happiest birthday to my loveliest devyn! â€ïž i hope your day is extraordinarily good! you deserve all the sweetest treats and pretty things in this world đ«”đ»đ
fall in âïž Â· au: demigods. angst, hurt/comfort, romance ft. son of poseidon!oscar piastri x daughter of hephaestus!reader. 13k.
âwill you carry me out of hell?â he murmurs against your skin. itâs a question that sounds more like a confession. you donât hesitate for a second. âof course i will.â
training wheels đâïž Â· smut ft. best friend!reader. 8.2k. sequel to fast learner.
you end up on oscarâs doorstep after your date with lando.
oscarâs heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. he just nods and says, âwe make it work.â short, clipped, but itâs the truth. somehow, you and him fit.
fast learner đâïž Â· smut ft. best friend!reader. 8.5k.
oscar teaches you everything you need to know before your date with lando.
if i know nothing else (i know you) âïž Â· romance ft. childhood best friend!reader. 4.5k.
the five times oscar doesnât know, and the one time that he does.
watch this be the wrong thing đâïž Â· smut. 5.7k.
âsay it again,â he murmurs, pressing against you. âsay thank you, oscar.â (or: unbeknownst to you, the person youâve been sexting might just be somebody you know.)
oscar canât tell if he wants to impress you or ruin your day. probably both.
this oneâs for you, babe! âïž Â· fluff ft. girlfriend!reader. 1.8k.
you donât usually believe in jinxes, but the track record is damning. every time he says itâthis oneâs for youâsomething goes horribly, comically wrong. like the universe is actively penalizing him for being besotted in public.
âaita (m24) for constantly avoiding my coworker because iâm (hopelessly) in love with them?â and âaita (m24) for being so emotionally constipated that i made my coworker think i hate her because i canât function properly when sheâs around?â
heads will roll · au: fraternities & sororities. romance ft. frat dj!reader. 3.9k.
that, my friends, is house music! it doesnât judge you! (but oscar might.)
you approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. he opens his mouth to ask for the special. instead, oscar says, âwould you like to get married?â
an act of pure defiance âïž Â· fluff ft. girlfriend!reader. 1.3k.
âyou know, moles are where your soulmate kissed you the most in your past life.â
âbest thing about your hometown?â âapparently itâs the coffee. i donât drink coffee so i donât know. for me, itâs just that itâs home.â
pushing it down and praying đ · au: sugar dating. smut, romance ft. billionaire!oscar piastri, actress!reader & rally driver!lando norris.
for the longest time, itâs just been you and oscar. the introduction of a cocky, curly-haired rally driver changes everything.
racing for your number part one, part two · au: challengers. romance, angst ft. mclaren f1a driver!reader & lando norris. 23.1k.
âobviously, weâre both here to try and fight for a world championship,â says oscar. âwe wanna fight for it the whole time weâre in mclaren. weâre both on long contracts, so we wanna make sure weâre fighting this for the foreseeable future.â
the summer you turned pretty · inspired by the summer i turned pretty. romance ft. mclaren marketing admin!reader & lando norris. 12.2k.
the story of you, mclarenâs golden boys, and the summer that changes everything.
âž» drabbles!
romance isnât dead âïž Â· fluff ft. girlfriend!reader. 1k.
you and oscar have a privacy sign on the door. (and on your whole world.)
but iâll do it for you · fluff. 1k.
oscar has a soft spot for you. (or: the one where oscar does karaoke for the first time.)
from friends to this · best friend!reader, romance. smau.
request guidelines â
i primarily write driver x female!reader fic. my work does not represent the drivers i write for in any way, shape, or form.
â WHAT REQUESTS ARE OKAY?
đą fluff, romance, angst, crack/humor. established relationships, platonic/friendly relationships, poly relationships. a range of au's i.e. bf!f1, brother!f1, husband!f1, non-driver au's (e.g. uni, other professions, etc). reqs based on media (i.e. movies, series, songs), tropes, or prompts.
đĄ smut/suggestive content, cheating/infidelity, age gaps, emotional hurt/comfort, themes of grief. drivers not indicated above. romantic content for any drivers below 20 y/o.
đŽ explicit character death, emotional manipulation, gender swap, sa/sh/ed, terminal illnesses, yandere, content for team principals.
đ BOX, BOX! · MAKE THAT REQUEST! CURRENTLY: CLOSED
PAIRING: oscar piastri x mercedes!f1 driver!fem!reader
SUMMARY: the step to your dream is there: your debut season of formula one. determined and laser-focused, nothing can stop you from cruising by. not even the recently available papaya-dressed aussie you call your first love... right? you think you've moved onâtwo years oscar-free. you're sure of it. but those same childhood feelings resurface when you're racing beside him, leaving you with one question only: will you ever be free from this heart of chambers?
WARNING: fluff, angst, three-year age gap (younger reader), best friend's brother, childhood friends to lovers, unrequited love, some 18+ content, misogyny, f1 politics, verbal and physical abuse
TURN ONE .đ„ Ę Ë â one step forward, three steps back (6.6k)
it's 2025. and your 'new year, new me' is about your debut as the first woman in formula one in over thirty years. busy with moving and training, you aren't focused on the past. but things seem to take a turn when hattie relays some new information.
TURN TWO .đ„ Ę Ë â lucky number eight (6.8k)
the first race of the season doesnât come without any drama. and crossing the finish line is just the tip of it. between a home race and an impromptu family dinner with the piastriâs that has everyone going down memory laneâwho knows what this week will bring?
TURN THREE .đ„ Ę Ë â stranger danger (7.8k)
the great wall provides chaos unlike any other: a truth, a problem, and a bet. and in his effort to be friends again, oscar finds reconciliation a lot harder when the past two years of your life begin to unravel right in front of him, reminding him once again of the only thing he now knows about you: almost nothing.
TURN FOUR .đ„ Ę Ë â baby steps (7.1k)
so far your debut has been pretty good. one may say too good. that cloud nine comes crashing down under the cherry blossoms in japan when one interview sets everything alight. but fret not. oscar seizes the opportunity to remind you of one thing very clearly: he has your back.
TURN FIVE .đ„ Ę Ë â man i need (6.9k)
your tug of war with the journalists never quite seems to end, keeping your name in all the headlines and everyone's mouths. with things looking bleak, your radio silence has people worried. particularly oscar, who can't exactly explain his newfound concern for you.
TURN SIX .đ„ Ę Ë â bad omens and souvenirs (11.7k)
just when things seem to be looking up for you, your world coming crashing down from the unexpected. on the brink of burning out, you threaten to succumb to those wishing for your downfall. but you forget you have plenty of support. especially the boy just ten minutes away from you who seems to always be one step ahead of you.
it's monaco. tight walls and narrow roads, leaving limited space for anything out of the ordinary. but again, it's monaco. everything is out of the ordinary. so with a dash of regret, a hint of anger, and a little something more creates the perfect recipe for destruction.
