Summary: Jannik appears in this girlfriend’s vlog— and makes it his own!
WC: 2,1k
Genre: FLUFF!!!!
A/N: I watched his AO vlog… you can’t blame me for this one.
The hallway hums faintly with air conditioning, the patterned carpet swallowing your footsteps. You’ve already got the camera rolling, whispering into the mic like you’re on a covert mission.
“Okay, guys… moment of truth. He came back from training about thirty minutes ago.” You stop outside the door, tilting the camera conspiratorially toward your face. “Let’s see if he actually got ready…”
You knock twice.
No answer.
You lean closer to the door. “...Or asleep.”
You’re just lifting your hand to try again when the door swings open to reveal a very drowsy Jannik—hair a soft mess as damp curls get frizzy and eyes slightly puffy with sleep.
“Good morning, guys,” he mumbles to the camera, voice rough. “What’s up?”
“You were napping,” you accuse immediately, can’t help but smile.
“Nah,” he lies without hesitation, a sly smirk finds his face as he rubs his eyes like a guilty five-year-old.
You laugh and brush past him into the room—only to stop dead in the doorway.
“No– Absolutely no!” you yelp, immediately showing the chaos in front of you.
The camera pans slowly across the room: hoodie slung over the couch, protein bar wrapper on the coffee table, two water bottles on the floor, a couple of tennis shoes tossed in opposite directions…
“This is what living with Jan looks like,” you say to the camera. “This room was completely clean when I left it.”
“I’m pretty neat.” Jannik shrugs from behind you, his stupid grin can be seen from the top of your head. “But something happened today.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty neat. But when I’m around, he keeps messing things up,” you fire back, but he continues smirking.
“Coincidence,” he says, bending to pick up a shoe.
[Suite tour]
After a quick tidy, you shove the camera toward him. “Alright, Mr. Messy, give them a proper room tour.” and, surprisingly, he straightens up like he’s a TV host.
“Welcome to our Cincinnati suite,” he says enthusiastically, clapping his hands and motioning to the bed—currently half-buried under clothes. “This is our bed. Very romantic, I know. We're mostly here if not in court.”
Before you can stop him, he drops onto it, sending a few T-shirts sliding to the floor.
“Over here,” he continues, pointing toward the desk, “is my workspace.”
The camera captures some gifts from fans, a half-eaten granola bar, his glasses, and what looks like an entire pack of overgrips scattered like confetti.
“Everything a man needs,” he says with mock seriousness.
“Apparently,” you mutter, zooming in for effect.
He grins and moves to the corner where his racket bag sits. “Tomorrow we have another match.” Pulling it open, he reveals five frames lined neatly in a row, strings gleaming. “And these are the weapons,” he announces, “Usually I put in five and one for warm-up.”
“Okay, he’s in tennis-nerd mode now,” you tell the camera, cutting him off. “You better listen and better be nice to him.”
He laughs and sets the racket down, immediately picks up the brown Gucci duffle next to it, holding it up like a prize. “Everyone loves this one.”
You gasp. “Yes, THIS! This is my real love.” You zoom right in on the leather straps, brushing your fingers over them like it’s the most precious object in the room. “She’s just perfect. Better than any other bag he has.”
“And I keep my other stuff in that, like protein bars or extra shirts during matches,” he adds, ignoring your enthusiasm and showing inside of it, which matches the mess of the room.
After showing the other sides of the suite, you set the camera on the coffee table, nudging Jannik toward the couch. “Sit. I need to fix your hair before we go.”
“It’s fine,” he says, trying to run a hand through it.
“It’s not fine,” you say firmly, combing your fingers through the flattened curls. “You look like you fought with your pillow and lost.”
He sighs but sits obediently, knees spread, head tilted slightly forward under your touch. While you smooth the last stubborn bit into place, you loop your arms loosely around his neck from behind, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Doesn’t he look good now?” you ask the camera, your lips still against his skin as you breathe his scent.
“We look good for sure,” he says, turning his head, catching your lips.
“You’re getting used to PDA on camera, but I don’t think people will love this,” you tease after the kiss, unwrapping your arms.
“That’s just what we do off-camera,” he says, grabbing the camera and trailing after you like a puppy.
At the grand mirror, he films you. “Show them your dress.”
“Come next to me, show your outfit too,” you say, tugging him into frame, his empty hand settling at your lower back
“I have my basic outfit,” he says, bowing the camera to show his shorts and sneakers. “But you look gorgeous.”
“He chose this dress to spoil me,” you blush, spinning to show the baby blue halter-neck. “Sugar daddy energy, right?
He shakes his head with a laugh. “Not sugar daddy.”
“Of course, not,” you give a sly look to the camera and grab it from him.
“I think I forgot to mention, we’re going for lunch because Jan’s constantly whining about how much he gets bored here so I’m trying to entertain him,” you explain, grab Jannik’s hand as he grabs your purse for you.
When you arrive at the lift, you shoot him again, showing how happy he is with your purse. He even stops to pose with it for the video, grinning like he’s enjoying himself way too much.
“Oh my god—look at him. Basic black shorts, white tee… but then the shimmery silver bag saves the outfit.”
“It’s the best part of my outfit,” he says, adjusting the strap and giving you another pose.
“Model behaviour,” you tease, and he plays along. “This is gonna be the thumbnail.”
[What’s in my bag?]
While you're waiting for your orders, you lean in with a sly smile and set the camera in front of you. “Alright. Since you’ve been glued to this bag all day, you’re going to do a “What's in My Bag.”
He blinks. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“You go through it, show what’s inside, and tell people what it’s for. No cheating, no asking me first,” you explain.
With an exaggerated sigh, he unzips the bag and reaches in, pulling out a sleek tube of lip gloss.
“This,” he says, holding it up to the camera with mock seriousness, trying to read the name on it. “is for making your lips shiny… also mine when we kiss. I have some on my lips even now.” He’s grinning now, leaning towards the camera to show his lips.
You shake your head, fighting a smile. “Next.”
The other thing he grabs is a slim pencil.
“This—” he holds it up with confidence, “you use it to color your eyes.”
You burst out laughing. “No! That’s for my lips.”
He squints at it. “It’s not even the same color as your lips.”
“It’s lip liner,” you say, taking it from him. “It makes my lipstick stay longer. You’ve seen me use it a hundred times.”
“Yeah, but it looks like a pencil for your eyes,” he says, clearly enjoying how much it’s winding you up.
“Maybe you should watch me closer next time,” you fire back.
His smirk widens, but he’s already reaching for the next item—a small, plain tube. “Okay, this is… lip balm.” He tosses it lightly in his hand. “Actually mine, I use these guys.”
“Actually,” you say, “he always forgets to use it. If I don’t carry it, he’d be walking around with sandpaper lips.”
“But it tastes good, I love it.” He says and grabs another item, instantly frowns, “Why do you have so much lip stuff? Another pencil and gloss!”
“Because it gets ruined easily. I eat or drink, sometimes you ruin it–” you reason him as he glances up at you, then to the camera. “I never do.”
“You literally have half of my lip combo on your lips.”
“It’s not ruining, it’s sharing products.” he grins.
You give him a look, but there’s no hiding your blush when he sets them down and finds your travel perfume. He sprays a little in the air between you, leans forward to catch the scent.
“That’s you,” he says softly. “I love this smell so much.”
You laugh. “Oh seriously?”
Finally, he pulls out your phone. “And lastly, our phone.”
“My phone.” you correct.
“But we use it together.”
“Yes, I feel like I need to expose you right now,” you say with extra annoyance in your expression. “Whenever he gets bored with the tennis or F1 stuff on his FYP, he grabs my phone and watches whatever is on mine. At this point, I feel like a mother of an iPad kid!”
[SKINCARE]
The hotel bathroom mirror is fogged slightly from the shower you took a few minutes ago, warm yellow light bouncing off the marble counter. The camera is propped against your travel makeup bag, your hair is damp and you're in your silk pyjama set as the soft hum of running water in the background.
“Alright guys,” you say, pulling your hair back, “Skincare time and… apparently, we have a very special guest tonight.”
The camera tilts slightly as you turn it toward the doorway. Jannik is leaning there with naked chest, arms crossed, curls slightly damp from his own shower, watching you like you’re performing some kind of suspicious ritual.
“What?” you ask.
He smirks. “Just making sure you’re not stealing my towel again.”
You roll your eyes, holding up a cotton pad. “Actually, you’re here for your appointment.”
His smile fades just enough to be dramatic. “Appointment?”
“Skincare. You’re due for a full routine.”
He shakes his head instantly. “No, no… I’m good.”
But he finds himself in front of the sink a few seconds later, leaning slightly down so you can reach, eyes closing like he might take another nap.
“This is… cold,” he mumbles as you swipe micellar water over his cheeks.
“That’s because it’s removing all the dirt from your day,” you say sweetly, then add with a teasing grin, “and maybe your bad attitude too.”
He opens one eye. “I like my attitude.”
When you finish swiping, you pick up a small bottle. “This is toner—”
“That smells like… grass,” he interrupts.
“It’s green tea.”
“Basically grass.”
By the time you’ve patted on moisturizer, he’s watching himself in the mirror like he’s about to make a discovery. “I look younger.”
“You look exactly the same,” you say, grabbing a packet from the counter. “But you’re about to look hilarious.”
“What are you doing to me?” he says, his voice a bit hesitant.
“Sheet mask.”
“No.”
“Yes.” you chant with a wide smile.
Thirty seconds later, you’re peeling the cold, damp sheet from its wrapper and pressing it to his face. “Hold still,” you instruct, smoothing it over his cheekbones, flattening the edges along his jaw. His hands are still on your lower back, gently pressing towards his warm body.
“This feels… slimy,” he mutters.
“It’s hydrating,” you correct, tapping under his eyes. “Fifteen minutes. Don’t move your face too much.”
“What if I have to sneeze?” he asks, one brow slightly lifting under the damp fabric.
“Then don’t.”
You’re fussing with the edge under his left eye when he suddenly tilts forward, closing the gap between you.
“Jan,” you warn, your voice sharp but your hand still cupping his chin.
“What?” he mumbles through the sheet mask, trying not to smile. “I’m just trying to thank you.”
“Please don’t—”
But it’s too late. His lips find yours, firm and warm, and annoyingly deep that you're sure he does it on purpose. You squeak against his mouth, pulling back when you feel your mask sliding halfway down your chin— and his drooping diagonally like a sad cartoon ghost.
“JAN!” you burst out, laughing so hard your shoulders shake. “Look what you did!”
He grins, trying to fix his mask. “Worth it.”
“Not worth it! You ruined my work—”
“I can continue now,” he interrupts, leaning in again with that smug, slow smile.
[Closing scene]
“What’s up, guys,” he says, making his way next to you on the bed. He’s in a bathrobe, sheet mask still, and additionally, he puts on your sunglasses. “It’s Y/N again, welcome back to my channel. Today I’ll be reviewing the chicken club sandwich.”
“I don’t sound like that!” You choke on a laugh. “Get out of my vlog!”
“Too late, I’m the fan favourite now.”
You try to shove him off the bed but he grabs your wrist, leaning into the camera. “Make sure you like and subscribe for more me.”
“Jannik—”
“Or just me,” he says, smirking, before stealing the last line of the vlog: “See you next time, ciao ciao.”
A/N: Hi! I hope you’ll enjoy this part!! Let me know what you're thinking! Oh, also, when you finish reading this, you will have read 15 PAGES! xx (There are references to Fantastic Four and Riffraff!)
Pt. 1
17th week | South Tyrol, Italy
The first thing you feel is the warmth of Jannik’s hand on your belly, fingertips gently brushing over the place where he kissed thousands of times.
One kiss, then another, and another… each one slower, lower than the last, until his face is resting fully against your stomach. He breathes there for a moment, like he’s listening, like he’s waiting…
This room—his childhood bedroom—is still half-lit by the greyish morning, quiet except for the sounds of footsteps and talking from downstairs.
However, up here, you curl up in your quiet and warm bubble.
Jannik’s voice is barely more than a whisper, “Ciao, piccolina,” his lips pressed to the curve of your belly. “Spero che tu abbia dormito bene.”
(“Hi, little one. I hope you slept well.”)
His hand slides under the hem of your —his— t-shirt, the one you started using as a pyjama.
He gives your bump the lightest squeeze, barely any pressure. “Ti senti più grande oggi.”
(“You feel bigger today.”)
You finally open your eyes, blinking against the filtered light. For a second, everything feels like a dream—the weight of the covers, the unfamiliar ceiling, scent of the man you fell in love with and the way your body no longer feels like only your own.
“Are you bonding without me again?” you murmur, voice still raspy from sleep.
Your fingers find his hair, gently massaging through the ginger strands. He’s still got the bedhead. It suits him, you thought.
He grins against your stomach. “Oh no, we’re caught.”
“What were you saying to her?” you ask, shifting your pillow a little so you can see his face better.
“Nothing important,” he murmurs, kissing the bump again, more slowly this time. “Just that she feels bigger today.”
“She’s an avocado now, thank you very much.” you snort.
He looks up at you, mock-serious. “Isn’t she still too little to look this big?”
“Wow,” you gasp dramatically. “Don’t body shame our unborn child, Sinner. She’s doing her best.”
“You’ve been stealing all my hoodies to hide her. I think she wants to be seen now.” he reasons.
“First off, don’t call her big again. She’s still growing. And second—Nike sends you thousands of clothes every year. You don’t need them anymore, they’re mine.”
“If you say so,” he says with a shrug, completely unbothered.
Before you can sass him again, he’s stretching across you toward the nightstand and grabs something small and orange—the fox plushie you found in the back of his wardrobe the first night you arrived here.
“Piccolina,” he says gently, making the fox sit upright on your bump like a tiny guard. “We have to tell them about you. You don’t want to be our little secret anymore, do you?”
He lies back beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other playing with the plushie, making him ‘kiss’ your belly.
You run your palm lightly over your stomach. The bump is definitely visible now—especially in this position, where you’re flat on your back. You’ve been hiding it under oversized jumpers and dresses for almost two weeks now. At first it was kind of fun, only a secret you two know, then it became suspicious because who would wear sweaters in summer?
“Preferably today,” you mutter. “Because every time I say no to espresso, your mom looks at me like I just committed a crime.”
He grins, then leans over to kiss you, “You sort of did.”
“Your mother is one more espresso offer away from figuring it out herself. She also told me I look different but you know, suspiciously.” You scowl.
“Then we tell them after breakfast?” he says, kissing you again, lips soft against your cheek. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” You nod, the word catching a little in your throat. “It’s time.”
He smiles gently and brushes the plushie across your nose.
“Oh. Okay. So I don’t get your kisses anymore?” you tease. “Now I only get Mr. Foxy’s attention?”
“Seems like he likes you,” Jannik says seriously, still trailing the toy up toward your hairline.
“Jan,” you start laughing, trying to grab the toy from him. “Don’t you dare—”
But he’s already tickling you with it, brushing it along your jaw and neck while you squirm.
“Jannik!” you shriek.
“Don’t yell in front of our child,” he says calmly, adjusting the fox’s head like it’s watching you both.
You bury your face in the pillow. “I cannot believe I’m having a baby with you.”
“Neither can I,” he says, kissing you again. This time, more slowly, more deliberately. “But look where we are!”
His hand moves carefully over your stomach again, thumb brushing the curve that can be seen now. You can feel the weight of his body hovering just above yours, carefully not to give his weight over you.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Soft at first but shortly turn into longer and deeper. His fingers make their way to your hips—
KNOCK KNOCK.
“Guys come on!” Marc’s voice comes from the other side of the door, “Stop eating each other! I heard Y/N screaming again!”
You both go completely still, your eyes snap open as Jannik lifts his head from yours.
“Did he just—?” you whisper. “Yeah.”
“He thinks we’re—” you add, still mouth wide open. “Yeah.”
You cover your face with your hands. “I hate your brother.”
-
After the talk, you don’t bother hiding the bump anymore.
Seventeen weeks in, and it’s definitely there. Still small enough to hide if you really tried, but you don’t want to. Not when you came here to give the news anyways.
So you pull on one of your softest shirts, brush your hair back, and meet the rest of the family downstairs.
The kitchen is already buzzing when you walk in, cheeks flushed, hand still linked with Jannik’s. His parents are bustling with coffee and plates. His brother Marc is already seated, looking suspiciously smug.
He sees both of you walk in and grins. “You’re late.”
Your stomach drops at his words. “Wait—what?”
“To breakfast?” Marc replies with a shrug.
Jannik chokes on air, while his mom turns around, staring back and forth between the two of you as if she’s piecing something together.
“Oh,” you mutter, then add with a laugh, “Right, breakfast! Sorry.”
Marc raises an eyebrow but shrugs again, reaching for more bread.
You sit, Jannik’s hand finds yours under the table. His thumb strokes your palm slowly.
“Espresso, tesoro?” his mom asks, already reaching for the cups.
You shake your head. “No, thank you.”
She freezes, giving her husband a look. Then slowly—very slowly—puts the cup down. “Okay.”
Jannik clears his throat, nudging his knee against yours under the table, alerting it’s time.
“Actually,” he starts, “we… have something to tell you.”
“Seventeen weeks,” you add, voice softer. “That’s why we came. We wanted to tell you in person.”
For a second, everyone stays silent, even giving each other looks that gives you anxiety.
And then: chaos.
“Oddio!!” his mom gasps, hands flying to her mouth before rushing toward you. “Un bambino!”
She hugs you so tightly you barely have time to react before her hands find your belly and her eyes fill with tears.
“I knew something was different!” she exclaims. “You glow, tesoro!”
Jannik leans back in his chair, mock-offended. “Do I get a hug or…”
“Later,” she waves him off. “She’s carrying my grandchild.”
“So…” Marc says, blinking. “you guys are actually having a baby?”
“Yep,” Jannik replies, grinning. “You’re gonna be an uncle.”
Marc blinks again. “Wow. You’re… ahead of schedule.”
“We didn’t plan to,” you say, rolling your eyes.
“You should at least propose,” his mom says brightly, her eyes still wet with tears.
“Mamma.”
“What? You should! You live together, you cook together, you sleep in the same bed—now a baby? You’re practically married!”
Marc shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”
You nudge him under the table, and he smiles wider.
-
After breakfast, she insists you rest. You barely sit down in the living room when she returns with a thick red photo album.
“You’ll want to see this,” she says, setting it beside you with a wink.
“Oh no,” Jannik groans from the kitchen. “Not the album.”
“Yes, the album,” she says sweetly, already flipping it open.
The first few pages are harmless—baby Jannik swaddled in pale blankets, sleeping with one tiny fist curled under his chin.
“He was such a soft baby,” she says proudly. “Always smiling— look at this!”
You flip a page. He’s in a high chair, covered in probably some tomato sauce. Another page— Jannik in a sunhat three sizes too big, proudly holding a melting cone of ice-cream.
“He ate more than any child I’ve ever known,” his mom says fondly.
Then you flip again.
“Oh my God,” you say, biting back a laugh.
There he is—completely naked in a tiny plastic tub, sitting upright like he owns the world, clutching a yellow rubber duck with a grin that could blind the sun.
“Mamma, no,” Jannik says from the doorway. “Don’t—”
“She’s already seen you naked, Jannik,” his mom says without missing a beat. “She’s growing your child!”
You burst out laughing, hand flying to your mouth.
“I’m leaving,” Jannik mutters, already halfway toward the hallway.
“No you’re not,” you call after him. “You’re going to sit here while I soak in every chubby, naked baby photo your mother ever printed.”
“I can’t believe you’re enjoying this.”
“Look at your tummy!” you show another bath picture before flipping the page. “Look at this one. Is that Mr. Foxy?”
“Yup.” he proudly responds.
“It’s in his bedroom!” she says, not knowing the morning kisses you got from him. “You can take it for her.”
“Oh, we saw him! And we definitely will take him!” you confirm.
You lean back into the couch, the album resting on your knees, your hand curled over your bump. For the first time, you don’t feel the need to hide. You’re finally letting her be seen.
And somehow, with his baby photos spread across your lap and his mother humming in the kitchen.
Everything feels exactly as it should.
20th week | New York, USA
“Jannik!” the interviewer cheers, voice rising over the crowd, “Another Grand Slam, another quarterfinal! This is becoming quite the tradition for you!”
He stands tall in the center of the court, fingers anxiously threading through the damp curls, a shy smile appearing on his lips—like he wasn’t just battling an exhausting four-set match for nearly three hours.
“Hopefully,” he responds with a quiet chuckle. “Last year, I was lucky to win here.”
“Well, we’ll see how that plays out in a couple of days,” the interviewer grins widely, “but before we dive deeper into your performance—if you’ll allow me—I think there’s someone we have to mention… Someone who’s been watching you closely tonight.”
He gestures up toward the player box, driving all the attention there.
The camera finds you instantly, sitting between his team and close friends. You flash a smile, a little uncertain yet warm one. This is your first match back in the box since your baby bump started showing.
You wanted to show up, to support him as you always do in person, but the thought that people will be invested in the baby, raining questions all over you, made you hesitate. You wanted to wait until you felt completely safe and okay with the baby's presence.
And this morning he asked, softly and without any pressure, “If you feel okay, I want to see you there tonight.”
And so here you are.
“Is it safe to say,” the interviewer beams, “that another Grand Slam champion is already on the way?”
Laughter and cheers explode from the stands as Jannik grins widely, his hand instinctively rising to scratch the back of his neck– a telltale sign of flusher that he tries to hide.
His eyes flicker up toward you, there's a playful sparkle in them. “Yeah,” he replies, “If she wants to be.”
You look at him with those ‘lovey-dovey’ eyes Darren once teasingly described, filled with affection and admiration.
“Have you bought her any rackets yet? Tennis balls?”
“Nah,” he laughs again, a hint of sheepishness creeping into his tone. “Y/N—my girlfriend—doesn’t let me yet.”
