raising your glass in a mock toast, he clinks his against yours.
“So not having fun then?”
You don’t turn. “Depends on your definition.”
He leans next to you, forearms braced on the railing now too, close enough for your arms to almost brush. “Saw you talking to—what’s his name again? The guy with the blazer and too many teeth.”
You snort. “He’s my date”
“Right.” he replies, tight lipped.
You glance at his glass. “What happened to Miss Bodycon?”
Max tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Who?”
You give him a look. He smiles, lazy.
He swirls the ice in his glass. “You look good tonight,” he said, quieter now.
You blinked. “Thanks.”
His eyes flicker to your mouth and then away again, too fast to mean anything.
Or maybe it means everything.
You let the moment stretch, one beat longer than friendly.
“You’re off tomorrow?”
“Dinner at Christian’s,” he says. “Which will definitely be relaxing.”
You both snort at that.
“I’ll text you if I escape early,” he adds.
You glance at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says easily.
You nod like it’s no big deal.
The breeze picks up again, tangling your hair a little. Max reaches out like he might fix it, then stops, hand halfway up before he thinks better of it. He rubs the back of his neck instead, pretending it was never about you at all.
Someone calls his name from across the deck. He doesn’t look back.
When the party finally winds down and your shoes are dangling from one hand and your date is long gone, it’s Max who walks you back up the pier. Max who says goodnight with a quiet, “See you in the morning, breakfast?” like it’s never a question.
And you say, “Always,” like it never stopped being true.
Brackley – One Week Later
Since last week you’ve thrown yourself into work, simulation modelling, long-run strategy projections, compound wear breakdowns. Anything with numbers, anything precise. You tell yourself it’s productive, necessary even, but the truth is simpler: it’s the only thing loud enough to drown out the hallway. To quiet the memory of the way Max looked at you.
Now it’s after seven, the hotel is quiet apart from the low hum of wind outside and the occasional rush of tires on wet pavement. You’re sitting cross-legged on the edge of the sofa, surrounded by spreadsheets and open tabs with your coffee long gone cold beside you. The overhead lights are dimmed, the only glow coming from your laptop screen and the reflections of rain streaming down the window.
So when someone knocks you almost don’t hear it.
The first knock is tentative. Barely there. The kind of knock that sounds like the person behind it isn’t sure they’re welcome.
The second one is louder, more certain.
You close the laptop slowly, heart already picking up a strange rhythm as your fingers hover for a beat too long on the edge of the screen. You rise from the couch, padding across the carpet with cautious steps.
When you open the door, he’s there.
Max.
His backpack hangs low on one shoulder, and in the side mesh pocket, there’s a folded plane ticket that looks like it’s been crushed and uncrushed a few times over. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you tired, unguarded, as though he still half-expects you to close the door before he gets a word out.
You don’t say anything either. Not yet.
“I flew here,” Max finally says, his voice rough around the edges.
You nod, arms folding instinctively across your chest. “I can see that.”
“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming.”
Your brow furrows slightly. “Why are you here?”
He swallows hard, rainwater dripping from his sleeves. “For you.”
He looks down for a second, runs a hand over his damp sleeve like it might help him think, and then he lifts his gaze again, steady this time, more sure.
“I know I don’t have a right to just show up like this,” he continues. “I’m not here expecting you to forgive me, or act like none of it happened. I just… I had to come. After what you said, after hearing the truth, finally hearing what happened that day I—”
You don’t move, but you feel something in your chest begin to shift.
“I was so scared back then,” Max says. “I thought staying quiet was the safer choice… or maybe just easier. I let other people decide what was best. I let him decide what was best. I thought we’d have time later to figure it out.”
His voice catches slightly, but he pushes on.
“But you disappeared. You were just… gone and I didn’t know why. I kept looking back, trying to piece it together, but I had no idea and now I do… and it hurts even more than before.”
You blink, heart aching, because his voice isn’t sharp it’s not defensive. It’s full of regret that’s had years to steep.
“I should’ve called,” he says, quieter now, but more certain. “I should’ve reached out, found you, done something. Six years is—” he exhales sharply, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. “It’s too much. Too long to carry this.”
You glance away, not because you don’t want to look at him, but because it is too much because hearing him say everything you once begged for in silence feels like pressing your fingers against a bruise that never fully healed.
“I let you walk away,” he continues. “I’m not proud of that. I'm so incredibly sorry. I’ve thought about it every single day since. I let you think you were something to be erased from the equation, like the safest thing for both of us was pretending none of it mattered. Of course it mattered. You matter.”
“I should’ve told you then that I didn’t care what anyone else thought. That you were never a distraction. That you were the only thing that ever really made any of this—” he gestures vaguely, meaning the sport, the chaos, the pressure, all of it— “feel like it had a point.”
His voice dips again, not out of fear, but out of care. “I didn’t fight for you and I should have.”
He breathes in. “I’m not asking you to forgive me, I haven’t earned that, but I need you to know I’m not running away this time. I’m not pretending I’m fine without you. I’m not pretending this meant nothing when it means everything.”
“I don’t care how long it takes or how messy it gets. You’re not someone I can lose again. I won’t.”
You stand there, absorbing the weight of every word, your arms still crossed more for protection than resolve. You study the way his jaw tightens in silence, the slight tremble in his fingers, the way his shoulders still look like they’re holding the entire season, the entire past, all at once.
Then you speak, your voice quiet, but steady. “Don’t say all this if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean every word,” Max says, without hesitation. He takes one final step forward enough to feel close, but not enough to crowd you and when he speaks again, it’s softer.
“I’m here. I’ll fight for you.”
You don’t move. Don’t answer right away. You don’t close the door either.
That somehow is enough. Max seems to understand. His shoulders ease just a little, the weight hasn’t disappeared, but it’s become something he’s willing to carry out in the open now.
“I’ll wait,” he says, gentler this time. “However long it takes.”
You nod, almost imperceptibly.
“Okay.”
Belgium, Genk - Karting Circuit - 2008
The world was smaller then. Simpler in the way that only childhood makes possible.
The track at Genk stretched out like an endless ribbon of asphalt and trampled grass, coiled between tents and trailers and the low hum of early morning tension. Everything smelled like two-stroke fuel, fresh-cut grass, and the metallic tang of rain still clinging to the air. The sky overhead was a dull slab of cloud, the kind that never broke fully open but soaked everything slowly, turning the paddock into mud before midday.
Engines sputtered and revved like a swarm of mechanical bees in the distance, their whines building into a background hum that never quite faded. Somewhere near the registration tent, a loudspeaker crackled to life in clipped Dutch, mispronouncing someone’s name over the static.
You sat on the low concrete wall beside the paddock gate, legs swinging, the toes of your boots streaked with chalk from the track. A piece of cherry gum clicked between your teeth. Max sat next to you, elbows braced on his knees, gloves clutched in one hand, jaw set in a way that already mirrored his father’s.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His focus was always quieter than the others’ less show, more steel. The kind of pressure that clung to his skin like second nature, the way some kids carried toy cars and others carried expectation.
You nudged his knee with yours. “You’ll win.”
He didn’t look up. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you replied, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world. “You’re Max Verstappen.”
It earned you the faintest quirk of his mouth not a full smile, but the closest thing he gave before a race.
Feeling victorious at the reaction, you tugged something off your wrist. A simple hair band stretched thin, the elastic slightly frayed, a pale blue thread woven through it from where you’d once braided it in during a sleepover in some hotel room. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t new, but it had survived more race weekends than most did.
“Here,” you said, holding it out. “For luck.”
He hesitated for a beat weighing superstition against logic, or maybe just taking in the fact that you were offering him something personal without making a big deal out of it then lifted his wrist. You looped the band around it, pulling it snug. He turned his hand over slowly, studying the pale blue line against his skin like it meant more than what it was.
“You think it’ll actually help?” he murmured.
You tilted your head, considering him. “Only if you keep it.”
He followed your gaze toward the grid, where other kids were already clambering into their karts, engines coughing awake, exhaust mixing with the chill of the morning fog. Something in his face shifted not fear, but a kind of seriousness that didn’t belong on someone so young, as if he understood the weight of this tiny world even then.
Then he looked back at you, something softer in his eyes. “You’ll be here after?”
“Always,” you said without hesitation.
It was the kind of thing only kids could say and truly believe. No irony. No self-consciousness.
You smiled, wide and unguarded, then held out your pinky. “Promise.” He hooked his finger through yours, tight and quick like he needed to get it done before the moment passed. “Promise.”
A second later, someone called his name Jos, probably, voice sharp through the fog and he was up, jogging backward toward his kart, fireproofs flapping at his ankles, boots slapping wet pavement. Just before turning the corner, he held up his wrist, the hair tie sitting crooked and flimsy shaking it proudly like a banner.
You waved until he disappeared into the engine noise and fog, heart buzzing with something you didn’t yet have a name for. Even then, it had always been him.
Thursday - 09:31AM
You barely make it through the doors of the Mercedes hospitality unit before the storm greets you not in rain, not in raised voices, but in sharp whispers and quick, incredulous glances that ricochet around the room like ricocheting sparks on dry tinder.
“Did you see the photos?”
“What the hell was he thinking?”
“This has to be a PR nightmare.”
“Toto’s going to lose his mind.”
The tension is unmistakable and it has nothing to do with strategy briefings, tyre compounds, or anything remotely technical. This isn’t about car performance or a pit lane scandal. It’s personal. Phones are clutched in white-knuckled grips. PR coordinators whisper in tight circles, faces pale and lips pursed, as if the very shape of this story might shift depending on how quietly they say his name. Just beyond the glass doors, the media pen hums with barely-contained glee, not over regulation changes or late-season upgrades, but because someone finally gave them something.
You already know exactly what they're talking about. You knew before you even left your hotel this morning. The moment you rolled over in bed, eyes still foggy from sleep, and saw the screen glow with a single notification his name.
@maxverstappen1
📸 A carousel of five slightly blurry, weathered printed pictures:
You on the pit wall in 2018, only half in frame, the curve of your shoulder resting near his as Max leans forward, mid-laugh, grinning at something only the two of you shared.
A karting garage, dated 2012, Max holding up a small trophy like it’s gold-plated history, but his eyes aren’t on the prize. They’re on you. You’re grinning up at him, grease-smudged and sunburned.
A beach holiday photo from 2017. You’re on his back, laughing into the crook of his neck, your hair a mess of wind and salt. His hands are braced around your thighs, mouth caught mid-sentence.
A blurry snap from a factory tour his hoodie draped over your shoulders, your back turned to the camera as he follows a step behind, he’s looking at you like you hung the stars.
The last one, FP1 2015. You’re standing just outside the garage beside his car, hair braided tight, face focused, one hand on his helmet like it belonged to you.
Caption: Always side by side.
He hadn’t asked. He didn’t clear it with anyone. You hadn’t even seen some of the photos before, candid, quiet moments buried deep in time, snapshots not taken for anyone but the two of you, blurry with motion and memory and something more tender than you remembered allowing yourself to hold on to.
Yet when you saw it still tangled in hotel sheets, heart rising in your throat it didn’t feel like a betrayal, it didn’t feel like a strategic leak or a desperate attempt to steer a narrative.
It wasn’t the start of some calculated media strategy built to reshape headlines or pacify speculation. It didn’t feel like damage control or nostalgia bait or even a way to get ahead of the next round of questions.
It felt like a decision, intentional and unpolished. Entirely his.
He was proud. Of you. Of what you had shared. Of what you meant to him then and now.
For the first time since it all fell apart he wasn’t afraid of what anyone would say. He wasn’t bracing for backlash, or adjusting the truth to make it easier to digest. He wasn’t protecting the version of himself the world expected he was protecting the truth instead.
He chose you, publicly. Unapologetically. For the first time in years you felt like something in your chest, the part that had been clenched tight since 2019 was finally starting to let go.
The reaction is instant. The internet doesn’t pause. It doesn’t wait for context or clarification. It moves, fast and feverish, like blood rushing to the heart of something it’s been waiting for without even knowing it.
Old clips once lost to the endless scroll of media day fluff and behind-the-scenes footage are suddenly everywhere. More fans than ever are digging through years of archive content with surgical precision, resurrecting every second that now reads differently, every glance, every half-smile, every instinctive touch that had been brushed off at the time as friendly or fleeting.
A video from 2018 goes viral first: Max grabbing your wrist during the chaos of a post-qualifying debrief, pulling you back just as a crowd of reporters surges forward. You glance up, startled, and he doesn’t even look at you his grip is firm but natural, like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s always known where you are without even thinking.
Then another: Media day at Spa, same year. You’re mid-banter, rolling your eyes while Max mutters something under his breath. The camera catches your grin just before you fire back. He smirks. You shove his shoulder lightly. He pretends to stumble.
A quieter clip, barely ten seconds long. Hungary, 2017. It’s hot. The paddock is buzzing. You’re distracted, flipping through a book in the background while Max finishes an interview. As he walks off, he passes you, notices the sweat on your brow and without a word offers you his water bottle. You take it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to.
@maxwolffcanon:
WHEN SHE DISAPPEARED IN 2019??? IT WAS HIM. IT WAS ALWAYS HIM.
Beneath it, fan art is already in progress rough sketches of you and Max on opposite sides of a garage barrier, eyes locked, rain streaking down glass between you.
@vettelbaby94:
This is the best slow-burn to ever slow or burn.
They post a compilation of every suspiciously charged interaction between you and Max from 2015 to 2019. The video ends on a freeze frame of Max looking back at you in the background of Abu Dhabi 2019, expression unreadable, just before the paddock lost sight of you for good.
@f1dailyfeed:
Is this the soft launch of the decade?
@mercedesgworl:
The beach pic? The karting photo? My heart wasn’t ready.
@champagneproblems44
someone check on toto wolff because his daughter and strategist just became the lead in an f1 love story and i KNOW he’s sweating
@softtires:
“Always side by side.”It’s giving childhood friends. It’s giving “I never moved on.”
@F1wagwatch:
Some of y’all are just now realizing she was always there. She’s been part of his story from day one.
@vercedes:
Toto after seeing Max soft launch his daughter via blurry beach pics...
@lap1loveletters
the real 2025 battle is between my will to live and this max/y/n lore
@ynloremaster:
max posting polaroids was him ringing the bell. she better open the damn door
@florenceandthepit
lets be real this is way more interesting than this years title fight
@maxitaxi33
this is why he’s been driving like he’s haunted all season. he WAS.
@wolffwatchers
imagine dating max verstappen and thinking he’s not gonna be terminally obsessed with you forever. couldn’t be me.
@wagsinwaiting
i think we're allowed to be a bit parasocial over this some of us have been waiting YEARS
Racing World Digest: Soft Launch or Sentimental Glitch? Verstappen Posts Rare Throwback
In a surprising move, Max Verstappen shared a series of nostalgic photos from his early F1 days, including several featuring Y/N, once a familiar face in the paddock and daughter of Mercedes TP Toto Wolff. Fans were quick to dissect the post, which lacked context but brimmed with personal history. No official comment from either camp yet.
Sky Sports Commentary (Natalie Pinkham)
“It’s not every day we see Max open up like that online. Whatever the intent, that post was deeply personal. It struck a chord with fans who’ve followed his career since karting.”
Thursday, Midday - Hospitality Lounge
You spot them before you even round the corner a huddle of elbows and lowered voices half‑pretending to look over briefing notes but really doing a terrible job of hiding whatever’s on the glowing screen in the middle of their little circle.
“Did you see the one on the beach?” Liam asks, tapping the screen.
Ollie mutters. “My engineer was saying she used to be around all the time back in the Red Bull junior days.”
“Yeah, but this is the first time Max has ever posted something like this,” Gabi points out. “He doesn’t do this kind of thing. Ever.”
Ollie raises an eyebrow. “So what he just woke up and chose to drop a memory lane carousel out of nowhere?”
Kimi shrugs. “Maybe it’s not out of nowhere.”
“Do you think he edited the caption like fifty times?” Ollie asks.
Gabi grins. “I bet he tried emojis and deleted them.”
Then Ollie says, “That last photo though, what does it mean?”
Liam gives him a look. “You are way too invested in this.”
“I’m just saying, it’s not nothing!”
Then the door swings open. You step inside flipping through a briefing packet, clearly mid-task. You look up just once and clock them instantly. All four straighten up like students caught talking during a lecture.
“Funny,” you say, lightly amused. “I don’t remember this being part of the media briefing.”
There’s a scramble of non-responses.
“We weren’t—”
“Just checking the weather…”
“Track walk timings—”
“—Totally professional.”
You narrow your eyes, not unkindly. “Right.”
Ollie opens his mouth, closes it, then points at Liam. “He started it.”
Liam doesn’t flinch just raises his hands.
Kimi mutters, blinking like he’s still processing it. “Those photos go way back.”
“Did you see the 2012 one?” Gabi adds. “He’s not even looking at the trophy he’s looking at you.”
Kimi just shrinks into his hoodie.
You walk over, grab a can of sparkling water from the mini fridge, then glance at the phone still open on the table paused on the second photo, the karting garage from 2012. You smile, soft and private, then look back at them.
You narrow your eyes. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve seen all your junior contract photos and know exactly how to leak them to a group chat full of bored fans?”
They watch you go, slightly embarrassed, slightly impressed.
“Okay,” Gabi mutters when you’re gone. “That was terrifying.”
Kimi exhales slowly. “She’s the best.”
Liam just nods. “Max is done for.”
Thursday - 09:56am - Red Bull Hospitality
GP corners him just inside the back hallway, away from the press and the chaos, jaw tense as he throws a hand through his hair like he’s trying not to implode.
“You did what?” he hisses, eyes scanning Max’s face as though waiting for him to crack or at least look a little less calm.
Max doesn’t even blink. He simply shrugs, voice maddeningly even. “It was time.”
GP lets out a groan so deep it borders on theatrical. “Mate your social team is probably melting down back there. They’re gonna need CPR.” He laughs once, sharp and incredulous, then shakes his head. “Good luck.”
Max takes a sip from the water bottle in his hand, posture relaxed, like he didn’t just lob a grenade into the tightly wound machinery of his team’s public image strategy. “Let them ask,” he says, quiet but certain. “Let everyone ask.”
He doesn’t say what’s really happening, doesn’t mention the hundreds of messages piling up on his phone, the sudden surge of fan edits, the threads cataloging every shared look, the viral TikToks syncing their history to piano ballads.
He certainly doesn’t bring up the ones that matter most: the quiet messages, the DMs filled with Finally. With I always knew.
This was Max telling the world what he wants.
Thursday - 10:17am - Toto’s Office
The room is quiet, Toto stands near the window, the muted light from the cloudy skies casting long shadows across the glass-topped desk. One hand holds his phone, the other braced against the sill as he stares at the screen. From where you stand you already know what he’s looking at.
The now-infamous carousel.
Your breath catches somewhere in your chest, your fingers curling slightly at your sides as you wait bracing for the inevitable fallout. The lecture. The frustration. The cold reminder that you are a strategist, not a story. That you were supposed to outgrow the era of hallway glances and back-of-the-garage confessions.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just stares at the screen for a long, heavy moment, jaw tight, unreadable. Then, with the kind of patience only age and heartbreak can teach a man, he exhales slowly, sets the phone face-down on the desk, and finally turns to you.