TURN EIGHT .đ„ Ę Ë â labyrinth (8.5k)
they say the spanish are natural romantics. and oscar intends to find out how romantic they truly are in round nine but gets thrown off course when the people in his life point out what he had obviously been denying. after the chaos of canada, the answer in front of him becomes clear.
A/N: yes! another new seriessss! just what you and i both needed after this messy season mwahahahah! so buckle up bc while this one is childhood friends to lovers, it's gonna be angsty and a whirlwind! and as always, i'm happy to hear your feedback and ideas âĄïž PLAYLIST (lmk if you want to be tagged!)
The roar of the engines at the karting track was deafening, but at seven years old, she was louder. Perched on the edge of the metal bleachers, she was a whirlwind of frantic energy, her tiny fists clenched as she tracked the blur of a neon helmet circling the asphalt. Her parents were right beside her, their voices lost in the mechanical scream of the karts, but her focus never wavered from her brother. When Kimi finally streaked across the finish line, she didnât wait for the official signal. She scrambled down the bleachers, her light-up sneakers hitting the pavement in a dead sprint, reaching him before their parents could even notice.
âGrande grande grande!â she squealed, her voice high and breathless as she threw her arms around Kimiâs neck, the hard plastic of his racing suit pressing into her chest.
Kimi was vibrating with an adrenaline high he didnât yet have the words to describe. He hopped in place, his helmet still tucked under one arm, his face flushed and streaked with a bit of track grime. âDid you see me? I was so fast, wasnât I? I felt like I was flying!â It was his first time in a competitive kart, and it was immediately clear to everyone watching that he was a natural, a prodigy in the making. She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, nodding with the fierce conviction only a twin could possess. âI saw, Kimi! You were like a rocket ship!â
As the years passed and the stakes climbed, that bond only solidified. When Kimi made the leap into the brutal world of competitive karting, she was his shadow. She was never without him; through every race session, through every rain-soaked and sun-drenched podium, she was there. She had only ever missed a single race in over a decade, a weekend when a 102°C fever had left her delirious and weak, leaving their mother practically tying her to her bed and nailing her bedroom door shut just to stop her from crawling into the car with Kimi.
She had spent those three days in a state of inconsolable heartbreak, crying into her pillow because she couldn't be there to give him his pre-race twin fist bump. When Kimi finally returned home, trophy in hand, he walked straight into her room, sat on the edge of her bed, and draped his winner's medal around her neck. Kimi was the same way; he hated it when she wasn't on the pit wall. To him, the car felt unbalanced, the air felt thin, and the victory felt hollow if she wasn't the first person he saw when he climbed out of the car.
While Kimi lived for the thrill and loud engine roars, she lived for the peace and quiet chirps of the birds. She was the creative of the family, her hands usually stained with paint or glue rather than engine oil. Her lifelong dream was sketched out in a tattered notebook she carried everywhere: a floor plan for a boutique flower shop, complete with a sun-drenched coffee nook in the corner where the steam from the espresso would mingle with the scent of fresh blooms. Kimi would spend hours sitting on the floor beside her while she drew, never complaining about the boredom. Heâd grab a colored pencil and carefully fill in the petals of her drawings, his tongue poking out in concentration, sure to color only within the lines and in one motion, or else he'll never hear the end of it. He loved picking flowers for her, raiding the neighbors' gardens whenever they played outside, just because he loved the way her entire world seemed to light up when he handed her a messy bunch of hydrangeas or wild roses.
Then, the duo became a trio. Kimi met Ollie Bearman in the competitive circuit, and the connection was instantaneous. They bonded over a shared obsession with the high-speed chases and late-night video game marathons. Not long after, Ollie became a permanent fixture in their home. He knew which floorboards creaked, where the hidden stash of the good cookies were kept, and he practically had a permanent roll-out bed in Kimiâs room, with a corner of the closet dedicated to his spare hoodies. He was the brother Kimi had never had, but for her, he was something entirely different.
They became an inseparable, chaotic trio. Where Kimi and Ollie went, she followed, acting as the bridge between their high-octane world and the quiet life she dreamed of. They spent their days at the track, the boys racing until their tires were gone, and her cheering until her throat was raw. Afterward, their parents would pile all three of them into the car and head to the local gelateria. Theyâd sit on the curb, melting gelato dripping down their hands, talking about nothing and everything. Ollie, much like Kimi, became glued to her side. He didn't just tolerate her presence; he sought it out. He would show up at their front door with a new box of video games for them boys, but perched right on top of the plastic cases would be a freshly picked flower heâd managed to source from a nearby garden. Even though Kimiâs room was right at the top of the stairs, Ollie would always walk to the very end of the long hallway to knock on her door first.
"Special delivery," heâd say with that effortlessly polite, lopsided grin, handing her the flowers. Every time his fingers brushed hers, her heart would kick into a gear it didn't know it had, leaving her giggling and blushing as he retreated to go play games with her brother. He was her first real crush, a deep-seated, soul-aching kind of love that only grew more intense as they transitioned from children into young adults.
It first became a problem when Kimi started noticing the way the air changed when Ollie and his sister were in the same room. Kimi was one of, if not the most, observant person in the world. He would notice how Ollie's eyes would always drift to her when she walked in the room, or the way his sister would laugh at his terrible jokes without missing a beat, and by the time they reached Formula 4, the childhood innocence had started to fray. Back when they were seven, the rules were simple:Â
Always share your snacks (unless itâs momâs homemade brownies).
Don't crash into each other on the track.Â
If one of us goes down, we all go down.
But as the karts got faster and the engines grew louder, the stakes shifted from plastic trophies to professional reputations, and Kimi decided the silent understanding between them wasn't enough. So, during a practice session at Silverstone, Kimi added a fourth rule to their childhood pact. "Anyone but my sister, Ollie. Don't go there." And because Ollie was a sweetheart, a boy raised on manners and a deep, soul-level loyalty, he never did, but that wasnât to say he didn't want to.
He loved Kimi like a brother, but she... she was never just a sister to him. He had always carried the quiet, heavy inkling that she was the one. Yet, the promise he had made to Kimi acted like a restrictor plate on his heart; it was too strong to break, so he settled for staying just within reach. He was the shadow at her side, the one who caught her eye across a crowded room, staying close enough to be there the second she needed him, but never close enough to ignite the bridge between them. She was his mirror in every way.