The interviewer laughs with his answer and adds, “Well, I’m sure you’ll be getting plenty of nursery gear after tonight!”
“Probably,” Jannik shrugs, smiling again. “We’ll need more space.”
—
You’re already sitting on the bench eating some snacks when he walks in, a towel casually slung around his neck and a bottle of water in one hand. His match kit is gone—replaced by a soft green hoodie and black shorts—but his curls are still damp from the shower, clinging to his forehead.
The moment he spots you, it’s like something in him releases. He exhales through his nose like he’s been holding his breath since the court.
The moment his eyes find you, it’s as if a weight lifts from his shoulders. He exhales through his nose, a deep, relieved breath as though he’s been holding it in since the match ended.
“You okay?” he asks softly, stepping closer and reaching out to cradle the back of your head as he leans down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss—just one, slow and grounding.
You hum against his mouth, feeling the warmth radiating off him. “Are you okay?”
He sinks down beside you, elbows resting on his knees, a contemplative look crossing his face. “Yeah. Just… a bit surreal. They kept me longer for more questions.”
“Assuming that the little one got all the attention.” You rest your palm over your stomach with a grin.
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head with disbelief. “Didn’t realize I was gonna get upstaged by someone who hasn’t even been born yet.”
“You’re just jealous.” you reply playfully, teasing him.
“A little,” he admits. “I mean, I won a quarterfinal at another Grand Slam, and all anyone wants to talk about is the bump.”
You tilt your head with an amused expression. “Sorry. She’s kind of a star like her daddy.”
He laughs quietly, gaze dropping for a moment. “Some guy in the tunnel stopped me to say congratulations. I said ‘thanks,’ and he said, ‘Oh, also the match was good too.’”
“No way.” Your eyes widen in disbelief.
“I swear.”
“For what it’s worth,” You reach out and place your hand on his. “I’d still watch you play even if people only come to see our baby.” You struggle to hold back the smile.
“I know.” He leans in and kisses your palm, “And I’d still play for you.”
“Also, I got congratulated five times while waiting for you, and one security guard said, ‘Hope she plays like him but looks like you.’ I didn’t know what to say at first.”
“I don’t know if I should be offended or not.” He leans back, finally letting his body rest. You shuffle closer, resting your head against his shoulder. “At least they still appreciate me a bit.”
“Tiny bit.” you correct him with a playful tone.
“I liked seeing you out there,” he adds after a moment, his voice is softer now. “I looked up and there you were and… I don’t know. Everything got easier.”
“You always say that,” you murmur.
“Because it’s always true.”
You rest your head on his shoulder, the comfort of his warmth and smell hugs you.
“I’ll come to the next one too,” you promise. “If you’re not scared she’ll outshine you again.”
“I mean,” he sighs dramatically, even though you don't see his face, you can sense the smirk on his face. “Might as well get used to it.”
Before you can reply, the door opens—and the locker room fills with celebration and chatter.
“Oi, Sinner!” Darren’s voice cuts the others immediately, followed by the loud slap of a hand against Jannik’s back. “You absolute legend. Solid win.”
“Thanks,” Jannik replies, clearing his throat and straightening up just a little. “Finally focusing on my performance.”
“But I gotta say…” Darren turns, already grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “You were only the third-most interesting thing on court tonight.”
“Wait—third?” Jannik blinks.
“Yeah. One: the baby. Two: your girlfriend. Then you.” Darren explains with a laugh.
“That crowd screamed louder for her than for your passing shot.” a voice adds.
Jannik groans, flopping back against the wall. “This is bullying now.”
Darren shrugs, not even trying to hide his smile. “Sorry, mate, once you create another you, it’s game over. You’re just the plus-one now.”
Simone adds from across the room, “Better start learning how to change diapers. Your endorsement deals are switching from espressos to diapers.”
You grin, stretching out your legs as you steal Jannik’s water bottle again. “Personally, I’m aiming for a Gucci Baby collab.”
“Why are you like this?” he asks, rolling his eyes again.
“Because it’s fun watching you slowly realize you’re not the main character anymore!”
“I’m going to another semi-final." he mutters under his breath, still trying to remind people who he is.
“And yet,” you say, taking another sip from his bottle, “The baby has a better PR.”
He sighs, tipping his head back against the locker. “I’m going to lose my mind.”
“Good thing you love us,” you reply, getting another bite of your snack.
He turns to look at you again, quieter now. “I do.”
30th week | Monte Carlo, Monaco
You start by folding the tiniest clothes you’ve ever seen into your baby's wardrobe.
There’s something strangely calming about it—little cotton onesies, soft long-sleeved shirts, miniature pants that could fit in the palm of your hand. Everything smells new and clean.
You pause over a pair of socks no bigger than your thumb, then reach into the next box and pull out a white cotton shirt with glittery gold writing across the chest.
“Your sponsors are so subtle,” you call out with a smile.
From the other side of the room, Jannik grunts in response. He’s kneeling awkwardly on the rug in front of the half-assembled crib, surrounded by scattered wooden panels and a not-so-helpful instruction booklet. He’s already muttered the same curse four times in the last fifteen minutes.
“They sent more?” he asks, not looking up.
“Oh yeah.” You hold up the shirt so he can see the sparkly words—Future No. 1. “Look at this.”
Jannik turns just long enough to catch it, his face twists with mock horror. “She already has sponsorships.”
You search through the next box and hold it up like treasure. “See?”
“Oh God,” He squints,“A Gucci bib?”
“For her designer spits,” you say sweetly, barely holding back a laugh.
“If she stains that, I might cry,” he says dramatically.
“She will stain it,” you reply, voice cheerful. “That’s literally the point of a bib.”
“I could stain it now and save us the emotional torture.”
You giggle, folding it neatly and tucking it into the drawer beside the absurdly tiny sneakers. You swear, those shoes could fit on two fingers. You run a thumb along the edge of the fabric. “Some of this stuff is ridiculous,” you murmur under your breath, still smiling.
A few more boxes later, you spot something tucked deeper into one of the bags, wrapped in red and black tissue paper. Your hand stills.
“What’s this?” you ask aloud, tugging it free.
Jannik immediately perks up. “Oh, you found it!”
It’s a baby-sized AC Milan home jersey—soft, tiny, and so adorable that it almost doesn’t feel real. You hold it gently between your fingers, smoothing the fabric out. On the back, in white lettering, it says: SINNER 11.
Your chest tightens instantly, the kind of sudden emotion that catches in your throat. You stare at the little shirt and feel your eyes water.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You got her a Milan jersey.”
“Of course I did,” he says, walking over like he’s proud of himself. “You’ve got to teach them early.”
You lift it higher, compare it against your belly. It’s so small, almost doll-sized. “Wait… Why eleven?”
“I’m ten,” he says with a shrug, like it’s obvious. “And she’s my plus one.”
Your eyes snap to his, and there it is—that stupid, sweet, earnest smile that always sneaks up on you when you least expect it. You blink quickly, pushing the emotion back. Pregnancy hormones are going crazy lately and you can't believe they made you almost cry over a jersey.
“That’s actually disgustingly cute,” you mumble.
He leans in and kisses your cheek, light and sweet. “You love it.”
You don’t even hesitate. “I really do.”
You fold the jersey as carefully as if it were made of glass and place it right on top of the others. The drawer now officially contains: one Gucci bib, one Milan jersey, one very spoiled baby-to-be, and a totally unprepared pair of parents.
You reach for the next box and pull out something white and gold—and immediately freeze.
“…Wait a second,” you say, almost like a whisper.
“What?” Jannik asks, still crouched by the crib.
“A Real Madrid jersey.” You lift the new item higher. “I think you have an enemy.”
He turns his head so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “No.”
“Yup,” you say with a sincere pout on your lips. “And it has a note.”
He practically lunges across the rug to grab it from your hands. You look up at him as he reads it aloud with all the drama in him:
“Figured someone should teach her how to win Champions Leagues. Hala Madrid. — Tio Carlitos.”
You don’t even try to hold it in, your laughter echoes off the walls as Jannik stares down at the white jersey like it just insulted his mother.
“He did not just—”
“Oh, he did, baby,” you say, almost crying from laughter.
“I’m going to use this as her bib.” he finally speaks with a very serious gesture.
“Jannik.” you scold.
“Or a burp cloth.”
“Be nice,” you reply while looking inside the box for something else.
“I am being nice. I’m not setting it on fire.”
“Carlos meant well.”
“Oh, he meant war,” he mutters, throwing the jersey aside.
You keep going, digging through the last bit of the packaging until your fingers wrap around something soft and plush. You pull it out—a bright orange fox with long limbs and a stitched smile. The fur is extra soft, the ears floppy.
“Oh, wait. This is actually cute.” you chant with a smile.
Jannik gives it a side-eye. “That better be a peace offering.”
“There’s another note,” you say, unfolding the tiny card stuck beneath it.
You read it aloud: “Something to hold on to when her dad is out there playing with me.’ Wow, it sounds like a mattress to me.”
“And you told me to be nice!” he laughs.
“Whatever,” you say, holding the toy up next to him for comparison. “At least it looks like you.”
“She’s gonna think we come from foxes.”
“Oh, she’s definitely gonna think you are one.”
You cross the room and kneel beside him at the crib, the pile of wood and screws still untouched since he got distracted by baby merch. You take the manual from his lap and frown.
“This screw doesn’t go here.”
“Yes, it does.” he insists.
“Babe,” you say patiently, “It’s literally labeled for the other panel.”
He gestures vaguely at the chaos. “That’s IKEA’s fault. Their instructions are so bad. It’s sabotage.”
You snort. “You picked this crib.”
“Well, I regret it.” He drops a tiny wrench like it offended him. “This whole design is too complicated. She can just sleep with us.”
“What?”
“She’s not gonna remember it anyway,” he says with complete conviction. “Crib? Useless. She’s gonna want to be close to us. Also, skin-to-skin contact is important.”
“Is this your official parenting stance?”
He shrugs, completely serious. “She’s my daughter. I can’t just put her in a box like a cat.”
You start laughing so hard you almost tip over the parts list. “It’s a crib, not a shoebox.”
“IKEA would like us to believe that.” he reasons.
“You are insane.”
“I’m just realistic,” he replies, stretching out beside the half-built crib. “We’re gonna co-sleep. It’s bonding.”
“Or maybe,” you counter, “When Marc visits us next week, we can just ask him to help us and actually finish this thing?”
He mulls it over, eyes narrowing at the instruction booklet like it personally betrayed him. “Fine. But I still think IKEA is part of the problem.”
You roll your eyes and push yourself up from the rug. “I’m going to go get us something to eat before one of us starts chewing on crib parts.”
“You’re abandoning me?” he says, flat on his back, one hand over his heart.
“I’m going for five minutes.” You toss a baby sock at his face, yet, he doesn’t even flinch. Just mutters, “This is exactly how IKEA wins.
-
You come back twenty-ish minutes later, balancing a bottle of water, a banana, and a granola bar under your arm.
The room is quiet– Suspiciously quiet.
You expect to find Jannik hammering the last piece into place, victory in his eyes. Instead, you walk in and stop short.
He’s stretched out on the nursery rug, completely sprawled on his stomach now, one cheek pressed to the soft floor, arms splayed out like he’s been defeated in battle. The half-assembled crib still stands crooked in the background, just like you left. A lone screw rests between his fingers. His eyes are closed as he’s breathing softly.
You stare for a beat, then slowly lower the banana onto the changing table. “Oh, sweetheart,” you whisper, biting back a laugh. “You gave up.”
34th week | Monte Carlo, Monaco
It’s been a few days since he left for that one event in Milan — not long in the grand scheme of your lives, especially for two people used to airports and FaceTimes. But since the season ended, you've gotten used to falling asleep next to each other, to the luxury of each other’s presence.
He tiptoes through the front door now, suitcase dropped by the wall and coat shrugged off in the dark. The place smells faintly of baby shampoo and lavender detergent. The scent of his home.
God, he missed you.
He undresses quietly and slips under the duvet carefully, making his way behind you as his hand finds your belly instinctively. Warm and somehow bigger than even a few days ago.
“Mmh—Jan?” You stir at his touch, your voice still scratchy with sleep.
“It’s me,” he whispers through your neck, “I’m home.”
Your eyes flutter open, then turn towards him. You don’t say anything, just kiss him to welcome him.
It’s not slow or shy — it’s breathless, open-mouthed and desperate. Your fingers thread into his hair and pull him closer. His hands grip your hips, then your belly again, like he’s checking you’re real, you’re with him.
“I missed you,” you murmur between kisses. “So much.”
“I couldn’t think about anything else,” he breathes. “And it has been just three days.”
His mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, and the top of your chest. He pushes the strip of your tank top down until one of your breasts spills free for him.
“Oh god,” he whispers, cupping you reverently as his thumb brushes your sensitive nipple. “I love you.”
You smile and tug the top up yourself, exposing more of you. Bare skin warm and flushed in the dark with his hot kisses washing you all over. He kisses across your chest, sucking gently with an open mouth as his hand slides down your side to your inner thigh.
You’re already arching toward his touch, whimpering when his slim fingers find their way inside you.
“You're already ready for me, amore.” he says, his voice low and sweet, “Do you want me inside?”
“Maybe,” you whisper back teasingly.
Rocking your hips up against him and God—he’s already hard, almost throbbing against you.
“You can’t just grind on me,” he says, voice already breaking, “I’m gonna lose it.”
“I’m pregnant,” you say, kissing him again. “I’m allowed to be cruel.”
You grind again, but much slower this time as his hips buck up to your thigh without warning. “Baby—fuck—”
You giggle, lean down to kiss his reddened chest, and let your hand wander under the waistband of his boxers. He’s warm, leaking already. You stroke him once, then twice—slow, controlled, and devastating.
And then you stop.
He jerks like he’s been shocked. “Why did you stop?”
You sit up slightly, still breathless. “I gotta pee.”
There’s a pause, and you almost wanted to laugh at his expression.
“What?”
“I gotta pee,” you say again, slipping your legs out of the duvet like this isn’t the end of the world. “Like right now.”
“You’re joking.”
You slowly make your way toward the ensuite with a mutter, “Your daughter is literally tap-dancing on my bladder.”
He watches you go, absolutely wrecked. “I was about to make you see God.”
“I’m sure God will still be there when I get back,” you call from the bathroom.
He’s still lying there dramatically, half-hard and completely betrayed, when you come back a few minutes later— expression is sleepy and smug. You don’t say anything, just crawl right back into bed… and curl up to his warmth.
“No. No, you can’t do that,” he says, pulling away a bit to see your face. “Please. Are you gonna sleep now?”
“Yeah, apparently.” you giggle.
“We can do other stuff too!” he pleases.
You raise an eyebrow. “What other stuff?”
“Like…” He glances down at your mouth, and his thumb brushes your lower lip. “Your mouth?”
“I can’t even put a spoon in my mouth without gagging.” You roll your eyes.
He groans. “What about hand stuff?”
“What about you take a cold shower?” you grin, even though you do feel a little bad for him.
“Are you serious right now—?”
You lean in and kiss him again, something soft this time, and he moans into your mouth, full-body yearning.
“I’m going to cry,” he whispers against your lips.
“You’ll live,” you say, pulling the blanket over you.
You roll onto your back with a smile, and he collapses beside you, his arm wrapping dramatically across your belly.
“I hate you.”
“You said you’re in love with me like two minutes ago.” you mock him.
“That was before you tortured me. I’m in pain right now.”
“Yeah, I feel it.” You giggle, running your fingers through his curls again. His whole body softens at your touch. He turns his face and kisses your neck and chest gently, over and over.
“Sorry,” you whisper. “I really did miss you. I just… I’m so tired.”
“Don’t apologize.” He gives you a peck. “You’re growing a whole person in there. You could ask me to sleep on the floor and I’d do it.”
“You say that now…”
“Shh.” He hugs you closer. “You’re still in your dreamland.”
You giggle again, already half-asleep, as he grumbles and gets up.
summary: in which the polite cat has a gentle lover
warnings: none!
1. THE POST-RACE BATHTIME
oscar was adamant sometimes that he didn't need help. the race had been brutal though. he had ended in P13 and when he returned to the hotel later that night he was quiet.
he didn't look upset, he just looked...gone, tired. you could see it in the way his bag was lazily dropped to the floor like he didn't care where it landed or even about what was in it anymore, the way he pulled his hat off, and the way he blinked slowly at the floor.
"tough one?" you had asked gently. you didn't need him to say much to know what was going on.
he only nodded, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, his body heavy as he sat down. you moved to step in between his legs, your hands coming up to his cheeks, your thumb brushing gently over his cheek, tracing down to his jaw.
"come on osc, bath time."
he muttered quietly in return to that, "i'm not five."
his hand still found its way into yours though as he let you gently pull him towards the bathroom of the little hotel room that the both of you share.
you ended up sat besides the tub, your sleeves rolled up, just letting him sit in there and soak in the quietness of the moment, the presence of you, not thinking about anything in particular. your hands moving to gently pour water over his hair, massaging the soap into his scalp.
he didn't say anything, only letting out little sighs. not loud ones, just the ones where they were long exhales and you knew he was really letting go.
later the two of you lay in the bed, oscar dressed in sweatpants and wrapped in a blanket, laying beside you as the both of you ate from the tray of fries you had ordered from the hotel room service, some random episode that you both had left off on of Brooklyn Nine-Nine playing in the background.
"you know," he had started to murmur between his small bites, "I think that at the end of the day you're the best part of my weekend," he said softly his head turning to look at you.
you only smiled, leaning over to kiss his cheek gently, your mouth lingering for a moment before pressing another quick kiss to his skin before pulling away, "even when you finish P13?"
"especially then."
2. RAINY DAY MOMENTS
There was a soft drizzle of rain outside, the noise filling the room that you and oscar were in, humming as it hit the window, tapping against the window in a gentle rhythm.
both you and oscar were buried underneath 3 different blankets, oscar curled into your side, his hoodie pulled up over his head, head resting on your stomach as your hand ran through his hair.
"i could stay like this forever," he muttered quietly, his voice barely there.
you smiled, your fingers continuously drag slowly through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, "don't tempt me."
he chuckled, the vibrations felt against your stomach. "do you think that if i skipped media and said that i was trapped in a cuddle pile they'd accept it?"
"if anyone could deliver that line of an excuse and keep a straight face it would be you."
oscar proceeded to pull the blanket over both of your heads, mumbling against your shoulder, "i'm serious. i don't want to go to media and forced to go be around people just for them to ask me what went wrong during lap 18."
"then don't, stay here," you whisper softly, "just for today, be my little soft boy."
oscar's response consisted of a sleep filled kiss to your collarbone and his head burying itself deeper into your neck.
3. PRE-QUALIFYING NERVES
oscar was never the one to show off his nervous side. he didn't pace, he didn't snap at his engineers, he never let out any sort of dramatic sigh.
but you could see through his facade, saw how nervous he actually was, saw the way he continuously checked his gloves over four times, or in the way he was silent for a prolonged stretch of time.
one day you decided to slip a little note into his helmet bag before the both of you left for the paddock that day.
"you don't have to prove anything today. i already believe in you. just drive like it's what you love. i'll be waiting to see you after, and i'll be proud either way."
oscar didn't react when he first saw it, but then again he was never really one to react out loud in the first place. he simply just tucked the paper into his suit pocket and gave a small smile at the gesture.
he found you later that afternoon, just after his qualifying session, there you sat in the garage, a look on your face like you didn't just wreck his world in one of the best ways. there was a soft, unreadable look that he had in his eyes, his hand reaching for your own.
"i kept it in my pocket the whole time," he muttered quietly, only for you to hear, "felt like you were right there next to me the entire time."
"i always am," you had muttered in response, smiling softly.
4. GOOFY GROCERY GAMES
never let oscar piastri drive the shopping cart.
"i swear you do this on purpose," you had said while you were laughing watching as he clipped the corner of an endcap that was filled with soup cans.
"it adds excitement to a normally mundane task," he had said flatly, not even bothering to look behind him to see if he had knocked anything over.
"osc, that's not how you take a hairpin turn," you giggle.
he only turned with a huge grin on his face, "tell that to the marshmallow man i just wiped out."
you only rolled your eyes in response, your eyes scanning the food in the cart consisting of lots of sugary cereal, crisps, ranges of energy drinks, and about zero actual food.
"baby, we came here for fruit and oats, what is all this?"
oscar only grinned holding a bag of chips to his chest, "strategic carb loading."
you shook your head kissing his cheek gently, "put the blue doritos back and i'll let you pick which ice cream we get."
"negotiator," he gasped.
"better believe it."
5. SOFT MORNINGS FOR TWO SOFT PEOPLE
oscar definitely was not a morning person, but he was very much a "being next to you in the morning" person.
you had woken up early, finding your way to the spot on the ledge of the window, a mug of tea in your hand as you watched the sun rise, feeling the warmth as it seeped into your skin the higher it got.
behind you the sheets rustled as oscar stirred. you had turned just in time to see him roll over, his hair a very chaotic mess, his cheek lined with the creases of the pillow he was sleeping on.
"what are you doing up so early?" he croaked out, emerging from the blankets like a sleepy, confused cat.
"because it's beautiful outside and i couldn't sleep."
he only stared at you blearily, "well you're beautiful inside and i can sleep."
you gave him a little soft giggle at that, "osc, that barely made any sense."
"yeah well neither do you before you've had coffee, now come back to bed."
you smiled setting your mug of tea aside and padding over to where he had opened the covers wordlessly, slipping back into the warmth of him. his hand finding its way to your back like some sort of muscle memory.
"you smell like tea," he hums, his head tucked into your neck.
"you smell like sleep," you giggle.
he grunts in response curling more into you, arms wrapping tighter around you.
"five more minutes?" you ask softly.
"ten," he whispered back, already halfway back asleep.