“I’m not going to ask where all this has come from,” he says, his voice carrying that distinct, grounded Austrian calm that somehow makes everything feel heavier. “I know where it came from.”
You shift your weight every muscle stiff with restraint. Standing in front of his desk surrounded by technical briefings and whiteboards filled with data, you feel like a teenager again, young, messy, standing on the edge of a mistake you haven't even made yet. Waiting to be scolded. To be told you’re reckless, unprofessional, emotional.
Instead Toto leans back in his chair folding his hands with careful deliberation. “I saw you after that hallway,” he says, voice gentler than you expect. “After he stopped you. I saw your face when you walked back in.”
You glance away, throat tight.
“I haven’t seen you look like that since 2019,” he continues. “Not even during your best days here. You were present, yes, but… never quite whole. You’ve been sharp and focused, excellent even, but something was missing.”
He pauses. Then says, more softly: “You miss him. That much is obvious.”
The admission hits harder than you want it to because it’s true and hearing it aloud, from him, shatters the last layer of detachment you’d been clinging to. He watches you for a beat longer, eyes narrowed in that particular way that’s both assessment and care.
“If he hurts you again—” he begins.
You nod before he can finish.
“I know,” you murmur, voice quiet. “You’ll kill him.”
Toto tilts his head, almost amused. “No. I’ll make him wish I had.”
There’s a long silence between you, one that’s not quite heavy, more reflective, more personal. A silence that only exists between a father and a daughter who have been through something together.
Then, to your surprise, he lets out a short laugh.
“I can’t quite believe he did that,” he says, still shaking his head like he hasn’t quite made peace with the absurdity of it. “That boy has been media-trained since he could walk, hardened by more press briefings than most politicians and yet…”
He trails off, still baffled.
You blink, uncertain. “You’re… not angry?”
He gives a slight shrug. “A little. There are going to be questions we’ll have to answer. A lot of calls. I’m screening the PR team right now.”
Then he rises, pushing his chair back, walking around the desk until he’s standing in front of you. “But before I’m your team principal,” he says quietly, “I’m your father. That matters to me more.”
Your chest tightens. A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself.
“I trust you.” he says defiantly.
He squeezes your shoulder once, then pulls away, straightening his cuffs like the moment never happened. Already shifting back into the professional mask he wears so well.
You feel it anyway. The protection. The acceptance. You feel like you’re allowed to hope.
F1TV Reporter:
“There’s been a lot of noise around Max’s social post and his personal life recently. Any official comment?”
Gianpiero Lambiase (sighs):
“No comment on Max’s personal life, but... I will say everyone feels a little more at peace lately.”
Sky Sports – Pit Lane Walk with Martin Brundle
Martin Brundle: “Well, if it isn’t the sharpest mind in Brackley. Still running the numbers or just here to keep the boys in line?”
You: “Depends on the day. Today it’s tyre data. Tomorrow? Herding engineers.”
Martin: “Been a few interesting looks coming your way this weekend.”
You: “Nothing gets the paddock talking like a woman doing her job, Martin.”
Martin (laughs):“Fair point but come on now, we’ve all seen the photos. There’s a certain World Champion who looked very... nostalgic this week.”
You (grinning): “Ah, nostalgia. It’s a powerful tool Martin. So is a good caption.”
Martin (amused): “You’re not going to give us anything, are you? Alright then, one serious question what’s impressed you most about the current grid since your return?”
You: “The rookies are fearless. The midfield is chaotic in the best way. And some of the veterans… they’ve grown up.”
Martin: “Anyone in particular?”
You: “Now Martin, that sounds dangerously close to a personal question.”
Martin (laughing): “Fair enough. You’ve still got that media sidestep perfected. We’ll leave you to it.”
Sky Sports Broadcast - FP2
David Croft: “Max Verstappen coming through sector two looking... sharp.”
Karun Chandhok: “He’s always composed from the off, but there’s something... settled about him today.”
Crofty: “Wouldn’t have anything to do with his Instagram post this morning, would it?”
Karun: “Well,I’m not in the PR department Crofty, but let’s just say... a few things from his past seem to be resurfacing in a good way.”
Charles, Lando, and George are standing side by side, fresh from qualifying, still zipped into their suits. The heat of the day clings to their skin, but their energy is high and they've somehow ended up in the same interview.
Reporter: “So a certain post from a certain Dutch World Champion has set the internet on fire. Any thoughts?”
Lando immediately throws up his hands: “Nope. Not getting involved. I value my life.”
George, mock serious: “The best part? As long as they’re taking up headline space, no one is asking me about why I overshot Turn 6.”
Charles, faux innocent: “Or why I was late to briefing.”
Lando: “Listen, we’re just saying… let the romantics carry the storyline. We’ll be here quietly escaping you lot in peace.”
George: “Exactly. I support them fully. For entirely selfish reasons.”
Charles adds with a dramatic sigh: “True love is a sacrifice. We thank them for theirs.”
All three dissolve into laughter, someone mutters “they’re going to kill us,” and the interview ends with a wide pan shot of the three of them walking away, still chuckling, leaving the audience to speculate just how much of it was real.
As the weeks pass it's strange how easily it becomes routine again.
Not the way it was, not the reckless closeness of childhood, not the intensity of those early paddock years but something quieter, steadier, more deliberate. Max doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for a second chance outright. He simply begins to show up in the places where you don’t expect him, and more importantly, in the ways you care about most.
He doesn’t demand to be let in, doesn’t corner you with grand declarations or apologies that expect anything in return. He never says give me another chance. Instead he shows you what it would look like, what he looks like now, and how deeply he understands what he did wrong.
He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t try to pretend that history didn’t happen. He carries it with him visible in the softness of his tone, in the patience in his eyes, in the way he leaves space for you to come to him, always with the unspoken promise that he’ll be there when you do.
Friday - 10:05pm – Your Hotel Room
He knocks once, just like he has every night for the last three race weekends.
You open the door and he’s there, hair flattened from the cap he must’ve worn during media rounds, takeaway dinner in one hand and two drinks balanced precariously in the other. He doesn’t try to come in immediately. He waits for you to decide. You always let him in.
He drops onto the hotel-room floor without asking, unfolding the food on the low table, offering you dessert knowing that’s what you want most, while you settle on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed, laptop still glowing with colour-coded data points. He watches you work for a while not the way someone watches something confusing, but the way someone watches something they respect. You can feel it in the corners of the room, in the silence that settles comfortably between you.
“You always used to do this,” he murmurs after a while, eyes flicking toward your notes from last week. “See things no one else bothered to look for.”
You glance over at him with a light laugh. “I think it’s just pattern recognition.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Everyone sees patterns. You see the reason behind them.”
The compliment lands more deeply than you expect, maybe because it’s never been something he’s said before. Maybe because six years ago he was sometimes too tangled in his own chaos to notice your brilliance.
Now he notices everything. The way you narrate your strategy notes under your breath. The way your brow furrows when a graph doesn’t match your instinct. The way you tap your pen against your knee when you’re on the verge of a breakthrough.
He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, quietly, as if learning the architecture of your thoughts is part of the work he’s set himself.
When he notices you watching, he shrugs. “Still trying to keep up with you.”
Three Weeks Earlier — Media Pen
A reporter leans against the barrier, mic in hand, wearing that half-smile he uses when he’s fishing for something he shouldn’t be.
“So, Max,” he says, glancing toward the cluster of Mercedes staff behind you, “some people are saying her return season is a PR strategy. Optics management. Human interest. You know how these things go, she's not cut out for the job over there at your rivals.”
You’re not even looking at Max you’re focused on the tablet in your hands, heat radiating off the asphalt, but you feel the shift in him like a drop in air pressure.
He straightens, expression cooling in a way you’ve only ever seen when he’s about to say something he won’t let PR fix later.
“No,” Max says, voice firm but eerily calm. “That’s not what this is.”
The reporter blinks, surprised by the tone. Max continues, stepping slightly closer to the barrier, not enough to be aggressive, but enough to make sure the cameras catch every word.
“She’s here because she’s good. Better than most people will ever give her credit for. Don’t reduce her to PR spin just because you don’t understand what she does.”
The reporter taken aback, tries to laugh it off. “Alright, alright no offence meant—”
Max shakes his head once. “If you want to talk about someone’s professionalism you should probably look at your own.”
Your heart stumbles, not just because he’s defending you but because of the way he says it. Calm. Direct. Unapologetic. With none of the tension you’d expect, none of the fear of headlines or backlash or the weight of someone else’s expectations.
He’s not doing it to be gallant. He’s doing it because he understands that silence has consequences and that this time he refuses to be silent.
When you walk past him on the way back to the paddock, he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t stop you, doesn’t smirk in victory.
He just looks at you, eyes softening the moment you meet his gaze, a question written in the tilt of his head:
Was that okay? Did I help or did I make it worse?
You give him the smallest nod.
It’s enough to make him exhale.
Two Weeks Earlier - Hotel Lobby
You’re tucked into the corner of the hotel lobby, laptop open while other staff filter in and out, dripping water across the marble floor.
Max walks in from the far entrance, shaking rain from his hair, jacket plastered to his shoulders. He spots you immediately, like gravity, and crosses the room.
“I thought you’d be at dinner,” he says.
“I told them I’d catch up,” you reply. “Needed to finish something.”
He nods, gaze flicking to your screen. “You always did your best thinking at night.”
You can’t answer. Not right away. Because it isn’t the memory that hits you it’s the fact that he still carries it. That he kept that silly fact tucked somewhere inside him long after you thought he’d outgrown every part of you.
After a moment, he says quietly, “I can stay with you for a bit, if you want.”
Not You need help?
Not Let me fix this.
Not I’ll tell you what I think.
You nod, and he sits not too close, not crowding just there.It’s small. Almost nothing, but it’s the kind of nothing you feel for hours.
One Week Earlier - Hotel Suite
It’s late, the lighting is low and warm, the music questionable, and the poker game downright ruthless.
No cameras. Just a strange mix of drivers and insiders slouched around a table littered with empty glasses, crumpled napkins, and poker chips stacked like tiny fortresses. There’s a Bluetooth speaker hissing out a terrible club remix and someone (probably Lando) keeps changing the playlist mid-song.
You're leaned back in a chair with your legs crossed and a drink balanced lightly in your hand, surveying your modest but powerful pile of chips like a general preparing a takeover.
Pierre fans his cards out slowly, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t trust you.”
You don’t even blink. “You shouldn’t.”
George groans from across the table, already halfway through collecting his losses. “I swear she gets scarier every time we play.”
Carlos smirks. “She’s running the table tonight.”
“Monaco, 2018,” Esteban says under his breath, pointing a finger at you. “You remember? You took Ricciardo’s entire wallet.”
“I didn’t take it,” you say primly. “He wagered it. I just… won.”
“Semantics,” he deadpans, kicking his legs under the table.
Lando leans forward from where he’s folded, propping his chin on his hand with a gleeful expression. “Max used to say never play cards with her. Said she could read people. Psychic powers maybe”
The table laughs. You lift your glass, hiding the flicker of something behind the rim.
Still, you recover quickly. “Well. He should’ve learned to bluff better.” You eye Max across the table and he just smirks.
“Oh, damn,” George says, dragging out the words.
Pierre holds up his hands in surrender. “You see this? This is exactly what I mean.”
The hand ends. You win. Again. You start stacking the chips in neat, smug columns.
“I’m out,” George says, pushing back from the table. “I’ve got a debrief in the morning and if I’m slow, Toto will personally chain me to a simulator.”
“Tell him I said hi,” you say sweetly, pulling your jacket off the back of your chair.
Pierre’s grumbling in French. Esteban is dramatically counting his remaining chips. Carlos is trying to convince Alex he was cheated somehow.
Charles calls after you as you head for the door, “Don’t let Mercedes PR know we’re corrupting their strategist.”
You flash a smile over your shoulder. “Too late.”
You slip out into the hallway cooler, quieter, and empty except for the hum of distant vending machines and the soft buzz of LED exit signs. You walk slower now, jacket slung over your shoulder, the air outside lighter than it’s felt in years.
“See this is exactly why I never played poker with you.”
The voice comes from behind you familiar, amused, and unfairly warm in the quiet.
You pause, turning. Max is leaning against the wall. His hair’s a little messy and he’s watching you with that infuriating, crooked half-smile that once meant everything and still kind of does.
You arch a brow. “You always claimed you were too tired. I assumed it was just fear.”
Max pushes off the wall and walks toward you slowly. “It was respect. I know a lost cause when I see one.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop smiling. “You want another round, prepared to be humiliated again?”
“I came to say goodnight,” he says easily, stepping beside you. “Any humiliation was just a bonus.”
You laugh, shaking your head.
Max’s voice softens. “Seriously, though… it was nice. Hearing you laugh like that again.”
He looks at you for a long moment, then says, quieter now, “You’re really good at this.”
“At poker?”
“At all of it.” His voice is sincere now, anchored. “The way you carry yourself. The work you do. The way you fit in any room and light it up without letting it change who you are.”
You blink, caught off guard for a second. Of all the things you expected tonight, that wasn’t it.
“And?” you ask, like it’s a challenge.
“You might have won tonight but,” he smiles, a little slower this time. “I think I’m the lucky one.”
It’s quiet again, but your pulse is loud. You wonder if he can hear it or if he feels it too.
You nudge him toward the exit. “Come on Verstappen. Walk me back.”
Max falls into step beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, your strides naturally matching like they always used to.
By the time Qatar comes around, it’s obvious, not to the paddock, not to the media, not even to your parents, but to you, that Max has been working at this.
He listens when you speak, not with impatience or distraction, but with the quiet focus of someone who finally understands what he once took for granted. He makes space for you, not just because he’s trying to win you back, but because he finally sees the shape of the space you’ve always deserved.
He protects without overshadowing.
He learns the new parts of you and slowly, so slowly you don’t even notice it happening and the distance between you begins to close.
Not with one sentimental moment but with dozens of tiny ones.
Weeks of them.
Little pieces of proof he keeps offering you, day after day, as if trying to rebuild something brick by brick, patient enough to know it can’t be rushed, determined enough not to let the foundation crack again.
He’s already chosen you and he’s not going anywhere.
Wednesday – 11:56 PM — Abu Dhabi
You scroll endlessly, letting the noise wash over you without really taking any of it in. Notifications. Mentions. Fan edits that leave your chest tight. Memes, fancams, comments in every language.
One post, buried among the noise, makes you pause.
A screenshot from an old behind-the-scenes documentary. You and Max, just teenagers, sitting side by side on the pit wall before a practice session in 2015. You’re laughing at something off-camera, and his gaze is fixed entirely on you, eyes shining.
@y/nmax4ever:
He’s only ever smiled like this when he looks at her 🥹
You exhale softly, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. There's a weight in your chest that hasn't quite left you in six years.
Then your phone lights up with a message.
Max:
Meet me at the track.
Rooftop.
You know the way.
You don’t need to ask which rooftop.
You still remember the shortcuts. The back stairwell behind the catering unit. The old service ladder wedged between the media building and the hospitality suites. The one you both used to sneak up when you were younger, when everything was still easy, before things like reputations and legacy and heartbreak made everything so complicated.
By the time you climb the final rung, the paddock below is still glowing in low orange lights quiet now, tucked into the hush of midnight. The clatter and chatter of the day has faded, replaced by the distant whirr of generators and the hum of cooling systems. It feels like you’ve stepped out of time, like the world has been muted just for this.
Max is already there.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of the roof, overlooking the pit straight, the soft wind tousling his hair. In front of him, he’s laid out a soft blanket, there's two takeaway cups, a box of pretzel snacks you used to love, and a thermos. It's not grand, not staged for cameras, but it’s careful and intentional a silent gesture.
He simply shifts to the side, making room. You sit beside him, knees touching, and for a long time, neither of you speaks.
Not because there’s nothing to say but because, finally, there’s no urgency to say it. Not yet.
Down below, the track sleeps. Everything you’ve both built your lives around feels small from here. Distant. Contained. But up here, above the noise, it’s just you and him. Like it used to be.
Max breaks the silence first. His voice is soft. “They locked the fence by Turn 10, can't sneak that way anymore.”
You glance sideways. “Guess they finally caught on.”
He exhales a laugh, low and familiar. “Took them long enough.”
You both fall quiet again. For a moment it’s just the sound of your breathing, in and out, matching like it always used to. Like muscle memory.
“I think Lando’s trying to recruit me to McLaren,” you murmur, lips quirking.
Max hums, amused. “I don’t think he’ll be the only one trying to after this season.”
“He promised me papaya cupcakes.”
“I’ll bake you cupcakes.”
“You can’t bake.”
“I’ll learn.”
That earns a real smile from you the kind that doesn’t feel forced or guarded. When you glance over he’s already watching you.
“I’m still a little worried you’ll leave again,” he admits.
You shake your head slowly. “I thought about it, at the beginning.”
He nods, eyes lowering to the rooftop beneath his hands. “Do you regret it?”
You tilt your head. “Coming back?”
“Yes... but more letting me back in.”
The question hangs there, suspended between you like it’s holding its breath.
You exhale slowly, eyes drifting out toward the empty track. “I know people say you should live without regrets, but… I regretted leaving more times than I can count. I’d be sitting in some café halfway across the world, staring at my phone, trying to convince myself not to text you.” Your voice softens. “But maybe we had to go through all of it to get here, even if we missed out on a lot on the way.”
He nods, quiet. The wind shifts.
“I’ll keep showing up,” he says. “Every day. For as long as you’ll let me.”
You believe him.
You reach into your jacket pocket and slowly pull out a worn photo, the same photo he sent you the Polaroid version of months ago now. The one you kept, even when it hurt too much to look at. The photo of you both post 2016 win, laughing, joy unfiltered.
“I have a copy too. I never let go of it,” you whisper.
He takes it gently, reverently, like he’s holding a piece of his own history.
From his wallet he pulls something of his own, the Polaroid. You stare at it for a long moment, the versions of yourselves looking up at you. Two kids who had no idea what was coming. Then you turn toward him.
You seem him take a breath, brace himself. When he speaks, it’s not a grand gesture, not a dramatic monologue. It’s simple. Honest.
“I love you.”
He says it like he’s carried it for years, like it’s been sitting just behind his ribs, burning through him slowly, waiting for the moment he finally couldn’t keep it in anymore. You can’t help but gasp as cliche as it is, gasp at hearing the words you’ve waited for for six years, maybe even longer.
“I’ve loved you for longer than I knew how to explain,” he says, voice rough around the edges as if each word scrapes past a decade of silence. “I didn’t say it back then because I was scared. I didn’t know what to do with something that big, something that felt like it could change everything.”
He shakes his head slightly, eyes flickering toward the pit straight as if remembering another lifetime. “I thought that if I said it out loud, I’d mess everything up. That I’d break us or let someone else’s voice convince me it was a mistake.” He swallows, throat tight. “I thought staying quiet would keep you close.”
A soft, humourless breath leaves him.
“Instead it pushed you away and I let it.”
His voice cracks.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the words trembling with sincerity. “For waiting so long. For saying it now when I should’ve said it years ago. For every version of you that needed to hear it and never got the chance.” He draws in a breath, steadying. “You don’t have to say it back. I just… I need you to know.”
The wind brushes over the rooftop, lifting the edge of the blanket he laid out, nudging a strand of your hair across your cheek. The world feels impossibly still, a quiet suspended between heartbeats.