Kimi was relentless, acting as a human barricade between his twin and his best friend. He would nag her the moment Ollie walked through the front door with a fresh batch of freshly picked flowers, his eyes narrowing as he watched the telltale redness creep into her cheeks. âNot my best friend, gemella,â was Kimiâs go-to line, delivered with a protective edge that left no room for negotiation. She would only nod, her heart heavy but her resolve firm. She loved Kimi too much to ever jeopardize the sacred bond they shared; it had always been Kimi before anyone else, a pact made in the womb. So she forced herself to be content with the almost. She was okay with the stolen glances, the way her breath hitched when they were left alone for a few fleeting minutes without Kimi, and the lingering scent of his cologne after heâd hugged her goodbye. A single thought was the anchor that kept her grounded whenever her heart threatened to float away. To her, Ollieâs kindness wasn't a sign of hidden feelings; it was just... Ollie. He was the boy who had seen her lose her baby teeth and survive her awkward teenage years. In her mind, she was no more than a girl he cared for deeply but would never crave.
Eventually, the years of grit and grease paid off. The two men were recruited into the elite, dizzying world of Formula 1. It was the dream they had chased since they were seven, but for her, it meant they were gone for most of the year. The house felt too quiet without the sound of their arguing or the smell of track tires after a session, but a few thousand miles wouldn't stop her. She still attended every race she could, navigating the labyrinth of F1 logistics with a fierce determination. She found ways through those exclusive paddock gates, even if it meant a cheeky, well-timed email to Toto Wolff himself (which, to her delight and Kimi's confusion, had actually worked).
She became a regular in the paddock, a familiar face amidst the chaos. Sheâd find herself hanging out in the Mercedes garage first, watching Kimi with a twin's pride, before slipping away to loom around the Haas garage. Sheâd wait by the cooling fans, eyes searching for a familiar head of messy hair, her heart still doing that same somersault every time Ollie stepped out of the car and looked straight for her in the crowd with his gentle smile.
Then came the race in Emilia Romagna. The air was thick with the scent of espresso, expensive sunblock, and the distant, high-pitched whine of engines. It was a beautiful day for racing, but even better for drama. She strolled through the paddock, her VIP pass swinging proudly around her neck, stamped clearly with the Guest of Kimi Antonelli. Being the twin sister of a Mercedes prodigy had its perks, mainly that she got to attend the world's most exclusive sporting event. It was a long morning. For someone who has lived in Italy for all her life, she almost always lost her way. The long travel to the circuit induced hunger, which eventually led her toward the Paddock Club buffet, her mind focused entirely on finding carbs. Distracted by the menu board, she turned a corner and thump. She collided squarely with a very solid chest. "Oh, shoot! Sorry! I wasnât looking at all," a soft voice apologized. "No, Iâm sorry! I was definitely distracted," she countered, looking up.Â
Standing before her was a man who looked like heâd been synthesized in a lab specifically to be a heartthrob. He froze for a second, his eyes widening as he took her in. He looked genuinely stunned, she was so beautiful. "Iâm, uh... Iâm Arthur. Arthur Leclerc," he said, extending a hand. She giggled, the sound light and musical. "I know. Youâre kind of hard to miss." She shook his hand, giving her name. "Are you here to give Charles moral support or just for the catering?"
"A bit of both," Arthur admitted, recovering his charm. "The food is usually the highlight if Ferrari has a bad pit stop."
"In that case, help a girl out," she said, gesturing to the buffet. "Iâve heard truffle pasta is to die for. Can you confirm the rumors?" Arthur made a face of mock contemplation. "The truffle is good, for sure. Very classic, but if you want the real deal, go for the Garlic Basil. Itâs life-changing." She tilted her head, looking at him with an amused smirk, but she caught a glimpse of the clock behind him and decided that a single pain au chocolat would do for now. "Okay, Mr. Leclerc. Iâll hold you to that recommendation for next time, but Iâve got two drivers waiting for me who get very cranky if Iâm late. I'll see you around."Â
She gave him a playful wave and headed off. She didn't see Arthur linger, his gaze following the sway of her hair until she disappeared into the crowd. By the time she reached the Mercedes garage, the two boys were already on high alert. Kimi was leaning against a stack of tires, talking to Ollie, who looked remarkably relaxed in his Haas kit, until he saw her. "Hey! What took you so long, amore?" Kimi asked, pushing off the tires to wrap her in a massive brotherly hug.
"Sorry! I got turned around," she says, burying her face in his shoulder. "I ended up by a hotel entrance talking to the concierge for way too long. I unfortunately forgot how to get to the paddock.â Ollie let out a soft snort, his eyes warm as he stepped forward. He reached out, pulling her into a hug that lasted just a beat longer than a friendly hug should. He leaned down, planting a soft, lingering kiss on the top of her head like he always does, but everytime, it made her stomach do a flip.Â
"You should have called me, darling," Ollie murmured, his hand resting casually on her shoulder. "I would have come and picked you up." She shook her head, smiling up at him. "No way. I know you guys are busy. Besides, the concierge was lovely! He even pointed out the best local flower shops for me to visit tomorrow." They stood there for a while, the three of them falling into their usual rhythm, cracking inside jokes about the absurd outfits the celebrities were wearing and debating whose car looked more like a glorified lawnmower that weekend.
âWhat are your thoughts on the fans having a giant head cutout of yours?â she asked, taking a messy bite out of her pastry. âItâs kind of funny, actually,â Ollie answered, sounding so matter-of-fact before leaning down to take a bite out of her bread, which made her laugh. âI mean, if theyâre fine with staring at a gigantic version of my face for two hours, then why not, right?â
âItâs hilarious to see my head that big,â Kimi chimed in, gesturing vaguely in the air to demonstrate the size. âLike, imagine if you woke up tomorrow and your head was actually that big. You wouldnât be able to get through the door. Youâd just be stuck in your room forever, staring out the window like a giant balloon.â It was exactly the kind of absurd, ridiculous comment Kimi always made, the kind that kept them grounded even when their lives were moving at two hundred miles per hour. All of it was perfect. The sun was warm, the laughter was easy, and the company was even better. It was home.
Then, the vibe shifted. Kimi was the first to notice. His eyes narrowed, his protective twin sensors pinging. "Why is Arthur Leclerc looking at you like that?" he muttered, adjusting the brim of his cap. She followed his gaze. A few yards away, Arthur was leaning against the railing, looking effortlessly cool. When he caught her looking, he didn't look away. Instead, he offered a polite, lingering wave and a slow, charming smile. She felt a flush hit her cheeks. She started to lift her hand to wave back; it was only polite, after all, but she didn't finish the motion. Suddenly, Ollie was there. He moved into her personal space with the grace of a driver taking the apex, effectively stepping between her and Arthurâs line of sight. He reached out to her; his body acted as a human barricade.Â
His jaw was set in that terrifyingly tight line. His shoulders were squared, and he looked twice his usual size. "Shouldn't he be with Charles?" Ollieâs voice was suddenly clipped, almost cold. He didn't look back at Arthur. He kept his eyes fixed on her, though his focus felt more like he was guarding a treasure than having a conversation. "Heâs going to get in the way of the mechanics standing there." She looked at Ollie in genuine shock. Ollie was the sweet one. He was the endlessly polite one. Hearing him sound so possessive and riled up was like seeing a golden retriever turn into a wolf.