6. ROOFTOP ADVENTURES
if there was one thing about you and oscar, it's that throughout your relationship one thing that never changed was your love for watching the stars from any rooftop you could get access to.
you were sat on the roof of a random place you were staying at, somewhere more rural, far from any sort of city, both of you wrapped up in blankets, cups of tea in your hands, bodies pressed close.
"that one looks like a kart," oscar mumbles pointing up at the sky.
"that's a plane osc."
"you have no imagination," he teased. he went on to mumble softer, "i like this though, it's very wholesome of us."
"you need more wholesome," you said back just as soft, "you overthink too much."
"i do not," he says, then a beat, "...what if they run soft tyres on sunday and the temp drops two degrees?"
you only gave him a pointed look in response.
he smiled back at you, something small, something private, a smile meant only for you, "okay, maybe a little."
your head moved to rest against his shoulder, "what would you do if racing didn't work out," you had mumbled softly.
he thought about it, resting in the position the both of you were in, the feeling of your head against his shoulder, both of you watching the stars wrapped up in your blankets, "probably something quiet, something with you."
"like a bookstore?" you ask your head tilting up a bit to look at him.
"maybe a bookstore. you'd run the front, i'd stock the shelves."
your face broke out into a little grin, "that's oddly specific osc."
he sipped his tea in response giving a little shrug, "i'd want people to see your pretty face when they walked in instead of my grumpy one."
"you've thought about this for a while haven't you?"
he gave a small shy smile, his head dipping a bit to hide his face, "maybe a little," he mumbled before pressing a soft kiss to your head.
7. CALMING HIM DOWN
the door clicked shut softly behind him. it wasn't slammed. he wasn't angry.
but the air was heavy, he was heavy.
your head looked up from where you had been curled up on the couch. oscar's bag dropping onto the floor, his hoodie being shrugged off, his body taking a seat beside you, his whole figure deflating as he let out a sigh.
"they picked apart my race craft today," he mumbled quietly, "then they asked me to just smile through it."
you didn't say anything, reaching out for his hand, taking it without a word. his thumb coming to brush along yours absentmindedly, like a way of grounding himself.
"i know it's part of the job, i know that. but sometimes i can't help but think that these people just don't see me as someone who is a human, i'm just some racecar driver then can pick apart and tear into, i don't have feelings."
"i do," you answered softly, "always."
he eyes looked up to meet yours. you could see the exhaustion in them, the want for anything but conversation about racing. but you could also see something else in his gaze, gratefulness.
"you don't ever ask me to explain anything. you just sit there...and listen."
you give a little shrug, "i just want to be the one place you don't need to perform. the one place you can just be oscar, my oscar."
he leaned forward, bringing your hand to his mouth and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, "and that's exactly what you are to me," he mumbled pulling you into him.
Summary: there’s been one constant in Max’s life since his first wobbly toddler steps in the paddock — he’s loved her since he was ten, through scraped knees and family vacations — and now it’s time that the rest of the world knows it too
Warnings: depictions of Michael Schumacher post-accident which are entirely fictitious because none of us truly know how he’s doing nowadays
The Red Bull garage smells like brake dust, adrenaline, and over-commercialized energy drinks. It’s chaos in that organized, obsessive way Formula 1 teams thrive on. Engineers speak in clipped, caffeinated sentences. Tires hum against concrete. Data streams across ten thousand screens.
And then you walk in.
“Is that-”
“No way.”
“Schumacher?”
You’re used to it. The way your last name wraps around every whispered sentence like a secret. Like a warning. Like a prayer. You keep your shoulders back, walk straight through the center of the garage in black trousers and the team-issued polo. The Red Bull crest is stitched onto your chest like it’s always belonged there.
Christian sees you first.
“Look who finally decided to join us,” he says, striding forward like he hasn’t been texting you at ungodly hours for three weeks straight.
You smile, small and knowing. “You know, most teams onboard a new staff member with an email.”
“You’re not most staff. You’re a Schumacher.”
“Still have to sign an NDA like everyone else, though, right?”
Christian laughs, claps you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team. We’re all thrilled. And Helmut — well, he’s pretending not to be, so that’s basically the same.”
“Flattering.”
You don’t say more because you don’t need to. You feel it before you see it. The shift. Like gravity getting heavier in one very specific corner of the room.
And then-
“Y/N?”
His voice slices through the garage like it was built for this very moment. Not loud, not urgent — just certain. You look up. And Max is already moving. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run. He just moves. Like the world rearranges to let him reach you faster.
He’s halfway through a debrief. Headphones still hanging around his neck. One of the engineers tries to catch his sleeve.
“Max, we’re still-”
“Later.”
He says it without looking, eyes locked on you. The garage quiets. Not because people stop talking, but because no one can pretend they’re not watching. The way his mouth tugs into a smile. The way his eyes soften — actually soften.
You don’t realize you’re smiling back until you feel it ache in your cheeks.
“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of you. He sounds different now. Not the Max the media knows. Not the firestorm in a race suit. This Max is … quiet. Warm.
“Hey yourself,” you say.
He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds yours like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s what he’s always done. Like no time has passed at all.
And the silence in the garage goes from curiosity to stunned disbelief.
“You’re actually here,” Max says, voice low. “You didn’t change your mind.”
“Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Thought you might remember what this place is like.”
You arch an eyebrow. “You mean competitive? Chaotic? Full of emotionally repressed men pretending they don’t need therapy?”
He laughs, really laughs. It’s the kind that creases the corners of his eyes. The kind that makes even Helmut Marko glance over from a screen with a raised brow.
“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”
“I’m not here to fit in, Max. I’m here to work.”
He squeezes your hand gently. “Yeah. Okay. But maybe also to see me?”
“Debatable.”
He grins. “Liar.”
And just behind him, leaning against the edge of the garage like he’s watching a slow-motion movie unfold, Jos Verstappen crosses his arms. The old-school paddock fixture, the human thunderstorm. He sees your joined hands, sees the ease between you and his son, and — for the first time in years — he smiles. A real one. A soft one.
You spot him. “Uncle Jos.”
That does it. That cracks the surface of the paddock.
“She called him Uncle Jos.”
“Did she just-”
“Holy shit.”
He pushes off the wall and walks over with that casual menace that makes grown men flinch. But not you. Never you.
“You’re late,” Jos says, but his voice is warm.
“I’m fashionably on time,” you shoot back.
“You’re your father’s daughter.”
You nod. “And you’re still terrifying. Some things never change.”
Jos chuckles. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. And the garage collectively forgets how to breathe.
“Good to have you back.”
Max watches the exchange like it’s some kind of private miracle. Like he can’t quite believe it’s all happening out loud, in front of everyone. You look up at him, still holding his hand. He looks down at you like nothing else matters.
“You’re going to make me soft,” he mutters.
“You were already soft,” you reply.
He huffs, drops your hand only to throw an arm over your shoulders instead. Casual. Familiar. Ridiculously comfortable. And no one — not a single soul in the garage — misses the way you lean into him like you belong there.
Because you do.
“So,” Max says, glancing back at Christian, who is clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Does she get a desk? Or do we just give her mine?”
“She’s your performance psychologist,” Christian says. “Not your shadow.”
“Close enough,” Max says.
“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone in the back.
You elbow him. “You’re making this worse.”
“I’m not making anything worse,” he says, turning back to you. “You think I care what they think?”
“Max.”
“They’ve always talked. Let them talk.”
You sigh. But it’s the kind of sigh you’ve always saved for him — half exasperated, half enamored. “This is going to be a circus.”
“We were always the main act, anyway.”
It’s true, and he knows it. From karting in the middle of nowhere to Monaco summers and Christmases in St. Moritz. You and Max were a constant. A unit before you knew what that even meant.
And now here you are. Older. A little more tired. A little more careful. But still you.
A comms guy in a headset leans over and whispers something to Christian, who nods.
“Alright, lovebirds,” Christian says. “Much as I’m enjoying the reunion special, some of us still have a car to run. Y/N, your office is upstairs. We cleared the far corner for you — less noise, more privacy.”
“Perfect,” you say.
Max doesn’t move.
“Max,” Christian warns.
“In a second,” he replies, and somehow it’s not bratty, just firm.
You turn to him, squeezing his wrist this time. “I’ll see you after?”
“Try and stop me.”
And then — just when you think he’s going to let you go like a normal person — he leans in. Presses his lips to your temple in the most casual, unremarkable, intimate gesture in the world.
And that’s the moment the garage truly loses its mind.
Phones are out. Whispers spiral.
Max Verstappen kissed someone in the middle of the garage.
Max Verstappen is in love.
You pull away, roll your eyes at the attention, but Max just smirks and says, “Told you they’d talk.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, walking toward the stairs.
“You used to like that about me.”
You don’t turn around. Just throw a hand up over your shoulder in mock surrender. “Still do.”
And Max?
He watches you go with that same expression he used to wear when he crossed finish lines as a kid. Like he’s already won.
***
When you open the door to the Monaco apartment that evening, you don’t even get your bag off your shoulder before Max says, “You’re late.”
He’s barefoot, shirtless, still damp from the shower, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder like he’s playing housewife. The smell of something lemony and warm wafts from the kitchen. He’s already made you dinner. Of course he has.
“I said I’d be home after eight,” you reply, dropping your bag and slipping off your shoes. “It’s eight-oh-six.”
“Which is late.” He walks toward you, frowning like you’ve personally offended him.
“You sound like my dad.”
Max stops in front of you, looks down with that slow smile that always disarms you more than it should. “Your dad liked me.”
You snort. “My dad made you sleep on the sofa for five straight summers.”
“Because I was thirteen and in love with you. He was protecting his daughter l.”
You laugh, eyes softening. He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead. “You’re tired.”
“I’m always tired.”
“I’ll fix that.”
“You’re not a sleep aid.”
He pulls away, grinning. “I am if you let me be.”
You smack his chest and walk past him, straight to the kitchen where there’s already a mug waiting on the counter — chamomile, oat milk, two teaspoons of honey. Exactly how you like it. You don’t even remember telling him the ratio. He just knows.
“You unpacked my books,” you say, surprised.
Max shrugs. “You’ve had those same four boxes for three years. Figured it was time someone gave them a shelf.”
“In your apartment.”
He leans against the counter, arms folded. “You live here.”
You tilt your head. “Do I?”
Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got three drawers in my closet, your toothbrush is in my bathroom, and I bought non-dairy milk for your weird tea. You live here.”
You take a sip and sigh. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”
“You didn’t argue.”
“Because you unpacked everything before I even had time to look for a place.”
He shrugs again, smug. “Felt like a waste of time. You were gonna end up here anyway.”
You hate that he’s right. You really do. But he’s so smug and soft about it — never controlling, just sure. Sure of you. It’s terrifying. And wonderful.
“You didn’t even leave a single box for me,” you say, feigning irritation.
“I left one,” he says. “It’s in the bedroom.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
He looks at you, serious now. “It’s the one with your karting suit in it.”
Oh.
The memory crashes into you, vivid and sharp.
***
You’re nine years old and your leg is bleeding.
Not a little. Not a scratch. Bleeding.
Max is already beside you on the asphalt before anyone else reaches the track. He’s crouched down, pale, shaking, trying to keep your helmet steady with trembling fingers.
“You’re okay,” he says, but he sounds like he might cry. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”
“I’m not crying,” you snap.
“Good,” he says. “Because if you cry, I’ll cry. And I’m not crying.”
Then he takes your hand.
And doesn’t let go.
He holds it all the way to the ambulance, all the way through the stitches. Jos tried to pry him off you once. Michael stopped him.
“She’s fine,” Jos said.
But Michael just smiled.
“She will be,” he said, “because he’s not going anywhere.”
***
Back in the kitchen, Max watches you closely. You set the mug down and turn to him.
“That’s why you left the box?”
He nods. “Didn’t want to touch that one.”
You take a slow breath. The air feels thick with everything you’re not saying.
“Did you keep it?” You ask. “The one from your first win?”
“Framed it,” he says. “It’s in the sim room.”
“Next to your helmets?”
He nods. “Next to your letters.”
Your throat tightens. “You kept them.”
Max looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Of course I kept them. You wrote me every week for two years.”
“I didn’t think you’d still have them.”
“They’re the only reason I got through that time. You know that.”
You do. God, you do.
***
Another flash: summer in the south of France. You’re thirteen. He’s fourteen. Your families have rented a villa together, as always. It’s hot and lazy and stupidly perfect.
You’re floating in the pool, eyes closed, and he splashes you on purpose. You scream. He laughs.
Later, he sits beside you on the balcony, his leg brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.
“I think I’m gonna marry you one day,” he says, out of nowhere.
You nearly choke on your lemonade. “What?”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re not serious.”
He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I am.”
Your dad walks out just then, sees you both with flushed faces, and sighs so loud it could be heard across the bay.
“I swear,” Michael mutters, half to himself, “he’s going to marry her. Jos owes me fifty euros.”
***
Now, standing in your shared kitchen in Monaco, you lean against the counter and say, “My dad predicted this, you know.”
Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He told me when I was twelve.”
“What?”
“We were in Italy. You had that meltdown after you lost the junior heat.”
You remember it. You remember throwing your helmet and screaming into a tire wall. You remember Max just sitting beside you until you stopped.
“He came over and said ‘You’ll marry her one day. I hope you realize that.’”
You stare. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
Max shrugs, looking down at the mug in your hand. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”
“You were twelve.”
“Still could’ve scared you off.”
You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”
He leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw. “You love it.”
You do.
You really, really do.
***
Later, you’re curled up on the sofa, legs over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your ankle. The TV’s on, some mindless movie you’re not watching. You’re both too tired to talk, but not tired enough to stop touching.
Max breaks the silence. “They think I’ve changed.”
You glance at him. “Who?”
“The team. Everyone. They look at me like I’ve become someone else.”
You shift, sit up slightly. “Because you hugged me in the garage?”
“Because I let them see it.”
You frown. “Do you regret that?”
Max turns his head to you, slow and deliberate. “Never.”
Then, quieter, “I just didn’t expect how much it would shake them.”
You study his face. There’s a war behind his eyes — one part him still battling the image he built, the other part desperate to tear it all down for you.
“You’ve always been soft with me,” you say. “They’re just catching up.”
He exhales, long and tired. “They’re going to ask questions.”
“Let them.”
“You know I don’t care about the noise,” he says. “But I care about you.”
You nod, moving closer until your forehead rests against his. “You make me feel safe.”
“I want to.”
“You do.”
He closes his eyes, breathes you in. “Then I don’t give a damn what they think.”
You smile. “There’s the Max I know.”
***
You fall asleep that night in his t-shirt, tucked into his side, his hand splayed across your hip like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.
The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, soft and certain in the dark.
“You’ve always been mine.”
And you don’t say it out loud — but you know it, too.
***
Dinner in Monaco is supposed to be discreet.
But nothing about Max Verstappen sitting at a corner table with you — his arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair, his thumb tracing absent circles into your shoulder — feels subtle.
Not to Lando, at least.
He spots you from across the restaurant. He’s walking in with a few friends, half-distracted, arguing about who’s paying the bill when he stops mid-sentence.
“Wait, no fucking way.”
Oscar glances at him. “What?”
Lando squints.
“No way.”
At first he sees just Max. Max in a black linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he’d showered and walked straight here without looking in the mirror once. Relaxed. Like he’s not the reigning world champion with the weight of four back-to-back seasons on his shoulders.
But then he sees you.
You’re laughing.
Not polite chuckle laughing. Full body, shoulders-shaking laughing. One hand over your mouth, the other pressed to Max’s forearm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.
And Max-
Max is smiling. Not grinning like he does after a fastest lap. Not smirking like he does when he overtakes someone into Turn 1. Smiling. Wide, open, boyish. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.
“Mate,” Lando whispers, stunned. “He’s pouring her wine.”
Oscar follows his gaze. “Holy shit.”
Max tilts the bottle just right, careful not to spill a drop, and doesn’t even blink when you steal a sip from his instead. He lets you do it. Like it’s happened a thousand times. Like it’s yours anyway.
Lando keeps staring.
“Are they-”
“Looks like.”
“When did-”
Oscar shrugs. “You’ve known him for a while, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I-” Lando shakes his head. “I just didn’t think …”
He trails off, watching Max lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Not hurried. Not performative. Just gentle.
Max, being gentle.
“I’ve gotta say something,” Lando mutters.
Oscar blinks. “Why?”
“Because if I don’t, I’ll explode.”
And before Oscar can stop him, Lando peels off from the group and makes a beeline for your table.
***
You’re still laughing when you feel the shadow loom over the table.
“Now this is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Lando says, hands in his pockets like he’s wandered into a museum exhibit.
Max doesn’t even flinch. “Hi, Lando.”
You look up, grinning. “Hey.”
Lando stares between you both like he’s waiting for someone to yell Gotcha!
“You’re smiling,” he says to Max, incredulous.
Max raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“And you’re touching her. In public.”
“She’s mine,” Max says easily. “Why wouldn’t I touch her?”
Lando sits himself down at the edge of your table without asking. “No, see, this is wild. You’re smiling. You’re pouring her wine. You just-” He points at Max. “You tucked her hair. You tucked her hair.”
“Are you having a stroke?” You ask, fighting another laugh.
“Don’t play it cool,” Lando says. “This is monumental. I’ve known this guy for years. He barely makes eye contact with me, and now he’s feeding you olives.”
Max calmly pops one into your mouth. You chew it slowly, grinning.
Lando’s jaw drops. “That. That. Right there.”
“Glad you stopped by,” Max says dryly.
“You like him like this?” Lando asks you, scandalized.
“I love him like this,” you say, just to watch Lando’s face implode.
Max smirks, proud. “Careful. You’re going to choke on your disbelief.”
Lando leans back in the chair, still staring like he’s just discovered aliens live in Monaco and go by the name Verstappen.
“When did this happen?”
You glance at Max. “Depends. Do you want the karting story? The vacation story? The letters? The part where my dad called it before I even hit puberty?”
Lando blinks. “Letters?”
“She wrote me letters for two years,” Max says, like it’s common knowledge.
“I-” Lando stutters. “What? You wrote him letters?”
“Every week,” you say.
“She was in Switzerland. I was doing F3,” Max adds.
“And you kept them?”
Max’s voice softens. “Of course.”
Lando looks like he might cry. “I thought you were a robot.”
“He’s not,” you say. “He’s just careful.”
Max shrugs. “She knows me. That’s all.”
A beat of quiet falls over the table, warm and strange. Lando frowns down at the half-eaten bread basket like it’s going to offer some kind of emotional clarity.
Then-
“Wait. Does Jos know?”
“Of course he knows,” Max says.
Lando laughs. “Oh, God. I bet he flipped. He hates when anyone distracts you.”
You sip your wine.
“Jos adores her,” Max says.
And as if summoned by prophecy, Jos fucking Verstappen walks into the restaurant.
Lando nearly knocks his glass over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Jos spots you first. He nods once at Max, then walks over to the table with all the urgency of a man browsing a farmer’s market.
“Y/N,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you on the cheek.
Lando drops his fork.
“Hi, Uncle Jos,” you say, smiling.
“Good to see you,” Jos replies, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks at Max, gives him a firm nod. “She settling in?”
“Perfectly,” Max replies.
Jos claps him on the shoulder once — approval, affection, something else unspoken — then disappears toward the bar.
Lando stares after him like he’s just seen a ghost.
“Since when does Jos smile?” He hisses.
Max smirks, takes a slow sip of wine. “Since forever,” he says, “with her.”
***
After dinner, Max laces his fingers through yours as you walk along the quiet Monaco street. The ocean glimmers to your left. The lights are low, golden. Your heels click softly against the cobblestones.
“You okay?” He asks.
You glance up. “More than.”
“Sorry about Lando. He means well.”
You smile. “It was kind of funny.”
He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “I meant what I said, you know.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
You stop walking, tug him gently so he turns to face you. “Even the part where I’m yours?”
His voice is low. Serious.
“Especially that part.”
You lean in, forehead against his. “Then you’re mine, too.”
“Always have been.”
The city hums around you. Somewhere, someone laughs. A boat horn echoes softly in the harbor.
And Max kisses you like he’s never known anything else.
***
It starts, as most things do in the Red Bull motorhome, with Yuki Tsunoda standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He’s hunting for snacks — something chocolate-adjacent and preferably smuggled from catering. He’s halfway through opening a cupboard when he hears voices coming from the other side of the thin wall that separates the corridor from Helmut’s little meeting nook.
One voice is unmistakable. Gravel and grumble and full of slow-burning nostalgia.
Jos Verstappen.
Yuki stills.
“I said thirteen,” Jos says. “Michael said sixteen.”
There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against ceramic. Helmut, Yuki guesses, is stirring his sixth espresso of the morning. Probably about to scoff at whatever nonsense Jos is peddling.
But Jos goes on. “We had a bet.”
Yuki blinks. A bet?
“On Max and Y/N?” Helmut sounds surprised. “You’re telling me that’s been going on since-”
Jos chuckles, low and fond. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them.”
There’s a pause. “I said they’d kiss first at thirteen. Michael said they’d get secretly engaged at sixteen.”
Yuki’s jaw drops. He forgets the cupboard, forgets the snack, forgets why he’s even standing there. He presses his ear closer to the thin wall.
“What actually happened?” Helmut asks.
Jos laughs. Really laughs. Not the bitter kind — the real kind. The kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape.
“Turns out,” he says, “Max gave her a ring pop when they were ten and called it a promise.”
There’s the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Jos again. “He said — and I swear, Helmut, I swear — he said, ‘It’s not real, but I’ll make it real later.’”
Helmut mutters something in disbelief, but Yuki’s not listening anymore.
Ten.
Ten years old.
***
It’s impossible to unhear.
That’s what Yuki decides an hour later, legs bouncing under the table in the drivers’ debrief while Max sits across from him looking utterly, maddeningly normal.