You look at him, really look, and in that moment, you see it all:
The boy who wore your hairband around his wrist in a muddy karting paddock. The teenager who shared room-service fries on hotel floors. The young man who stood on podiums with your name hidden somewhere beneath his pulse. The one who lost you. The one who fought his way back. The one sitting in front of you now, open in a way you’ve never seen, asking for nothing but a chance.
You’ve held your love for him like a secret locked behind bone, tucked away, protected, guarded, buried beneath everything else you had to build to survive losing him.
But now? Now it rises in your throat too fast, too certain, too real to hold back any longer.
You shift closer, knees brushing his. “Max,” you breathe, “I’ve been trying not to say it for almost a decade.”
“I love you.”
“I loved you then,” you continue, voice steadying, “and I love you now. I love you and I don’t think I ever stopped.”
He lets out a sound half‑laugh, half‑sob, feather-light but devastating, shoulders loosening as if your words have finally allowed him to breathe. Then he leans forward, forehead resting against yours, breath unsteady with relief, disbelief, and something so tender it almost hurts.
“I love you,” he whispers again, softer this time, like it’s finally safe to say it.
You close your eyes, letting the words settle between you, warm and solid and real.
He leans in slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to stop him, to hesitate, to turn away, but you don’t move, not even a fraction. Your breath catches but you stay exactly where you are, watching him with a kind of quiet certainty that’s been years in the making.
Finally… finally, his lips touch yours.
The kiss is soft at first. Just the barest brush, reverent, like he’s still not sure you’re real or that this moment won’t vanish if he closes his eyes.
It’s the kind of kiss that says I need you before it dares to say anything else. It glows, warm and tender and full of everything you both tried to bury.
Then like something breaks open between you the quiet dissolves because neither of you can hold back anymore.
You breathe him in and kiss him harder. He meets you with equal force, his hands sliding into your hair, tilting your face to deepen the kiss like he’s starved for it, starved for you. It’s no longer soft. It’s fierce. Years of tension unspooling in seconds. A collision, not an accident.
Your hands grip the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he lets you, lets you take, lets you want, lets you have him. His thumb brushes your cheek but the rest of him is all motion: mouth, hands, heart, urgency.
He tastes like rain and memory, like the version of you that never stopped loving him.
When you finally break apart, it’s not because you want to it’s because you have to. Breathless, chests rising in tandem, lips tingling from the rush of it.
The air between you is charged. It doesn’t feel like the beginning of something new. It feels like finally returning to something that never should’ve been lost.
When you finally pull apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing shared, everything around you feels different, lighter, more real.
Max smiles, just barely. “Took me long enough.”
You whisper against his lips, “You’re here now.”
China - Max's Hotel Room - 2018
The carpet is ugly that generic hotel pattern of swirling beige and navy but it’s soft under bare feet and at this hour it’s the only place in the building that feels alive. The race ended hours ago. The celebrations are long over. Everyone else has either gone to bed or disappeared into team briefings and press obligations.
Except you and Max.
He’s still more boy than man in the way his laughter bounces off the walls. His hair is damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing an oversized team T-shirt and a pair of grey sweats, and his bare toes drum against the carpet. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the sofa a tray of room-service fries balanced between you.
“This is a terrible movie,” Max says, wiping his hand on a napkin, though he’s smiling in that easy, lopsided way that means he’s having a better time than he’ll ever admit.
“That’s the point,” you shoot back, reaching for another fry. “You’re supposed to laugh at it, not analyse it.”
He scoffs playfully. “I can’t help it. The plot makes no sense.”
“The plot is that two idiots are in love and keep messing it up.”
He turns to look at you, something flickering in his expression, amusement maybe. “It’s unrealistic.”
You throw a fry at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands in his lap. He pretends to be offended, gasping dramatically before popping it in his mouth.
“Gross,” you groan. “That’s unsanitary.”
“I’ve eaten worse,” he says through a grin, eyes still glinting with that post-race high, that restless kind of energy that never really fades in him.
You shake your head, laughing, your shoulder brushing his. It’s an accident, probably, but neither of you moves away. The proximity feels normal by now.
He nudges you lightly with his elbow. “Promise we’ll still be doing this when we’re old and boring?”
You grin, turning toward him. “Define old.”
He thinks for a moment, lips twitching. “Like… thirty”
You snort. “That’s not old.”
He smirks.
“Fine,” you say, picking up another fry and aiming it like a dart. “Deal. We’ll sit in another overpriced hotel, eating terrible food, watching worse movies, and you’ll still complain about the plot.”
He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite name soft around the edges, like he’s memorising this moment without meaning to.
Years later when you think of before, before everything broke, before silence and distance and growing up too fast this is what you’ll remember.
The almost pink light flickering gently above you.
And that ridiculous promise…
“When we’re old and boring.”
You’ll think about it every time you see him again.
Thursday – 7:43PM - Abu Dhabi
The paddock has quieted, the chaos of media day reduced to the occasional thud of gear cases being rolled and the low drone of generators humming through the night air. A few lights flicker inside the hospitality buildings, but the rest of the world seems to have gone still.
Max walks with his head down, hoodie pulled up, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He’s not hiding, not exactly, but he’s aware that the timing of his presence here could raise questions. He doesn’t care. Not anymore.
He’s halfway across the walkway when he hears the voice.
“Took you long enough.”
Max freezes. Not because he’s scared but because he knows that voice better than most in this paddock.
Toto.
The older man is leaning against the corner of the Mercedes unit, arms folded, suit jacket long gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s a coffee in one hand, though Max would bet anything it’s got a hint of something else in. He looks calm, but Max knows better. Calm is what Toto Wolff uses when he’s feeling everything else.
Max approaches slowly.
Toto raises a brow. “You’ve walked past our garage three times now.”
Max shrugs. “Didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”
There’s a long pause before they go inside.
Max sits, grounded in place by something heavier than fear. He’s faced world champions wheel-to-wheel at 300kph, but this conversation carries a different kind of gravity. The kind where one wrong word could undo everything.
“I’m not going to hurt her” Max says eventually.
“I know,” Toto nods once, taking a slow sip from his mug. “But knowing something and trusting it are two different things.”
Max lets out a slow breath. He expected that, honestly, he respects it.
“She’s always been the stubborn one,” Toto says after a beat, eyes drifting toward the paddock. “Even as a kid. Smart as hell. Always did what felt right, not what looked easy. I never tried to stop her just tried to make sure she didn’t get hurt.”
Max smiles faintly despite himself. “She's still stubborn.”
“She doesn’t run from things easily,” Toto continues. “Which means she didn’t leave lightly. She left because she believed no one cared enough to stop her.”
“I know,” Max admits. “I thought staying quiet was protecting her when really I was just protecting myself. She believed in me,” Max says, eyes tightening. “Before anyone else did. Before I even believed in myself. And I let her go. I let her walk away and I told myself I’d reach out later, when the time was better, when I was more sure, when I could handle it.”
“You matter to her too,” Toto says after a beat. “God help me, you always have.”
Max looks at him.
“I needed to hear you say it.” Toto straightens. “Because the last time she let herself care about you she broke and I won’t watch that happen again.”
“You won’t have to,” Max says, voice firmer now. “I’m not a kid anymore. I know what I want. And I know what I lost.”
“She’s not a girl anymore either,” Toto says. “She’s a grown woman. An important member of this team in her own right.”
“I know,” Max says softly. “I’ve been trying to learn what that means. What it looks like to show up for her now. Not just the version of her I knew back then. I don’t want to overshadow her. I want to stand beside her.
Toto nods once, the motion slow and deliberate. “If you’re going to do this, you have to do it properly, all in. Love her like she’s worth.”
Max meets his eyes. “I will.”
There’s another long pause, but the tension shifts, not quite friendship, not quite acceptance, but something adjacent to respect.
As Max turns to go, Toto calls out behind him.
“You screw this up again Verstappen. You waste this second chance?”
Max stops but doesn’t turn around.
“I’ll let you break both my arms,” he says. “But you won’t have to.”
With that he disappears into the shadows not running, but walking with purpose toward something he knows he’s ready for.
Later, when the door to your car shuts and the city lights begin to blur outside the window, you let out a shaky laugh.
“He’s getting soft,” you murmur.
Max still watching the road, doesn’t smile right away. “He’s terrifying sometimes,” he says instead then glances at you with something softer in his eyes. “But he’s not wrong.”
You look at him.
“I’m going to get this right,” he says. “You’re it for me.”
You smile and lean your head on his shoulder, and for the first time in years nothing hurts.
Sunday – 09:33am
You’re tucked near the back of the paddock hospitality unit, alone, a mug of coffee warm between your palms as the low murmur of team chatter fills the space around you. The morning's calm, filters through the occasional scrape of chair legs in the next room. You’re reviewing data on a tablet, but not really seeing it.
A shape enters your periphery. You don’t need to look to know who it is. You feel it in your spine first the familiar tension, the way time seems to slow in subtle defiance. When you do glance up Jos Verstappen is standing a few feet away, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw set in a line you’ve seen mirrored on Max more times than you can count.
“You’re here a lot lately.”
The words aren’t sharp, but they land with a precision that feels intentional.
You don’t look away. “I work here,” you say evenly, voice calm. “It’s not exactly strange for me to be in the paddock.”
Jos’s mouth presses into a thin line. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
A pause stretches between you, brittle and silent.
Then, footsteps. Max. His presence doesn’t crash into the conversation it settles, firm and quiet, like a stake driven into the ground beside you.
He steps up next to you but doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak. He just stands there, still, like he’s always known this moment would come and he’s ready to meet it.
Jos looks between the two of you, his expression unreadable. “This thing between you… it’s going to get complicated. Fast. You know that.”
Max doesn’t flinch. “It already is and it's worth it.”
“You’ve got everything lined up,” Jos continues. “A career most people would kill for. You’ve fought too hard to get here. You want to gamble that on—”
“On what?” Max cuts in, voice low but unwavering. “On someone who’s known me since I was a kid? On someone who stood by me long before anyone believed in me. You keep calling this a risk, but it feels like the most certain thing in my life.”
Jos’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I get that you’re trying to look out for me but I’m not seventeen anymore,” Max says, quieter now. “You don’t have to remind me what’s at stake and I’m not asking for permission. I’ve made mistakes sure but this isn’t one of them. I’m not throwing anything away. I’m choosing something.” His voice doesn’t shake, but there’s something raw underneath it.
Jos’s gaze flicks to you again.
“She’s not the problem, she’s not a distraction.” Max says. “She never was.”
Jos exhales slowly, like something in him is trying to uncoil. Then, to your surprise, he speaks not accusingly, but almost… weary.
“Maybe I didn’t handle things the best,” he says.
Max nods once. The silence that follows isn’t cold. It’s filled with the weight of years, with the kind of unspoken connection that’s never been easy to express between them. Jos shifts slightly, gaze softer now, and when he looks at you again, the edge is gone replaced by something that feels like reluctant understanding.
“You leaving again?” he asks, the words quieter, less accusatory.
You shake your head. “Not unless I have a reason to.”
It isn’t forgiveness, not yet. You know you're never going to get the apology you really want, but it’s something like a truce.
Jos nods. Once. Small. Grudging. “Alright, then.”
Max watches him leave, his shoulders tense until Jos is out of sight.
You nudge him gently. “You okay?”
Max doesn’t answer right away. He breathes out, long and quiet. “Yeah. I just hate that look he gives you.”
“I can take it,” you say, reaching for his hand. “I’ve handled worse.”
“I know,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding between yours with. “Doesn’t mean I want you to.”
You squeeze gently. “He’s still your dad.”
Max nods. “Yeah and I still want him in my life I just won't risk losing you to make that happen.”
“You won’t,” you say. “We’ll figure it out. All of us. It’ll just take time.”
He gives you a small smile, tired, but real. “You didn’t have to stand there and take that.”
“I want him to know I’m not going anywhere either.”
Max glances toward the door again, like he’s seeing something more than just his father walking away.
“I think,” he says quietly, “he finally heard us.”
You rest your head briefly on his shoulder, and Max leans into the contact. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to.
The way he brushes your hand says enough.
Race Weekly: Six Years Later: A Familiar Walk, A New Story
Fans who’ve followed the sport since the 2010s will remember the quiet camaraderie between Max Verstappen and Y/N from their karting days to early F1 seasons. Their visible walk together through the paddock this weekend sparked speculation that some bonds, no matter how frayed, can be mended and maybe even stronger than before.
00:17AM
It drops in the night. No warning. No caption just a single heart emoji. A quiet joint post shared from both Max's and your Instagram profiles.
There are two photos. Side by side.
The first is an older one, 2014. You're both laughing, caught mid-moment, heads thrown back slightly, hands brushing as if neither of you remembered the camera was there. It's golden-hour light, soft and glowing, the kind of moment no one stages because you can't.
The second is more intimate. Max is kissing you. His hand is cupping the side of your jaw. Your eyes are closed, your fingers curled into the front of his jumper. There’s no tension in your bodies, only ease like you’ve finally arrived at the place you were always meant to return to.
The post doesn’t need to go viral. It detonates. Within minutes, it's everywhere, screenshotted, re-posted, zoomed-in, cried over, defended, dissected, loved.
@mercedesgirlies:
I can finally sleep. We made it.
@wolffwatchers:
I sobbed in my kitchen. My cat is concerned.
@teamlh4ever
No bc I’ve never been a Max fan and even I teared up. This is cinema.
@gp_it_me:
we finally got our happy ending. now leave me alone I need ten minutes of silence.
@maxiel87:
this wasn’t a soft launch. this was a full, cinematic, 4k, emotionally devastating, Hall of Fame rollout.
@verstappensburner:
the way this has more character development than any netflix show.
@mvwdramasept:
they gave us enemies to best friends to silence to heartbreak to this. this is why I believe in long-form storytelling.
@vercedes:
We were never insane.
@mv33fc1:
I don’t even ship real people but Max Verstappen posting that at midnight with no caption like he hasn’t been in love for 10 years is UNREAL BEHAVIOUR.
@monacoapologist:
The kiss photo?? He said I waited half my life for this woman now the internet can deal.
@wolffstappen1::
POV: you’ve been secretly in love with your best friend since karting and finally the whole world knows
@maxy/nwatch2025:
the way he’s HOLDING her face like it’s sacred… Max Verstappen you are free to hurt me
@lighsout:
And the other photo that's from like 2014??? They've been in love forever.
@gr33:
Everyone shut up this is the greatest hard launch of all time I am shaking I am crying
@gridwitchery:
six years. six YEARS.
@f1editsdaily:
I need 12 hours to make the fancam this deserves. I’m calling out of work.
@undercut:
YOU GUYS. HE POSTED IT. THEY POSTED IT. THIS IS THE ONE. THIS IS THE MOMENT.
@paddockchronicles:
I want this carved into FIA history. I want this in the Louvre. I want this played at my wedding and my funeral.
And in the comment section beneath the post, quietly rising to the top:
@victoriaverstappen:
❤️
@charles_leclerc:
Finally.
@landonorris:
called it.
@danielricciardo:
i cried. i’m not ashamed. max i’m gonna hug you and you’re gonna take it.
@oscarpiastri
Congrats. Also… respect for the slow-burn.
@fernandoalo_oficial
Some things are worth waiting for.
@lando.jpg:
he’s so whipped and I’m so proud.
@lewishamilton
Wishing you both the best.
@sebastianvettel
Glad you figured it out. Protect each other. That’s the whole point.
@carlossainz55
Plot twist of the season. Happy for you both.
@redbullracing
Let’s just say… the paddock’s been waiting for this one.
Later max comments and you pin it to the top.
@maxverstappen1:
For the years we missed. And the ones we won’t.
The world keeps spinning. The paddock keeps moving. Races will come and go, headlines will shift but for one night under moonlight and memory you gave the world the one thing it didn’t know it needed.
Proof that love, even in this world, can wait.
Can return.
Zandvoort - Six Months Later
There’s something about the sea air here.
Not quite salt, not quite smoke, just the kind of breeze that carries memory. You stand on the balcony of the trackside hotel, hair tangled from the wind, coffee cooling in your hands. Below, the orange haze of fans is already beginning to thicken, flags waving like fire across the dunes.
Zandvoort used to ache.
Now it just feels alive.
Max steps out behind you, barefoot, still towel-damp from the shower. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, chin resting against your shoulder, breath warm at your neck.
“You always wake up before me,” he mumbles.
“You always sleep through your alarm,” you murmur back, leaning into him.
His laugh rumbles through his chest. He presses a kiss behind your ear.
“This is the best part of my weekend,” he says.
You hum. “What, cuddling and trapping me?”
He nods. “Exactly that.”
His arms stay around you as you watch the sun finish rising over the track, casting long shadows across the asphalt, a perfect line between past and present.
By the time you’re in the paddock, the chaos is in full swing. Someone tries to corner you for a quote, and Max swipes a croissant off a breakfast tray to sneak you between interviews. He steals your pen and signs your forearm with a heart like he’s still sixteen and thinks Sharpie skin is romantic. He lets Lando steal you for a TikTok and then pretends not to watch, except you catch him glancing over anyway.
The whispers have stopped. No one’s waiting for the fall anymore.
You make each other better, and now, the paddock sees it too.
Later you're both off to the side near the railing, two water bottles between you, your shoulder brushing his occasionally, fingers grazing but not fully laced not needing to be.
“Do you remember what Fernando said to us in Austin?” he asked.
You looked up at him, puzzled. “Austin?”
“2017,” Max clarified. “Dinner. You and I were bickering about who won the sim race the night before.”
Your eyes lit with the memory. “Oh god. And he said—”
“Just marry each other and shush,’” Max quoted, grinning now. “‘The whole paddock will appreciate it.’”
You laughed, covering your face with your hand. “He was so smug about it too. Said he’d officiate himself.”
“He might still try,” Max said, eyes dancing with something unguarded and golden.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you mused.
He tilted his head. “Not the worst future either.”
Late at night after media and briefings and a quiet dinner where even Toto smiled more than he scowled you find Max out on the balcony when you step through the sliding doors, barefoot, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows he’s leaning against the railing, watching the stars come out one by one like they’ve been waiting for permission.
He hears you approach, doesn’t look away from the sky. “You remember what you said back in Genk?”
You blink.
“You gave me that hair band,” he says. “Told me I’d win.”
You nod slowly. “You did.”
He finally turns. “ I didn’t understand what you were really giving me until now.”
You step forward. “What was I giving you?”
“A reason,” he says. “Someone to believe in me before I believed in myself.”
The silence wraps around you like dusk full but calm.
“I used to think love could ruin me,” Max says. “Like I couldn’t be great and have this. Have you.”
Your voice is quiet. “And now?”
His eyes soften not just with affection, but with recognition. With clarity that had taken him years and mistakes and heartbreak to reach. “Now I know I couldn’t be half the man I am without you. I know that every good moment in my life every win, every fight, every night I pushed through something I didn’t think I could all of it traces back to you. In some way.”
Your chest pulls tight.
He steps closer, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours, hands brushing your waist like he’s still asking permission even though he already knows the answer. “I love you,” he murmurs. “God, I love you so much. And I’m so damn grateful you came back. That you didn’t let the worst version of me be the last one you remembered.”
Your breath wavers, but it doesn’t falter. It never does with him. “I love you too,” you say back, calm and certain. “I'll love you forever.”