She reached out, patting his arm gently with a smile that made Ollie melt even if he didn't want to admit it. "We just met in the Paddock Club. He was just being nice and giving me pasta recommendations."
"Yeah? The truffle is the only thing worth eating there," Ollie snapped, his eyes flashing. "Actually, Arthur said the Garlic Basil was the one to die for," she replied. She saw Ollieâs teeth clench. A muscle in his jaw leaped. For a split second, he looked ready to march over there and start a very public, very unsweet argument about pasta and boundaries, but then he caught himself. He saw her confused expression and immediately forced a breath out, softening his features.
"Right," he muttered, his voice dropping back into its usual sweet tone, though the edge was still there. "Heâs just... trying to be charming. Don't listen to him." He gave her a one-armed side hug, squeezing her tight before Kimi pushed him away for their respective pre-race briefings, making sure to turn and give her sister their signature twin fist bump right after.
Left to her own devices, she wandered over to the cooling fans to escape the Italian heat. "I thought theyâd never let you go," a voice joked. She turned to find Arthur approaching with an easy stride. "Your brother and Bearman are like a two-man security around you. I wasn't sure if I needed a background check just to say hello." She laughed, the tension Ollie had created finally starting to dissipate. "Itâs a twin thing. Kimi is... well, Kimi. And Ollie? He just takes everything that happens during the race weekend very seriously."
Arthur leaned against the railing next to her, looking down at his phone for a second before looking back at her. "So, I saw those peonies you posted on your Instagram story yesterday. They were stunning." Her heart skipped a beat. "You... you follow my Instagram? I didn't even know you knew it existed."
"I did some light investigations after we bumped into each other," Arthur teased, his voice attentive and kind. He started asking her about all the things someone would do during the first time they met. Eventually, they talk about her dream shop, the coffee nook, and which flowers grow best in the Italian climate. For a moment, she forgot about the engines, but unbeknownst to her, deep in the shadows of the Haas garage, hidden from the world by the roar of the crowd, Ollie stood perfectly still. His engineer was trying to show him telemetry data on a tablet, pointing out where he could gain time in sector two.
Ollie wasn't looking at the screen. Through the open garage door, he had a perfect, unobstructed view of the cooling fans. He saw Arthur leaning in to hear her over the noise. He saw the way they were smiling. He saw Arthur laugh at something she said, something that was probably supposed to be his joke. Ollie didn't move. He didn't say a word, but the grip he had on his helmet was so intense that his knuckles turned a sharp, ghostly white. The sweet Ollie seemed to be lost at that moment.. In his place was a man who felt like he was watching someone try to steal the very air from his lungs.
"Ollie? You good, mate?" his engineer asked, stepping closer with a water bottle. Ollie snapped his gaze away, his face instantly smoothing into a mask of professional, cold indifference. "Iâm fine," he bit out, his voice vibrating with a dark, restless energy. He snatched his balaclava and pulled it over his head, hiding his eyes. "Letâs just get on the grid. Iâm ready to move some people out of my way."
After the chaos of the podium ceremony, the spray of sticky champagne, the deafening roar of the crowd, and the frantic energy of the post-race interviews, the world finally began to quiet down. The sun was dipping lower over the circuit, painting the paddock in long, golden hues that reminded her of the track from their childhood. She stood by the front of the Mercedes garage, her heart still thumping in rhythm with the engines. When she saw Kimi approaching, still glowing with the adrenaline of a podium finish, she couldn't contain herself. âBravo, gemello! Complimenti!â she shouted, her voice cutting through the lingering mechanical hum of the pit lane.
Kimi didn't even slow down; he practically tackled her into a hug, his sweaty fireproof undershirt damp against her skin, but she didn't care. They clung to each other for a long moment, the silent twin language of Iâm proud of you and Iâm glad youâre safe passing between them, before Kimi was swept away by their parentsâ tearful, ecstatic embraces. Ollie trailed behind him a moment later. He looked exhausted, his hair matted to his forehead and a faint smudge of grease on his cheek, but his eyes brightened the second they landed on her. She held her arms wide open, a silent invitation he never declined.
âCongratulations, Mr. Bearman,â she teased as he pulled her in. âP7, huh? Absolute magic out there. You moved through that field like you owned it.â
One of the million things Ollie loved about her, the thing that kept him up at night, was how she was so effortlessly good with words. Whether he was standing on the top step of the podium or nursing the sting of a DNF, she always knew exactly how to sway his mood. She was his North Star, the person who made the high-pressure vacuum of racing feel like a home. âIâm just glad you're here to see it all,â Ollie murmured into her hair. He tightened his grip. She giggled, the sound light and domestic, anchoring him back to earth. âI wouldn't miss it for the world,â she says, pulling back just enough to see both boys. âHow about celebratory gelato? Like the old times? My treat.â
The word gelato acted like a command to Kimi. He snapped his head toward them, his eyes wide. âI want pistachio! And lemon! Letâs go right now!â Without waiting for a response, Kimi spun on his heel and started sprinting toward the parking lot, his trophy still clutched in one hand. They stood in stunned silence for a beat before bursting into simultaneous laughter. âHe hasn't changed a bit,â Ollie chuckled, shaking his head. As they started to walk, following in Kimiâs frantic wake, Ollie reached out and threw his arm around her shoulder. It was a heavy, warm weight, a familiar tether. Without a second thought, she snuggled into his side, her head resting perfectly against his shoulder as they moved through the cool evening.
But as they walked, Ollieâs gaze drifted toward the Ferrari motorhome, reminded of what happened this morning. For years, Ollie had played the part of a loyal soldier, the perfect best friend, the man who respected Kimiâs fourth rule above all else. He had stayed on the sidelines because Kimi asked him to, and because he feared losing the only family he had ever truly known, but seeing that look in Arthurâs eyes changed something deep inside him. The almost was no longer enough. The what-if in his heart had become a when.
Ollie tightened his arm around her, his fingers grazing her arm in a way that felt less like a brother and more like a man marking his territory, and as he looked down at the girl tucked against his side, he realized he couldn't stay on the sidelines anymore. Not when someone else was finally starting to realize exactly what he had known since he was eleven years old.
pairing: oscar piastri x bestfriend!reader, artist!reader
theme: fluff
wc: 6.4k
fc: đđđđđŸđđŸđđ đđđđđđ!
a/n: đđŸđ đșđđđđŸđ đ đđđđđ đŒđđșđđđŸđ, đ»đđ đđđŸ đđŸđđ đżđŸđ đŒđđșđđđŸđđ đșđđŸ đŒđđđđđ! đđ đđđșđ đđđđŸđœ :) OH MY GOD I posted using my other account, apologies!
liked by hattiepiastri, oscarpiastri, lando, kimi_antonelli, georgerussell63 and others
herinsta go easy on them, champ đźâđšđ§Ą
oscarpiastri never, i like it when you see me win â„ïž by author
âł lando ok we all know you just like it when she kisses you at parc ferme
âł georgerussell63 lmao i thought i was the only one who noticed
âł alex_albon bro practically JUMPS out of his car to get to her
âł estebanocon oscar is this true?