Except … not.
Max is focused, sure. He’s got the data sheet in one hand, telemetry open on his tablet, and he’s nodding at something the engineer says. But his foot taps. His eyes flick, just once, toward the clock on the wall.
And then, suddenly, he shifts forward, cuts the meeting off mid-sentence.
“Give me five.”
The room stills.
The engineer frowns. “You want-”
“Five minutes.”
“No, of course, just, uh, okay?”
Max’s phone is already in his hand. He’s out the door before anyone can question it.
Yuki waits a beat, then rises too. He murmurs something about needing the loo and slips out after him, ducking into the corridor just in time to see Max rounding the corner toward the hospitality suite.
He slows when he hears the door open, then Max’s voice — low, quiet, more intimate than Yuki’s ever heard.
“Hey. Did you eat?”
There’s a pause. Yuki’s heart thumps. He knows it’s you on the other side.
“Max,” you say, fond and exasperated. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I had a bar earlier. And a banana.”
“A banana,” Max repeats like it’s an insult to your entire bloodline.
“I’m working.”
“I’ll bring you something.”
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
Another pause. Then your voice, softer. “You’re supposed to be in the debrief.”
“I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay.”
Yuki has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from reacting out loud.
Max’s voice again, lighter now: “Did you drink water?”
“You are such a-”
“Did. You. Drink.”
You sigh. “Yes. I drank water.”
There’s a smile in Max’s reply. “Good girl.”
Yuki practically blacks out.
***
When Max returns to the meeting five minutes later with an unopened granola bar still in his hand, nobody says a word. Nobody dares.
Except Yuki.
He waits until they’re in the sim lounge, just the two of them, while Max’s seat is being adjusted and the engineers are fiddling with telemetry in the back.
Then, “So … ring pop?”
Max freezes. Just for a second. Then he shoots Yuki a look.
“Where did you hear that?”
Yuki grins. “Jos and Helmut. Thin walls.”
Max sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.
“She still has it,” he mutters.
“No way.”
“In a box.”
“Oh my God, Max.”
Max shrugs. “It wasn’t for anyone else.”
Yuki leans back, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You were in love at ten.”
Max just smiles. “Yeah. And I still am.”
***
Later that afternoon, you wander into the garage between meetings, one hand in your pocket, the other rubbing a spot at the base of your neck where stress always seems to collect. Max finds you before you even reach catering.
He always does.
“You didn’t finish your bar,” he says, holding up the wrapper like it’s damning evidence in a courtroom.
You give him a look. “You checked?”
“I check everything.”
He moves closer, smooths a wrinkle from your shirt with one hand, then slips the other to the small of your back. His touch is warm. Steady. His body shields you automatically from the chaos behind you — people moving, talking, planning — but all you feel is him.
“I had coffee,” you offer.
“Not food.”
“Coffee is made of beans.”
“Y/N.”
You laugh. “Okay. I’ll eat. Just don’t tell Yuki I’m stealing his instant ramen.”
Max smirks. “About that …”
You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. He just overheard something.”
“Max.”
He kisses your temple. “It’s fine.”
“Define fine.”
“He found out about the ring pop.”
Your mouth drops open. “You told him?”
“Jos told Helmut. Yuki eavesdropped.”
“Oh my God.”
Max shrugs. “I gave you my first promise. And I’m keeping it.”
You fall quiet, heart doing somersaults in your chest. You’re suddenly ten again, sticky-fingered and sun-drenched, holding a cherry-flavored ring pop while Max grinned at you like he’d just won Le Mans.
You reach for his hand now, fingers threading through his.
“You have kept it.”
He nods, solemn. “Every day.”
***
Jos watches from the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Yuki sidles up next to him.
“They’re pretty intense,” Yuki mutters.
Jos glances at him.
“She’s the only person he ever listens to,” he says.
Then he smiles.
Again.
Yuki shakes his head. “Unreal.”
***
The Red Bull garage is silent in that way only disaster can command.
Not the loud kind of disaster. Not the chaos of spinning tires or radio static or desperate engineers shouting into headsets. No, this is worse. This is the silence that comes when the pit wall realizes, together, that the lap isn’t going to finish. That the car isn’t going to limp back. That there’s only carbon fiber confetti, blinking yellow flags, and a flickering onboard camera showing Max Verstappen’s helmet motionless in the cockpit, framed by smoke and gravel.
He’s not moving.
“Red flag. Red flag. That’s Max in the wall.”
GP’s voice crackles through the comms, tight with alarm.
“Talk to me, Max.”
Nothing.
Then-
“I’m fine.”
The radio comes alive again. Gritted teeth, labored breath.
“Fucking understeer. Car didn’t turn. I said it didn’t feel right this morning.”
You’re in the garage, watching on a monitor, a pen stilled in your hand and a racing heart thudding in your throat. The medical car is already on its way.
***
The medical center smells like antiseptic and tension.
He’s on the bed when you get there. Suit unzipped to his waist, skin smudged with gravel dust and the beginnings of bruises.
And he’s angry.
“I’m not doing a scan,” he snaps, tugging at the strap of his HANS device like it personally betrayed him. “I’m fine.”
“Max,” the doctor says with all the patience of someone who’s dealt with world champions before, “you hit the wall at a hundred and seventy. We’re doing a scan.”
“I said I’m fine-”
“Max.”
Your voice.
Quiet. Steady. Unmistakable.
He turns. The fury in his shoulders drains almost instantly.
“Schatje.”
You cross to him, not rushing — because if you rush, he’ll think you’re panicked. And if you’re panicked, he’ll dig his heels in deeper.
You cup his jaw gently, running your thumb across the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed for a second. He exhales, jaw loosening.
“Let them do the scan,” you say softly.
“I don’t want-”
“It’s not about what you want right now.”
He sighs. Mutinous. “I hate this part.”
“I know you do.” You nod, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “But I need to know you’re okay. I need the scans.”
He opens his eyes again, searching yours.
“Just a formality,” you whisper. “You’ll be out in twenty minutes.”
He hesitates. Then finally, “Okay.”
You turn to the doctor. “Go ahead.”
The doctor blinks at you like he’s watching a unicorn read a bedtime story to a lion.
Max doesn’t argue again.
GP, standing just behind the exam curtain, looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes. He leans toward you when Max disappears into the back for imaging.
“That was witchcraft.”
You shrug. “It’s just Max.”
“No,” GP says. “That was magic. He looked like he was about to throw a monitor at me.”
“He wouldn’t have.”
“He would’ve thrown it at me,” the doctor chimes in, still stunned. “And now he’s apologizing to the nurse. Who are you?”
You smile softly. “Just someone who knows how to talk to him.”
***
Jos arrives fifteen minutes later, face stormy and footsteps sharp. The room collectively inhales.
You’re seated in a plastic chair, eyes on the monitor that shows Max’s scan progress. You don’t turn around when Jos enters. You don’t have to.
He stops just behind you.
“Is he hurt?” He asks.
“Not seriously,” you answer. “But they need to check for microfractures. The impact was sharp on the right side.”
Jos is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand, heavy and warm, settles on your shoulder.
“You got him to agree to scans?”
You nod. “He was being Max.”
“That sounds right.”
GP, standing by the sink with a paper cup, watches the moment unfold like he’s witnessing history.
Jos Verstappen. Smiling.
Max reappears ten minutes later, changed into clean Red Bull kit, hair still damp from a quick shower.
You rise. “All clear?”
“Yeah.” He moves straight into your arms. “Just bruised.”
You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I told you it was fine.”
Max turns to Jos. “Hey.”
Jos scans him up and down, then nods once. “Could’ve been worse.”
Max shrugs. “Could’ve been better, too.”
“You’ll get it tomorrow.”
Max tilts his head. “That’s optimistic for you.”
Jos’s hand is still on your shoulder. “She makes us all softer, apparently.”
Everyone in the room hears it.
GP actually drops his cup.
**
Back in the garage later, Max sits on a folding chair while you rewrap the compression band on his wrist.
“It’s not tight, is it?”
“No.”
“You’ll tell me if it is?”
“Of course.” He smirks. “You’ll know before I say it anyway.”
You smile. “True.”
Max glances around the garage. “They’re all looking.”
You nod. “Let them.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
He takes your hand in his. “Thanks for earlier.”
“You were being impossible.”
“You love it.”
You grin. “I do.”
***
Outside, the paddock buzzes with gossip.
Inside, you kneel in front of him, fingers moving expertly over tape and skin. And Max looks down at you like he did when he was ten years old with cherry candy on his finger, asking you to keep a promise he hadn’t yet learned how to name.
And still, somehow, keeping it anyway.
***
Max is late.
Which isn’t unusual — especially not after a race weekend, not when media has clawed its way through his post-crash interviews like blood in the water. He told you he’d try to be back by seven, but it’s pushing eight-thirty, and the pasta you made sits cold on the counter while you curl up on the couch in one of his hoodies, a blanket around your shoulders and a book cracked open across your knees.
The apartment smells like rosemary and garlic and something so distinctly him that it makes your chest hurt. You should be used to this place by now — your name on the buzzer, your shoes by the door, your shampoo next to his in the shower — but some days it still feels like walking around in someone else’s dream.
The book is old. Max’s, clearly. Worn at the spine and dog-eared in ways that suggest he’s either read it a thousand times or used it to prop up furniture. You only picked it up to pass the time. You weren’t expecting it to feel like a trapdoor.
You weren’t expecting the letter.
It slips out from between two pages around chapter eleven, delicate and yellowed and folded into a square so neat it feels like it was handled by trembling hands. Which, you realize instantly, it probably was.
Your name is written on the front in Max’s handwriting.
But it’s Max’s handwriting from before.
When he still dotted his Is with a slight curve, when his Ts slanted just a little to the left, when his signature hadn’t hardened into something that looked more like a logo.
Your breath catches. You unfold it slowly.
And read.
March 5th, 2014
Y/N,
I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m writing this instead. Everyone’s talking, but no one is saying anything real. I hate it. I hate seeing the photos. I hate hearing my dad whisper when he thinks I’m not listening. I hate that I wasn’t skiing with you in France. I should have been.
You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.
You’ve always been braver than me. I don’t think I ever said that out loud, but it’s true. Even when we were kids and you crashed in Italy and your leg was bleeding and you didn’t cry — I almost did. I think I loved you even then.
I don’t know if you’ll come back to racing. I don’t know if I’ll see you in the paddock again. But if you do when you do I hope you come sit in my garage. Right in front of me. I hope I can look up and see you, just like before.
Because I drive better when you’re there. I always have.
Your Max
***
By the time you finish reading, you’re crying. Quietly. The kind of tears that don’t shake your shoulders, that don’t come with heaving sobs or gasps for breath — just the steady, unstoppable kind. The kind you didn’t know you were holding back.
The kind that were never just about the letter.
***
Max finds you like that.
The apartment door opens with its usual soft click, followed by the sound of keys in the dish and shoes kicked off against the wall. He calls out, “Schatje?” the way he always does.
When you don’t answer, he moves through the hallway, brow furrowed.
And then he sees you. Still on the couch. Eyes red. Shoulders small.
“Hey-”
He crosses to you instantly, crouching down so you’re face to face.
“What happened?” He asks, voice gentle, hands finding your knees. “What is it?”
You don’t speak. Not right away. You just reach for the folded piece of paper on the coffee table. Place it in his hand.
He looks down. Sees it. Recognizes it.
His eyes widen — then narrow. Carefully, he unfolds it.
You watch his throat work through a swallow as he reads.
Then he looks back at you.
“You found this?”
You nod. “It was in the book.”
He exhales. Drops the letter into his lap and reaches for your face, brushing your tears away with his thumb. His touch is featherlight. Reverent.
“You kept it,” you whisper.
“Of course I did.”
“I didn’t know-”
“I didn’t write it to give it to you.” Max’s voice is quiet. “I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to talk to you. You were gone. Everyone kept telling me to stay focused, to push through. But I missed you so much it made my chest hurt. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”
You press your forehead against his, and he leans into it like gravity is pulling him there.
“You never left me,” he murmurs. “Even when you did.”
Your breath hitches.
“I used to look at the garage before a race and pretend you were there. I’d pick a spot and tell myself, she’s sitting right there. She’s watching. Make it count.”
You sniff, choking on a watery laugh. “That’s why you got better?”
He smiles softly. “That’s why I survived.”
A pause. Then-
“I thought you might hate racing after … everything.”
You shake your head. “No. I hated losing it. I hated what it became without him. Without you.”
He shifts beside you, pulling you gently into his lap. You curl into him without hesitation, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his hand sliding up your back and resting there, like it always does.
“I was scared,” you admit. “To come back. Not just to the paddock. To you.”
Max doesn’t flinch. He waits. Lets you speak.
“I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to pretend we were just kids anymore. And that scared the hell out of me.”
“Why?”
“Because I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I didn’t know what that would mean.”
He kisses your temple. “It means you were always mine. Even when you didn’t know it yet.”
You shift to face him again. “Did you really mean it?”
“The letter?”
“Yeah.”
He holds your gaze, unwavering.
“I still mean it.”
You smile. “I sit in your garage now.”
“And I drive like I used to.”
“No,” you whisper. “You drive better.”
He grins. “Because you’re here.”
“Because I’m home.”
***
Later, much later, when the dishes are cleaned and your tears have dried, he pulls you into bed and tucks the letter between the pages of the book again.
“I want it close,” he says.
You trace the edge of his jaw. “Me too.”
Then he pulls you to his chest, your head against his heartbeat, and whispers against your hair:
“Promise me you’ll never leave again.”
You lift your chin. “Promise me you’ll always write me letters.”
He smiles.
“Deal.”
***
You don’t notice it right away.
The photo.
You’re sitting on Max’s couch, legs tangled with his, a shared blanket draped over both your laps, when your phone starts vibrating on the table.
Once.
Twice.
Then nonstop.
Max lifts his head from where it rests against your shoulder, brow furrowed. “That your phone?”
You reach over to check it, already expecting a handful of texts from your mother or maybe Mick with some new meme. But it’s not that.
It’s dozens — no, hundreds — of messages, pinging in rapid-fire succession from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Old classmates. Distant cousins. PR reps. Journalists. Even Nico Rosberg, who once jokingly told you he’d know before the internet if anything happened between you and Max, has sent you a simple message:
So … it’s out.
Your stomach twists.
“Y/N?” Max asks again. He’s sitting up now.
You click one of the links. It takes you to a Twitter post — already at 127,000 likes in under twenty minutes.
A photo.
Of you.
And Max.
It’s clearly taken the night after the race, when you and Max walked along the water after dinner, just the two of you, winding down through the dimmed cobblestone streets where no one was supposed to notice.
He’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your middle. His face is tucked into your shoulder, eyes closed, and your hands rest on his forearms. There’s a soft smile on your face. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be seen. Quiet. Intimate. Entirely yours.
It’s not yours anymore.
The caption: IS THIS MAX VERSTAPPEN’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?
Max takes the phone from your hand before you can process much more. He stares at the screen, expression unreadable.
You murmur, “Max …“
He doesn’t speak.
You’re already scanning through the quote tweets and reposts, the chaos unraveling fast.
Whoever she is, he’s IN LOVE.
That’s not just a fling. Look at the way he’s holding her.
His face in her shoulder? Oh this is serious.
Wait. Wait. Wait. IS THAT Y/N SCHUMACHER?
Your heart hammers in your chest. You feel stripped bare.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Someone must’ve followed us.”
Max shakes his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns the phone over, screen down.
“Max …“
“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit who sees it. I’m just pissed they took it without asking.”
You hesitate. “It’s everywhere.”
He meets your eyes. His gaze is clear. “Then let it be everywhere.”
***
You think that might be the end of it. Just one photo, one viral tweet.
But you underestimate the sheer velocity of Formula 1 gossip.
By the time the sun rises, the image is on every motorsport news outlet. Paparazzi camp outside your apartment building. Journalists send emails with subject lines like “Verstappen’s Secret Girlfriend: A Deep Dive” and “Schumacher Family Ties: Romance in the Paddock?”
Christian texts you. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything. Max will be briefed before press.
You reply. I’m sorry.
His response comes a second later. Don’t be. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.
You almost cry again.
***
But nothing — and you mean nothing — could have prepared you for Jos.
You’re sitting in the Red Bull motorhome the following weekend when Yuki bursts in with his phone held up like a holy relic. He’s breathless, half-laughing, half-screaming.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. You guys. Look. Look.”
“What?” Max asks, bemused, glancing up from his telemetry notes.
Yuki throws his phone on the table. “Your dad.” He’s pointing at Max.
Max raises a brow. “What about him?”
“HE COMMENTED. PUBLICLY.”
You frown, inching closer to see.
The photo’s been reposted on Instagram by a gossip account. The caption is asking for confirmation. A sea of users is speculating. Arguing. Debating theories. And right there, in the middle of it all, under his verified name:
@josverstappen7 About time.
There’s a moment of pure, undiluted silence.
Then-
Max snorts. Actually snorts.
You blink. “He what?”
“He’s never commented on anything in his life,” Yuki gasps. “That man barely smiles.”
Max looks a little stunned. Then a slow, crooked grin stretches across his face.
“He likes you,” he says, quiet and proud.
You blink. “He’s always liked me.”
“Yeah, but now the world knows it.”
***
The paddock can’t stop buzzing. It’s not just that Max Verstappen has a girlfriend — it’s who she is. The daughter of Michael Schumacher. The girl who practically grew up beside him. The one everyone assumed had vanished from the scene. The one no one dared to ask about.
Even Helmut gives you a brief nod of approval in the hallway.
But it’s not over. Of course it’s not. There’s still the press conference.
***
You’re not there when it happens — you’re finishing up a private session with a Red Bull junior driver who nearly fainted during sim training — but you hear about it immediately.
The moment.
The question.
The quote that breaks the internet again.
Max is calm, cool as always in the hot seat. Wearing his usual navy polo, fingers tapping the table rhythmically while the journalists volley back and forth about tire strategy and engine upgrades.
And then-
A Sky Sports reporter leans in, trying to be clever.
“So, Max,” he says, “the internet’s in a frenzy over a certain photo from Monaco. You’ve been quiet about your personal life for years, but … care to confirm?”
There’s laughter from the room. A few mutters. Even Lewis shifts in his seat to glance over.
Max doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t scoff.
He just tilts his head slightly, expression softening.
“She’s not new.”
A pause.
“She’s always been there.”
***
When you see the clip, it hits you like a wave.
You watch it alone, in the empty Red Bull lounge, curled into one of the oversized chairs with your laptop on your knees and your heart in your throat.
The way he says it — without fanfare, without nerves — makes you ache.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t evade.
He just tells the truth.
Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
***
You don’t have to wait long before he finds you.
He walks in still wearing his lanyard and sunglasses, head slightly tilted.
“You saw it?”
You look up from the laptop and nod. “You really said that?”
“I meant it.”
“I know,” you whisper.
He sits beside you, pulls you into his lap without hesitation, arms snug around your waist.
“They’ll keep asking,” you murmur.
“Let them.”
You smile softly. “You’re not worried?”
“About what? Loving you in public?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in private since I was ten. I can do both.”
You press your forehead to his.
“They’re going to write stories.”
“Then I hope they write this part down.” He kisses you, slow and steady, like punctuation.
***
On your way out of the motorhome, your phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from your brother.
Tell Max if he hurts you, I’ll find a way back to F1 just so I can crash into him on lap one.
You laugh. Max, peeking over your shoulder, rolls his eyes.
“I like Mick,” he says, deadpan.
You grin. “Then be nice to me.”
“I’m nice to you every morning.”
You bump his hip. “You’re also mean to me every morning.”
“That’s foreplay.”
You laugh. Out loud. Bright and sudden.
And this time, you don’t care who hears it.
***
The drive is quiet.
Not tense, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that lives in the space between heartbeats, between memories that never stopped aching. The kind of quiet that comes with going home.
Your fingers are looped with Max’s across the center console, neither of you speaking. You’re an hour outside Geneva, climbing into the familiar, secluded hills that line the lake. The roads are winding, shaded, and Max handles them like second nature — like he’s driven this route in dreams a hundred times before.
He probably has.
You definitely have.
You haven’t brought anyone back here in years.
Not since the accident. Not since everything changed.
But Max isn’t just anyone. He never was.
“I’m nervous,” you say softly.
“I know,” he replies, eyes still fixed on the road.
You twist the hem of your sweater. “It’s not that I’m worried about him meeting you. It’s just … it’s different now. You remember.”
“I remember everything.”
You glance over at him. “Do you?”
Max finally turns to you, just briefly, but long enough for you to see the honesty in his expression. “He used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to marry you unless I learned how to heel-toe downshift.”
A small, watery laugh escapes your lips.
He squeezes your hand. “I got good at it. Just for him.”
You blink hard. “I just want him to know.”
“He knows.”
“Max-”
“He always knew.”
***
The estate hasn’t changed much.
The front gate still creaks a little. The garden still bursts with the same wild lavender and pale roses that your mother always insisted were Michael’s favorite, even though he could never name a single one correctly. The driveway curves the same way, gravel crunching under tires as Max eases the car into park.
You hesitate before getting out.
He doesn’t rush you.
Instead, Max leans over, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers, “Take your time. I’ve got you.”
You nod, even though nothing about your chest feels steady.
***
Your mother meets you at the door.
She pulls you into a hug instantly — tight, wordless, and lingering longer than usual.
Then she reaches for Max, and to your surprise, she hugs him too.
He hugs back.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.
Max only nods.
She turns toward you. “He’s in the garden.”
***
You lead Max through the long corridor, past the living room where your father once danced around in his socks to ABBA to make you laugh. Past the kitchen table where Max, age fourteen, carved your initials into the wood with a butter knife when he thought no one was watching. (You never told anyone. You ran your fingers over it for years.)