He exhales, not shakily, but with the kind of relief that loosens someone from the inside out.
“Every moment…” you continue softly, your fingers lifting to his jaw, “every laugh, every fight, every stupid pinky promise and every terrible decision… all of it still led us here.”
He closes his eyes briefly, overwhelming emotion tightening his grip around your waist as though the words hit somewhere deep, somewhere old. “I’m thankful for everything,” he whispers, “as long as it brought you back to me.”
You lean in first. The kiss begins soft, the kind that presses memory into skin but it doesn’t stay that way it deepens quickly, warm and hungry, tender and fierce.
When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together as always, sharing breath, sharing something that feels older than either of you.
No more waiting. No more what-ifs. Just two hearts that finally found their way back to each other beating in time, steady and sure, in the place they were always meant to be and the long, unfolding future, finally, beautifully yours.
Summary: When Lando needs a fake girlfriend to quell rumors about his image, Oscar and Lily think it would be a good idea for her sister, Y/n, to be that person. However, she is not one of the British driver's biggest fans.
Words: 15.K
Warnings: A LONG and detailed story, fake dating, enemies (Y/n) for lovers (Lando), Y/n Lily's sister, Oscar is referred to as Y/n's brother-in-law, romance, flirting, hidden feelings, confessions, a little bit of SMAU,
Author: English is not my first language, so please excuse any spelling, grammar, or slang errors that may appear in the story. Well, as you already know, I love writing long stories, hahaha. But I added more details to this one; I wanted it to have more "life." Enjoy, my sweeties. ❤️🇧🇷
MASTERLIST
"You're kidding me, right?" Y/n asked incredulously, trying to process the proposal her younger sister had made.
"No!" Lily says. "Well...I don't think so, I'm just passing along what Osc asked me to."
"And why isn't he here?" Y/n raises her eyebrows, wanting a better explanation.
"I told you, he's asking Lando the same question," Lily replies, pacing around her sister's apartment.
"And what do I get out of this? Because he'll clean up his image, and me? Tarnish mine? I don't know if it's worth it..." Y/n shakes her head slowly, taking a sip of water from her bottle, while pulling her legs up on the sofa.
"I don't know what you get...You have to discuss that with Lando." Lily shrugs.
"And why me?" Y/n asks. "There are so many other women who could be his fake girlfriend and who are actually willing to do it..."
"It's because you're the one who shows up most often in the paddock."
"Yeah, but I'm with you. I'm not there for him!" Y/n gestures, almost losing her patience.
"Okay, okay," Lily says calmly, gesturing with her hands. "Osc only asked me to ask that question; I really don't know what's going on with Lando. But he said you'd be a great fit."
"Where's Oscar? I need to hit him!"
Lily laughed. "Come on, darling. Consider this proposal."
"Only if Lando comes to talk to me and explains this whole thing properly. Otherwise, I'm out of the question!" Y/n gives an ultimatum, and Lily shrugs.
"Okay, think about it carefully!" She smiles and Y/n rolls her eyes, holding back a laugh.
Lando Norris's image was becoming increasingly damaged. He was known for being a party animal, frequently speaking without thinking and displaying a pronounced sarcasm in interviews, which was not pleasing the media.
His PR team had gone so far as to suggest the idea of a fake girlfriend for a few months, hoping that the dust from his controversial habits might settle. Lando initially laughed at the proposal, but now, with the pressure mounting, he was seriously considering it.
At that moment, Oscar was standing beside him, casually offering his own sister-in-law as a potential fake girlfriend.
"And who do you think? My agent has already come with countless lists of models, but they're all out of the question!" Lando sighs deeply, placing his glass on the kitchen counter.
"I was talking to Lily about this, and we had an idea of who your fake girlfriend could be..." Oscar smiles and Lando raises his eyebrows curiously. "Y/n!"
Upon hearing the name, Lando's eyes light up and a small smile appears on his face.
"Y/n? Her older sister?"
Oscar nods in agreement. "Yes, but Lily is talking to her..."
Before Oscar could finish, Lando was already smiling, that smile that indicated things weren't good at all.
"LANDO! HEY! Wipe that smile off your face!"
"Sorry, but she's a hottie, okay?"
"That's my sister-in-law!" Oscar throws a crumpled piece of paper that was on the counter.
"Sorry!" Lando raises his arms. "But I'm not lying!"
Oscar rolls his eyes. "Okay, okay. As I was saying... Lily is talking to her right now... but..."
Lando grimaces. "What's wrong?"
"She's not exactly one of the best fans you have...she might not accept it. Or if she does accept it...she could be kind of difficult to deal with." Oscar grimaces, trying to explain the seriousness of the situation.
"Well, that's not a problem for me. I'll have her in the palm of my hand!" He smiles slightly, and Oscar purses his lips.
"Either she'll have you in her hands...good luck." He says, taking another sip of the drink Lando had served.
Yes, as predicted, Lando was the one who had Y/n wrapped around her little finger.
They talked a little about the matter on the phone, with him trying to get her to accept the proposal and Y/n, in turn, making it clear that she would only accept if his PR team spoke directly to her and granted her some advantages in this charade.
Well, Lando easily fell for her charm, especially since he was already completely charmed.
Every time she appeared in the paddock, he seemed to be floating, as if he were in heaven and she were an angel. So, technically, it was easy to say 'yes' to her.
And there they are.
Lando stood outside his car in the McLaren headquarters parking lot, waiting for Y/n who was just walking through the gates. Lando had his arms crossed and a carefree look on his face as she parked her car next to his.
Y/n stepped out with her bag slung over her shoulder, her heels making a dry, rhythmic sound on the asphalt as she approached him. Lando smiled, walking towards her, while Y/n wore a cynical grin.
"Good morning, my girlfriend!" He smiles, extending his arms for a friendly hug.
She accepts the hug, but the comment is another matter entirely.
"If you call me your girlfriend before I accept this joke, I'll kick you in the balls so hard you'll be out of racing for three months."
Lando smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders. "My girlfriend is so affectionate!"
Y/n rolled her eyes as she walked beside him to the meeting with his PR team.
As they walked through the headquarters, Y/n curiously observed all the details and decorations of the place. Lando then made room for her to enter the elevator, and she thanked him with a kind, almost cynical smile.
"So, what will the rules of our relationship be?" she asks, looking at him.
Lando seemed so carefree that you wanted to hit him.
"I don't know, my assistant didn't say anything."
Y/n raises her eyebrows. "What do you mean, you didn't say anything? Didn't you think about how we'll have to act to make people believe us?"
Lando just shrugs, making Y/n want to fly at his throat.
"No, nothing!" He smiles, looking at her.
"So you just accepted Oscar's offer, called me, and dragged me here without any plan?"
"Exactly, let's find out together, darling!" He winks at her and the elevator doors open.
Y/n sighs deeply and walks past him without looking, which makes Lando laugh.
Lando guided her to the meeting room they had indicated. It was a glass room; she could see who was inside. Y/n sighed before Lando gently knocked on the door and opened it. Inside were two women and Zak, whom she knew; she had seen him a few times around the paddock.
Lando was the first to enter, flashing a confident smile at everyone in the room.
"Good morning, everyone. I brought my future, potential, girlfriend."
Y/n takes a deep breath and discreetly rolls her eyes while forcing a polite smile. Zak stands up, completely friendly.
"Y/n! Good to see you again. Sister-in-law of our Oscar and a recurring presence in the paddock... pleasure as always."
"The pleasure is mine, Zak." She shakes his hand and briefly hugs the two women beside her, still maintaining that almost flawless social smile.
"So..." Lando snaps his fingers as if he'd done something brilliant. "I chose well, didn't I?"
Zak chuckled briefly. "If she chose you too, then maybe you hit the jackpot, kid."
Y/n sits in the chair, crosses her legs, and looks at Lando with pure sarcasm. "Believe me, nobody here is afraid of you getting spoiled."
The women stifle their laughter. Lando clears his throat, trying to appear blasé.
"Okay, let's quickly review why we're here. The media situation isn't favorable, the team agreed to create a more stable narrative for Lando's personal life and... Y/n, thank you for considering this."
The other woman picks up a folder. "We've put together some basic rules to make the relationship seem real. Of course, you can ask for changes, especially you, Y/n."
She smiles, like someone who's ready to screw over the pilot if he messes up.
Lando raises his hand, looking very confident. "Personally, I'm very open to it."
Y/n lightly taps his hand with an ironic tap-tap. "Honey, you're not exactly in a position to give your opinion lately."
Suppressed laughter swirled around the table. Lando looked offended.
"First. Public appearances at least once a week. Occasional photos, interactions in the paddock, dinners visible to the public..."
"Photos like... photo-posada or photo-paparazzi?"
"Both. We'll take care of the paparazzi. You coordinate the photoshoots with the team."
Lando shakes his head as if everything is fine. Y/n just sighs.
"Second. Subtle posts on social media. Shared stories, comments, emojis... nothing exaggerated, just enough."
"What kind of emojis...?" Y/n asks.
"Nothing heartfelt right away, maybe... flames, smiles, clapping..."
Lando nods slowly. "So, can I call you 'my sweetheart'?"
"Not even in your wildest dreams, Norris," Y/n retorted.
"Third. Occasional physical contact in public. Light."
Lando raises a mischievous eyebrow. "Define it lightly..."
Y/n slowly turns her head, glaring at him as if she were about to throw a chair. "If you finish that sentence, I'll make you single and canceled in twenty seconds."
Zak coughs. "Well, that covers the basics... Now you can set your own rules, as long as they don't affect anyone's image."
"Perfect!" Lando claps his hands. "Rule number one: I get to choose the music in the car."
Y/n shoots a deadly glare. "One more joke like that and I'm leaving."
"NO, PLEASE!" The two women speak together, almost pleading.
Y/n raised her eyebrows, surprised by the desperation. Okay, maybe his reputation was really in ruins. And she was starting to enjoy it; she could have Lando wrapped around her little finger.
She laughs, finally amused.
"Okay. I'll play along."
Everyone sighs in relief and Zak smiles. "Thank you, Y/n. Seriously. If you need anything..."
She waves her hand. "I don't want payments... I pay for my own things, just take care of the unavoidable costs. I don't want to seem like a hired actress. Just... handle the drama and leave the rest to me."
Lando looks at her with a mixture of delight and fear. "Perfect. We'll manage."
They nod and reiterate that they could give her anything she needed. She nods, and then they say goodbye and leave, leaving Lando and Y/n alone in the room.
Lando swiveled his chair towards her, with that roguish grin.
"This is incredible... did you know it was my dream to date Lily's older sister? Now Oscar and I are teammates and brothers-in-law. Poetic, don't you think?"
"You're poetic when you're silent." She pulls up her chair, crosses her legs, and leans forward. "Rules, Norris. Sit down, because now it's serious."
Lando raises his eyebrows, his heart pounding, but outwardly he seemed composed. Y/n picks up a notepad and pen from the table and begins to write.
"Rule number one. No kissing."
Lando stabs her tongue. "Dope..."
"Keep it up and I'm out... Rule two. No publicly commenting on my appearance in a... perverted way."
"So just normal compliments. Like 'beautiful'?"
"Punctual. Moderate. Not overly sentimental."
"Sad, but I accept." Lando then tries to add one. "I want to send a message outside of business hours."
"That's a fake relationship, not an after-sales tour. Maybe."
He smiles contentedly, as if he had won a lot.
When they're finished, Y/n tears off the sheet and hands it to him. "Keep it with you, in case you forget the rules."
Lando looks at the paper. "Are you sure it doesn't say 'kiss only if she wants to'? Because I swore it did."
"Last chance to keep breathing, Norris." She hums, grabbing her bag and turning to the door.
"Where are you going, my beautiful girlfriend?"
"Work. Your beautiful and sexy new girlfriend has a life... See you later, Norris."
He laughs loudly and watches her through the glass, walking away with poise, her heels clicking on the floor, pure confidence. And Lando realizes, Oscar was completely right. He no longer had a fake girlfriend. He had a boss.
And worse, he would love it.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
That day passed quickly, and Lando, by chance, or perhaps not, started texting her on her cell phone, and Y/n knew exactly who had given her the number.
Sure, he sent her some provocative messages and she just ignored them.
About three days had passed, Y/n had finally arrived home from work and was preparing dinner for herself.
She had told Oscar and Lily about their meeting. They laughed, of course, but said it would be good for both of them: Lando would recover his image and she, on the other hand, would soften her heart. Y/n just rolled her eyes and hung up, making the couple laugh even more.
Y/n had just put her dinner on her plate when the doorbell rang.
She frowned and glanced at her watch; it wasn't late, but still, no one came to visit her at this hour. Except when Lily left university and passed by.
Y/n walked to the door and opened it. As soon as she saw Oscar and Lily standing there, dressed far too fancy for her house, she tilted her head slightly, confused, and raised her eyebrows.
"What was it?" she asks suspiciously.
"We're leaving, let's go!" Lily waves.
Y/n raises her eyebrows and lets out a confused laugh. "What?"
And then, there he is. Lando appears right behind the couple, smiling like a true prince. He was also well-dressed. Y/n's mouth opened slightly in disbelief, wanting to crush each of the three in front of her.
"You're kidding!" she says, and Lando smiles.
"Come on, darling, are you ready?"
Y/n leans against the door, glancing quickly at the clothes she's wearing: sweatpants and a baggy Guns N' Roses t-shirt.
"Do I look ready to go somewhere, idiot?"
"Honey? How angry you are at your boyfriend!" Lando puts a hand on his chest. Y/n rolls her eyes.
"Come on, Lando suggested we go out together for your first public appearance as a couple. I think it would be a cool move!" Lily says excitedly, and Y/n raises her eyebrows.
"And why didn't anyone warn me beforehand?"
"Surprise, darling!" Lando winks.
Y/n sighed deeply, knowing she had no other choice. She had made an agreement with the team and even signed a document stating that she would be doing this for the next few months.
"I can't believe I'm doing this!" She opens the door wider, letting them in. "Ten minutes and I'll be ready!"
They enter and Lando smiles, stopping in front of her and leaning in for a kiss on the cheek.
"Hey, hey! We're not in public!" Y/n turns her face away.
"Ah, come on! Training!" Lando smiles and Y/n rolls her eyes, but before she can complain, Lando kisses her right cheek. "Beautiful, love!"
She closes the door, rolling her eyes, and walks to the bedroom to change her clothes. Y/n definitely didn't know where they were going, so she opted for a casual look.
She applied a quick makeup application and let her hair down.
As soon as he left the room and appeared in the living room, Oscar and Lily were talking to each other while Lando was looking through her books on the shelf.
"Lando Norris!" she scolds, lightly hitting him on the back with her purse.
"Ouch! That hurt!" he says.
"Liar!" But as soon as he turns around, he comes face to face with her. He opens his mouth, but stops, and she notices. "What's wrong? Is it really bad?" Y/n asks, worried.
"No...it's just...wow!"
"Come on guys, you're not in public yet!" Oscar interrupts.
Y/n and Lando look at each other, but not with that look of hatred or provocation, it was something different.
"Okay, let's go where you want to take me." Y/n says, stepping back first, grabbing the apartment keys, and opening the door.
The elevator began to descend slowly, and for a moment, silence filled the space. Y/n crossed her arms, trying to ignore Lando's overly warm presence beside her. He, of course, didn't even pretend not to be too comfortable with that proximity, so much so that he tilted his shoulder, lightly touching hers as if it were something natural.
"Before you start making up dramatic theories, we're not going to any parties," he said, adjusting the strap of her bag.
"No?"
"No. Just dinner." He shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "A double date at a restaurant. Couple stuff... and friends complicit in the crime."
Y/n blinked, clearly processing the information and already imagining flashes, whispers, and awkward questions. Lando just flashed that smug smile of his, pleased with himself.
"Will there be a lot of people?"
"It depends..." He replied, dramatizing a silly suspense. "If you count waiters, customers, salespeople, people who breathe..."
"No, idiot." She looked at him, already irritated and a little nervous. "I want to know if anyone is going to ask questions about our... situation. How are we going to answer?"
Lando blinked, as if only then he realized he needed a plan.
"Ah. That's it." He cleared his throat, feigning confidence. "We say we're together..."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Brilliant, poet. And when they ask how we met? And how long we've been together? And who fell in love first?" Lando opened his mouth and closed it, completely at a loss for words. "See?" Y/n poked his chest with her finger. "We need to align our stories before you say something stupid."
Lily and Oscar, standing in front of them, tried to appear neutral, but their smiles betrayed the situation.
"Okay, then repeat that." He murmured. "We met because you're Lily's sister and you were always in the paddock, and I fell in love first. We've been dating for... I don't know... how long does that sound convincing?"
"Three months," Lily and Y/n said together.
"Two and a half."
"Three." Y/n declared. "And we're not going to fight in front of the press just because you want to win even at that."
He raised his hands in surrender, but his smile betrayed the provocation. When the doors opened, Lily and Oscar went ahead, talking quietly. Y/n went out beside Lando and, as soon as they stepped outside the building, she felt his hand suddenly close on hers. She swallowed her surprise, her gaze shooting at him in an immediate reflex.
"Relax..." Lando whispered, moving so close she could feel his breath on her neck. "Plan in action. There could be paparazzi hiding in any bush, babe."
She was ready to retort, but then Lando brushed a strand of her hair aside and tucked it behind her ear, the proximity burning more than it should have.
"No fighting. We're the perfect couple. Remember?" Lando murmured, his voice too hoarse for his own good.
A treacherous shiver ran up her spine. Ridiculous. She blamed the wind. Or his expensive cologne. Or both.
"Don't look at me like that!" she scolds.
"Like what?" Lando chuckled.
"Like this...I hate how you look at me like that..."
Country barely laughs.
As soon as they reached his car, he opened the door for her, as if he had practiced etiquette with the Queen of England. Y/n sighed, but got in without complaining. When he settled into the driver's seat, the atmosphere changed a little, just the two of them there, away from the paparazzi and away from the script.
"You know this is all complete madness, right?" Y/n turns around, putting on her seatbelt.
He started the car slowly, laughing. "Look, that's why you're single. You don't trust men."
Y/n turned her face toward the window, closing her arms in a gesture that was too defensive to be just acting.
"I don't trust YOU."
"A blatant lie." He hummed, his fingers light on the steering wheel, laughing because he knew. And worse. She knew that he knew.
The drive to the restaurant wasn't filled with uncomfortable silence; they just didn't know what to talk about. And of course, he knew that anything Y/n said would be met with some sarcastic comment, so he just turned on the playlist and let the music play.
As soon as she entered the parking lot right behind Oscar's car, she realized it was her sister's favorite and that she frequented it often with Lily. Y/n thought it was her sister's idea, so she didn't say anything.
When they got out of the car, their hands joined almost instinctively. Y/n noticed quickly, tried to let go, but Lando squeezed even tighter, with that annoyingly amused smile on the corner of his lips.
"Let go..." Y/n whispered through gritted teeth.
"I can't, we're in couple mode." He replied in the same tone, looking straight ahead.
"You're loving this, aren't you?"
"I'm just playing my role well. It's talent, Y/n."
"Ah, yes. Nominated for the Oscar for biggest faker of the year."
"Fake? Wow, that hurt." Lando chuckled briefly. "You mean you believe that if it were real, I'd do better?"