âł oscarpiastri everyone get off of my girlfriend's post, how did you even get here????????
âł herinsta đ
nicolepiastri You guys are adorable, Congrats again, son! â„ïž by author
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ââ .âŠ
The whirlwind of the last few races had left her heart feeling less like it was soaring and more like it had been through a heavy, high-speed collision. It was bruised, tender, and utterly exhausted from the constant, low-frequency vibration of what-ifs. Every time she felt she had finally found her footing on the shifting sands of their arrangement, the ground would move again. She was left breathless, constantly reeling in the wake of Oscarâs presence, caught between the girl she used to be and the woman he was accidentally making her become. The morning after the Miami Grand Prix, the room was bathed in a soft, humid glow. Oscar was awake before the sun had fully cleared the horizon, fueled by a restless energy humming in his veins since the checkered flag dropped.
The podium in Miami had been a literal spray of gold. He had stood tall, drenched in expensive champagne and the deafening roar of a crowd that screamed his name, looking every bit the champion the world expected him to be, but as he stood on that top step, his eyes were glued to the sidelines where she was smiling, her face flushed with a heat under the Florida sun. She was clapping and shouting his name until her voice cracked. It was a strange, dizzying paradox; as fake as their relationship was supposed to be, he knew her support was the only genuine thing in that entire stadium.
For a while, Oscar debated on the fact that he, at some point, had to admit a truth that terrified him: the real high hadn't been the champagne or the cooling sensation of the trophyâs metal in his hands. It was the kiss. It had evolved into a ritual, a prize he found himself chasing with more desperation than the championship points. It was a beautiful, jagged irony that he held a physical trophy to prove his worth to the world, yet it was her touch he treated like the only finish line that mattered. To him, that kiss wasn't just a performance. It was a jumpstart to a heart that was already idling too fast. It made them nervous in a way that felt dangerous, sparking a fire that was quickly burning, always making it feel entirely too real for a game.
Unable to sit still earlier that morning, Oscar had gone for a run, even if he was never the type to pad through concrete on his feet. As his sneakers hit the pavement of the humid Miami streets, his thoughts drifted back to Japan, to the moment the air between them had first changed. The feelings he had started to feel then, the ones that had scared him into silence, seemed to have finally filled his entire body. It wasn't the steady, comfortable warmth of a lifelong friendship anymore. It was electricity. He felt it in his fingertips every time they brushed; he felt it in the back of his throat whenever she laughed. He didn't see her the way a friend sees a friend. He saw her as the center of gravity he was helplessly circling.
Now, he sat on the edge of the sprawling hotel bed. The room was silent, the soft sound of her breathing being the only sound that echoed. He turned his head, watching her sleep for several minutes. Her face was peaceful, a stray lock of hair fanned across her cheek, and for a moment, the intensity of his own heart felt like a physical weight. He looked away, staring out the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the waking city of Miami. The neon lights were fading as the pastel sunrise began to bleed across the skyline. He needed to move. He needed to do something before the sheer insanity of his feelings caused him to wake her up and confess everything.
Then, an idea flickered into his mind, a distraction, a way to channel this frantic, golden energy into something that didn't involve staring at her until she woke up. It was a plan that could surely get his mind off the terrifying reality that he was no longer pretending. She stirred awake not long after, the soft rustle of the sheets drawing his attention. Oscar turned away from the window, the morning light catching the sharp, happy line of his jaw. âGood morning, bub,â he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that only existed before the world rushed in. She blinked, squinting against the brightness, her lips curving into a sleepy, lopsided grin. âYouâre up early.â Then a pause. âLike a winner,â she joked, her voice thick with sleep.
Oscar didnât even hesitate. He snatched the spare pillow and whacked her over the head with it. âGive it up!â
âNever!â she squealed, shielding herself with her arms, laughing as she scrambled to sit up. âThat commercial is tattooed on my brain forever. It stays there until you do another goofy-ass commercial to replace it.â Oscar let out a long, dramatic sigh, but a snicker escaped him anyway. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her with an expression that was softer than he probably intended. âWhat if we extend Miami for one more day?â
She paused, her hand frozen in the act of smoothing her messy hair. âWouldn't Tom and Zak kill you if you missed your debriefs or your flights?â He shook his head, a playful glint in his eyes. âWe have nothing on for tomorrow. The next commitment isn't until Tuesday, and I know you have to be back to continue painting for the exhibit, so I thought... one more day for us. Today. Then we go home tomorrow. We deserve it, donât you think?â
She tilted her head, a teasing brow arched. âWe deserve it? I donât remember winning a Grand Prix yesterday.â
âNo, but our plan is rolling quite well, isn't it?â Oscarâs smile was triumphant, though it carried a flick of something she couldn't quite name. âLilyâs been in my DMs since Bahrain. And you... you seem to be getting along with Ollie exactly the way you wanted to. That counts as a win, too, right?â
For a split second, the air left her lungs. Her face fell, a shadow passing over her eyes before she caught herself. She forced a bright, jagged smile onto her face, praying he wouldn't see the way it didn't reach her heart. Right. The plan. âYes! Youâre right,â she feigned excitement, throwing back the covers and rolling out of bed to head toward the shower. âThat is a massive win. Okay, one more day! So, where are we going?â It was still a shock to her system that Formula One drivers moved through the world with such a specialized set of perks. Within an hour, a McLaren Artura Spider had materialized in front of the hotel entrance, looking like a sleek, predatory insect under the palms.
âCan I drive it, Jackie?â she asked, reaching for the keys. Oscar laughed, shaking his head as he held them high out of reach. âNo way, bub.â She frowned, crossing her arms as she hopped into the passenger seat. Oscar never let her drive the company cars; she was convinced he was terrified sheâd find a way to stall a supercar or, worse, drive it too normally.
âOkay, first stop: Maccas,â he announced. Her mood shifted instantly. âYes!â
It was their sacred tradition. Since the days of karting and RC cars, every Piastri win was followed by a nugget box, two cheeseburgers, a side of fries, and a Coca-Cola for him. For her, it was always orange juice. When they pulled into the car park, the smell of grease and salt felt like home. âCheers,â she said, lifting her burger in a mock toast. Oscar smiled at her, his gaze lingering a second too long. âCheers.â
As they ate, the high-stakes pressure of the paddock vanished. They talked about the things theyâd missed,the quiet details of life that got swallowed up by travel schedules and training. They watched the Miami traffic drift by from the quiet sanctuary of the car. âIâve always wondered what the exhibit would actually look like,â she admitted softly, her thumb tracing the rim of her juice cup.