The sliding glass doors to the garden open slowly. The breeze hits first — cool, gentle, still carrying hints of mountain pine.
And then, you see him.
He’s sitting under the willow tree, just like always, his wheelchair angled slightly toward the sun. There’s a blanket draped across his knees, and a small radio plays softly on the stone table beside him — some old German song you half-remember from childhood.
His eyes are open. Alert.
Your breath catches.
Max is silent beside you.
You step forward first.
“Hi, Papa.”
His eyes flick to yours.
Your voice breaks immediately. “I brought someone.”
Max takes a slow step closer.
Michael’s gaze moves to him.
There’s no flicker of surprise. No confusion. No question.
Just … calm recognition.
As if he knew you were coming all along.
“Hi, Michael,” Max says, voice low, steady. “It’s been a while.”
There’s no response. But Michael blinks, slowly, and Max takes it like a nod.
You kneel beside the chair. Take one of your father’s hands in both of yours. “You look good today.”
He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t, in years — not in full sentences. Sometimes a sound. A shift of the eyes. But it’s not the voice you grew up with. Not the laugh that echoed across karting paddocks. Not the firm, confident tone that once told Max he was going to win eight titles just to piss him off.
But his hands are warm.
You press your forehead to his knuckles, eyes closed.
“I missed you.”
Max kneels beside you.
He doesn’t say much at first.
Just lets his hand fall gently on your back.
Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “You were right.”
There’s a pause.
“You told me once that I’d marry her someday.” His thumb brushes a slow, grounding line along your spine. “I used to think you were joking. I was nine. I didn’t even know how to talk to her properly.”
You let out a breath that trembles.
Max continues, “But you saw it before we did. You knew.”
Michael’s eyes shift again. Toward Max. Then to you.
Still no words.
But something passes between the three of you. A ripple. A current. The invisible thread that’s always been there.
You blink hard, but tears fall anyway.
“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” Max adds. “We didn’t mean to make it public. But now that it is — I wanted you to know.”
You choke on a sob.
Max moves instantly, both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.
You don’t resist.
You bury yourself into him, the tears shaking through your body, your grip fisting the back of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over. “I’m sorry I waited so long to bring him.”
He strokes your hair. “You brought me now.”
“He doesn’t even …“
“He knows,” Max says again. “He knows.”
You look up at him, eyes red, cheeks damp.
And he says it, not for the first time, but with a weight that anchors you to the earth:
“I love you.”
Your voice cracks. “I love you too.”
Michael’s hand twitches.
You freeze.
Then, slowly — almost imperceptibly — his fingers curl around yours.
Max sees it too.
His voice breaks a little. “Thank you, Michael.”
***
You stay in the garden for hours.
Max pulls an extra chair over and doesn’t complain when your head falls against his shoulder. He lets you speak. Lets you cry. At one point, your mother brings out coffee. He thanks her in gentle German. She smooths your hair down like you’re six years old again and then kisses your father’s forehead with practiced tenderness.
Michael watches everything. Quietly. Distant but present.
You catch Max whispering something under his breath at one point, leaning just slightly closer to your father.
You don’t ask what he said.
Later, as the sun dips low over the lake and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Michael’s eyes start to close. His breathing slows.
You press a final kiss to his cheek.
Max pushes your hair behind your ear, kisses your temple.
The way he carries your grief — without fear, without pressure — makes something in your heart crack open.
“I wasn’t ready,” you whisper in the hallway later.
“I know.”
“But I’m glad we came.”
“I am too.”
You pause.
“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever — when we were kids — imagine this?”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he smiles.
“You were all I ever imagined.”
***
Victoria doesn’t knock.
She never has. She has a key, the code, and more importantly, Max has always told her, “Just come in. You don’t need permission.”
But today something feels different the moment she steps through the door.
It smells like vanilla and something warm and sweet. There’s music, soft and low, playing from the kitchen. Stevie Wonder, maybe? She toes off her shoes, sets her weekend bag down by the stairs, and follows the faint scent of pancakes.
And then stops dead in the hallway.
Because Max is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms slung loosely around someone else’s waist. And that someone is barefoot, in one of his old Red Bull t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, hair tied in a messy knot, flipping pancakes with an ease that can only come from familiarity.
She recognizes you instantly.
As the girl Max would talk about when he was sixteen and swearing up and down he didn’t believe in love. As the girl who used to show up on the pit wall and make her brother forget to breathe. As the one name he never said bitterly.
The one girl he never had to get over, because he never stopped waiting for her.
You.
Y/N Schumacher.
And Max is kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whispering something low and private, like he’s done it a thousand times before. You laugh — really laugh — and Max’s hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt like it’s instinctive, fingers resting warm against your hip.
Victoria blinks.
Not because it’s jarring, but because it’s not.
Because it looks like he’s home.
She clears her throat, and Max turns his head lazily over his shoulder.
“Hey, Vic.”
You turn too, startled, spatula still in hand.
“Oh! Hi, sorry, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would’ve-”
“She’s here,” Max says to you, then to Victoria, “You’re early.”
“I didn’t know I had to schedule a slot now,” she teases.
Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.
Victoria steps fully into the kitchen, scanning the countertop cluttered with batter, coffee mugs, and fresh strawberries.
“This is … surreal,” she murmurs, setting her sunglasses down.
“What is?” Max asks, biting into a strawberry you just sliced.
You swat at him. “That was for the topping.”
He grins. “I have training later, I need carbs.”
Victoria watches all of this with quiet fascination.
Max is … soft.
Not weak. Never that.
But soft. Like velvet over steel. Like he’s stopped fighting air and finally has something solid to hold onto. Like the sharp edges of his world have finally rounded into something resembling peace.
She pulls out a stool at the counter.
“Okay, I need to hear everything,” she announces, folding her arms. “How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling your favorite sister?”
Max reaches for a mug. “Technically, I told you when I was nine.”
You blink. “You what?”
Victoria smirks. “You what?”
Max shrugs, pouring coffee. “Told her I was gonna marry you. At dinner. After karting in Genk. You had that sparkly lip gloss and made me crash into a barrier.”
“Oh my god,” you say, half-laughing, face warm. “That wasn’t even — Max, you were such a menace back then.”
He leans in, voice low. “Still am.”
You swat at him again, cheeks flushed.
Victoria watches with something like awe.
“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew when I saw you with her at Spa. You stood differently.”
“I did not,” Max replies, sliding a pancake onto a plate.
“You did. Like the noise stopped.”
He doesn’t argue.
You glance at him, puzzled.
Victoria turns to you. “You calm him. I don’t think he even realizes how much.”
“I do,” Max says immediately, gaze fixed on you. “I realize it every day.”
You go quiet.
He reaches for your hand and squeezes once.
Victoria sips her coffee. “So … are you living here?”
Max answers before you can. “She’s not going anywhere.”
You smile down at the pancakes. “He unpacked my boxes before I could even choose a closet.”
“I built you a desk,” Max adds.
Victoria raises a brow. “You hate assembling furniture.”
“I made GP help.”
You burst out laughing. “You yelled at the instructions.”
“They were wrong,” Max mutters.
Victoria watches you both, a soft look settling over her features.
“You’re good for him,” she says, quieter now. “He’s still Max, but … I’ve never seen him this happy. Even when he won the championship. It wasn’t like this.”
You glance at him.
Max is already looking at you.
“She’s always been it,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Even when she wasn’t here.”
You press your lips together.
He leans in again, presses another kiss to your temple.
Victoria pretends to gag. “God, you’re disgusting.”
Max smiles. “I know.”
But you notice the way he pulls you in closer. How he kisses your knuckles when you pass him the syrup. How his eyes keep coming back to you like he’s still making sure you’re real.
You’ve been through everything.
Secrets. Distance. Paparazzi. The weight of family names. The ache of watching a parent disappear in pieces.
But this?
This is the part you never thought you’d get to have.
Pancakes and Stevie Wonder and barefoot Saturdays. Max leaning against you like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. Victoria grinning across the kitchen island like she’s always known.
Its quite the dynamic honestly you both have. It's one of the favorite in the paddock. Fans eat it up knowing Max is more of a tough shell who is soft only with you and it balantly obvious. The first detail everyone notices is the obvious height difference. Max being 6'1 and you standing at a height of 5'2 but thanks to the high heels you wear most of the time, you look an inch or two taller. The very next obvious difference is the vibes you both have. Max is someone people don't talk to eye to eye especially when he has a bad race day, someone who has a complete fuck you mentality but you? You're a sweetheart. You eat up paddock appearances wearing soft colors and fitted sundresses pairing them with matching pearls and heels. Max's hands that became rough after years of driving finally relax once you both come into the paddock hands intertwined with each other. He usually has a straight face, only showing expressions if he wins or has to deal with fucked up redbull strategy. But the moment he sees you? His straight face is gone. He smiles, his eyes soften and his muscles relaxes. You're like a comfort switch to him. Fans even make memes and create compilations of everytime you both appear in the paddock and the way he looks at you. He is with you nearly all the time unless he's actually racing in circuits. You both are like super glued to each other. His engineer js reviewing his pre race strategy, you're standing with him, his one hand on your waist and the other intertwined with yours. Max looks gloomy whenever you aren't able to attend his races not because he's angry at you but because he's just so into you, he can't help it. His eyes unknowingly search for you even though he knows you aren't there.
Fans eat it up everytime a new season of drive to survive arrives, they are quick to find the little clips that you and Max allow the crew to film. Small intimate moments that feel invasive to watch because of how genuine it feels. You tearing up when he doesn't win his home race in Zandoovart. You being the first one to go up to him when he's slumped against the wall in Redbull hospitality and hugging him when no one even dares to approach him after a bad race day. His eyes searching for you the moment he gets out of the car and once he spots you, he has the biggest smile ever and engulfs you in a tight warm embrace. Him giving you small pecks on your forehead and ruffling your hair before he goes on a race. Him wearing the pink kuromi bracelet everywhere he goes no matter how silly it looks againt his big hands. The most viral clip was after the race in Bahrain, where the camera crew found you both sleeping on the couch in Redbull hospitality with Redbull crewmembers giggling because of how cute it looked. You sat on the couch, with Max resting his head on your thighs and sleeping while laying down. It was a fan favorite moment and Redbull even had it framed in Max's driver room.
He's very protective to you no matter what. You're too kind and have a hard time saying no to people. While you baking cookies to adoption centers and giving time to animals in animal shelter deeply moves Max, he still understands how people can easily take advantage of you because he's seen it happen before. Friends who ignored you before trying to be close after seeing you date Max. He gently talks you through it, telling you that they aren't real friends. He'll put an arm on your waist and pull you closer whenever he sees someone hovering too long. He'll glare if someone tries to even make a rude comment or if he catches someone staring. He even shut down rumours of people calling you 'fake' and being a 'gold digger' on his official twitter account. That man went as far as to sue papparazzis when they took pictures of you wearing a skimpy bikini on a private yacht. His Instagram feed is just you and racing. Highlights of you in everywhere. Pictures of you in private dinners, yachts, his private jet, in the redbull hospitality. Anyone who talks to him who has no complete idea if who you are will come to know within maximum 5 minutes of the conversation. He actively thank you in radios after winning races and dedicated his 2024 championship after you. After 2024 season, he bought a private yacht for you of a whopping 16 million dollars and had your name engraved in pink italic letters. He doesn't shy away from his love and admiration for you.
You'll never know the lengths this man will go for you. Everyone in Redbull knows not to mess with you. If you won't say anything, they sure as hell know Max will flip the world upside down if he catches anyone misbehaving and surprisingly everyone accepts it because that's just his love language.
💌: i luvvvvv these type of trope. god, when is it gonna be me
omg i supeeerr love ur first time girl dad-jannik it’s super warm and cute !!!! 🥺 pls hear me out like jannik & reader (wife/its up to u) like them getting used to their new routine with cecilia, like trying to have their alone time but their baby needs them haha then jannik’s parents helping them like them pushing the two for an alone time and then they’ll take care of the baby, them having really cute family dynamics like reader surprising jannik during one of his matches with the baby and everyone being in awe🥺🫶🏻
Golden Hours, Strawberry Days.
› Pairing → First Time Girl Dad! Jannik Sinner x Wife! Female Reader.
› Summary → A new routine, and one unforgettable match.
› Word Count → 1.9k.
› a/n → Ahh, tysm for sharing this incredibly cute scenario 🥹 I hope I was able to write it the way you imagined and that you like it!! 💗
› Previously on First Time Girl Dad! Jannik.
Cecilia, now just past two months old, was the new center of gravity.
Mornings started earlier than either of them were used to, with their daughter babbling from her crib as the sun crept through the curtains.
Jannik always tried to let her sleep longer, tiptoeing with Cecilia to the kitchen and whispering nonsense to keep her entertained while he warmed bottles and tried (and failed) to keep the formula off his shirt.
On one particular morning, while Cecilia was busy discovering sensory experiences with the building blocks, Jannik leaned his shoulder against the doorframe of the living room, running a towel through his damp hair. “I made tea.” he announced, voice hushed.
She looked up from the floor where she was sitting cross-legged in leggings and one of his shirts, folding tiny onesies into piles that would be scattered again by tomorrow. “Is it still hot?”
“For you, always.” he smirked, setting the mug down on the coffee table beside her along with a kiss to her temple, to which she smiled sleepily and reached up to tug on his arm so he’d sit behind her.
He promptly did — legs on either side of hers, arms wrapping around her waist like muscle memory.
For five minutes, there was no crying — no diapers, or even feeding alarms — solely Jannik pressing his chin into her shoulder like he’d never quite get close enough.
However, it didn't take long for the sound to return — Cecilia’s wail cracking over the baby monitor, short at first, then building into that heartbreaking crescendo that yanked them both to their feet like knights to a princess.
“I’ll go,” she informed instantly, already halfway up.
“No, let me–”
They bumped into each other in the hallway, both barefoot and reaching for the nursery door at the same time. She giggled softly, forehead falling against his chest. “We’re ridiculous.”
“She has us wrapped around her finger.” He pressed a tender kiss to the crown of her head and gestured for her to go rest, but instead of taking the opportunity to crawl into bed, she followed him inside.
Cecilia was red-faced and hiccuping in her bassinet — little fists flailing, and only stopped crying the second Jannik picked her up.
“Traitor...” she whispered to their daughter, though her giddy smile said otherwise. Cecilia made a curious cooing sound and blinked at her parents with wide, glassy eyes like she was surprised they’d taken this long.
It had been going on like that for weeks.
Anytime they tried to watch a movie? Interrupted. Anytime they tried to make dinner together? One of them ended up holding the baby while the other stirred pasta. Sexual intimacy? Whenever their touches started to turn a little hungry, a cry would pierce the air like divine punishment.
Yet they never once complained — not when Cecilia smiled, curled her fingers around Jannik’s thumb, or fell asleep on her chest like a warm bundle of trust.
Still, Siglinde could see it — the way the dark circles under her daughter-in-law’s eyes had gotten darker, and how Jannik kept misplacing his phone or standing in a room not remembering why he’d walked in.
So one Saturday evening, after she’d arrived alongside Johann and a tupperware of still-warm Apfelstrudel, Siglinde made a definitive decision.
“You two,” she started, taking Cecilia from Jannik’s arms with practiced ease, “are going out tonight.”
They both blinked, startled.
“I– what?” she questioned.
“A date,” Johann chimed in, already bouncing Cecilia gently in his arms. “We’ll take care of this little strawberry. You two go. Just a walk, a dinner, a breath.”
“She’s not a strawberry…” Jannik mumbled, slightly pouting, even though she was indeed in a strawberry-print onesie.
Siglinde gave them the look — the kind only a mother could give. “She’ll be safe and fed. Also, she needs rested, happy parents.”
She then turned to her and added: “You’re doing amazing, don't ever question it, but even amazing mamas need a little time to feel like themselves again.”
Her eyes filled faster than expected — she hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear that.
So they went — walked over to a small restaurant a few streets over, nothing fancy, but for the first time in months, they held hands without a diaper bag between them and talked about things that weren’t nap schedules. Jannik kissed her knuckles across the table like he’d missed her even though they hadn’t really been apart.
When they got home two hours later, Cecilia was fast asleep on Johann’s chest, Siglinde humming a low lullaby in the armchair. Jannik kissed her in the hallway that night like he meant it, and she finally melted into him in a way she had been longing to do for months.
“Thank you for dinner,” she murmured, eyes full of that easy tenderness that always managed to undo him. “And remind me to thank your parents later, please? For everything...”
Jannik smiled, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. “Will do,” he promised gently. “Maybe I’ll even ask if they can stay a couple more days. I mean, I’ve got time before training kicks in again and I want to spend it with you…”
She chuckled softly, breath catching slightly at that as he looked at her with the same look as the first time they met — as if she were his orbit point.
“Thank you,” he added, voice low, not even waiting for her reply as he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “for being you.”
She didn’t say anything back, just leaned into him again, because sometimes words weren’t quite needed when love lived in the quiet.
Wimbledon felt like a dream suspended in time where even silence held its breath before a serve and applause rose like a rhythmic tide. The sweetness of strawberries melted into cream like sun-warmed memory, and every white-stitched hem and fading chalk mark told a story, delicate and eternal, written in the language of tradition.
Jannik had always been grounded and focused during matches, but something about that day was feeling different. Maybe it was the extra pressure, the weight of the final, or just the ache in his chest from missing his girls.
He hadn't seen them for a week.
Cecilia was just shy of three months old and they'd agreed it might have been safer for her to stay home in Monte Carlo. The flights, the noise, and the crowds — it felt like too much for such a tiny thing.
He’d understood, logically, but emotionally? It had been unbearable. His arms felt too empty. His bed, too cold. Even FaceTime calls with Cecilia’s blurry babbles and her sleepy kicks weren’t enough.
What he didn’t know was that his little girl had been missing him, too. Enough to notice his absence — to cry just a little longer at night.
Meanwhile, she had tried to stay back, really had, but when Jannik made it to the final, she simply couldn’t fathom not being there to see it. Not when she knew how hard he’d worked for it — not when Cecilia had started to fuss at the sound of his voice over the phone, like she didn’t understand why she could hear Papa but not feel him.
So she’d called Jannik’s mother, and Siglinde — calm, warm as ever — had simply said, “Then we’ll all go. Cecilia will be fine, she’ll have familiar faces everywhere she looks.”
When Jannik won the match point — dropping to his knees, heart hammering, and grass clinging to his legs — he didn’t expect anything beyond the roar of the crowd.
Until he heard it — a soft, bright giggle, followed by the sharp clap of tiny hands.
It wasn’t loud, not in the grand scheme of things, but in the quiet reverence of the players' box, it was a symphony. Cecilia, perched on the woman of his life’s lap in a cream-colored dress printed with tiny red strawberries, was clapping in her baby way, eyes crinkled with delight.
Her mama’s face melted into a tearful smile as Siglinde’s hand flew to her heart. Johann looked misty-eyed and even Darren nudged Simone with a grin and muttered, “Well, that’s game over.”
Jannik instinctively turned towards the sound — the only one that really mattered, and just past the edge of the box seats, there was her.
She stood in a soft linen sundress, sun in her hair, holding Cecilia against her chest as his piccolina kicked her legs once, then giggled when she spotted him.
It didn’t seem real — not at Wimbledon, under the weight of tennis royalty and stiff blazers. But there they were, his girls, smiling like sunshine, Cecilia's fists waving in the air like she already understood what he’d just done.
He laughed, heart bursting with happiness as he jogged toward the stands.
The cameras caught it all.
The crowd watched as one of the top seeds of the tournament made a beeline towards his family, uncaring of tradition, and reached up with both arms.
“Jannik, wait-!” she started, but he’d already lifted Cecilia up into the air, his smile blinding.
Their daughter squealed in delight, her little hands patting at his face like she’d never forgotten a second apart.
“You’re here?” he asked breathlessly, eyes flicking between the two of them.
She nodded, voice tight with emotion. “We wanted to surprise you.”
In the official broadcast, even the Sky Sport's commentators had softened.
“I mean, if that doesn’t melt your heart–”
“Little Cecilia Sinner in strawberries, making her first appearance in one of her father's matches, and also the way he looked at his wife– Well, that’s a win bigger than Centre Court, isn’t it?”
Jannik pressed a kiss to Cecilia’s cheek, then one to the top of her head, before leaning down and kissing his wife like he hadn’t seen her in years.
It didn’t matter that they were being watched, all that mattered was that they were together again.
Later that afternoon, tucked away in the quiet of the player’s lounge, with Cecilia napping across two chairs pushed together, he sat with his legs stretched out and her curled against his side.
His hand rested on her thigh, grounding. She leaned into his shoulder, absentmindedly tracing a finger along the small Nike logo on his warm-up jacket.
He watched the slow movement until her hand shifted and his eyes caught the glint of her ring. Without a word, he lifted her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss right where gold met skin.
She smiled, barely, as he just kept looking like it still stunned him a little — that she was his wife and that the ring was real. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he had a thing for seeing it on her — especially when the stone caught the light like that.
“Surprised?” she asked, teasing.
“Beyond,” he confessed. “I thought I was hallucinating when I saw the little strawberries.”
She giggled softly. “Your mother picked it out, said Cecilia had to be on theme. ‘It’s Wimbledon, darling. Of course she needs strawberries.’” she quoted.
He let out a soft laugh, then turned, eyes suddenly serious.
“Thank you,” he said, genuinely.
“For what?”
“For flying here, bringing her, being the best part of my life.”
Her lips quirked. “Even though I forgot her wipes and she spit up on one of your Wimbledon whites?”
“Especially then.”
They sat like that for a while, the hum of the day winding down around them, their daughter breathing softly nearby, and the golden evening light making it all feel like a dream.
When they finally stood, ready to leave the echo of Centre Court behind them, Jannik reached for her hand and she squeezed his once, smiling up at him.