Y/n huffed, but didn't answer.
As they walked to the restaurant, Lando joined Oscar in a conversation about racing, and Lily approached her sister. They were almost at the door when Lando suddenly looked ahead and stopped.
Y/n noticed his gaze harden for a second. Paparazzi. And he knew which ones were the most annoying and persistent, so he quickly switched positions with her, placing himself between her and the sidewalk.
"What was it?" she asked softly, confused.
"Nothing, everything's fine." He replied with a half-smile, continuing to walk.
"Lando..."
"Honey, relax. Everything's alright." The tone was so soft and firm that she felt her own body give way, even without knowing why.
Inside the restaurant, the waiter led them to a reserved table. Oscar and Lily sat on one side, Lando and Y/n on the other. Lily then, to provoke the couple, began with her questions, as if she didn't know about the fake relationship.
"So... what was the first thing you liked about him, Y/n?"
"Absolutely nothing." Y/n replied without hesitation.
Lando raised his eyebrows, feigning offense. "She's being shy. In truth, she fell in love with my humility."
"You lack humility."
"Of course I do. It's just that she's too modest to admit it."
"You don't even know what 'modest' means."
Oscar coughed, suppressing a laugh. "This is starting to sound like a real relationship, huh?"
As soon as the menu arrived, they ordered drinks and the men opted for something stronger. The waiter recognized the two pilots mid-order, politely asked to take a photo, which they agreed to with a smile. As soon as the waiter left, Lily leaned over the table, giggling softly.
"And that's where the rumors that you two are together begin."
"Rumors? They're already on Twitter." Y/n rolled her eyes. "And that's not even the worst part."
"Which one would it be?" Lando asked, curious.
"The part where you'll pretend you don't like it."
"But what if I really like it?" He smiles slightly.
"So the problem is bigger than I thought."
Dinner continued amidst laughter and playful teasing. Every now and then, one or the other noticed someone watching from afar, and a slight raised eyebrow from Lando was enough for Y/n to straighten up, smile, and play the role of the perfect girlfriend.
When they finished, Lily went to the bathroom and Oscar stood up to pay his share. Lando stood behind Y/n, taking her coat.
"I can?"
"Don't touch me without warning," she murmured, feeling his hands adjusting the fabric on her shoulders with an irritating calm.
"You didn't complain outside," Lando replied close to her ear.
"Out there it was all acting."
"And here?"
"I feel like strangling you with your own coat."
He chuckled softly. "Romantic."
When Lily returned, the two resumed their conversation about the restaurant and travel. Lando went to pay the bill, and she took the opportunity to wait outside with her sister and Oscar. The night was cold, but pleasant. As soon as Lando came out, adjusting his jacket and tossing his car keys in the air, he stopped in front of her with that easy smile.
"Ready, love?" Lando teased, extending his hand.
"You are unbearable."
"It's irresistible," he added, winking.
And Y/n, unfortunately, couldn't disagree right away. She leaned slightly, her gaze quickly sweeping around them.
"There's someone behind us with a camera."
Lando turned his face in the opposite direction, pretending to examine the parking lot. "So I guess we should... show more affection, don't you think?"
Y/n looked at him, incredulous. "You're crazy."
"A plan is a plan, babe. The team said: natural gestures, subtle touches, eye contact. We're just following the script."
Y/n was about to retort, but she perfectly remembered the instructions given. With an exasperated sigh, she rested her head on his shoulder.
"That's right, good girl."
The pinch on his ribs came quickly.
"Shut up." Y/n whispered, still smiling, just to keep up appearances.
As soon as they got into the car, silence filled the space. It wasn't tense, but heavy with everything they didn't need to say. Y/n adjusted her seatbelt and glanced at the dashboard.
"Can I put on some music?"
"Sure," Lando replied, distractedly. "Make yourself at home."
The soft melody filled the car, and silence soon returned. Lando, perhaps tired of the quiet, decided to start a conversation.
"So... what do you actually do for a living?"
Y/n frowned, taking off her coat. "Why are you asking me that now?"
He shrugged, with a slight smile.
"Details, Y/n. A real couple knows the basics about each other. It's to make our relationship more... concrete."
"You take this too seriously sometimes."
"But isn't that our goal?" Lando smiled slightly.
She huffed, but eventually answered.
"I'm a businesswoman. I work at a law firm."
"Wow, important people." He joked, turning to her quickly before looking back at the road. "So you're the brains of the relationship."
"Someone has to be."
Lando laughed. "But tell me... office, suits, cold coffee all day?"
"Something like that."
"I should have guessed. He looks like the kind of person who would yell at anyone, even the printer."
Y/n looked away, trying not to laugh. "You can't have a serious conversation, can you?"
"Admit it, the joke was good and you almost laughed."
"Exactly. I almost laughed."
The two ended up laughing together, and then the car plunged back into silence, broken only by the sound of the engine and the soft noises of the city.
When he parked in front of her building, Y/n grabbed her purse and wallet. Lando raised an eyebrow, confused.
"What are you doing?"
"Paying my share of the dinner. How much was it?"
Lando's eyes widened, genuinely confused.
"What? You're kidding, right?"
"I said I didn't want any payment, remember? So I'll pay for what I spent. This isn't a date, it's a plan."
"Y/n..." He laughed, shaking his head. "I'm not going to tell you how much it was."
"Lando!?"
He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, staring straight ahead as if he hadn't even heard.
"Lando Norris! Answer me!"
Nothing. He just took a deep breath and changed the subject. "Come on, I'll take you to your apartment."
Y/n sighed, annoyed, fidgeting with something inside her bag. Lando walked around the vehicle and opened the door for her.
The drive to the apartment was quiet but comfortable. When they stopped in front of the door, Lando adjusted his jacket and smiled.
"So... I'll see you tomorrow."
"Unfortunately."
"Wow, so much enthusiasm." He chuckled. "By the way, where is the building where you work?"
Y/n frowned. "Don't even think about it! Leave my work out of this."
"Honey, let's go. I want to pick up my lovely girlfriend from work tomorrow."
"Rule number one: no comments about my appearance."
"Hey! I didn't say anything out of line. Just the truth."
"Lando, goodnight." Y/n gestured toward the door. "Go to sleep, because tomorrow is another day."
She went inside and closed the door, and the soft sound of the lock echoed down the hallway. Lando stood there for a second, still smiling, before going back downstairs.
Upon entering the car, he noticed something on the passenger seat: some banknotes and a small crumpled Post-it note: "I asked how much dinner was ò_oʻ"
Lando took the paper between his fingers, chuckled softly, and shook his head.
"Impossible," he murmured, putting the ticket in his pocket.
He left the money there. Tomorrow, he would find a way to return it, discreetly or with some kind of gift. But the smile that remained on his face as he started the car made it clear that the night had been, at the very least, more fun than he had expected.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
The next day dawned peacefully, at least for Y/n.
She had spent the morning at the office, trying to concentrate, ignoring the buzz Lando Norris's name was generating on social media and the blurry photos of them at the restaurant the night before. When she finally left the building, adjusting her blazer and hair, she was distracted on the phone, talking about a report. But the sound of a soft whistle made Y/n look up.
Leaning against the car, with a bouquet in his hands and a smile that seemed rehearsed, Lando waited for her.
Y/n almost tripped on her own heel, she started down the steps trying to ignore him, her gaze fixed on the ground, but Lando took a few steps and stopped right in front of her, blocking her path.
"Good morning, my beautiful girlfriend."
She sighed. "I hate how you call me beautiful."
"Oh, come on! It's romantic!"
"Romantic is you disappearing, Lando."
He feigned offense. "Oh, so cold in the morning? Of all people, for me?"
"You should be at some kind of training session, not here."
"Wrong. I was supposed to pick you up from work. As promised."
"Who gave you my address?"
"Your sister." Lando smiled.
Y/n closed her eyes and muttered, "I'll kill her..."
"Come on, darling. More excitement." He leaned in slightly, a cynical smile on his face.
"There might be paparazzi around here. Did you see Twitter? Our names are in the top 10 trending topics."
"Not my name! Yours."
"But now we are one, right?"
Y/n discreetly rolled her eyes, which only made Lando laugh.
"By the way..." He raised the bouquet, extending it to her. "I brought this for you."
And then he handed her the flowers. It was a beautiful bouquet of tulips, Y/n's favorite. Somehow, he had figured that out; in fact, he had spent hours looking at her Instagram last night. But that's just a detail.
"Oh... thank you, but you know, I said that-"
"You said you didn't want payment, and blah, blah, blah." He interrupted, gesturing with his hands.
"And there?"
"And that's where I bought it with your money."
The shock was instantaneous.
"What?"
"The one you left in my car yesterday. You said you wanted to pay for dinner, and I didn't want to let you. So, technically, I found a middle ground: I used your money to buy you flowers." He smiled slightly, proud of his own logic. "Brilliant, right?"
Y/n's eyes widened. For the first time, Lando Norris had left her speechless, completely vulnerable and charmed by his attitude. After all, he wasn't always mocking.
"I..." She took a deep breath, trying to hide the smile that threatened to escape. "You're impossible."
"Do I deserve a kiss now?" He teased, lowering his head slightly to look into her eyes.
Okay, he was always mocking.
"I'm only not making you swallow these flowers because, unfortunately, I liked them."
"So technically, I won."
"You didn't win anything." Y/n pushed him lightly, walking past him and down the last few steps. "Now... are you going to take me home or not?"
Lando laughed, satisfied, and followed her down from the vehicle.
"Girlfriend!" he called, unlocking the car with a click.
Y/n glanced over her shoulder and smiled cynically. "Driver."
She got into the car, bouquet in hand, trying to hide the small smile that insisted on appearing every time she smelled the tulips. And Lando, outside, watched for a moment, laughing in a good way.
While Lando drove through the streets of Monaco with her in the passenger seat, trying to strike up a conversation, outside, several fans and paparazzi were taking pictures of them without them noticing.
Plan. That damned plan.
Y/n settled into the passenger seat, adjusting the bouquet on her lap. The scent of the tulips seemed stronger now, sweet and familiar. They were her favorite flowers, and no one but her sister knew it.
"These are my favorites..."
Lando, still with a satisfied smile, replied without taking his eyes off the street. "Yeah, I know."
"You know?" She raised an eyebrow. "Was it my sister who told you?"
He shook his head, stopping at the red light.
"No."
"Then..."
"I figured it out." He shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"How did you find out?" Y/n narrowed her eyes, suspicious.
"Let's just say... I'm a great investigator. I need to know my girlfriend well, right?"
She stared at him, speechless. "I hate how you make stupid jokes."
"And I love how you smile, trying to hide that you found it funny."
Y/n looked away, biting the corner of her mouth, leaning back in her seat. The car started moving again, and for a few seconds the silence between them was comfortable.
"Would you like to have lunch with me?"
"That's part of the contract, so... probably yes." Y/n shrugged.
"No, I'm not talking about the plan..." He replied, lightly patting her leg. A quick, natural gesture, but one that made her body react with an involuntary shiver. "I'm talking about the truth. I just... wanted to get to know you a little better."
Y/n raised her eyebrows, unsure what to answer. For a second, she simply glanced at the bouquet in her lap and took a deep breath.
"What was that? Did I leave you speechless?"
"Rule number four: no arrogant comments."
"Okay, okay." Lando laughed, turning the car onto a new street. "So, where does the little kitty want to have lunch?"
"Rule number five: no silly nicknames."
"Alright, princess."
"Lando!"
He laughed loudly, and Y/n eventually gave in, nodding her head with a half-smile.
Their lunch was peaceful. Y/n chose the restaurant, but Lando chose the table: a seat on the second floor, private, away from the public eye. No paparazzi, no fans, no cameras or photos. Something Y/n didn't understand and didn't comment on, thinking they were still acting.
But Lando, he really wanted to meet his fake girlfriend for real and stop being a womanizer and become a man who only loves one woman.
The days went by, and the meetings began to repeat themselves. It was the plan, of course: dinners, coffees, small appearances carefully scheduled by Lando's team.
But, without realizing it, he began to want more. At night, after training, he would spend hours looking at her social media profile, discovering what she liked, the places she frequented, even the songs she posted on her stories.
And she was an entire universe.
Y/n also began to notice small changes. His messages, which before were just "plans" for the fake relationship, started to have a lighter, more personal tone.
And then the paparazzi photos started exploding on social media. Some blurry, others clear, Y/n and Lando walking side by side, laughing, him opening the car door for her, always with a bouquet of tulips in his hands.
At first, the comments were merely curious. "The sister of Piastri's girlfriend?"
Then, it became certain. "Norris's alleged girlfriend."
Y/n started being recognized on the streets. At the café, at work, even in the building's elevator. Some people asked for photos, others asked intrusive questions. And, for the first time, she began to feel the weight of the "plan."
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
Y/n entered his building almost running, her heart racing. She could still hear the echo of voices and flashes of paparazzi on the street, lights flickering, questions swirling in the air. All because of that damned plan she accepted without any cost.
The doorman in the lobby already knew her, smiled kindly at her, and let her take the elevator. Y/n pressed the floor number with trembling fingers, her breath heavy with anger and something she couldn't name.
He stopped in front of his door and knocked firmly. Once, twice, three times, many times.
Lando opened the door, his curls slightly messy, wearing light workout shorts and a Nirvana t-shirt. He smiled slightly when he saw her, but his eyebrows furrowed as he took a closer look at his fake girlfriend.
"Y/N?"
"You!" She pointed a finger at him, breathless. "You ruined my life!"
He blinked, clearly confused. "Hi to you too."
Lando closes the door, watching her enter.
Through their shared experiences, they had developed enough intimacy to enter each other's apartments without much discomfort or embarrassment.
"Lando, I was followed! Literally followed! Three photographers! One guy almost tripped on my heel trying to take a picture of me getting into my car, and someone yelled your name when I got into the elevator at my work building!"
Lando raised his hands, trying to stifle a laugh. "Hey, hey! Calm down, beautiful girlfriend!"
"That's not funny!" She huffs, taking off her heels and leaving them in a corner near the door.
"A little bit, yes."
Y/n rolled her eyes. "Your stupid plan ruined my life."
"Ah, so now this is my plan?" He crossed his arms. "Because I remember very well you accepting it and saying you didn't want payments." Lando leaned against the wall, arms crossed and an easy smile on his face.
"I said this before being harassed as if I were part of a reality show cast! I'm considering you paying me at least 50,000 euros a day!"
She put her work bag down on the floor and sat on the arm of the sofa, running her hands over her face and sighing deeply. Lando kept looking at her, or rather, admiring her. Somehow, her irritated tone was more charming than threatening.
But then, as soon as he gets closer, he sees that she really was feeling unwell and that
He wasn't talking nonsense.
"Y/n..." He crouches down beside her, gently holding her arm. "You're trembling."
"I'm angry!" Y/n says, putting a hand to her face.
"You're scared."
She looked up at him, and the anger gave way to something more fragile.
"I'm not used to this. To people following me, to cameras pointed at me all the time."
"I know, I'm sorry... all this is a real pain..." Lando says softly, which makes her take her hand away from her face and look at him. She's really not sure if that was comforting or another mocking comment. "But nobody's going to hurt you as long as I'm around. Okay?"
Y/n looked away, but his tone disarmed her. Lando examined every detail of her face.
"I promise."
Y/n took a deep breath. "You promise a lot, Norris."
"It's because I keep my promises."
For a moment, they were silent. The two of them were too close, the air heavy. Then Y/n looked away, trying to hide how fast her heart was racing.
"You're a problem."
"And yet, he came knocking on my door." He smiled slightly.
"Because there was nowhere to run!"
"Sure, sure." Lando crossed his arms, amused. "Then if you want to complain some more, you can use the kitchen too. I have wine."
Y/n stared at him for a few more seconds. "I hate how blatantly you flirt with me!"
Lando lets out a loud laugh. "No, you don't hate."
She sighed. "I'm still deciding."
"I can help you decide." He smiles, walking towards the kitchen. "White or red?"
Days passed, and they continued to have their planned meetings to be seen together. However, besides the rumors about them being together, there was still the buzz about Lando still being a womanizer, rumors that the team wanted to suppress with their fake relationship.
Well, they decreased, but some were still having repercussions.
Y/n read it every night when she had insomnia. Some nights, she would laugh and shake her head, denying that she could ever imagine Lando doing that. Other times, however, the laughter never came; it was something that filled her chest, something like...jealousy.
And besides showing up with him at restaurants, on the streets, and at planned dates, Lando created a rule that she should participate in Quadrant events and videos. None of them, not Max or Pietra, knew it was a fake relationship; to them, it was all real, beautiful, and romantic.
Therefore, he should introduce Y/n to them and give the paparazzi some more news to buzz about on social media.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
He needed to record for Quadrant and Lando was taking Y/n along, where, after much insistence, he convinced her to participate in some recordings for the new clothing launch of his and Max's company.
It wasn't in the city, so they would still spend 40 minutes together in the car before arriving at the location. Enough time for Lando to tease her with jokes and for Y/n to get stressed out in the first 5 minutes.
"Are you still mad that I convinced you to come?" Lando asked, with a smile that only made things worse.
"Convinced? That was psychological kidnapping," she retorted. "You practically forced me to come."
"I offered you coffee on the way. That's an invitation, not coercion."
"You said, 'Either you come with me, or I'll send photos of us to the McLaren group and lie that you miss me and want to make this real.'"
Lando shrugged, laughing. "And it worked."
"Liar!" She rolled her eyes. "Five minutes and I already want to get out of this car."
"But we still have thirty-five more." He commented casually, glancing at the road. "Enough time for me to convince you that I'm a really great boyfriend."
"You're great for headaches."
"Ah, so you admit you think about me all the time!?"
"Lando!"
"Okay, okay!" He raised his hands, laughing. "But seriously, it'll be fun. A sunny day, new clothes, filming with the crew..."
"And a crowd thinking we're the perfect couple," she added ironically.
"At least the 'perfect' part isn't a lie," Lando said with a cheeky grin.
Y/n let out a loud sigh, and Lando just bit his lip to hide his laughter.
When they arrived, the set was open, with white tents, cameras, racks full of clothes, and the Quadrant team scattered across the lawn.
Y/n took a deep breath, ready to face the theater.
"Before we leave..." Lando said, turning off the car and turning to her. "There's one little thing I forgot to mention."
"Oh my God... what now?"
"I didn't tell Max or Pietra that our relationship is fake..."
Y/n blinked, confused. "What?"
"The thing is, Max isn't very good at keeping secrets..."
"Didn't you tell your best friend about our plan?"
"It's just that you've never seen him trying to hide a birthday present... At Christmas he sent me a picture of the wrapped gift and wrote 'secret' and revealed what it was."
She tried to hold back her laughter, but ended up laughing out loud for the first time in days.
Lando looked at her for a moment, and his chest warmed. From the day of the agreement until now, he had never seen that kind of laugh from her. A light, defenseless, sweet, and pure laugh.
He felt like saying something, but preferred to keep that moment to himself.
Lando got out of the car and walked around to open her door. Y/n smiled gently and without hesitation accepted the hand he offered. As if it were automatic, or as if she had already memorized the action, their hands joined like magnets. Without either of them realizing it.
When he got close to the tents and the people, he greeted each one and then announced it to everyone.
"Guys, this is my girlfriend, Y/n."