âI know, bub,â Oscar said, his voice unusually gentle. âEver since we were little, you talked big about having your own show.â
âI know, but it was always a dream, yâknow? Now that itâs about to come true, Iâm... I donât know. Scared? What if no one likes what I do? What if they see the paintings and just see a girl whoâs spent too much time in garages?â She kept her eyes on the passing cars, her heart hammering against her ribs. Suddenly, she felt his hand slide over hers. His grip was warm, steady, and certain.
âI love what you do,â he said, forcing her to look at him. âAnd Iâll be there. If no one else cheers for you, Iâll be the loudest one in the room.â The sincerity in his voice made her throat tighten. âI donât know what Iâd do without you, Jackie.â
They were sitting in the car, the engine idling, when both their phones chimed almost in unison. A text for her, a text for him. The plan was working with terrifying precision. The targets were moving in, the bait had been taken. They both looked at their screens, then looked at each other. They offered up small, forced smiles, the kind of smiles you give when youâre supposed to be celebrating a victory, but all you can think about is how much youâre going to miss the person sitting in the seat next to you. They stayed there for a while, hand in hand, the silence between them comfortable and heavy all at once. When they finally set off again, the music was louder, an upbeat track pulsing through the speakers, but their hands stayed interlaced over the center console. Oscar didnât let go, and she didn't want him to.
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ââ .âŠ
When he finally pulled into a lot, she looked up and saw the giant, neon signage of an arcade. âNo way, Jackie!â She was out of the car before heâd even cut the engine, jumping around on the pavement. âAn arcade!â
It was their childhood sanctuary. The little arcade near their houses in Melbourne was where theyâd spent every spare second when Oscar wasn't racing and she wasn't locked away with her canvases. âOh, youâve done it now! Youâre going down, Piastri!â she screamed, sprinting toward the entrance.
Oscar stood by the car for a moment, watching her. He felt a warm, terrifying bloom in his chest, a feeling so expansive he had to press his hand to his ribs as if he could physically hold it in. No, he told himself. Focus. This day was supposed to be a reminder that they were best friends first. He just had to keep reminding his heart to stay in its lane.
âOh, you wish!â he shouted, a genuine, wild grin breaking across his face as he chased her into the neon glow.
The arcade was a kaleidoscope of flashing neon and synthesized music, and for the next three hours, the rest of the world, the paddock, the contracts, and the looming shadows of an ex, ceased to exist. They moved through the aisles like a whirlwind. It started with air hockey, a game that quickly devolved into a high-stakes battle of reflexes. Oscar played with the same clinical precision he used on the track, his eyes narrowed as he defended his goal.
âThatâs cheating! Youâre using your aero-brain!â she accused, breathless as the puck flew past her at a speed that felt borderline illegal. âItâs called physics, bub! Maybe try a different line!â Oscar retorted, a rare, competitive cackle breaking through his usually calm exterior.
They moved from the air hockey table to the basketball hoops, where she managed to outscore him by three points after he got distracted. She did a victory lap around the machine, her laughter ringing out over the sound of clattering tickets. Oscar just leaned against the side, his chest heaving as he watched her, that warm, uncontainable glow in his eyes refusing to dim.âNext!â she commanded, pointing toward a pair of linked racing simulators.
Oscarâs eyebrows shot up. âYouâre really going to challenge a Grand Prix winner to a driving game?â
âItâs an arcade, Jackie. The physics are wonky and the steering wheel feels like itâs attached with rubber bands. Youâre in my territory now.â
They sat in the plastic bucket seats, the screen glowing blue against their skin. For five minutes, it was absolute carnage. She drove like a maniac, bumping his virtual car into the barriers every time he tried to overtake. âHey! Dirty driving!â Oscar yelled, his hands white-knuckled on the plastic wheel. âThatâs a five-second penalty! Where are the stewards?â
âNo stewards in Miami, Piastri! Only chaos!â In the end, she truly took the win by a hair, he reached over the divider and nudged her shoulder with his. âNot bad. I might have to tell Zak to keep an eye on you for the reserve seat.â
By the time they reached the prize counter, they were laden with thousands of paper tickets that trailed behind them like a wedding train. They spent fifteen minutes debating the merits of a giant stuffed dinosaur versus a pair of neon sunglasses and a plastic ring that changed color with your mood. âThe ring,â she decided, sliding it onto her finger. It immediately turned a deep, vibrant purple. âWhat does purple mean?â Oscar leaned in, squinting at the tiny chart on the back of the box. âIt says⊠âEnchanted.â Or maybe âConfused.â The font is tiny.â
âIâll go with enchanted,â she whispered, looking up at him. The air between them shifted, the arcadeâs frantic noise fading into a dull hum. They were standing too close, her hand still clutching the cheap plastic ring and his hand resting on the counter right next to hers. Oscarâs gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second, a habit he was becoming helpless to stop, before he cleared his throat and looked away, his ears tinged pink.
âCome on,â he said, his voice a little husky. âI think thereâs a photobooth in the corner. We need evidence of today's insane results.â They squeezed into the cramped, velvet-curtained box, shoulders pressed together, thighs touching in the tiny space. The camera flashed four times. The first flash, they both made goofy faces, sticking their tongues out, The second flash, she tried to bunny-ear him, and he caught her wrist, laughing. In the third flash, they both looked at the camera, smiling wide and genuine, and in the last flash, just as the timer hit one, Oscar turned his head to look at her. He wasn't smiling anymore; his expression was raw and full of an ache he couldn't hide.
The strip of photos slid out of the machine, still warm. She grabbed it, her breath hitching when she saw the final frame. Oscar was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. âIâm keeping this one,â she said, tucking it into her pocket before he could see it too clearly. âFair enough,â Oscar murmured, his hand finding hers as they stepped back out into the neon lights. He didn't let go as they walked toward the exit, the humid Miami night air waiting for them outside. âBest day ever?â
âBest day ever,â she agreed, squeezing his hand. For a moment, it was easy to forget that tomorrow they had to go back to being the worldâs favorite fake couple. For now, they were just two best friends from Melbourne, lost in the lights, terrified of how much they didn't want the day to end.
His eyes darted through the crowd, his heart sinking a fraction until he spotted her several yards away, tucked into a conversation with one of his engineers. She was laughing, her attention entirely elsewhere. A sharp, hot spike of annoyance, something that felt suspiciously like possessive jealousy, flared in his chest. Oscar didnât wait. He moved through the crowd with purpose, reached out, and pulled her by the arm toward him. Before she could even register the movement, he crashed his lips onto hers with a sudden, desperate intensity. From behind them, Lando let out a loud, theatrical laugh. "My god, mate! Calm it down," he teased, patting Oscarâs back before disappearing toward the cooling rooms.