Cecilia stirred in her sleep, and Siglinde, waiting just outside with Johann, was already reaching for their granddaughter with a gentle coo.
Jannik glanced back one last time at the place where he’d played the match of his life, but truthfully? He’d already won the best game of all.
Hello lovely, i saw the final last night and i can’t think of anything else. Could a request a Jannik x reader where she is watching the final with his team and family and when Jannik wins he goes straight to her like Duplantis did at the olympics, like something super cute and fluffy where maybe she is crying and they joke around that she is almost more exited than Jannik himself. Yeah just a cute little wholesome moment
Where's the trophy ?
Sum up: when you're in love with the number one, you have to learn how to lose together so you can win after
ok this one is shorter because i didn't want it to have much backgroung and be more focused on the raw moment.
The silence of the hotel suite was heavy, almost reverent. You stood just outside the door, your hand resting gently on the handle. The muted buzz of distant voices—the journalists still lingering downstairs, the faint hum of Paris traffic, the muted elevator chime—was miles away from the pain sitting on the other side of the door.
He had slipped away quietly, retreating from the lights, the noise, the pressure. No one had stopped him. Not even you.
Because you knew.
You had seen it the moment the match ended—the way his jaw clenched a fraction too long, how he avoided looking directly at the crowd or the cameras. His words during the post-match interview had trembled at the edges. And though he had answered politely, professionally, even graciously… something in his voice was off. Tense. Fragile.
He had broken—but beautifully, quietly.
It had been one of the longest and hardest fights of his career. A Roland Garros final that could have rewritten history. He had poured every part of himself into those sets—mind, body, soul. And still, it hadn't been enough.
And now, he was alone in that room, grieving not just a loss, but a dream that had slipped from his fingers by inches.
You gave him half an hour.
Not because you didn’t ache to go to him—but because you knew there was a private storm inside him that needed space to rage before it could pass.
And then, gently, you pushed the door open.
The curtains were drawn. Only the golden lamp by the bedside was on, casting soft light across the carpet. And there he was.
Jannik was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His fingers were pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could hold himself together by sheer pressure. His freckled cheeks were flushed, blotchy. His eyes—those kind, clear eyes—were glowing red, wet from silent tears he had tried to swallow back.
He didn’t look up.
You didn’t speak.
The moment demanded silence.
You moved quietly, like the breeze through an open window. With slow, deliberate steps, you reached him and brushed your fingers gently through his hair—swept back and damp from the match and the weight of defeat. The strands slipped between your fingertips like threads of silk. His shoulders tensed under your touch… and then, gradually, sank.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes met yours—and broke.
A low, choked sob escaped him before he could stop it. His body crumpled forward, and you were already there, sinking to your knees, arms open to catch him as if you'd rehearsed this moment in dreams.
He collapsed into your neck, arms wrapping tight around your waist, and sobbed like a boy—not the composed man the world had watched all day, but a boy who had tried so hard and still lost. His tears soaked the collar of your shirt as he apologized over and over, barely coherent, his voice thick and broken in Italian.
"Mi dispiace... non sono stato abbastanza... ho rovinato tutto…" ("I’m sorry... I wasn’t enough... I ruined everything...") You held him tighter.
“Shh... amore mio,” you whispered against his temple, rocking him gently. “You didn’t ruin anything. You fought. You fought with everything you had.”
He shook his head violently against you. His breathing was sharp and uneven. The words came tumbling out in fast, panicked Italian—about missed chances, small mistakes, how he should’ve done better. Guilt knotted in every syllable.
And still, you held him.
“I know it hurts,” you said softly, pulling back just enough to cup his jaw and make him look at you. “But you made history today. Not because of a trophy. Because of how you fought. People won’t remember the ending as much as they’ll remember the heart you put in every point. Every single point, Jannik.”
He blinked through tears, his lips parted slightly, trembling.
"You always say this sport is about rising. That you chose it over skiing because tennis lets you fall and come back stronger. That’s the whole point. You’re allowed to grieve this moment—but you’re not allowed to hate yourself for it.”
He bit his lower lip, hard, as another tear slipped down his cheek.
You kissed it away.
"And when you’re too hard on yourself," you continued, resting your forehead against his, "I’ll be here to catch you. Always." His hands tightened around you as if you were the only anchor keeping him from drifting away in the sea of shame and what-ifs.
“Ti amo,” he whispered, raw and hoarse. It was almost a confession, like it had never been said before. But it had—so many times. Only this time, it meant more. It meant: thank you for not turning away when I’m like this. Thank you for seeing me—not the player. Me.
You didn’t need to say it back. He knew.
Later, you guided him onto the bed, your fingers weaving into his as if reminding him he wasn’t alone, not even in this low. He curled into your side, his head on your chest, his long legs tangling with yours like a child too tired to fight sleep. And there, in the hush of a Parisian night, with the distant hum of the city still whispering through the walls, he finally let go.
He cried until he couldn’t anymore. And you held every shattered piece with gentle, unwavering hands. You knew he would rise again. Higher. Stronger. He always did. But for tonight, he didn’t have to be a warrior. He could be human. And you would love him through it all.
Grief doesn’t fade all at once. It peels back slowly, in quiet layers, sometimes leaving behind bruises you don’t realize you have until they’re touched again.
The loss at Roland Garros had left a crack in Jannik—not wide enough to break him entirely, but deep enough that he had to rebuild from the inside out. He said he was fine. He said he was focused. And you believed him.
Mostly.
But you also saw the shadows behind his eyes when no one was looking. Halle was meant to be a fresh start. Instead, he got eliminated in the eighth round by Bublik. Another sting. Another step backward.
You could see it in the way he walked off court—not angry, not defeated… but hollow. Quiet. Like the world had gone slightly dim around him. He wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t lash out. He internalized it, folding the failure neatly and slipping it into the drawer in his mind labeled Not Good Enough.
He didn’t even say much in the car on the way back. But you sat beside him anyway, your pinky gently brushing his across the seat, a small, constant reminder: you’re not alone in this.
Later, in the silence of the room, while he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees again—like in Paris—you kneeled in front of him, hands on his thighs. “Jannik,” you whispered, “You have time. Halle’s done. Now we focus on Wimbledon.”
His jaw tightened. “You say it like it’s easy.”
“I say it because it’s necessary.” Your tone was gentle, but firm. You didn’t coddle him. You loved him. And loving Jannik meant holding him accountable to himself.
And so, he listened.
He trained. He showed up. He kept going. But something had changed, subtly, steadily—and it wasn’t just him. It was you. Your presence became something grounding, unspoken, constant. You were there for every match. Every training session. Every cold recovery bath and post-practice physio. You didn’t hover or fuss—you became a quiet force, a shadow on the sidelines, always where he could find you.
When he looked at you from across the court—eyes searching—you gave him a steady nod. No big smile. No cheer. Just a small, certain I believe in you.
And it worked.
Wimbledon came, and with it, a version of Jannik that was slowly knitting himself back together. Until the quarterfinal against Dimitrov.
At first, it was barely noticeable. Maybe a strange stiffness in his movements, the way his forehand didn’t swing as freely. He still fought like hell, but you knew his body—and this wasn’t quite it. Something was off.
Dimitrov, tragically, was the one who had to pull out mid-match after sustaining an injury. Jannik advanced to the semifinals… but he didn’t celebrate.
That night, he sat with his hand wrapped around his elbow, staring out the hotel window. You had your arms crossed loosely, watching him from the bed.
“He should’ve won,” Jannik said after a long stretch of silence. “Don’t.” He looked at you, weary. “But it’s true. I wasn’t—”
“You didn’t take anything from him,” you said. “You played. He played. The match ended. That’s it. You are not here to carry someone else’s misfortune like it’s your sin. You didn’t hurt him. That’s not your fault. Don’t carry guilt that isn’t yours. That kind of thinking?” You stood and walked over to him, brushing your fingers along his forearm. “It pollutes your mind. You need clarity now, not self-doubt. The moment you start apologizing for moving forward, you start playing backwards.”
He looked down, then leaned his forehead gently against yours, exhaling. “You’re scary when you’re wise,” he murmured with a small smirk. You smiled. “And you’re annoying when you refuse to believe in yourself.”
The next day, the MRI confirmed a mild strain in his elbow. Nothing too serious, but enough to require monitoring. You were in the room with him, arms crossed tight, chin tilted just slightly as the doctor spoke in clinical tones.
Jannik was quiet. Alert. Processing.
But you were already three steps ahead—asking about recovery time, movement restrictions, what kind of support he’d need. And when the doctor left, you reached out and squeezed his hand, the tension in your spine finally relaxing.
“Arm sock,” you said, eyeing the compression support he’d been given. “Gotta admit… looks hot on you.” That finally made him laugh—a low, genuine sound that warmed the whole room. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” you grinned, leaning against the examination table. “Like... ‘I just rehabbed my elbow but I could still bench-press your dignity’ hot.” Jannik rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” you said, kissing his cheek, “you keep me around.” He was still hurting, still healing. But now, he was smiling again. And for the first time in weeks, so were you. Because you knew—come whatever match, whatever outcome—he’d rise again. And you’d be right there, a silent shadow at his side, ready to catch him if he fell.
Deja vu had a cruel way of creeping in unnoticed. Same grass. Same opponent. Same pressure. It was happening again.
Déjà vu swept over Jannik like a wave the moment the semifinals were announced: Djokovic. Again. Like a cruel echo of Paris. Only this time, it wasn’t the clay courts of Roland Garros—it was Centre Court, green and humming under a grey English sky. The stakes were the same. The man across the net was the same. The scars still healing in his chest were the same.
But this time… he won.
Again.
It wasn’t easier, but it was cleaner. Sharper. Every set fought tooth and nail, every moment a test of nerve and heart. When it ended and Djokovic walked across the net to shake his hand, Jannik looked to the stands—not at the cameras, not at the journalists—at you. And you nodded, slow and proud.
But the joy was short-lived.
Because waiting on the other side of that semifinal win was the same storm that had broken his heart 35 days before.
Carlos.
The golden boy. The smiling Spaniard. The two-time defending Wimbledon champion. Media darling, untouchable on grass. The headlines practically wrote themselves:
"A Repeat of Roland Garros? Can Alcaraz Claim His Third Straight Wimbledon?"
"Sinner the Underdog Once More: Can He Rewrite the Ending?"
It got into his head.
He read things he shouldn't have. Or maybe someone showed him. It didn't matter. Because slowly, quietly, Jannik started to spiral again.
You noticed it that evening, after the Djokovic match. His body was still buzzing from adrenaline, but something behind his eyes had gone dim. He was too quiet. Picking at his dinner like a boy who had just been told to eat before a test he knew he might fail. You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat beside him, the soft clink of cutlery filling the space. But then—when you couldn’t take the silence anymore—you reached for his hand.
He didn’t pull away. His fingers curled loosely into yours.
“Hey,” you said softly, drawing his attention. He looked at you, tired. Worried. Somewhere between present and lost in the weight of what tomorrow meant. So you did the only thing you could do. You pulled him into the bubble. You stood, walked around the table, and slipped your arms gently around his shoulders from behind. Your lips brushed his temple.
“I know you like to be alone on match day,” you whispered. “So I won’t bother you tomorrow.” He let out a faint breath. Relief? Maybe. “But I want you to hear this tonight,” you continued, your voice low and steady. “Whatever happens tomorrow... you don’t owe me anything. You don’t owe anyone anything.” His fingers tightened around your wrist.
He blinked, like your voice had cut through the fog, and let you take his hand. You led him to bed—not for anything physical, just to sit with him, to wrap your arms around his waist from behind as he leaned forward on his knees, still tense.
“You’re spiraling,” you whispered. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” you said, firmer now, pressing your cheek against his shoulder blade. “And you don’t have to be.” He exhaled through his nose. His shoulders were rigid. “They don’t believe in me.” You held him tighter. “So what? You don’t owe anyone proof. Not them. Not the press. Not even your fans.” He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his heartbeat where your palm rested over his chest.
“You’re not doing this for them,” you continued, your voice calmer now, steady. “You’re not doing it for me either.” At that, he turned slightly, looking over his shoulder at you. You smiled gently, brushing a curl behind his ear.
“Tomorrow’s match... it's for you, Jannik. Win or lose. It’s for the boy who picked up a racquet in northern Italy and didn’t stop fighting, even when people said skiing made more sense. It’s for the man who chose tennis because it lets you fall and rise again.”
He stared at you, face unreadable. “You go in there,” you said, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, “and you play the way you always do. Focused. Fierce. With heart. And whether it’s a win or not, I’ll be waiting the same way. You don’t need to carry me or anyone else into that match. The people who truly believe in you—don’t need proof. They’ll cheer either way.”
His jaw clenched, but his eyes softened. Then, finally, a small smile curved at his lips. Tired. Grateful. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, half into your arm. “Maybe not,” you teased gently, kissing the corner of his jaw. “But lucky for you, I’m very stubborn.” He leaned down and kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your lips—slow, grounding, a tether in the middle of his storm.
You stayed like that, curled into him, while he finished eating in silence. There was no more to say. You had said it all.
The next morning, he was gone by the time you woke.
As you pulled the white dress over your shoulders, you paused for a moment—watching your reflection. You kept your makeup simple, hair soft, understated. Not for the cameras. For him.
Today wasn’t about being seen. It was about seeing him.
You met his brother first outside the entrance. He gave you a gentle smile, one that carried more nerves than he would admit. The two of you talked easily—about anything but tennis—until you found his parents in the box area. They welcomed you with warm familiarity, though the tension in their bodies betrayed their worry.
Lunch was polite, a distraction. Everyone was dressed in white, as if trying to manifest something sacred. And the time finally came.
The match was brutal.
Not in blood or injury, but in tension—in the sheer emotional whiplash of it. From the first serve, you could feel it vibrating in your ribs: the stakes, the doubt, the weight of déjà vu.
And almost immediately… he was struggling.
Carlos played sharp, controlled, unshaken. He danced across the court like the crown still sat on his head. And Jannik—your Jannik—started tight. Every swing was a little too safe. Every shot a fraction too hesitant. His frustration simmered visibly—his jaw clenched, his lips pressed into a hard line. He lost the first set, and you felt your chest tighten like it had back in Paris.
You wanted to shout, It’s okay, you’re okay, but you knew better.
So you sat there, knuckles white around the hem of your dress, eyes locked on him as if you could anchor him from the stands alone.
Then… something changed.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was a shift—a small flicker of realization in his eyes as he adjusted his stance, his rhythm, his mindset. You saw it. He found the opening. He knew where to bring Carlos. He had felt the patterns, recalibrated, recalculated.
He started to fight.
And point by point, game by game, he rose.
The second set was tighter. More rallies. More heart. And then—he took it. You stood, clapping, breath caught in your throat.
The third—electric. He moved with purpose now. Controlled aggression. You could see the fire building behind his composure. You were cheering louder now, barely able to stay in your seat.
By the fourth set, the court was no longer neutral territory.
It belonged to him. And even Carlos knew it.
He was painting it with strokes of grit and belief and talent honed over a lifetime. You clapped harder, your voice hoarse, your cheeks sore from smiling, your nerves burning. Your body was buzzing. Shaking.
And then—
After 3 hours and 4 minutes—
Match point. A final, blistering rally. A forehand winner that clipped the line. Game, set, match: Sinner.
He stood frozen for half a second—disbelief flickering like a spark—before he dropped his racquet and threw his arms in the air. A roar erupted around Centre Court, but it all fell away when his eyes met yours.
There he was. Your Jannik. Smiling. Gleaming. Free.
He shook Carlos’s hand—gracious, composed—and thanked the umpire. But his feet were already moving, already climbing, already sprinting up the stands like a man possessed.
And you were already crying.
You were jumping, clapping, laughing with your hand over your heart as the tears blurred your vision. You didn’t even realize how much you were shaking until you saw his frame closing in—wide-eyed, unstoppable—and then suddenly—
He was in your arms.
He crushed you against him with such force that you nearly stumbled, and you let out a soft squeal as your arms wrapped around his shoulders. His whole body melted into yours, and the crowd could’ve disappeared completely. It wouldn’t have mattered.
“I did it!” he shouted in your ear, in ragged, broken Italian. “L’ho fatto, amore! Ho vinto, ho vinto!” (“I did it, love! I won, I won!”)
Your arms tightened as you rocked together slightly, nose buried in the side of his neck. “L’hai fatto per te, amore mio,” (“You did it for yourself, my love,”) you whispered, crying freely now. “You did it for him. For the boy in you. Tonight, you took back the pen… and you wrote history.” He pulled back just enough to cup your face, his hands trembling. You were both laughing and crying, eyes wild with joy.
"Stai piangendo," (“You’re crying,”) he said, awestruck. “So are you,” you answered, your voice a teary laugh. He blinked, realizing you were right, and exhaled shakily. Then he pulled off his cap and—grinning like a kid who just won everything he ever dreamed of—used it to cover your faces. The world disappeared beneath it.
And he kissed you.
Soft and shaky, smiling into your lips, tasting like sweat and salt and everything that had ever mattered. He wasn’t big on PDA—not in crowds like this. But the hat made it yours. Just yours.
Private in a sea of thousands. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” he whispered. You shook your head. “You could have. But I’m glad you didn’t have to.”
You watched from a short distance as Jannik made his way to his team. The people who had seen every bead of sweat, every inch of progress, every quiet comeback. Then his parents. His mother had tears in her eyes—her boy, her Jannik, now written forever in the history books.
When he held the trophy, you listened to the speech, hanging onto every word like the crowd around you. He laughed with them, humble as always, and still somehow a little surprised. He greeted the royal family with poise, with gratitude, with that calm Northern Italian grace that the world had finally come to recognize for what it was: quiet greatness.
But later—after the cameras dimmed and the stadium lights faded and the roar of the crowd dissolved into murmurs—you finally had him back.
Just the two of you.
You stood in the suite’s bathroom, fastening a small earring as you checked your reflection. The deep emerald silk of your gown clung to your body like it had been sculpted onto you by a Florentine artist. The open back shimmered, and the fabric caught the light like moonlight on water. You lifted a brow.
You noticed his reflection before his footsteps.
He stood just inside the door, a half-knotted tie in one hand, lips slightly parted. His curls were still damp from the shower, and the fresh-cut suit fit him like second skin—black, sharp, handsome in a way that made your chest ache.
He had stopped mid-step.
“Stai scherzando… sei bellissima,” (“You're kidding… you're beautiful,”) he breathed in Italian, completely forgetting himself. You raised an eyebrow as you finished securing your second earring. “Italian again? Must be serious.” He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks going slightly pink. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize,” you interrupted, turning around to face him fully, your voice soft. “It sounds better that way.” You took him in, crossing the room slowly. “You’re not looking too bad yourself,” you teased, hands going to his undone tie. “Though clearly, you still need me.” You stepped closer and reached for his tie. He didn’t move, letting you pull the fabric gently, knotting it with careful fingers.
Your smile was so full it made your cheeks ache. “You’re handsome, you know. But that trophy might be the best accessory you’ve ever worn.” He chuckled, looking down at you with affection that bordered on worship. “You’re almost more excited than I am,” he teased.
“Excuse you,” you said, snatching your phone from the nearby table, unlocking it quickly. “You haven’t seen this.” You turned the screen to him. A candid photo. The moment under the cap. The kiss the cameras weren’t supposed to catch, but someone had. You both hidden, lips pressed together, grinning through the emotion. The caption? Simple: "Protected in plain sight."
He blinked, stunned for a second. Then laughed—really laughed—and ran a hand over his face. “We’re going viral,” he murmured. “Good,” you grinned, slipping your hand into his. “About time they know what winning really looks like.”
The ceremony after was a golden blur.
There were toasts and cameras, endless clinking of glasses and flashes. You posed with his team, with his family. With the trophy. You took silly ones, too—one where he tried to kiss the trophy and you jokingly pretended to be jealous, pouting beside him.
The official photos were elegant: Jannik alone with the trophy, radiant. One with Iga Swiatek—grinning as they held their trophies side by side, then laughing mid-spin during the traditional dance. You watched him dance with her, your arms crossed, giggling as his movements grew looser, his smile wider. There was already a tipsy flush creeping up his neck, but he kept glancing back at you as if making sure you were still watching.
He didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night. And even as the party raged on, it felt like he only had eyes for you.
The next morning, your phone buzzed again.
Wimbledon Official Account: 3 new posts.
The first—elegant portraits. Jannik with the trophy, all quiet pride and vintage grace. The second—a carousel: with his family, with Iga, with his team. Celebration captured frame by frame.
And the third?
You gasped.
It was a photo you hadn’t even realized had been taken.
Jannik, still in his suit for the official shots, holding the trophy like it was made of glass. You were beside him, angled toward the camera with a soft, genuine smile. But he—he wasn’t looking at the camera. He wasn’t even looking at the trophy.
He was looking at you. Eyes wide, full of awe and something deeper. Softer. In love. And beneath it, a caption that made your breath catch:
“We wonder which is really the trophy.” 💚
You sat there in stunned silence, heart thudding. And somewhere behind you, Jannik emerged from the bathroom in his boxers and one of his many white t-shirts, hair tousled, toothbrush in hand. “You okay?” he mumbled, mouth full of toothpaste. You just turned the screen to him.
He stopped chewing mid-brush. Then slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up in a shy, sleepy grin. He spat in the sink, wiped his mouth, and walked over to you. His voice was raspy. “I mean… they’re not wrong,” he murmured, pulling you into his lap. “I’d trade ten trophies for this.” You rolled your eyes, laughing into his neck. “Don’t you dare say that out loud.” He smirked. “Okay. Just between us. My real prize.”
And with your hands tangled in his hair, the scent of mint on his lips, and the soft sunlight of the morning filtering through the curtains—you kissed the Wimbledon champion.
› Pairing: First Time Girl Dad! Jannik Sinner x Female Reader.