Pietra quickly approached with a sweet smile. "So this is the girl from the paparazzi photos!"
Y/n chuckled slightly. "Herself."
"Nice to meet you, I'm Pietra."
Before Y/n could answer, Max Fewtrell appeared, smiling and pulling her into a gentle hug. "So you're the nice girl from all the internet gossip."
Lando raised his eyebrows. "Kind? She only improved my reputation."
Y/n glanced sideways at him and discreetly stuck her tongue out before stepping out of the hug and smiling sweetly at Max.
"Nice to meet you, I'm Y/n."
While Lando and Max stepped away to talk to the team about the photos, Pietra quickly struck up a conversation with Y/n.
Time seemed to pass lightly. Pietra asked questions about the relationship, and Y/n answered everything naturally. The kind of naturalness that only comes from a well-rehearsed plan. They had arranged everything one night after another planned date.
If they were asked how they met, they would say it was through Lily, since Y/n always showed up at the paddock with her sister. First date? An Italian dinner organized by Oscar and Lily. First kiss? On the balcony of his apartment, after a long run.
It was all so well thought out, and at the same time, it was starting to seem too real.
The hours passed and Y/n was really enjoying being there. Pietra was a kind, nice woman who was easy to befriend. Lando, meanwhile, was working, but every time he looked at her he smiled. And it wasn't a rehearsed smile, it was simple and pure.
Y/n reciprocated, sweet and romantic without realizing it.
"You have that look," Pietra commented suddenly.
Y/n blinked, surprised. "Look?"
"That smile you two exchange all the time. It's kind of...cute, you know?"
Y/n smiled and took a sip of water, trying to think of an answer.
"Ah, it's our way of saying that everything is okay with the other person."
"Romantic," Pietra sighed. "I wish Max were like that. After all these years together, the most romantic thing he does is look at me and make silly, funny faces."
Y/n laughed, shaking her head.
But when she turned her gaze, she saw Lando. He was talking to someone on the team, but his face was tense, frustrated. Y/n was already beginning to identify his posture: his downcast gaze, his clenched jaw. Then, when he looked at Y/n, he smiled and excused himself from the person he was talking to.
Y/n smiled, frowning slightly, as Lando approached with too much confidence.
"Can I steal my girlfriend for a second?"
"Of course!" Pietra replied, winking playfully. "She's all yours."
Lando placed a hand on Y/n's back and guided her to a more secluded corner, where there was a car with filming equipment. Y/n leaned against it, raising a hand to shade her face from the sun. Lando noticed and, without thinking, took a step forward, blocking the light with his own body.
"Thank you..." she murmured, almost inaudibly.
He smiled slightly. "You're welcome."
"Are you well?"
"Yes, but... one of the models didn't show up, and the recording will be delayed."
"And what are you going to do?"
"Actually..." he said, scratching the back of his neck. "I thought you might be able to help."
"Laandoo..." she hums.
"Y/n, look on the bright side: you're already here, you're beautiful, and you can wear anything better than half the models."
There was a silence that lasted for seconds longer than they would have liked. Lando was a little startled to say all that, which was true in every word, and she held her breath, absorbing the compliment.
"My contract doesn't cover that," she retorted, trying to hide her racing heart.
"But it's okay to pretend to be my girlfriend, isn't it?"
Y/n frowned. "That has nothing to do with it."
"It all makes sense. Couples take photos together."
"Fake couples don't take campaign photos for the fake boyfriend's website."
"But we're a convincing couple," he said, trying not to laugh.
"I hate how you have an answer for everything."
"And I love that you're terrible at saying no."
Y/n glances to the side, shaking her head to try and suppress a smile. It was proving difficult; he was quite the smooth talker.
"LANDO! SHE AGREED?" Someone from the team shouts. Lando makes a wait gesture and smiles hopefully.
"So? Okay?"
"Lando..."
"I promise it's nothing serious. They're new pieces from the collection, and I wouldn't let anyone make you uncomfortable, you know that, right? If you don't want to, that's fine, we'll figure something out."
For a moment, Y/n looked at him in silence. There was something sincere in his tone, the kind of concern she hadn't expected. And something in her was changing too, but she couldn't say what or why.
She sighed lazily, with a small smile. "Okay, I'm in."
His smile lit up his face.
"I knew you wouldn't resist my charm."
"Shut up." Y/n laughed.
He raised his hand excitedly and she returned the gesture, like a winning team touch.
The shoot began, and Y/n was wearing clothes from Quadrant's new collection, posing naturally, even though she thought everything was chaotic. Lando was also modeling some of the pieces, but when he was backstage, he looked at Y/n whenever he could, admiring her and feeling the beginning of a crush on her.
And then came the group photos.
Y/n and Lando were taking some photos together, nothing special, just some traditional poses. But Lando kept cracking jokes to make her laugh, and it worked; the photographer discreetly captured those moments.
"Now, to wrap up this photo session, how about a kiss? It'll be perfect!"
Y/n and Lando laughed together, thinking he was joking.
"Ah, we're models. We have to maintain our personal professionalism," she jokes.
"But they're dating, aren't they?" the photographer insisted. "You're going to sell the idea."
Y/n lifted her head, remembering that she was Lando's girlfriend. He approached and leaned towards her.
"Hey, you know you don't have to do that. We talked about kissing, you said you didn't want to... And if you do want to, I'll tell him no. Just let me know!"
Y/n looked at him, hesitating. Something inside her weighed heavily on her: fear, confusion, and desire. A great deal of desire.
"If it's just for the photo... that's fine."
"Serious?"
She nodded, and Lando's eyes widened slightly, but then he approached slowly, not missing a beat with his joke.
"Floon kiss?"
"I'll kill you if you do that!"
"Fair enough," Lando whispered, smiling.
And then, before she could think anymore, he kissed her. It was light, but intense, a real, firm touch, with too much emotion to be faked.
Y/n felt her heart race, his fingers on her waist, his breath mingling with hers. Lando held her gently, one hand on the curve of her waist and the other lightly on the side of her face, ensuring the kiss was focused and respectful, yet filled with an energy neither of them expected.
When they parted ways, Lando smiled, a playful glint in his eyes.
"That was good."
"Shut up!" she whispered, discreetly pinching his ribs. "That's enough for now, right? I'm going to change so we can leave..."
"Of course..." he said, still smiling, watching her walk away.
She felt vulnerable, not because she felt used, but because, unfortunately, she had enjoyed the kiss and was enjoying this whole fake dating thing. But she was angry at herself because she had hated him a few weeks ago and had promised herself that she would never get involved with a man like him.
It was a fake relationship, but she was already deeply involved, as if it were a real one.
"It's perfect!" shouted the photographer, excitedly. "Want to take a look?"
Lando approached, his gaze fixed on the photos. And, seeing the image of them laughing and kissing, he was certain of one thing. No contract could fake that.
The days went by, and their relationship continued.
About two months had passed. She was still sarcastic and he was still funny, but now that they were spending more time together, the silence was no longer uncomfortable, and sometimes they had healthy conversations without arguments.
Visits to their apartments were becoming more frequent, her genuine and pure laughter was more common, and he, well, was very much in love.
And it wasn't rehearsed. It was real, intense, and warm.
Sometimes, when she talked about something trivial, Lando would find himself smiling involuntarily and imagining what it was really like to have her all to himself. What it was like to kiss her whenever he wanted and what it was like to go out without caring about the cameras.
After that kiss weeks ago, something inside them changed. But no one dared to say anything, to avoid intrigue or pointless arguments. But the truth was, they were feeling the same thing.
It was good, sweet, and new.
And the internet was in pure chaos, the good kind of chaos.
Photos of them in restaurants, of their dates with Lily and Oscar, the Quadrant shoots, the bouquet posts she published. The couple of the moment, according to Twitter and gossip pages. No sign of fighting, no controversy, and that only made people more charmed.
Fans loved what they saw, and theories about the relationship grew stronger every day:
💬@lanlover14: "I don't know about you guys, but Lando has never smiled like that before. This girl is a ray of sunshine in his life."
💬@lilyandOscarupdates: "I was born to see Lily's sister dating Lando"
💬@mclarenfangirl: "Y/n is so discreet and elegant. Now I understand why he's so smitten. She's a perfect match for him #LandoYN"
💬@piastrixbaby: "She seems so nervous around him, but at the same time so comfortable? It's like chaos and peace in the same couple❤❤❤❤"
💬@softforlando: "That's right, folks, it's official that Lando and Oscar are brothers-in-law. I loved it, okay? Thank you, Lily, for introducing your sister to our Norris."
💬@quadrant4life: "GUYS? WHAT? AND THAT KISS THEY SHARED IN A MOVIE DURING THE QUADRANT FILMING? Judging by the kiss, they've been in love for at least 4 years and together for about 3."
Y/n read some of them and smiled at their kindness and theories. But her heart raced even faster when she read one saying that she and Lando were a perfect couple and that they were finally together.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
Y/n was at the hotel, getting ready to go to the racetrack. But now, she was Lando's girlfriend.
Lily was there, a little scared, curious, and shocked by what her older sister had just told her.
"You kissed? What? You said that wouldn't happen in your relationship!"
Y/n chuckled, leaning closer to the mirror. "Come on, Lily. It wasn't a big deal. It was rehearsed."
"Nothing too out of the ordinary, just rehearsed? Then why do you smile every time you talk about him now?" Lily crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame.
Y/n stopped moving her hand and looked at her sister in the reflection, startled and completely taken aback.
"What?"
"There you go! I got you!" Lily snapped her fingers victoriously. "You're enjoying this relationship!"
"You're crazy," Y/n replied, going back to applying her makeup. "I'm not, I'm not."
Lily shrugged. "You're falling in love. And he's already so smitten with you! Actually, he always was. You could tell long before this whole charade started."
Y/n frowned slightly, but didn't look at her sister. She just kept thinking about what Lily had said, trying to ignore the fact that she was right. She was starting to fall in love. If she wasn't already.
"You're crazy!"
Lily began to observe everything her sister was wearing at the moment. "These shoes... were they gifts?"
"Present."
"The dress?"
"Present."
"And that bouquet of tulips on the table? I know Lando made it too." Lily shakes her head, liking the idea. "You said you didn't want payments, but what about these gifts? Did you refuse and he insisted, or did you not even bother to reject them?" She teases, and Y/n rolls her eyes, applying lipstick.
"It's nothing much... It's not like this is a payment, Lily."
"Nothing else?"
Lily raised an eyebrow. "Y/N, he had a bouquet of tulips delivered to your hotel room, even though you've barely seen each other since you got here. This has nothing to do with a contract, paparazzi photos, or fan rumors. He's completely in love with you!"
Y/n left the bathroom, sat on the bed, and looked at her sister with slightly wide eyes, her heart racing. She was about to say something, anything, but then they heard knocking at the door. Lily smiled, already knowing who it was.
"Think about it."
Y/n stood up and when she opened the door, there was Lando, leaning against the door frame with a small bouquet of red roses in his hand. Lily bit her lip, holding back a laugh, and walked past him smiling. As soon as she was behind the pilot, she made a hand gesture to Y/n as if to say, 'I told you so!'.
Lando then noticed Y/n's furrowed brow and immediately became worried.
"What's wrong? Don't you like roses?" Lando asked, confused.
"No, it's just that... Lily was acting a little funny following you around looking for her bag. But I don't think she even brought it." Y/n laughed to lie even more, trying to sound calm.
He smiled, extending the bouquet. "Here, for you. I left early to take care of some things with my assistant and I thought these were beautiful, so I brought them because they suit you."
Y/n rolled her eyes, holding the flowers. "You try so hard to be cute, it's annoying."
"But it worked." He blinked.
She laughed, shaking her head. "I'm going to grab my purse and put on some perfume, I'll be right back."
Lando nodded, leaning against the wall. As she walked away, he observed her natural demeanor, the slight smile that escaped her now and then.
Y/n placed the bouquet next to the tulips in the vase and returned. Soon, the two left the room holding hands.
There were no photographers or fans around, but the gesture happened without thinking. Natural. Automatic. Real.
It was only when he opened the car door for her that Y/n let go of his hand and realized: Lily was right. She was falling in love with Lando Norris.
But was he there too?
The drive to the racetrack was light, full of laughter and jokes. It was no longer the silence of two strangers. Now it was friendship, complicity, and something growing between them.
As soon as Lando parked his McLaren 765LT in the parking lot with his name on it, they could already hear the fans cheering in the fenced-off area near the parking lot. Y/n smiled; she was truly proud of how Lando was doing. The praise had increased, and his image was no longer involved in rumors that could compromise him or the team.
Lando Norris was truly in love with someone. And that person was her.
Y/n let out a discreet sigh, still admiring the crowd. Lando looked at her and smiled.
"First time at a Grand Prix as a couple, huh?" He commented, in that light, playful tone, but with a look full of meaning. Y/n rolled her eyes, laughing. "If at any point you don't feel comfortable, let me know, okay? We'll figure something out. You can stay in the driver's room and even watch from there if you want to escape the chaos of the pits."
Y/n chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Lando, I'm fine. I just don't know if I'll be able to walk properly with so many people shouting your name like this."
"Oh, they're not just shouting my name, no." He replied, winking. "Half of them are trying to see you."
Y/n rolled her eyes, still smiling. "Sure, as if."
"Seriously!" Lando insisted, amused. "You've become a star, Y/n."
Y/n laughed again, unbuckled her seatbelt. "You're delirious, Norris."
"Maybe," he replied, with a half-smile that made her look away. "But it's a good kind of delusion."
She lowered her gaze, trying to hide a shy smile. Her heart was beating a little faster than normal, and she hated how often that happened whenever he said something like that.
"Ready?" Lando asked.
"Ready," she replied.
"Then let's show them the most beautiful couple in the paddock."
"You and your ego..." Y/n laughed. "And just to remind you, we're not a real couple, remember?"
"But we should!" Lando winks at her and gets out of the car.
Lando got out of the car and waved to the fans, who liked it and called him over for photos and autographs. But as soon as he walked over to where she was and opened the door for Y/n to get out, the crowd cheered even more, overjoyed to actually see her there in person, fueling the rumors that they were together.
It was a lie, of course, it was a contract. Maybe the feelings weren't there, but that was for later.
Lando closed the door and, still smiling, turned to her. "You already have fans, you know?"
Y/n chuckled, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
"They're all yours, Lando."
"No, they're not." He replied, looking at her more seriously, his voice low enough for only her to hear. "They like you because you're real. Because you make me a better person, without me having to prove anything to anyone. Since you came along, the headlines stopped talking about scandals and started talking about the real me. You helped me remember why I'm here. And... if I had to choose someone to stand by my side through all this, even if it was a lie again, I would choose you again. And they see that you came to change my life."
The words flowed so naturally that it left her breathless.
Y/n remained silent, her heart racing as if each beat echoed in her chest. She tried to answer, but nothing came out. She simply observed every detail of his face: his gentle smile, his sincere gaze, the way the sun shone on his brown hair, leaving golden highlights.
She chuckled softly, more to herself than to him, and lowered her head, trying to hide her blush. Lando smiled when he noticed and, with a gentle gesture, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"I hate it when you touch my hair," she murmured, unable to hide her smile.
"Liar! You love it." He winks. Y/n laughs and then reaches for the backpack he was carrying.
"I'll hold this for a while, go say hi to your fans!" Lando smiled and handed it to her, leaned closer and kissed her cheek.
At that point, the people shouted even more enthusiastically.
"Our fans!"
Y/n stood well behind Lando; she didn't really want all the fame, she was just there to help him with this deal, but she smiled kindly and waved to some people when her name was mentioned.
She took a deep breath, trying to appear natural, even knowing that each curious glance was also a reminder that she was playing a role. Still, she maintained a smile.
"My God, she's even more beautiful in person!"
"Lando, you two are such a good match!"
"They are the cutest couple on the grid!"
"Y/n, take a picture with me too!"
"You're perfect for him!"
"Lando, take good care of her!"
The voices overlapped each other, and Y/n didn't know whether to laugh, thank them, or hide in shyness. She ended up doing everything at once—she chuckled softly, blushed, waved shyly, and thanked them quietly.
"Y/n, you're even more beautiful in person!" shouted a girl at the railing, smiling excitedly.
Y/n paused for a moment and smiled back. "Oh, thank you! You're a sweetheart."
Lando, who was a few steps away from her signing a cap, looked up and commented loudly enough for the girl to hear.
"Isn't that right?" He smiles, agreeing with the girl and looking at Y/n. "See? It's not just me who thinks you're beautiful. Now you have witnesses."
The girl laughed, completely delighted, and Y/n just snorted, amused.
"He's silly, don't listen to him!"
The people around laughed along, shouting Lando's and her names, taking pictures and joking about the moment. The pilot just shrugged, smiling with that satisfied look of someone who loved to tease, especially if the target was Y/n.
He continued attending to as many fans as he could, handing out autographs, quick hugs, and photos. When the security guards announced it was time to go inside, Lando said goodbye to the crowd with one last wave and returned to Y/n, who was still smiling shyly.
Without saying a word, he intertwined his fingers with hers, guiding her toward the paddock entrance. As they walked side by side, Y/n felt his thumb slide across her hand in an unconscious gesture.
The contract might have been a sham, but the way he looked at her, the way she smiled without realizing it, nothing seemed like a lie.
They arrived at the McLaren garage amidst the sounds of tools, excited voices, and pointed cameras. Lando paused briefly before entering, still holding her hand.
"Will you be alright here?" he asked, watching her with a hint of concern.
Y/n nodded, looking around and smiling.
"Yes, of course. My sister is around here somewhere, don't worry."
"Even so, I can't help it." Lando tilted his head slightly, the corner of his lips curving into a smile. "It's just that I have a very sought-after girlfriend right now."
"Funny guy!" Y/n smiled, but then Lando leaned in and placed a light kiss on her forehead. "Just don't fall for another pilot, your boyfriend here would be very sad!"
Y/n bit her lip to stifle a laugh, crossing her arms.
"I hate how you make me laugh."
"So, mission accomplished." He replied with that silly grin and walked away, disappearing among the engineers.
"Hey Y/n! How are things between you and Lando? I saw you arrived together." She adjusted her name tag around her neck, trying to maintain a professional tone.
"Ah, everything's fine. We're getting along according to the contract... well, I think so." Y/n lets out a nervous laugh.
The woman let out an amused giggle.
"Well, judging by the looks he gave you and the kiss on the forehead, you're doing great!" Before Y/n could answer, someone called the assistant's name from the other side of the booth. "See you later, dear. Call us if you need anything." She winked and walked away.
Y/n sighed, adjusting her hair, and then heard a familiar voice.
"Guess who came to save you from those nosy questions?" Lily approached with a cup of coffee in her hand and a mischievous smile.
"It took a while, huh?" Y/n replied, laughing.
"Let's go for the hospitality. It has air conditioning and fewer curious glances."
As they ascended, the paddock was buzzing. Fans cheered, but now there was a new attraction: the sham relationship that seemed anything but fake. Social media was already abuzz, with videos of their arrival spreading in seconds.
💬@f1updates: "Lando Norris arrived holding hands with Y/n and fans went crazy #Landyn"
💬@mclarengirlx: "The way he looked at her before entering the paddock... Norris is definitely in love!"