When they finally separated, she was breathless, her eyes wide and sparkling as she giggled. "What was that all about?" Oscar didn't answer immediately. He let a slight, stubborn pout settle on his lips, his brow furrowed. "You weren't there when I got out," he muttered, sounding more like the boy she grew up with than the podium finisher. She chuckled, reaching up to cup his face. "Sorry, Jackie," she whispered, planting a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek that did more to soothe his ego than any trophy ever could.
The adrenaline of Monaco eventually faded into the quiet comfort of her apartment. While Oscar claimed the sofa, flipping aimlessly through channels, she retreated to her sanctuary, the corner by the window where her canvases lived. She was lost in a world of pigment and brushstrokes, the scent of linseed oil filling the room. "Weâve been invited to a party tomorrow night," Oscar said casually, his voice cutting through her concentration.
She paused, a streak of cerulean blue halfway across the canvas. "Jackie, what party? What do you mean we?"
"We are invited," he said, turning to look at her over the back of the couch. "Youâre my girlfriend. Of course youâll come with me. Itâs some Formula Party, I think itâs black tie, formal wear. I don't know, they just emailed the details. Iâll send them to you later."
She stood there, brush in hand, trying to process the casual weight of his words. It wasn't just the short notice; it was the way girlfriend had rolled off his tongue so effortlessly, like it was a fact of nature rather than a line in a contract. She shook the feeling off, turning back to the painting to hide the sudden heat in her cheeks. "You have to buy me a dress," she called out over her shoulder. "Whatever you want, bub," he replied nonchalantly, but the moment the words left his mouth, Oscar felt his heart vault into his throat. He stared at the TV screen, the colors blurring, wondering, waiting, hesitating.
The next morning, the sun crawled across the living room floor, finding Oscar on the couch. Heâd stayed over, claiming he was too tired to drive the five minutes home, though he knew, and he was certain heâd never admit this even under oath, that he just wanted to be near her. He liked the quiet of her home, the way they could exist in the same space. She emerged from her bedroom with her brows knitted together, the universal sign that her brain hadn't fully booted up yet. She didn't even acknowledge him, merely letting out a low, grumpy hum. Oscar chuckled, standing up. On autopilot, he walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. She was too sleepy to jump or protest; instead, she simply let her head fall back against his chest, a soft sigh escaping her.
"Coffee," she grumbled into his shirt. Oscar laughed, the sound vibrating through her. "Alright, sleepy monster. Iâll make your coffee. Go take a seat on the sofa."
She nodded obediently and trudged away. Oscar gripped the edge of the marble kitchen island, taking a deep, steadying breath. Why did I do that? his brain screamed. His heart was hammering like a drum of liberation against his ribs, loud enough that he was sure she could hear it, but there was no going back now. He moved through the familiar motions, grinding the beans, brewing it exactly the way heâd memorized she liked it. When he returned to the living room, she was sprawled on the sofa, eyes closed, the morning light hitting her face in a way that made her look like a masterpiece he wasn't allowed to touch.
"Bub? Hereâs your coffee," he said softly, setting the mug on the table. He plops down beside her and turns on the TV. His arm instinctively finds the back of the sofa, and within seconds, she begins to tilt. She dropped onto his chest, leaning her full weight against him.
"Modern Family please, Jackie," she murmured. He didn't argue. He just pressed play on her favorite show. She was laying on him now, her warmth seeping through his clothes. It was crazy, she had always been like this. She had a habit of treating him like a human pillow, and he had spent a lifetime pretending he didn't mind, but now, with everything hanging between them, every touch felt magnified.
Keep it cool, Piastri, he told himself, sighing deeply. His arm slowly landed on her belly, his fingers twitching slightly. She snuggled closer, her breathing evening out.
Itâs nothing, he lied to himself. She always does this. Itâs not thatâ
And then she shifted, turning her body fully to wrap her arms around him in a proper hug, tucking her face into his neck.
âserious.
Oscar stared at the ceiling, his heart doing a frantic solo in his chest.
The morning was an exercise in patience for Oscar, though heâd never admit he secretly enjoyed the domesticity of it. She had dragged him through every corner of the city, bypassing the gleaming glass fronts of designer boutiques in favor of dusty thrift shops tucked away in narrow alleys. She moved through the racks with the eye of a curator, dismissing stiff, branded labels with a flick of her wrist. To her, beauty wasn't something you bought with a logo; it was something you discovered. On their seventh shop, just as Oscar was beginning to voice his hundredth complaint about the lack of air conditioning, she stopped dead in her tracks.
It was a floor-length, yellow satin dress. It was the kind of garment that felt like it belonged in a different era, something only Kate Hudson would wear to deliberately lose a guy. It was simple, elegant, and glowing, and when she held it up against herself, Oscarâs complaints died in his throat. She bought it for a fraction of what his suit cost, and they headed home in a blur of anticipation.
When the knock finally came on her door later that evening, Oscar was standing in the hallway, adjusting his cuffs and feeling strangely like a teenager on prom night. The door swung open, and the breath he was holding didnât just leave his lungs, it was snatched away. The yellow satin clung to her like liquid sunlight. She looked breathtaking, her hair swept up, her skin glowing. âIâuhâwow, bub,â was all he could manage, his usual cool composure dissolving into a puddle of stunned silence. She let out a bright, melodic laugh, reaching out to tap him under the chin. âPick your jaw up off the floor, Jackie,â she teased, sweeping past him toward the elevator. The venue was a sprawling, opulent space packed with the elite of the racing world. As they stepped inside, she instinctively tucked herself closer to him, her hand gripping his arm with a tight, nervous energy. Oscar, usually the one to shy away from the spotlight, felt a sudden, fierce surge of protective instinct. He slid his hand down to catch hers, interlacing their fingers and giving her a firm, reassuring squeeze.
âIs it okay if I introduce you to them?â he asked, his voice low and private. âItâs okay if you don't. We can hide out by the balcony if itâs too much.â
It was these moments that made her heart ache. He understood her silence; he caught the tiny tremors of her anxiety before they even formed. He was the most observant man she knew, yet he was somehow missing the giant, neon sign that said she was hopelessly in love with him.
âItâs fine, Jackie,â she smiled, emboldened by his grip. âLead the way.â
They approached the long table where the drivers had congregated. It was a chaotic scene of laughter and clinking glasses. âHey guys,â Oscar announced, and for the first time in front of the whole grid, he didn't hesitate. âThis is my girlfriend.â The reaction was immediate. Lando leaped up, nearly knocking his chair over, and pulled her into a massive hug. âOh, finally! I get to meet you properly without Oscarâs face being on yours,â he joked, earning a chorus of whistles from the table. She blushed but laughed along. âSorry about that. Iâve heard so much about you.â
âGood things, I hope? Sit beside me, âkay? Weâll talk properly when the food arrives,â Lando said, already pulling out a chair for her.