› Summary: Tiny hands, quiet smiles, and a love that stays.
› Word Count: 1.4k.
It was day four back home.
The hospital bags were finally unpacked and Jannik was everywhere. Not in the frantic and overbearing sense, but in the gentle, seamless way of someone who wanted to be there for all of it — the magic and the mess.
Cecilia had just finished her feeding, tiny frame curled against her mother’s chest as they lay on the couch.
She was exhausted, Jannik could see it in the tilt of her head, the slowness of her blinking, and the way her hand curled protectively around their baby even in sleep.
And yet, she hadn’t complained once. Not about the soreness, not about the way her feet still swelled, or even about the fact that her pain meds made her drowsy at all hours.
So Jannik did what he could, and that meant everything.
He slipped quietly into the room, a tray balanced carefully in his hands — one glass of water, a warm plate of pancakes, and the tiniest bowl of sliced strawberries, because she hadn’t eaten properly since yesterday, and earlier that morning she’d whispered that strawberries sounded nice.
He set them down gently on the coffee table and knelt beside the couch, brushing his knuckles down the side of her leg.
“Amore,” he whispered. “You sleeping?”
Her eyes fluttered, Cecilia shifting gently on her chest, letting out a little baby sigh — the kind that still made him stop breathing for a second.
“Not yet,” she mumbled. “Did she burp?”
He smiled. “Yeah, like a champ. Sounded like a grown man.”
She giggled, sleepily, and cracked one eye open.
“You brought strawberries?”
“And water. Cold, like you like it.”
She blinked, quite dazed, looking at him like he’d hung the stars in the sky. “You’re kind of perfect, you know that?”
“I’m learning from the best.” he said quietly, smile soft and genuine.
She hummed, cheeks flushing as she carefully handed Cecilia over to him.
“You want to hold her for a while?”
Jannik promptly took their daughter like she was made of glass, arms already used to her weight by now, seeming almost like his body had quickly learned what it meant to hold her.
Cecilia stirred, made a little face, and then relaxed against him.
“I don’t want to miss any moment,” he said truthfully, meaning every word as he sat on the couch alongside her. “I want to participate in everything.”
“You’re going to.” she whispered, smiling as she snuggled into his arm, resting her head against his shoulder as she gazed lovingly at Cecilia's face. “You’re here. Always.”
He smiled at that.
They stayed quiet for a while, stretching the moment as they admired the greatest gift of their love napping peacefully, before Cecilia suddenly made that soft little whine that meant only one thing: diaper.
“I got it,” he said instantly, already rising to his feet. “You eat the strawberries.”
“Jan, you’ve already changed her like, five times today—”
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “That’s five more times I got to talk to her. And besides, you need to eat too, tesoro.”
There was a flicker of concern in his gaze — subtle, but nonetheless real — and before she could argue, he added gently “I know you’re more than capable of handling everything, but let me take care of you too, okay? Please?”
She didn’t even hesitate, just nodded, heart blooming with quiet gratitude because in that moment — in the soft hush of their home, with Cecilia down the hall and Jannik’s warmth all around her — she realized that maybe he wasn’t just her safe place, but rather home itself.
─ ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅
Ten minutes later, she walked past the nursery on her way to the bathroom and paused. He didn’t see her watching.
Jannik was standing by the changing table, talking in a hushed stream of Italian as Cecilia blinked up at him, clearly fascinated by the shape of his curls.
His hands were impossibly gentle as he wiped, buttoned, then kissed her tummy twice before scooping her up into his arms.
“Bene, piccolina, look at you, fresh again. Let’s go see Mama, sì?”
He turned just in time to see her watching. They smiled at each other. Not dramatic nor performative, just sincere.
Cecilia blinked between them, as if she already knew she’d lucked out.
─ ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅
By evening, the house was quieter than usual — not silent, but now home to a succession of soft, almost fearful noises as if the residence had become careful to provide better accommodation for the shift in gravity. The new rhythm. The delicate presence.
Jannik was back in the nursery, holding Cecilia. She was swaddled in a dusty rose muslin blanket, her tiny face pressed gently to his chest, pink-cheeked, and already impossibly expressive.
Her fists curled near her chin as a soft, almost imperceptible sound left her lips — not a cry, just a baby sigh. The kind that made both hers and Jannik’s heart stumble over itself.
He was swaying gently, not consciously, just the natural instinct of a man who’d never known this kind of love existed until now.
There was no phone nor cameras in sight. No media, no noise. Just Jannik, Cecilia, and the softest hum of a song that he barely realized had left his lips.
Brilla brilla la stellina
Su nel cielo piccolina…
His voice, usually low, clipped and slightly shy during interviews, was honeyed and tender now.
From the doorway, she stood watching — her tired body just barely leaning over it, hands resting against the frame as her breath caught somewhere between awe and absolute love.
There was something about watching Jannik like that — composed athlete and the man who once flinched at the idea of holding someone else’s newborn, now cradling their daughter like she was a gemstone. It was too much and yet not enough.
She blinked slowly, her eyes aching in that raw way that came both with postpartum exhaustion and joy tangled into one. He hadn’t noticed her yet, so she just watched.
Her delivery had been fast, faster than either of them expected. A whirl of nurses and warm water compresses, of focused breathing and her hand wrapped so tightly in his that their knuckles ached for over an hour afterward.
Through it all, from the first contraction to the last push, Jannik hadn’t left her side once, not even when he turned pale at the sight of blood. Not even when her pain got so loud it felt like it would swallow the room.
He had whispered encouragements to her in both Italian and English. Let her dig her nails into his forearm. Kissed her temple over and over between waves. And when Cecilia finally arrived — tiny bundle of joy, loud and perfect — he cried first, in a way he never did on court. Chin trembling, silent tears.
And now he was there — still holding, swaying and humming — inside their daughter’s room, in the soft late-night hush of a house learning how to breathe with three hearts in it.
She finally let out a more noticeable sigh, charged with delight. His head turned instantly. He smiled — that smile. The one she fell in love with long before Cecilia was even a possibility.
“Amore,” he whispered, voice low so he wouldn’t startle the baby. “She just fell asleep.”
She stepped inside barefoot, her oversized sweatshirt hanging over leggings, eyes rimmed in tired warmth.
He watched her the whole time she approached. Never stopped swaying, but reached his free hand out towards her by reflex.
“She likes when I move like this,” he murmured. “Like we’re dancing.”
“She’s her father’s daughter,” she whispered back, eyes falling to Cecilia’s sleeping face. “Always in motion.”
His expression softened further, if that was even possible. “She’s also her mother’s daughter,” he said, eyes flicking up. “Strong-willed, vibrant, and the most beautiful, adorable human being I’ve ever seen.”
She leaned her head against his arm, the three of them now swaying as one, in a circle that felt untouched by the outside world.
Love. In its purest and most infinite form.
In the corner of the room, beside the bookshelf filled with bedtime stories and the rocking chair they hadn’t even used yet, a star-shaped night light projected small constellations onto the ceiling, guarding their little world.
And just like that, with moonlight shining against the curtains and their daughter sleeping like a secret between them, Jannik held the whole world in his arms — not in trophies or headlines, but in tiny fingers, borrowed heartbeats, and the woman he loved with everything he was — and thought ‘If this is what forever feels like, then let it hold, and let it stay.’
Summary: Lando is known for sleeping in the paddock and other places and getting caught for it. You seem to increase those chances by being Lando's girlfriend and his pillow.
Song: Thinkin Bout You ‧ Frank Ocean
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.6k
MASTERLIST - F1
The world knows Lando Norris. They know the infectious grin, the quick wit, the fearless talent on track, the playful 'Little Lando Norris' antics.
They know he's always tired, a running joke in the paddock, an endearing quirk. But what they don't know, what only you truly understand, is the sheer depth of slumber he can fall into the moment your fingers trace patterns on his scalp.
Everyone expects him to nod off, but with you, it’s not just nodding off. It’s an irreversible descent into a blissful, unshakeable sleep, from which he will not, cannot, wake up easily.
And when he finally does, the last thing he wants is to leave the warmth of your arms.
The Driver's Room
The air in the driver's room is a cacophony of muffled sounds: distant engine roars, the chatter of engineers, the low hum of air conditioning. It’s a temporary sanctuary, a place of brief respite amidst a whirlwind weekend.
You step inside, leaving the usual race day chaos behind, and find him exactly where you expected: slumped in his ergonomic chair, headphones still around his neck, eyes half-closed as he stares blankly at a monitor displaying telemetry data.
He’s been in and out of meetings, on and off track, fielding questions, pushing limits. Even for him, a perpetual motion machine, today has been draining.
"Hey, sleepyhead," you murmur, crossing the small space to stand behind him. He grunts in response, a low, tired sound, but doesn't open his eyes.
His shoulders are hunched, a testament to the tension that has built up over the day. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his messy hair, which smells faintly of sweat and something uniquely 'race track'.
"Rough one?" you ask, your voice soft, understanding. He sighs, a deep, shuddering breath. "Quali was… a lot. My head feels like it's been through a washing machine."
You nod, sympathetic. You know the feeling, the mental exhaustion that comes with operating at such a high level of concentration.
Without a word, you lift your hands and gently thread your fingers through his soft, slightly damp hair. You start at his temples, massaging small circles, feeling the tension subtly begin to release under your touch.
His body, initially stiff, starts to relax, leaning ever so slightly back into your hands.
You move to the crown of his head, your nails lightly raking through his hair, then down to the nape of his neck, where the muscle knots are most prominent.
You can feel him melting, literally softening under your touch. The faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant sounds of the paddock, all seem to fade into the background, replaced by the gentle rhythm of your fingers, the quiet intake of his breath.
He leans his head back further, resting it against your stomach as you continue your work. His eyes, which were once half-open, are now fully closed.
His breathing deepens, slowly, steadily. You know this rhythm, you’ve memorized it. It’s the sound of Lando Norris, the racing driver, the public personality, shedding his armor and sinking into oblivion.
His hand reaches back, blindly finding yours, interlocking his fingers with yours, a silent plea for you to continue.
Minutes stretch into what feels like an hour. The telemetry data still flickers on the screen, forgotten. His body is completely relaxed, a dead weight in the chair.
You can feel the warmth emanating from him, the steady thump-thump of his heart against your palm.
He’s out. Truly out. Not just a nap, but a deep, restorative sleep born of utter exhaustion and the unique comfort only you seem to provide.
Just as you're wondering how long you can stay like this, a sharp rap comes at the door. "Lando? Five minutes to driver briefing!" It's Charlotte, his press officer, her voice carrying an edge of urgency.
You wince. The spell is broken. "Honey," you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. "Lando, wake up. Briefing."
He groans, a sound of profound protest. His eyes flutter open, revealing bleary, unfocused pupils. He looks utterly disoriented, like a deep-sea diver suddenly pulled to the surface.
He blinks, then blinks again, slowly registering your face above him. A slow smile stretches across his lips, but it's the smile of someone desperately unwilling to let go of their dream.
"No," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, already reaching for you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you down until your cheek is pressed against his head.
"Stay. Just five more minutes. Ten. An hour." He buries his face into your side, his grip tightening.
He's an anchor, and you're the ship, firmly rooted.
"Lando, Charlotte's waiting. You have to go." You try to gently extricate yourself, but he holds on with surprising strength.
"Don't wanna go," he whines, his voice muffled by your clothes. "It's warm here. And you smell nice. And my head doesn't hurt anymore."
You sigh, a small laugh escaping your lips. "I know, love, but you have to. You're Lando Norris, you have a race to win."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his beautiful eyes still clouded with sleep, but a mischievous glint starting to emerge. "Only if you promise more head rubs later. A lot of them. And maybe we can just miss the briefing and cuddle instead?"
You kiss his forehead. "Get up, you big baby. After the briefing, after dinner, after everything. All the head rubs you want. Now go." With a final, reluctant groan, he finally unwound himself from you, pushing himself upright, running a hand through his now even messier hair.
But before he left, he leaned in for one last quick, sleepy kiss, a silent promise in his eyes. He might be leaving, but he wasn't really letting you go.
His Parents' House
The scent of roasting chicken and freshly baked bread hangs in the air, mingling with the comfortable, lived-in aroma of the Norris family home.
You're visiting for a quiet weekend, a much-needed break from the relentless F1 schedule.
Lando, surprisingly, had been relatively awake for most of the morning, helping his mum in the kitchen, teasing his siblings, and even engaging in a lively debate with his dad about a recent rugby match.
But the afternoon, as always, proved to be his undoing. You're curled up on the plush sofa in the living room, a half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table, a book resting unread on your lap.
Lando, initially engaged in a video game with Cisca, had slowly migrated towards you. He'd started by resting his head on your shoulder, then gradually slid down until his head was in your lap, his long legs draped across the cushions.
You’d instinctively begun to run your fingers through his hair. It’s softer here, less stressed than at the track, clean and fluffy. You trace the natural part, then gently massage the scalp above his ears.
He sighs, a soft sound of contentment that resonates through you. The game controller, forgotten, clatters to the floor.
Cisca glances over, rolls her eyes playfully, and then goes back to her own device, used to her brother's spontaneous naps.
The rhythm of your touch is slow, deliberate. You feel the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his body seems to melt into the cushions beneath him. His eyelids, initially fluttering, come to a complete rest.
You can see the faint blue veins beneath the thin skin of his eyelids, the dark lashes fanning out against his cheeks.
He looks so young, so peaceful, entirely different from the focused, intense competitor the world sees.
You continue the light strokes, occasionally adding a gentle scratch with your nails just behind his ears, a spot you discovered he particularly loved.
He whimpers slightly in his sleep, a tiny, happy sound, and shifts, burrowing his face deeper into your lap, his arm blindly coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.
The weight of his head is comforting, the warmth of his body seeping into your legs.
A soft, content smile plays on your lips. This is your Lando, vulnerable and entirely yours, lost in a dream.
"Dinner's ready, kids!" Cisca’s cheerful voice rings out from the kitchen, followed by a clatter of plates. "Lando! Cisca! Come and get it before it gets cold!"
Cisca immediately bolts upright. "Coming, Mum!"
You, however, have a more challenging task. "Lando," you whisper, gently stroking his cheek. "Dinner. Your mum's calling."
He makes a sound that's somewhere between a growl and a purr, tightening his grip on you. He doesn’t even stir beyond that. The call of food, usually irresistible to him, falls on deaf ears.
"Lando, come on. Chicken and roast potatoes. Your favourite." You try a little more firmness, nudging his shoulder.
He stirs, but it's not a wake-up. It's a deeper burrow. His head presses harder into your lap, and his hand, still clutching your waist, bunches the fabric of your shirt, pulling you down.
"Five more minutes," he murmurs, his voice slurred with sleep. "Just five. Don't move."
You hear Cisca's footsteps approaching. "Everything alright in here? Lando, did you hear me?"
You give her an apologetic look over Lando’s prone form. "He's, uh, pretty comfortable, Cisca."
She clucks, a familiar exasperated-but-fond sound. She sees him, a mass of limbs and messy hair, utterly unconscious in your lap.
"Oh, for goodness sake! Always the same. You've got him properly snoozing, haven't you, love?" A twinkle enters her eye. "You're his secret weapon for a good night's sleep, apparently."
"Apparently," you agree, smiling down at his peaceful face. "He won't budge."
Cisca laughs. "Let me try." She kneels down, her voice firm but gentle. "Lando Oscar Norris! Get up! Dinner!"
He doesn't even twitch. Not a muscle. You suppress a giggle.
"Told you," you whisper.
Cisca shakes her head. "Right. Well, we'll eat, and you can keep him company for a bit longer. He clearly needs it." She pats your arm. "Just try not to starve, darling."
You thank her, and she retreats, leaving you alone with the sleeping pile of McLaren’s star driver. You look down at him, utterly trapped, but not minding one bit.
His grip on you is still firm, his breathing a steady rhythm. You know that if you managed to drag him to the table, he'd be halfway back to sleep before the starter was even served.
So you settle back, resuming your gentle head rubs, content to be his personal sedative, his favorite blanket, his anchor in the quiet, comforting world of sleep.
Dinner could wait. Lando wasn't going anywhere.
Vacation with Friends
The villa echoes with laughter, music, and the splash of water from the infinity pool. The air is warm and smells of sunscreen and something grilling on the barbecue.
You're on a much-anticipated vacation, a week of sun, good food, and great company, with Lando and a handful of his closest friends. Everyone is in high spirits, unwinding after a long, intense season.
You'd spent the day by the pool, playing silly games, and now the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the patio.
The energy was still buzzing, but Lando, never one to pace himself, was starting to flag. You’d noticed him leaning against a poolside pillar, his eyes a little glazed, his usual quick quips replaced by slow blinks.
"You alright there, sleepy Eeyore?" you’d teased, nudging him gently.
He'd just grunted, a multi-syllabic expression of profound weariness. "Just… absorbing the sun. It's strenuous."
You knew what that meant. He was on the verge. "Come on," you’d said, taking his hand. "Let's find somewhere quieter. Before you faceplant into the pool."
You led him away from the main hubbub, past the outdoor kitchen, to a secluded, shaded daybed nestled amongst some vibrant bougainvillea.
It was a perfect escape, far enough from the noise to be peaceful, but still close enough to feel part of the group.
He dropped onto the plush cushions with a sigh of absolute relief, stretching out his long limbs. You sat beside him, and without a word, he rolled onto his side, resting his head in your lap, his legs tangled with yours.
The slight breeze rustled the leaves above, and the distant sound of his friends' laughter became a soft, pleasant hum.
Your fingers found their customary place in his hair. Here, it was still damp from the pool, cool against your skin. You worked your way from his forehead, tracing the line of his eyebrows, then circling his temples with light pressure.
He melted instantly, a low moan of pure bliss escaping his lips. His breathing evened out almost immediately, deep and rhythmic. You felt the subtle tremor of his body as he relaxed, every muscle giving way to the soft embrace of sleep.
You continued, running your hands through the cool, damp strands, lifting them and letting them fall back down, scratching gently at his scalp. He was completely out, an island of profound peace in a sea of holiday merriment.
You watched the rise and fall of his chest, the relaxed curve of his lips, the way the last rays of sun dappled through the leaves and painted patterns on his face.
You were utterly content, holding this peaceful, sleeping man who, despite all his energy and zest for life, could be felled by a few minutes of your touch.
"Oy! Lando! Dinner's ready! Fresh fish!" It was Max, his voice booming across the patio.
You winced. Here we go. You tried gentle persuasion first. "Lando, honey, dinner. Max is calling."
Not a flicker. He was dead to the world, buried deep in Dreamland.
"Lando!" Oscar’s voice this time, closer, as they clearly started a search party. "Mate, don't tell me he's asleep again."
You looked up to see Max and Oscar approaching, grins on their faces. They took one look at Lando, completely passed out in your lap, and burst into laughter.
"Unbelievable," Max groaned, shaking his head. "He’s like a tired toddler. You've got him completely incapacitated, haven't you?"
"It's the head rubs," you explained, trying to sound innocent. "He just… succumbs."
"More like you brainwash him into ultimate relaxation," Oscar quipped, nudging Lando's foot with his own. "Wake up, you old man! There's food! And maybe a few drinks later!"
Lando stirred, a deep, frustrated groan rumbling in his chest. His eyes squinted open, struggling to focus.
He blinked, a slow, drugged process, then registered his friends looming over him.
"No," he mumbled, his voice thick and barely audible. He didn't even try to sit up.
Instead, he just tightened his grip on your leg, pulling you closer, nuzzling deeper into your lap. "Stay. Just five more minutes. Don't wanna move."
"Mate, come on," Max said, trying to pull his arm. "There's grilled prawns!"
Lando just mumbled something incoherent and buried his face deeper, clinging to you like a limpet. "Can't… move… too comfy… with her."
Oscar burst out laughing. "He's completely useless when she gets her hands on him! You've got him trained, you know that?"
You smiled, running a gentle hand over his still-damp hair. "He's not trained; he's just happy."
"Happy and completely comatose!" Max retorted, eventually giving up and just chuckling. "Alright, we'll save you some fish, you big baby. But you're missing out on the good banter."
They ambled back to the main group, still laughing and teasing. You listened to their voices fade, then looked down at Lando, who was already drifting back to sleep, his breathing evening out once more.
He had a faint, content smile on his lips. He was clearly missing out on the party, on the food, on the friends.
But he was utterly unwilling to give up this moment with you.
You knew, deep down, that you wouldn't trade it for anything either. Let the world have the fast, witty, energetic Lando Norris.
You had the one who found his deepest peace and most profound sleep in the simple, loving touch of your hands, making him utterly unwilling to leave your side.
It was a trade-off you were more than happy to make, every single time. . . .
A/N This is a veryyyyyyy niche fic, but I'm hoping all of the Jannik girlies out there will appreciate it !! - G🌙
Word Count: 859
Warnings: Mainly fluff, smut is alluded to, no use of Y/N :)
Beyond the walls of the locker-room you occupied, the sun beat down on the small town of Wimbledon. For the past week, it had been a scorcher - reaching at least 30°C across the country - with the evenings ushering in even more, unwanted hot air. Now - as you carefully folded the training outfit of your boyfriend, placing it into his duffel - you felt the heat settling around you, thick and sticky, clinging to your arms, ankles, neck, anywhere your white sundress didn't already clothe.
You let your mind wander, the soft fabric of Jannik's tee falling through your fingers as you packed it into his bag. You thought of the night previous: how nervous your boyfriend had been; the way he paced the room you had called home for the past two weeks; how he had relived his stress with you as his aid.
You stood alone, humming quietly to yourself, as the hush of the crowd in the stadium mimicked that of the seashore - their voices lapping against the open doors of the locker-room, coming and going, in and out. Though you knew the kinds of conversations that were taking place - the total divide in support, the difference in adoration - you welcomed the low buzz, favoured it, as it was quickly ushered out by the jarring clamour of Jannik's team.