💬@piastrilover: "Brothers-in-law! I repeat, BROTHERS-IN-LAW! That's everything to me #Lando #Y/n #Oscar #Lily
💬@f1tea: "I love that Lily is dating Oscar and her sister is in a relationship with Lando. Definitely the Papaya family."
Later, before the race, everyone was already in the garage waiting for the start. Lando approached her, already with his racing suit and helmet in hand. He had his usual mischievous smile whenever he saw her.
Y/n frowned, curious. "What is it, my boy?"
"I came to get my lucky shot," he replied, moving closer to whisper. "By the way, could I get a kiss from you after I win the race?"
Y/n tilted her head provocatively. "Where?"
"In my mouth, right, babe?"
She laughed, shaking her head. "No, no. What did we agree on?"
Lando chuckled and shook his head.
"Okay... but when this becomes real, I'm going to collect on all those overdue kisses." He poked her nose with his finger and winked before heading towards the car.
Y/n bit her cheek, trying to stifle a laugh, lowering her head. Lily appeared right behind her, placing a hand on her sister's shoulder.
"What happened? Giving in to British charm?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
Lily's eyes widened as she laughed.
During the race, Y/n watched from the pits. The cameras frequently showed her in the broadcasts, and she waved with a gentle smile. Sometimes, she heard curious whispers: "Is that her?", "Norris's girlfriend?", which made her suppress a giggle.
She had always been there for Oscar and Lily, but now there was something different. The atmosphere was different, lighter, sweeter. Lando seemed to really want her there. And, somehow, Y/n wanted it too. For him.
When he crossed the finish line first, the garage erupted in celebration. The team came out shouting and clapping for Lando's P1 and Oscar's P2.
One of the mechanics walked past Y/n, smiling. "Come on, your boyfriend is waiting for you."
Y/n blinked, confused. "What?"
"Come on, Miss Norris. I'll take you to your Prince Charming." Lily appeared, gently nudging her sister from behind, seeing that she was lost.
Y/n laughed, rolling her eyes. "Haha, very funny, Miss Piastri."
"Thank you!" Lily replied sarcastically, and the two continued laughing.
Y/n then headed towards the pilot who, contract or not, had already become something far more important than she herself had imagined.
As soon as Y/n and Lily arrived at the cluster of McLaren mechanics, strategists, and engineers, the euphoria was still alive: shouts, hugs, laughter, the sound of engines still echoing in the background. Lando and Oscar were already walking towards the team, smiling and exhausted, helmets still in their hands.
Lando greeted some of the engineers, gave Oscar a quick hug, and when his eyes met Y/n there in the middle, huddled and shy among the sea of papayas, he simply laughed. He handed the helmet to one of the mechanics and gestured with his hand, beckoning her over.
Y/n smiled, shaking her head, but started walking toward him. Engineers were squeezing together, making space, as if they already knew what was coming. When she got close to the railing, Lando smiled broadly, a genuine smile, more open, lighter than any other she had ever seen from him.
She frowned slightly, surprised, but ended up smiling back.
"Great run today, huh!" he said, trying to sound casual.
"I told you I'd win," he replied, his eyes gleaming. "And I also said I wanted a kiss. Now what?"
Y/n let out a laugh, the kind of laugh Lando loved. "And now? Nothing, right? Remember my request in the contract: no kissing."
Lando pretended to think, looking around.
"But what about that kiss during the Quadrant recording? I know you liked it!"
Y/n's eyes widened and she pounded his chest in disbelief.
"LANDO! It was just a technical kiss, nothing more!"
"But what if I told you that the kiss we can give here can also be technical?" He retorted, raising his eyebrows. "After all, the team asked us to show affection in public. And look... we're in public!"
"You're impossible, Norris!" She pointed her finger at him, trying to look serious, but her smile already gave her away.
"Come on, darling. Just one kiss. I promise to kiss you close to your mouth."
Y/n looked around, sighing, feeling her heart race in a silly way. For the past few days, she had desperately wanted to relive the taste of Lando Norris's kiss, and she hated admitting it.
"Okay! But on the corner of my mouth!" she said, pointing again, still with an amused smile.
"You're the boss, sir!"
Lando approached slowly, with that playful look that only made the situation worse. Before Y/n could even process the movement, he gently cupped her face and kissed her.
A simple, but direct kiss on the lips. She was startled at first, which made Lando laugh against her lips, and she ended up responding. The kiss was brief, gentle, but enough. Enough for both of them to understand, once and for all, what they were feeling for each other.
As soon as they parted ways, Y/n blinked, stunned.
"I said it right under my breath, Norris!"
Lando was already a few steps away, laughing.
"Sorry, I can't hear you!" He gestured with his hand to his ear, pretending not to hear.
Y/n rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face completely gave her away.
Around them, shouts erupted. Mechanics, engineers, strategists, everyone applauded and screamed, vibrating as if they had witnessed something epic. In the stands, the fans watching the broadcast saw the kiss and began to celebrate as if it were their own victory.
Lily, a little behind, let out an excited squeal and clapped her hands, while Oscar just laughed, shaking his head. The two exchanged a knowing look. They knew, they had been cupids from the start.
The podium ceremony followed soon after. Lando, up above, raising the golden trophy, exchanged a discreet glance with Y/n in the middle of the crowd. He waved subtly, and she responded with a shy smile, her heart beating too fast.
When he returned, still soaked in champagne, trophy in hand and hair disheveled, he went straight to her. He didn't greet anyone beforehand, didn't respond to the photographers, he went to Y/n. She congratulated him again, a wide smile on her face, and hugged him. She didn't care about the champagne soaking her dress.
Lando stood motionless for a few seconds, surprised by the gesture. After all, she had despised him so much before this contract. Oscar, behind them, chuckled and nodded, as if to say, "Return the favor, buddy."
And he reciprocated. With both hands, firmly holding the trophy and Y/n in his arms, gently swaying them from side to side.
Your two trophies.
When his nose touched her neck, Lando smiled. The familiar scent of her perfume hit him hard: sweet, warm, comforting. It felt like home.
It was his home.
As the euphoria began to subside, Lando said he needed to go to interviews and meetings with the team, but that she could rest in the driver's room if she felt overwhelmed by the paddock. Y/n simply nodded, holding the trophy he had left with her. She watched until he disappeared down the hallway.
Hours later, Y/n was on the sofa in his room, fast asleep, covered up to her head. The air conditioning was on full blast, the room was warm, and his trophy was on a table she had carefully set.
When Lando slowly entered, he smiled at the sight of her completely wrapped in the blanket. He walked over and crouched down beside the sofa, chuckling softly, and gently ran his fingers across her cheek.
"Hey, my love. Shall we go home?"
Y/n opened her eyes with difficulty.
"I'm cold..." she murmured, pulling the blanket closer.
Lando laughed, shaking his head.
"It's very hot here!"
"No..."
"Okay, it's cold then." He laughed again. "Let's go to the hotel, there are more warm blankets there." Y/n opened one eye, sleepy, and saw his smile. "Hi, darling."
She smiled slightly and sat up slowly, her hair tousled, her voice hoarse with sleep. "Hi, Norris."
Lando reached out his hand to her, still with that look of someone who finally knew exactly how he felt.
After that Grand Prix, everything was changing between them. Feelings were more intense, their meetings were more frequent now, and it wasn't just for media reasons. Sometimes, he would spend the whole afternoon at her house helping with the cleaning or just petting her cat while she talked about her annoying coworkers.
Sometimes, Y/n would go to his apartment with a pizza box after work. Lando would greet her with open arms, smiling and kissing the top of her head. Those were nights of games, laughter, or sometimes deeper conversations on his apartment balcony.
Everything was becoming very real, and deep down they wanted it very much.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
The relationship was supposed to last a maximum of 3 months. They had already been doing it for 6. The team didn't come to talk to them, and neither of them dared to bring up the subject and break through their little world, which unfortunately was perfect and very real.
She started going to more GPs, hanging out with him more without even saying it was for media attention. There was even one time when she and Lily organized a lunch at her parents' house and brought Oscar and Lando.
With the photos published, the fans went even crazier.
landonorris
Liked by YnZneimer, oscarpiastri, lnfour, lewishamilton and others
70,000 comments...
landonorris: I came to the UK to meet the people who are important to someone who is important to me 🩷👩❤️👨... Well, my teammate had to show me the way, since he's been in the family longer than I have.
💬YnZneimer: We made a great lunch for our papaya boys, didn't we? @lilyzneimer 😜
💬-> lilyzneimer: For sure!🤗
💬user1: Wait, wait, wait!! Lando went to spend the holidays with Y/n's family, who are...like... Lily's sister, and Lily is Oscar's girlfriend. Oh my God, I think I'm going to get sick.
💬user2: Lando went to meet Y/N's family? This is getting very serious, friends.
💬user3: Lando and Oscar with the Zneimer family! I repeat! The McLaren drivers are dating the Zneimer sisters!!!!
💬user4: I AM. SPEECHLESS.
💬YnZneimer: Actually, I already miss you ✌🏻
💬-> landonorris: Me too, darling. 😪
💬user5: I'm going to print this post and spread it around town. It's so cute!!!!
💬user6: I hope it's not just rumors...like before...
💬user7: I'm going to sleep happy. 🥹🩷
💬->YnZneimer: Me too🥹
That night, exhausted after a long day at work, Y/n skipped her visit to Lando's apartment. He, understanding, simply sent her favorite takeout food and a small bouquet of flowers along with a note: "I'll be staying here tonight, I don't want to disturb your rest, my dear. Enjoy your meal and take care❤️."
💬user7: OMG!!!!
She smiled, grabbed her bag and phone for a quick check before lying down on the bed. She went on Instagram and, while scrolling through her feed, her heart gave her a painful jolt.
It was a fan club profile, and the post was only fifteen minutes old. The photo showed Lando at a charity gala that she couldn't attend because of work. He was laughing, throwing his head back slightly, while an incredibly photogenic blonde model held his arm.
The snapshot, taken at an unfortunate angle, seemed intimate: her body slightly leaning towards his, him appearing totally absorbed in what she was saying.
Y/n couldn't stop reading the comments. They were teeming with assumptions that she was being cheated on, that Lando had already moved on, and some hateful comments directed at him for "doing this to Y/n."
A knot tightened in her chest, a mixture of sudden anger and overwhelming disappointment. With a trembling hand, she turned off her cell phone and threw it on the bed, running her hands over her face.
"Come on, Y/n. You shouldn't feel like this, you two aren't even together." She said aloud to herself, staring at a fixed point on the bedroom wall. Her eyes began to burn, the pain of the truth hitting her hard. "Oh my God... we're not together..."
And then, she broke down in tears, the bubble that protected her finally bursting into cold, harsh reality.
The next morning was her day off. Y/n was in the kitchen, in her pajamas, her hair tied up in a messy bun, but looking surprisingly good considering she had cried herself to sleep the night before.
She was brewing a strong coffee when a knock on the door made her glance at her watch and frown in confusion, expecting no one. When she opened it, she came face to face with Lando. He was holding a bag from their favorite bakery in one hand and a couple of coffee cups in the other.
He smiled, that easy smile that always melted away any little anger she might feel.
"Hi, darling. Did you sleep well?" Lando asked, entering the apartment without waiting for an invitation, the smell of fresh coffee filling the air.
Y/n sighed, the memory of the photo from the previous night burning in her mind. She didn't want to argue, but she couldn't help the sharpness in her voice.
"Yes, but not better than you." She replied, in a sarcastic and rude tone that made Lando stop in his tracks.
Lando frowned, confusion clouding his clear eyes. He closed the door behind him, worried, and watched Y/n turn and head straight for the kitchen, ignoring him.
Y/n resumed stirring the eggs in a frying pan with unnecessary aggression. Lando approached hesitantly and placed the coffees and pastries on the counter.
"I brought some things from our favorite bakery, I thought we could have breakfast together today." He smiled, extending the bag. Y/n simply picked up her plate with the eggs and placed it on the counter, pretending not to see the bag.
"You can stay. You must need more energy than I do; it must be exhausting keeping up with such a full schedule," she says with ulterior motives.
Lando tilted his head, his confusion growing. "What?"
Y/n picked up her mug and filled it to the brim with black coffee, the strong smell filling the air.
"Nothing. I'm just saying you have commitments and I have my day off. But you should be more careful about what seems real... After all, you don't want to ruin the little show, do you?" Y/n starts putting way too much sugar in the cup while stirring.
Lando frowned, his body stiffening at the mention of the "little charade" he was trying so hard to forget. He hated that lie. But the connection to the previous night still didn't make sense to him.
"Y/n, what happened? I arrive here with our favorite breakfast and you act like I did something wrong... darling, just tell me." He demanded, beginning to worry about her.
Y/n turned to him, her eyes burning with tears of exhaustion and anger. The frustration of having to explain the obvious made her lose control. She stopped stirring the coffee, the strong smell filling the air, and finally faced him.
"Do you want me to talk? What were you doing yesterday with that model? Instagram was ablaze with speculation!" Y/n paused, her chest rising and falling with rapid breathing.
"Photo?" Lando asked, completely surprised.
Y/n rolled her eyes, frustrated. She grabbed her phone, unlocked it at lightning speed, and threw the device onto the counter, open to the photo.
"That picture! I can't take it anymore! Don't you understand?" The tears came suddenly, quick and furious. "I swear it's pathetic. I feel betrayed by someone who was never really mine."
Lando freezes as soon as she speaks the last sentence.
His eyes searched for any sign on Y/n's face, but she only bit her lip, trying not to break down in tears like last night. He felt his heart clench, a sad and unfamiliar pain.
"You know what's worse? I don't have the right to be angry. Because, theoretically, there is no 'us.' But somehow, you managed to make me feel like there is... I hate how you make it all so real. I hate that in the end, I can never get mad at you. I hate this stupid plan. I hate how you look at me, like I'm the only person in the world. I hate how you flirt with me. I hate how you call me beautiful and I hate how you have an answer for everything... I hate your loud laugh that makes me forget my problems. I hate how you make silly jokes and I hate how you make me laugh. I hate how you make me feel safe when you hug me in public. I hate when you play with my hair. I hate your hand on my thigh during car rides. I hate the unexpected kindness that disarms me. And I hate your messy hair in the morning! But what I hate most is that I've never hated any of them of all the things I said... Because they're the only things I had to cling to when I remembered it was all a lie." Heavy tears streamed down her face, dripping onto her pajamas. She looked at him, helpless, the confession escaping her lips. "I love you, Lando. I truly fell in love with you. And I'm so afraid that it will all end tomorrow and you'll go back to pretending nothing happened."
Lando couldn't take it anymore. The confession of love hit him like a punch to the gut, taking his breath away and bringing him back to reality. He took quick steps and pulled her close, holding her in a tight, desperate embrace.
Y/n collapsed against his chest, finally allowing the tears to flow freely. She hugged him back just as tightly, burying her face in his shirt.
"No, no, no." Lando whispered into her hair. "It's not over. Not this time. I won't let it. I won't let you..."
Y/n stepped back slightly, still holding his shoulder, her face wet. "You messed me up inside, Norris."
He smiled sadly, but his eyes showed a firm determination. Lando pulled her closer again, gently but firmly, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes fixed on hers.
"So let me fix everything now... Why do you really think I need to pretend to love you?" He asked, his voice hoarse, tears already welling in his eyes. "Because we started out lying. But what I feel now is the truest part of my life."
The tip of his nose brushed against hers in small, almost desperate touches, as if he feared she would evaporate if he didn't keep her close.
Lando kept his forehead pressed against hers, breathing as if he had just run a race. His chest rose and fell rapidly, not from physical exhaustion, but from the weight of finally understanding what she was feeling and what he himself had been holding back for far too long.
"Y/n... I spent weeks thinking I could control this. That I could keep us within that ridiculous, organized, and safe story. I thought that if I pretended nothing was happening, I could keep you close without scaring you. Without scaring myself... But every time I saw you, every time you smiled, I screwed myself up a little more... I don't fall in love easily, you know that. I was scared, I tried to avoid it, I tried to convince myself it was just fun, just convenience, just a contract. But you..." Lando closed his eyes for a second, touching her cheek with his thumb, wiping away a tear that no longer made a difference amidst so many others. "You became part of everything. My routine. My thoughts. My life. And when I realized I didn't want to imagine anything without you anymore... it was too late. I was already in love... And you think I needed to pretend? My love... I don't even know when I stopped pretending. Maybe months ago, but my love for you has always been with me. Y/n, I love you. I love you so much, my love. And that's not part of the contract!"
Y/n let out a soft giggle, and his hand slid to the nape of her neck, pulling it more gently than forcefully, his thumb caressing the exact spot that always made her relax.
For a second, they just stood there, staring at each other, two emotional disasters finally colliding. And then, as if the very air had given way, Lando pulled her close and kissed her.
The kiss started as an apology, gentle and caring. But as soon as Y/n grabbed his sweatshirt and pulled him closer, the gesture transformed into something more intense.
An accumulation of months of restrained touch, of averted glances, of stifled feelings. He held her by the waist, firmly, almost desperately, as if now that he had her, he could no longer lose her. The world became small, reduced to the sound of their breathing and the gentle impact of their bodies pressed together, pressed against the silent kitchen counter.
When they pulled away, both still trying to catch their breath, their foreheads touched again. Lando smiled in a broken, vulnerable, but completely sincere way, as if he were finally lifting a monstrous weight off his shoulders.
"I... wanted to kiss you again so badly that my brain shut down. Completely."
Y/n chuckled weakly, wiping away the last traces of tears from her face with her hand. "Yeah, I noticed. You literally pinned me against the counter."
"Me? Never. It must have been the... wind." He raised his hands innocently.
"Strong wind. Very strong. A rare phenomenon." Her laughter finally came out fully, lightly. "I always miss you," Lando confessed, more quietly. "Even without having the right to feel that way. And I... I don't want this middle ground anymore."
Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Inside my kitchen?"
Y/n took a deep breath, still holding his sweatshirt.
"So what do we do? Because this... agreement..." She made air quotes. "It doesn't make sense anymore."
"Great," Lando said quickly. "Because I want to make you my real girlfriend."
She blinked. "Just like that, straight up?"
"Do you want me to make a PowerPoint? I'll do it. With charts. Animated slides. Title: 'Why Y/n should date me immediately'."
"And what would the first topic be?"
"Because I'm too handsome and convincing to make her agree!" She laughed loudly, a laugh full of relief, and he pulled her by the waist again. "I want us both. No lies, no plans, no pretending. I want to take you to the GPs without having to make up excuses. I want to post photos of you without having to send them to the team to ask if 'it looks too real.' I want to kiss you whenever I feel like it. And I do feel like it... always."
Y/n felt his heart do that silly jump that only he could cause.
"So, are we really doing this?"
"Really!" He confirmed, pressing his nose against hers. "With an emotional contract, unlimited kisses, and the right to complain when I leave the wet towel on the bed."
"You always do."
"That's right. Now you can officially insult me."
Y/n wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "So you want to make me your girlfriend?"
Lando smiled broadly, his eyes shining.
The kiss that followed was different, slower, deeper, full of promise. He held her face in both hands, as if declaring something without words. She pulled him by his sweatshirt again, but this time he laughed against her mouth, the soft laughter vibrating between them before deepening the kiss until they both needed to lean on the counter to keep their legs from trembling.
"My love... you've been like this for months. You just hadn't realized it yet."