"He rushes, there's no follow-through..."
"You're quicker than him, Jannik. Catch him out on his softer rallies..."
Simone and Darren's voices carried through the locker-room, even though they were down the corridor when they spoke - phantom voices sent to snap you back to reality, shaking the night's events from your mind.
You appreciated their passion for Jannik's game, about being the best, beating his opponent with the fury of a Roman Gladiator.
But right here, in this moment, all you wanted was to remember the fleeting touches of Jannik's calloused fingertips against your arms, your neck, your thighs; the sound of heated skin against heated skin; the soft growls which spilt from Jannik's lips as he thrust deeper--
Simone was the first to enter the small, white room decked in benches, his stature diminutive against that of Darren who followed closely behind. Their faces showed expressions one would see proud parents wearing at their child's first recital; hopeful and overjoyed at their offspring's talent, yet nervous and tetchy about the prospect of something going wrong.
You studied them for a moment as they turned on their heels, hands-on-hips, beholding the Gladiator in all his glory as he entered the Roman Barracks.
Your lips curved into a soft smile as Jannik came into view, a vision in white to juxtapose the coaches black get-ups. He held his racket tight, the grooves of the taped-handle moulding perfectly to the callouses of his right hand - the hand that just hours before elicited cursed prayers from your lips as it rested perfectly at your soaked core.
Jannik was stressed. You could see in the way he held his shoulders, how his lips pressed together in a tight line, the way he twirled his racket around and around beside him; it seemed as if the previous night's escapades had done nothing to ease the nerves he so clearly felt.
That was, until, his eyes met yours. His hardened gaze softened and his shoulders slowly relaxed. The twirling of his racket steadily came to a close, and his lips now curved into a gentle smile.
"Leave us." Jannik spoke in little more than a whisper to the two men now stood clueless to his left.
"Jannik, there's twenty minutes until--"
"What are you talking--?"
"Leave us. For five minutes, leave us."
Only five minutes? you thought, furrowing your eyebrows slightly, Jannik's gaze never faltering from yours.
After a moment, Simone spoke, catching the unbreaking stare between yourself and your boyfriend. "Five minutes. But your trophy is on the line..."
Jannik's coaches left the room, and as soon as the door clicked behind them, he was upon you; hands taking hold of your cheeks, lips crashing into yours in a frenzy of tongues and teeth. He pulled away slightly, breathing a heated "I missed you." into your mouth between kisses.
You giggled, pulling away. "Baby, I saw you an hour ago..."
"Too long."
With this, he positioned his hands beneath your ass - a silent command to jump - and a gentle growl escaped his lips as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You dipped your head and peppered small kisses in the crook of his neck as he held you, very gently swaying back and forth.
"Are you nervous?" You finally asked, pulling away from Jannik's neck to set your eyes upon his.
"Yes. But not here, not now, in this moment..."
You smiled, pressing your lips against his, once more. From beyond the locker-room door, you heard a quick rap-rap-rap from either Simone or Darren, which one, you didn't know... or care.
Sighing, you hopped down from Jannik's grasp, flattening your sundress at your thighs. "You'd better go and see what they want. We'd hate for your wandering hands to lose you the title..."
I do not own any of the pictures used at the beginning of this post.
› Summary: She made the playlist as a joke. He changed the title as a confession.
› Word Count: 1.5k.
Halle, Germany – ATP Tournament Weekend.
It started with the hoodie.
A grey Nike zip-up — oversized, soft and worn-in at the sleeves. She hadn’t packed for the breeze that came after sunset and Jannik, ever casual, had handed it to her without a second thought. No innuendo, just “Here, wear this.”
Except it was his hoodie.
The same one fans had seen him wearing to practice earlier that weekend. The same one that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and his aftershave. And when she walked next to him wearing it later that day, it was impossible to pretend like nothing was going on.
Someone snapped a photo of them walking side by side — his cap low, her hand curled around a takeaway coffee — and by that evening, it was all over social media.
The giveaway? Someone posted a side-by-side comparison: one picture of Jannik wearing the hoodie during training, the other of her in it that afternoon. Same color. Same fit. Same oversized sleeves nearly swallowing her hands.
The real twist? Jannik didn’t say a word. Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t correct anyone.
He’d glanced at her once while waiting in line for sandwiches and just smiled. That quiet, secret kind of smile that sent her brain into a full reboot.
Her pulse had never returned to baseline after that.
─ ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅
That night, in the hotel room they were sharing — as friends — she couldn't stop replaying the moment in her head. How normal it had felt, walking next to him in his hoodie. How easy it was to imagine what it would be like if it weren’t just by chance, if they weren’t pretending not to feel the very obvious, very unspoken thing between them.
So she made the playlist.
It was a dumb little thing, built between midnight and 2:00 a.m., full of songs that reminded her of him — moody, sweet ones and some with lyrics that made her kick her feet like a teenager. She titled it the only way her pride would allow:
“If I Were in Love with Jannik Sinner (Which I’m Not)”
Harmless. Secret. Just a little coping mechanism.
Except the next day, she left her phone charging on the nightstand while she showered and Jannik needed to Google something for a press briefing. Her phone was closer than his, and honestly, it wasn’t a big deal — they had this unspoken habit of using each other’s phones now and then. It was always unlocked near him, always within reach, and he was only going to use the browser, that was the plan, anyway.
He didn’t mean to snoop, he swore he didn’t. Her phone was already open on Spotify, screen still lit from whatever she’d last been doing before her shower. He only glanced — barely. Just enough to catch the playlist title staring back at him.
“If I Were in Love with Jannik Sinner (Which I’m Not)”
He blinked. Stared. Read it again. And then? Froze.
His heart stuttered so hard it felt embarrassing.
He tapped on it, couldn’t help doing so. Just one little look.
The songs were soft, personal and specific. The kind of tracks you send to someone when you want them to know how you feel without actually saying it. The lyrics? They weren’t subtle.
It was love, in mixtape form. And his name — his actual full name — was in the title.
He let out a soft, stunned breath. Ran a hand down his face. Was this real?
He looked at the bathroom door, the shower was running, she had no idea he’d seen this.
Jannik sat there in silence, phone still in hand, while his whole body buzzed, like his limbs couldn’t figure out what to do with the rush of hope suddenly pouring in.
Because all this time, he thought it was just him. The stolen glances. The stupid smiles. The way he kept giving her his hoodies and waiting to see if she’d keep them. He thought she was just kind, that she didn’t feel it like he did.
But now? Now he was certain and giddy. In an actually-smiling-like-an-idiot-while-trying-not-to-combust kind of way.
And when she came out, still toweling her hair, he was sitting at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, his thumb paused over Spotify.
She froze. “Hey— wait, what are you—”
But his face was unreadable. Not teasing nor smug, just calm.
“I didn’t mean to look,” he said. “It was already open.”
“Oh my God…” she whispered, lunging to grab the device but he held it just out of reach, eyes still on the screen.
“This playlist…” he murmured, then looked up at her. “Is it new?”
She wanted to disappear into the carpet. “Delete it. Pretend you never saw it.”
He didn’t respond right away, just typed something fast before handing the phone back to her like it weighed nothing at all.
“I’m going down for breakfast,” he said, standing. “Want anything?”
“…No.”
He didn’t say another word, just smiled to himself as the door shut behind him, heart thudding like it was a match point and she’d just served him love.
And for once? He was okay letting her win.
When she saw it, she’d know he saw her. Knew her. And that he felt it too.
─ ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅
She waited until he was out the door to check what he did.
And there it was.
“If I Were in Love with Jannik Sinner (Which I Am)”
Her stomach dropped. In the best, worst, most terrifying way.
He hadn’t just seen it, he answered it. With one small, quiet edit that changed everything.
─ ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅ ─── ⋅ ── ♡ ── ⋅
She tried to play it cool. Really, she did.
She even stayed curled in bed for an extra twenty minutes after he left, phone clutched to her chest, heart absolutely not functioning like a normal human organ. She stared at the edited playlist title over and over:
“If I Were in Love with Jannik Sinner (Which I Am)”
And when she finally made it downstairs to breakfast? He acted like nothing happened.
“Morning,” he said, all breezy and bright, sipping juice like he hadn’t detonated her entire emotional stability before 9:00 a.m.
So she spent the whole meal in hell.
Now it was late morning and he was flopped back on the hotel bed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, flicking through tennis videos on mute. She stood near the window, arms crossed, trying to work up the courage to say something.
“You’re really not gonna bring it up?” she asked finally.
Jannik didn’t even look over. “Bring what up?”
She threw a pillow at his face.
He caught it easily, grinning now. “Oh. That.”
“Yes, that! You—” she flailed towards her phone on the nightstand, “—you renamed my playlist and then left like some smug emotional hit-and-run artist!”
He sat up on his elbows, the barest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “It was already open, couldn’t help it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And you thought changing the title was what? Funny?”
“No,” he said. “I thought it was accurate.”
Silence. Her mouth parted slightly, heart doing that dumb hiccup thing again.
“Oh…” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, suddenly quiet. “Oh.”
The tension in the room thickened, but it wasn’t heavy — it was warm. A suspended moment that had nowhere left to hide.
“You could’ve just said something,” she mumbled, barely looking at him.
He tilted his head. “You mean instead of emotionally decoding a playlist that literally had my full name in the title?”
She flushed. “That was supposed to be ironic.”
“It was adorable,” he corrected. “And it made me very, very happy.”
She blinked. “Really?”
He stood now, walking towards her slowly.
“Really,” he said, voice low. “I’ve been losing my mind over you for months.”
And then, in one smooth motion, his hand found her waist at the same time his lips found hers.
It was soft at first — tentative, almost surprised with himself by the act of courage and with a hint of fear that he had messed it all up — but when she leaned in, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, it deepened into something that made both her toes curl in her socks and him lose the remnant of doubt that still lodged in the corners of his mind.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, pink and a little stunned, she whispered against his lips:
“So… what now?”
He grinned. “Now you’re stuck with me.”
She laughed. “Guess I’ll have to make a new playlist.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, forehead pressed to hers.
“Just name it: Jannik Sinner is so in love with me it’s embarrassing.”
could you combine kissing your shoulder while they spoon you in cuddles and when they laugh at your messy hair in the morning from small but comforting gestures for jannik pretty please <3
you got it, anon 🤭🫡
A Lovable Loop
wc: 2.6k
You lay there, nestled in the warmth of the early morning sun, feeling the gentle rise and fall of the chest behind you. A content sigh escapes your lips as you feel the soft brush of breath against the nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. The arms holding you tighten briefly, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin, and you know without looking that the mess of curls on the pillow beside you is Jannik's. His habit of kissing your shoulder while spooning has become a comforting lullaby, lulling you into a deeper sleep every night.
As the sun peeks through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room, you crack open an eye to find him still asleep. The quiet of the apartment is a stark contrast to the roar of the crowds that typically follow him around the world. But here, at this moment, you're the only audience to the symphony of his breathing, the only witness to the peace that surrounds him when he's off the court. You take a moment to appreciate the rare stillness of his features, free from the concentration lines that etch his forehead during a match.
You shift slightly, and his hand on your waist moves up to your shoulder, his thumb idly tracing the edge of your collarbone. You giggle, the sound barely escaping your mouth, as you remember the countless mornings you've woken up with his messy hair tickling your nose. It's a small, endearing detail that you've grown to love about him, a stark contrast to the meticulously groomed athlete the world sees. The urge to lean in and kiss his cheek is strong, but you resist, not wanting to disturb the tranquility of the moment.
The scent of his cologne lingers faintly, mingling with the scent of fresh laundry from the bed sheets. The coolness of the fabric whispers against your skin, reminding you of the countless hours he's spent training, leaving behind a faint scent of sweat and determination. His breathing remains steady, a testament to his physical conditioning, but it's the sound of his heart beating in rhythm with yours that grounds you in the present.
You feel his chest muscles tighten as he stirs, and your eyes widen in anticipation. His hand moves from your shoulder to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair that has fallen across your face. His eyes open slowly, a sleepy smile gracing his lips as he takes in the sight of you. "Buongiorno," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends warmth through your body. You return the greeting with a smile of your own, your cheeks warming under his gentle touch.
As the sun climbs higher in the sky, the room brightens, revealing the tangled mess of sheets around you both. Jannik stretches, his muscles flexing under the thin layer of the T-shirt he'd worn to bed. You can't help but admire the way his body moves, the way his tattoos dance with the shadows cast by the light. He notices your gaze and chuckles, rolling over to face you.
"Take a photo," he playfully teased you, his voice still thick with sleep. "So you can remember me when I'm not around to wake you up like this."
"What? Can't I admire my boyfriend in the morning?" you tease back, the warmth in your voice matching the sun's embrace. Jannik's eyes light up at the word "boyfriend," and you can't help but feel a sense of pride at the joy you bring to this international sports star. His hand reaches up to gently tug on a lock of your hair, a silent invitation for you to come closer. You lean in, pressing your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his smile.
The room is filled with the gentle sounds of the morning - the distant chirping of birds outside the window, the faint hum of the city waking up. You're aware of the time ticking away, but in this moment, it's just the two of you, wrapped in a bubble of peace. Jannik's hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, his thumb continuing to caress your skin. He pulls you into a lazy kiss, his mouth tasting faintly of mint from the toothpaste he'd used before bed. The kiss is soft and comforting, a silent promise that today will be as wonderful as every other day you've spent together.
As you pull away, his eyes are still closed, savoring the feeling of your lips on his. You can't help but reach out and tuck a curl behind his ear, marveling at the softness of his hair between your fingers. His skin is warm and smooth, a stark contrast to the calloused hands that had held you through the night. You feel his smile against your forehead before his eyes open.
"What's got you smiling so early?" he asks, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet of the room.
You laugh lightly, feeling your cheeks flush. "Just your hair," you admit, unable to resist the urge to run your fingers through the unruly mop. It's a game you've played countless times before, trying to tame the wildness that is Jannik Sinner's morning mane. "It's like a little bird's nest."
He opens his eyes, a playful glint in them as he reaches up to capture your hand. "Is that so?" he asks, bringing it to his mouth for a gentle kiss. "Well, maybe I should keep it this way, then. For you to play with."
You roll your eyes but can't hide the grin that spreads across your face. Jannik's eyes sparkle with mischief, and you know he's enjoying every moment of your early morning banter. His free hand snakes around your waist, pulling you closer to him, and you feel his heartbeat against your chest, steady and robust. The warmth of his skin sends a pleasant shiver through you, reminding you of the many times you've lain here, feeling the power of his body against yours.
His fingers intertwine with yours, the roughness of his palm a stark contrast to your own. Each callous a story of the hours he's spent perfecting his craft, each line a map of his dedication to the sport he loves. You trace the veins on the back of his hand with your thumb, feeling the strength that propels him to victory after victory.
He places a kiss on your shoulder, the same spot he's been planting sweet, lingering kisses for weeks now. You feel a warm rush of affection as his lips graze your skin, a silent declaration of his love that needs no words. You lean into his embrace, savoring the feeling of being cherished by someone so fiercely driven yet so gentle at heart.
The world outside the window is slowly coming to life, but here, in this cocoon of blankets and limbs, time seems to stand still. You can't help but let your mind wander to the day ahead. You know that soon, the apartment will be a flurry of activity as he prepares for his next match. The quiet moments like these are precious, stolen from the chaos of his schedule.
Jannik's grip tightens, as if sensing your thoughts. "You're thinking too much," he whispers, his voice a gentle reprimand. His thumb continues to trace patterns on your collarbone, the sensation sending a cascade of goosebumps across your skin. You nod, unable to deny the truth of his words.
"I don't want to leave this bed," you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The thought of the day's separation is a dull ache in the pit of your stomach. His tournament schedule is relentless, and even though you've grown used to it, the goodbyes never get easier.
"Neither do I," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. He kisses your shoulder again, the familiar gesture now charged with the weight of your impending separation. You turn to face him, your eyes searching his for any sign of regret or doubt, but all you find is a steadfast love that mirrors your own.
Jannik sighs, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer before he gently pushes himself up. The bed creaks under his weight, the sound a stark reminder that the morning is slipping away. He runs a hand through his hair, the mess of curls only growing more unruly with the movement. You can't help but giggle at the sight, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
"What?" he asks, feigned innocence in his eyes. "It's not that bad, is it?"
You laugh, shaking your head. "It's not bad," you clarify, "it's just… you." You reach out to smooth down the unruly strands, but they spring back up as soon as your hand leaves, like a rebellious child refusing to be tamed. "It's one of the many things that makes you, you."
Jannik smiles, his eyes holding yours. "And what else makes me, me?" he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. You sit up, leaning on your elbow, and take a moment to study his face.
"Your passion for tennis, the way you light up when you talk about it," you reply, watching as his expression changes, a spark of excitement flickering in his eyes. "Your love for your family, your never-ending kindness, and the way you always make me feel like I'm the most important person in the room."
He looks at you with a softness that makes your heart flutter, the corners of his eyes crinkling with affection. "And you," he says, taking your hand in his, "you're the one who brings balance to my life. The calm in the storm of competition."
You laugh, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "I'm not sure I'd call me calm," you protest, thinking of the many times you've cheered him on from the sidelines, your heart racing with every point.
"To me, you are," he insists, bringing your hand to his lips for a tender kiss. "You keep me grounded."
The room feels smaller, as if the walls are closing in around the two of you, capturing the intimacy of the moment. The sun is now a full-fledged participant in the day, casting a warm, golden light across the bed that emphasizes the planes of his face, the strength of his arms, and the gentle curve of his lips. You want to remember this moment, to hold onto it like a talisman against the trials that the day might bring.
But the world outside is unforgiving, and it won't wait for you to be ready. The soft beeping of Jannik's alarm breaks the spell, and with a groan, he lets your hand fall from his mouth. He swipes at the screen of his phone, silencing the annoying sound, and then rolls over to plant a kiss on your forehead. "I've got to get going," he says, regret tinging his words. "I have an early training session today."
You nod, understanding the routine all too well. He slides out of bed with the grace of a panther, his movements swift and silent despite his size. You watch as he pads across the hardwood floor to the bathroom, the muscles in his back rippling with each step. The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound of the shower soon follows.
The apartment feels eerily quiet in his absence, the warmth of the bed now a stark contrast to the coolness of the room. You slide out from under the covers, your bare feet landing on the chilly floor. You grab your robe from the chair by the bed, wrapping it around you as you make your way to the kitchen to start the coffee for Jannik. The aroma fills the air, a comforting scent that grounds you in the reality of the new day.
While the coffee brews, you wander over to the living room windows and pull the curtains open, letting the sun flood the space. You look out at the bustling streets below, the people moving like ants in a colony, all with their own lives and stories. The sight of the city waking up reminds you of the world that exists outside your cozy bubble, a world where Jannik is a superstar and you're his quiet confidante.
The sound of the shower cuts off, and you return to the bedroom to find him dressed in his training gear, his hair still damp from the shower. He approaches you, his eyes searching yours, and you can see the question in them. You nod, giving him the encouragement he needs, and he leans in for a kiss that's anything but lazy. It's a kiss filled with passion and promise, a silent vow to conquer the day ahead.
Jannik breaks away, a small smile playing on his lips. He reaches out to caress your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before dropping his hand. "Thank you," he whispers, the words carrying more weight than you can comprehend.
"Don't forget the coffee," you call out as Jannik grabs his bag, the sound of the zipper punctuating the air. He flashes you a grin over his shoulder, the tension in his body already shifting into the focused mode you know so well. You pad over to the kitchen, the warmth of the robe enveloping you as you pour the dark liquid into a travel mug, the steam rising up to kiss your nose.
The apartment feels emptier with each step he takes towards the door, each movement a silent countdown to the moment you'll be alone again. You hand him the coffee, feeling the warmth of his hand against yours, and he takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll miss you," he says, the words simple yet carrying a weight that makes your heart ache.
"I'll miss you too," you reply, your voice a little too bright, trying to push the sadness aside. You stand on your tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble against your lips. He lingers for a moment, his hand on your hip, before gently setting the mug down on the counter.
Jannik's arms wrap around you in a fierce hug, lifting you off the ground. You cling to him, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne and the clean scent of his skin. His embrace is a fortress, a place where the world outside can't touch you, even if only for a brief moment. He whispers something in Italian, the language of love and home, the words lost in the folds of your shared warmth.
As he sets you back down, you can feel the tension in his body, the anticipation of the day's battles already weighing on him. You hand him the coffee, the warmth of the mug a small comfort against the impending chill of the day. "Drink it slow," you advise, knowing the caffeine will fuel his early morning training.
He nods, his grip tightening around the mug. "I will," he promises, his eyes searching yours. There's a silent understanding between you, a shared acknowledgment of the sacrifices made for his career. The moments like these, stolen in the early morning light, are your sanctuary from the tumult of the world outside.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the apartment falls into a quietude that feels almost mournful. You take a deep breath, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air like a ghostly embrace. The bed seems too large now, the warmth of his body a fading memory. But you know that the real world is out there, and you can't hold onto these moments forever.
hes always trying to be touching you in one way or another
even before you guys are even dating he does it, he's comparing hand sizes with you, laughing at how small yours are compared to his. but he's purposely leaving them pressed against each other until his fingers absentmindedly close around yours
when you guys do start dating he's still seeking it out subtly instead of just asking.
he's constantly pretending he's cold just to find an excuse to wrap you up in his big arms and have you squished against his chest as you guys snuggle into a warm blanket.
when you go out, he'll always be holding your hand, or have an arm wrapped around you. just to keep you "safe"
he's always tying your shoelaces for you. even though you are fully capable of doing it yourself, he loves dropping to his knees to tie knots (not double knotted though because he wants to tie them again), just so that you will give him silly little headpats when he begins to stand again.
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