YnZneimer
Liked by landonorris, lnfour, lilyzneimer, mclaren, oscarpiastri and others
YnZneimer: 10 things I hate love about you. 1- 1. I hate how you look at me. 2. I hate how you call me beautiful. 3. I hate how you have an answer for everything. 4. I hate when you touch my hair. 5. I hate how you make stupid jokes. 6. I hate how you make me laugh. 7. I hate those stupid plans. 8. I hate how you flirt with me. 9. I hate how you make it all so real. 10. I hate that in the end, I can never get mad at you. Because, it's not any of that that I hate, it's all the things that make me fall in love with you every day. Loving you every day. @landonorris
100,000 comments...
💬landonorris: You make me the happiest man in the world. I love you with all my heart and soul, Y/n Zneimer. Now we start from scratch, as normal couples, and it will be us for eternity.
💬oscarpiastri: Well...Lando Norris is officially my brother-in-law now. 😧
💬-> landonorris: Cheer up, brother-in-law! ❤️🫵🏼
💬user1: It's more than true, these two are captivating. 😭🩷
💬user2: "Now we begin?" I didn't understand, but I know my heart is warmed by this statement.
💬user3: And I thought it was just a fake relationship. My God, they're so naive...
💬->YnZneimer: hahaha👀
💬lilyzneimer: 🩷🩷
💬carmenmmundt: Congratulations and welcome to our world Y/n
💬-> YnZneimer: thanks ☺️
💬user4: Lando Norris is in love with someone, that's so beautiful.
Plot: 3.9k - Lando Norris x touchstarved!reader, very fluffy
Warnings: Use of feminine pronouns; physical intimacy (sfw); toxic family
Note: First ever F1 fic... kinda nervous. Pls be nice to me
You never expected to date Lando Norris.
One day you were best coworkers, then friends, years of late-night calls and bad jokes and sharing fries, and the next, you were crossing the invisible line between friends and something else.
It felt natural. Effortless. Like it was always supposed to be this way.
Except for one thing.
You kept shying away from touch.
He noticed, of course. You never held his hand in public or in private. You stiffened slightly when he reached for your waist. When his friends teased him about the lack of PDA, Lando just smiled and shook his head.
"She'll get there," he said, like it wasn't even a question. Like he knew.
And he never pushed. Never made you feel like you had to be someone else.
But you noticed how easy it was for him. How his friends leaned into each other. How he ruffled George's hair or flung an arm around Carlos mid-conversation.
You didn't know how to be like that and while Lando was patient with you, you certainly weren’t. It sucked.
On your first official date everything had gone well, until after walking you home Lando went to kiss your cheek. Your flinch back was violent and left you apologizing profusely. The curly haired boy could only give you one of his grins that made the world stop spinning as he insisted that you had nothing to worry about.
But Lando didn’t let it scare him.
He found little ways in. Gentle ones.
A hand at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowd. A light touch to your shoulder when he passed behind you. His pinky brushing yours while you sat beside each other on the couch. A shared blanket you hadn’t even agreed to, but didn’t remove because it was just too fluffy.
It was never insistent. Just… there.
Like when he laughed so hard he had to get a hold of himself, and his hand found your knee. Or when he passed you the popcorn during a movie and let his fingers linger a moment too long. Or how his head would drop onto your shoulder after a long day, and he wouldn’t move unless you did.
At first, you froze every time, but over time.. you stopped.
Then, one night, you didn’t even notice, not until the warmth of him (your personal heater, as you'd started calling him in your head) was gone. He got up to grab a drink from the kitchen, and suddenly the air felt colder, your skin startlingly aware of where his presence had been.
And you missed it.
He noticed when you leaned back into him. When you brushed against his arm just to stay close. And how you bumped into him in the kitchen on purpose, time and time again. The first time it was “accidental.” The second time he didn’t say anything, just smirked. The third, he bumped you back, playful with that big grin you loved, like it was a game only the two of you understood.
He never said anything, but the way his smile quietly grew was all the reward you needed.
One evening, you were standing together on the balcony, watching the streetlights blink to life. It was cool out. Lando offered you his hoodie, which you accepted, and then—without thinking—you leaned your head on his shoulder.
A minute passed.
Then two.
And if his heart had wings, it would’ve taken off into orbit, as he tried to be as still as humanly possible, like if a cat laid on him.
After a particularly tough day with stressful and late meetings, way too crowded trains and a social battery that wasn’t even half charged when you went to McLaren MTC, you found yourself flinching again.
Lando of course noticed.
You pulled away when he tried to touch your back at dinner. Dodged instinctively when he leaned in to kiss your temple. Your shoulders were up to your ears by the time you got home.
He didn’t get upset. He never did. But you could see it in his eyes, that quiet, worried little crease between his brows.
Later, while you were both on the couch, wrapped in separate corners of the blanket, he glanced at you with a lopsided smile and said lightly, “You know I’m not actually electric, right?”
You blinked at him.
“What?”
“Every time I touch you, you jump like I’m about to zap you.” He wiggled his fingers like a cartoon villain. “Bzzzt.”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. “I’m sorry. It’s not you.”
“I know,” he said, voice softening instantly. “I just.. If I could unplug whatever wires your brain crossed when it comes to this... I would.”
You hesitated. “I want to be okay with it.”
“I know you do.”
He reached out, slow and open-palmed, and rested his hand gently over yours where it lay in your lap.
You didn’t flinch this time.
“I’m not electric,” he said again, smiling into your skin.
And for the first time, you smiled back, and let your fingers curl into his.
You’d already known his family.
You’d been friends long enough that you’d met them before. Even when you were still just coworkers you had met them at Grand Prix’s. Quick greetings, polite hellos. But this was different.
This time, you were his girlfriend.
They threw him a party at their home and invited you along for the week. A full seven days of Norris-family warmth in November.
You were nervous.
You shouldn’t have been. From the moment you stepped through the door, they pulled you in like you were already one of them.
His mum, Cisca, hugged you tight and kissed your cheek like she’d known you forever. His sisters dragged you into conversations about your favorite books and childhood memories. Flo linked arms with you on the walk to the park like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It was overwhelming, in the best way possible.
And slowly, something in you shifted. You laughed more. You stopped pulling away. You let his mum hold your hand when she got excited about a story. You didn’t flinch when his aunt kissed your cheek.
And with Lando? You leaned into him without thinking. Your hand found his under the table. You rested your head on his chest while watching the sunset.
He noticed every little change.
The way your fingers tangled with his like it had always been that way. The way your head fit against his shoulder during movie night. The way you let yourself sink into him.
He got giddy.
Actually giddy.
He’d squeeze your hand a little tighter. Duck his head and smile into your hair. Beam like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was.
And when you fell asleep curled against him on the living room couch that night, he didn’t sleep. He just watched you. Heart full to bursting.
Eventually, Cisca passed through the room on her way upstairs—pausing at the doorway when she spotted the two of you on the couch, the soft rise and fall of your chest against her son’s side, your hand still laced with his.
She didn’t speak right away, just smiled at the sight. Her son looked up, his grin sheepish but proud.
“She’s good for you,” his mum whispered, eyes soft.
His gaze dropped back to you. Your features relaxed, your body loose and peaceful against his. “I know,” he whispered back.
Cisca stepped over, pressed a kiss to the top of Lando’s curls, and ruffled his hair like he was five years old again and he couldn’t help but lean into his mom’s familiar touch.
“She sees you,” she said, almost to herself. Then, with a wink: “Don't screw it up.”
Lando chuckled quietly, brushing his thumb over your cheeks. “Not planning to.”
And when Cisca disappeared upstairs, he let his head lean back against the couch, heart so full it hurt a little.
You shifted in your sleep, curling in closer as you mumbled something.
And Lando? Lando felt like maybe, for once, he didn’t need anything else. Like maybe for once, everything was perfect.
Then came your parents.
They insisted that you had to visit because it was close to Christmas and because you decided to spend the holidays at the Norris Family.
And because you didn’t want to go alone you had asked Lando.
He said yes immediately.
And he was very glad about it, because only 4 minutes into the drive and the anxious bounce of your knee drove him crazy. Not out of annoyance but much rather out of worry for you.
The closer you got, the stiffer your body became. 30 minutes in he noticed how you started picking at your cuticles until they were bloody and you went on to the next finger. He tries to hold your hand in an effort to stop you from ruining your ‘pretty fingers’.
But you couldn’t do it. Not today so you flinched away from his hand.
But Lando, perfect Lando, just smiled at you, and rested his hand on the middle armrest in between you two, his palm up and open, so if you wanted to take it, you could.
The contrast once he entered your childhood home was instant.
It was silent. Cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Your mother greeted you with a nod. Your father shook Lando's hand like he was interviewing him.
No hugs. No warmth. No laughter. Not even a ‘I missed you’ or a ‘It’s so good to see you’.
At dinner, your parents talked endlessly about your siblings while silverware scraped over their plates way too loudly in the completely silent house.
“Your brother was just promoted to CEO! Isn’t that exciting? And your sister's law firm is going really well.”
You sat quietly as they continued to sing your siblings praises, but you could feel your boyfriends eyes on you.
"And what is it you do again, dear?" your mother asked.
Lando looked over at you.
"Still with the team," you said. "Design." Your father hummed. "Right… What team was it?"
The small smile on your face falters but Lando steps in, “She’s with McLaren. She’s one of the lead designers.”
The way too thinly plucked eyebrow of your mom shot up “Designer for what, exactly?”
Under the table, Lando reached for your pinky. You didn’t pull away.
You just stared at your plate.
“Uhm, for the car. The McLaren F1 car.” Your voice was quiet, as you waited for your parents' reaction. Maybe some praise. But nothing came.
The whole visit was like that. Tense. Distant. Stifling.
You found yourself withdrawing again. Not just from them, but from him. You stopped reaching for his hand. Sat stiff on the couch. Smiled with closed lips.
And Lando let you. He didn’t make a scene, he never would, you knew that. But he watched it all.
He watched the way your shoulders hunched. The way your eyes dimmed. The way you started to shrink.
And his heart ached for his girl.
On the drive home, it was quiet for a long time.
The radio played something soft, but neither of you were really listening. You just stared out the window, watching the countryside roll past in muted colors, gray skies, sleepy fields, early winter setting in.
Lando tapped his thumb against the steering wheel in thought. He glanced at you, once, then again. Your shoulders were drawn tight. Your arms crossed in your lap like you were trying to hold something in place.
Finally, he spoke.
“You know that’s not what love feels like, right?”
You turned your head slightly. “Hmm?”
“Your parents. That house. The way they treated you. That’s not love. That’s… something else. I don’t know what but.. you deserve warmth.”
You blinked at him, then looked away again, out the window, jaw tight to the point that he started to worry about your poor teeth.
He let the silence hang for a few seconds, then tried again, softer this time. “Love’s not… cold, or distant. It’s people who want you close. Who notice when something’s off. Who actually see you. People that actually remember what you do.”
You didn’t answer. But your eyes were glossy. You blinked too hard.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” he said gently, one hand briefly leaving the wheel to graze over yours. “I just don’t want you thinking that’s all there is.”
You nodded. Barely. And because he’s your Lando, he didn’t press.
That night, the quiet followed you home. You dropped your bag by the door and disappeared into the bathroom for a shower. Lando didn’t follow. He knew you needed the space.
When you came out in your favorite hoodie of his, hair damp and skin warm from the steam, he was already curled up on the couch with a blanket and a half-empty mug of hot chocolate.
You didn’t say anything.
Just padded over, and instead of sitting on the other side like you sometimes did, you slid in right beside him.
You curled your legs up and pressed into his side. Then, slowly, tentatively, your hand slid across his arm.
Quiet. Soft. Testing.
You rested your head on his shoulder. And this time, you didn’t move away.
Lando’s heart stuttered.
He didn’t say a word. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and leaned his cheek against your hair.
He smiled, small and quiet.
He knew what that moment meant. Not because of the touch itself, but because you chose it. Because you let yourself need him.
You melted into his side, exhaustion giving way to safety, and Lando didn’t dare move. Not even when his hot chocolate went cold. Not even when the credits of the movie rolled. Not even when his arm went a little numb under your weight.
Because you were there.
It started quietly, so much so that Lando wasn’t sure you noticed. But slowly, the way you interacted with him in public began to shift.
But before the world ever saw it, he saw it. At home, just the two of you, you started to change.
It was slow. Almost shy. But unmistakable.
Like the way you’d curl into his side while watching a movie, your fingers slipping under the hem of his hoodie to rest against his bare skin. Not in a suggestive way, not really anyways, just needing the contact. Needing him.
Or the way you’d bury your face in his neck when you hugged him goodbye, lingering there like you didn’t want to let go. Sometimes you’d sigh against his collarbone, like it physically relaxed you to be held like that.
And Lando? He was beside himself.
The first time you climbed into his lap on the couch, wrapping your arms around his middle and tucking your head under his chin, he didn’t even press play on the movie. Just sat there frozen, blinking, like his brain had been wiped completely clean.
"You okay?" you mumbled against his chest.
"Yep," he replied, voice embarrassingly high. "Totally normal. Everything’s fine."
It was not fine. His heart was in his throat. He could feel your fingers tracing slow little circles into his back and he wished he could live in that moment forever.
And when you started falling asleep regularly on him? The man was in heaven.
The first time you dozed off with your head in his lap while he scrolled on his phone, he didn’t move for an hour and a half. Not once. It was like when a cat sleeps on you.
He just watched you.
His hand in your hair, slow and careful.
No audience. No cameras. Just you trusting him with something you didn’t even realize you were learning to give.
But it didn’t stay just in private for long.
You were still quiet about it, still learning to let that part of yourself out in the open, but something had settled in you. A kind of steadiness. You trusted him. And slowly, that safety started showing up in places beyond the four walls of your shared spaces.
One morning at the paddock, while waiting for coffee, Lando reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, something he’d done before but never in front of people, and this time, you let him. You even tilted your head slightly, and smiled. His brain short-circuited.
His eyes went wide, then scrunched as he beamed, and he tried to cover it with a sip of his drink but failed spectacularly.
Oh how he loved that little flush of your face.
"Don’t look at me like that," you murmured, embarrassed.
"I’m not looking at you like anything!" he grinned, completely looking at you like you hung the moon and stars.
Then came the small touches you both loved, your shoulder leaning gently into his when standing in the paddock, the way your pinky hooked around his at dinner with the team. You even kissed his cheek in the middle of the paddock once. Quick, barely a second. Probably thinking no one saw.
He turned to stone for a split second, frozen, and then burst into one of those wide, toothy grins that made his whole face scrunch up in the way you loved. It was a miracle he didn’t skip straight through the motorhome.
He looked like a teenager with a crush every time it happened. Giddy. Practically bouncing on his heels.
Carlos made fun of him once after you walked away.
"Mate," he said. "You look like she just gave you a puppy."
"She touched my hand," Lando replied, dead serious, like it was the most magical thing that had ever happened to him.
“Uhm, yeah? She’s your girlfriend.”
Every time you reached for him, even if it was just brushing your fingers over his wrist or resting your hand on his knee during a flight, he glowed. Like a light switch flipped on inside him.
To anyone else, they were small things. Barely even noticeable.
But to Lando?
It was everything.
You showed up at his flat in Woking without texting first, which in itself said enough. Sure you were there 90% of the time and called it ‘home’ but you still always asked if you could come over.
Your knock was soft, and when he opened the door, you stood there with your coat half-off, hair slightly damp from the rain, and a look in your eyes that made his heart drop. You didn’t say much. Barely even hello.
He didn’t ask questions. He just stepped aside and opened his arms.
And you walked into them like it was the only place left in the world that made sense.
No hesitation. No flinching. No second-guessing.
You buried your face in his chest, fists curling lightly into the fabric of his sweatshirt, holding on like you were afraid you’d fall apart if you let go. Your breathing was shallow, almost shaky, like you’d been holding it together all day and the seams had finally split.
Lando closed the door behind you with one hand, the other wrapping securely around your back. He held you tight, steadier than usual. His cheek rested against your temple, his hand drawing calm, slow circles between your shoulder blades.
After a few minutes, when your breathing had evened out just a little, he pressed a kiss to your hair and whispered, “I’ve got you.”
And you melted.
Actually melted. Like the tension in your body just gave up the fight and poured itself into him. You sagged fully into his arms, let your weight rest on him like you finally believed he wouldn’t let you fall.
It was a little hard getting you into (his) sweats and hoodie before he guided you to the couch and pulled a blanket over your shoulders. You didn’t let go. Not even for a second. You curled into his side like you were trying to disappear into him. His arm came around your waist. He kissed your forehead, your temple, your shoulder.
He didn’t care that you hadn’t said what had happened yet. He didn’t need to know. All that mattered was that you’d come to him and that you’d let yourself fall apart with him.
And that was a kind of trust he didn’t take lightly.
So he kept holding you, long after your eyes slipped shut and your fingers went slack against his chest.
He didn’t mind at all. Not one bit.
Lando and Max were deep into a stream, some chaotic shooting game that had devolved into shouting and laughter long ago. They were side-by-side in front of the camera, energy high, chat going wild, the usual.
You were curled up on the couch behind the camera, just out of frame, sipping tea and trying to mind your business. But that never lasted long when those two were together.
“Alright, can we talk about the evolution of your relationship real quick?” Max said, side-eying Lando with a grin. “Because I still remember the first time she let you sit next to her without recoiling like you were made of fire.”
Lando snorted. “Oh my god.”
“I’m serious!” Max turned to chat, hands up. “This man used to get excited when she let their knees touch. He’d text me like, ‘Bro. We made contact.’”
Lando was already laughing, trying to downplay it. “It was early days! She just needed time!”
“Time?” Max scoffed. “Mate, you looked like you won a championship when she leaned on your shoulder. Don’t even lie.”
You peeked up from the couch, raising an eyebrow. “I was not that bad.”
“Love,” Lando said, twisting in his chair to look at you. “You used to apologize for accidentally bumping into me. You said sorry for brushing my arm. My arm.”
Max was practically crying with laughter. “Oh wait, bring her in. She needs to be held accountable.”
“Nooo,” you groaned, but Lando was already getting up, headset still half-on.
He grinned and walked over, offering his hand. “Come on. Just say hi.”
You shook your head, half-laughing, half-hiding. “I’m not even dressed properly.”
“You’re perfect,” he said easily, grabbing your hand and tugging you gently off the couch. “Chat deserves to see the formerly touch-starved gremlin I fell in love with.”
“Excuse me?”
He pulled you into frame anyway, settling you onto his lap with a big grin while Max leaned over to wave dramatically at the camera.
Chat exploded.
“IS THAT HER??”
“He really got her to cuddle on stream 😭”
“oh how i’ve missed that beautiful faceeeee”
“I was not that bad,” you repeated, laughing as you tried to hide your face in Lando’s hoodie.
“She used to flinch when I offered her a blanket,” Lando said seriously, trying to prove his point.
“Because you threw it at me!”
Max was beside himself. “You guys are unbelievable, sometimes I wish you’d go back to not being so handsy with each other.”
Lando just wrapped his arms around you tighter, grinning at the screen.
“She’s better now,” he said, nuzzling into your hair. “Rehab went well.”
You swatted his arm.
“I’m thriving,” you deadpanned at the camera before breaking into a laugh. And Lando, still holding you like you were the trophy at the end of the race, said without missing a beat:
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