One by one, the titans of the track introduced themselves. Alex Albon was kind and easy-going, immediately promising a playdate with his pets if they get the chance; Carlos and Charles were charming, talking about everything but racing, asking her questions she never thought people would like to know about her, which made her feel at ease; Max was surprisingly domestic, talked about how much he loved both his daughters, making her fall in love with them through his stories, leaving her asking to visit them one day and Max agreeing almost immediately. To her surprise, she found common ground with almost all of them, and through the entire conversation, Oscar never truly let go. His hand remained firmly on her lap under the table, a heavy, grounding weight that reminded her she wasn't alone.
The peace was momentarily interrupted when the younger drivers arrived. Her eyes lit up instantly as she spotted a familiar face. âOllie!â Ollie Bearman jogged over, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his face. He pulled her into a tight hug, whispering, âYou look beautiful,â just loud enough for her to hear. âAnd you look ravishing,â she replied, beaming. She pulled back to spot the young Italian trailing behind him. âKimi!â She lunged forward, running to hug Kimi, who was already eyeing the chocolate mousse on the dessert display with intense focus.
Lando looked over at Oscar, noticing the way his teammateâs jaw had suddenly tightened. Oscarâs hand had slid off her lap as she stood up, and now he was watching the rookies with a look that was decidedly un-calm. He watched the way Ollie trailed behind her like a loyal shadow, his eyes never leaving her, and that alone made him want to flip the table. When the appetizers rolled in, Lando made good on his promise, talking her ear off about paddock gossip, Twitch streams and everything in between. She bonded with him quickly, her laughter echoing across the table. Oscar tried to be happy for her, he really did, but from the corner of his eye, he kept catching Ollie stealing glances at her, and worse, he saw her stealing them back.
The main course came and went, and Oscarâs patience finally hit its limit. He couldn't stand the way Ollie was looking at her. He needed to reclaim the space. âWant to dance?â he said, perhaps a bit too loudly. She nearly choked on her wine, coughing as she looked at him in shock. âUh, yeah. Sure, Jackie.â
âJackie?!â Lando crowed, delightedly turning to the rest of the table. âOh gosh, thatâs cute! She calls him Jackie, mate! Did you hear that, George?â Oscar ignored the impending lifetime of teasing. He stood up, took her hand, and led her toward the dance floor. He pulled her in close, his hands settling firmly on her waist, while she looped her arms around his neck. They swayed to the slow beat, the light from the disco ball scattering across her skin like fallen stars. This, finally, calmed the storm in Oscarâs chest. She was here. She was in his arms. âYour friends are amazing,â she murmured, resting her temple against his chest. âI know,â Oscar smiled, his thumbs tracing small circles on the satin of her dress. âBut sometimes they get on my nerves.â
âYou get on my nerves, but I don't say anything,â she teased. He let out a soft laugh, his eyes locking onto hers. âBut thatâs different. You love me.â He said it so matter-of-factly, as if he were stating the weather. You love me. The words hung in the air, heavy and shimmering. It was true. She had loved him for more than half her life, as a best friend, as a confidant, as a protector, but looking at him now, under the dimmed lights of a ballroom, she realized that best friend was a title that had become too small to hold everything she felt.
âWell,â she replied quietly, her voice barely a whisper against the music. âTrue.â
The tunes from the ballroom were just a muffled thump behind them, and the air on the patio felt cool and real. They walked to the edge of the stone railing, looking out at the water. Monaco was always pretty at night, the way the moon made the sea look like it was glowing from underneath. They found a small stone bench tucked away in the shadows. Oscar sat down first, and she followed, smoothing out her dress. They sat close, the way they always did, but tonight the space between them felt different. Oscar rested his hand on the bench, his fingers just a few inches from hers. He wanted to move that extra inch. He wanted to feel the warmth of her hand against his, to just hold on and not let go, but he stayed still, his heart thudding against his ribs.
"Itâs so quiet out here," she said softly, leaning her head back to look at the stars. "Better than inside." Oscar agreed. âLando is never going to let the âJackieâ thing go. Iâll be hearing that over the radio at every race.â
She laughed, the sound carried away by the sea breeze. âWell, donât let him call you that, Itâs my nickname for you.â She looked out at the water, her expression turning thoughtful. She went quiet for a second, watching a boat move slowly across the harbor. "Jackie? Can I ask you something kind of stupid?"
"You know you can, always."
"What is love actually supposed to feel like?" she asked, her voice small. She looked down at her lap, picking at a loose thread on her dress. "I mean, Iâve never actually had a boyfriend. Not a real one. This whole plan with you... this is the first time Iâve ever done any of this. The holding hands, the dates, the... everything. Is it supposed to feel this confusing?"
Oscar looked at her, and his chest felt tight. He thought about how he felt when she walked into a room, or how his day didn't really start until heâd talked to her. "I don't think itâs supposed to be confusing," Oscar said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I think itâs just... a person. Someone who makes you feel like you don't have to try so hard. Like you can just sit in a room and not say anything for an hour, and itâs still the best part of your day."
He looked at his hand on the bench, then at hers. "Why? Are you thinking about Ollie? Is that how he makes you feel?" She bit her lip, staring at the dark horizon. "Ollie is so nice. Heâs sweet and heâs easy to talk to. Itâs what I always thought I wanted. Someone who just shows up when I ask or even when I donât.â She says. Her description of him piercing through Oscarâs heart like a sharp knife. Didnât he do all those things, too?Â
 âWe're making so much progress. Iâm finally getting close to the guy I wanted." She smiles, but not enough that it reaches her eyes. "Yeah," Oscar said, the word feeling heavy. "And Lilyâs back. Sheâs been texting. The plan is working. We're getting closer to the goal every day."
"Weâre doing it, aren't we?" she whispered, giving a little, sad laugh. "Weâre actually winning."
"Almost there," Oscar said, but as the words left his mouth, the air between them felt heavy, almost suffocating. They were talking about winning, but it felt like they were losing everything. Every step they took toward Ollie and Lily was a step further away from each other. They were so focused on the finish line that they were missing the truth staring them in the face, that they had been each other's person for all their lives, and neither of them knew how to survive the win.
He wanted to reach out then. He wanted to grab her hand and tell her that he didn't care about the plan anymore. He wanted to tell what he really felt, but he didn't move. He couldn't. He was too scared that if he spoke the truth, heâd break the only thing he had left. "I'm happy we're making progress, Jackie," she said. "We're almost at the end," Oscar replies, his hand feeling cold and empty at his side. Oscar was looking at her in the moonlight, his heart aching with the realization that winning the game might mean losing her. "We're almost there."Â
The quiet of the patio was broken by the sharp, persistent ring of Oscarâs phone. He pulled it from his pocket, the screen illuminating his face in the moonlight. The name Lily flashed in bright, bold letters. She saw it. She saw the way his thumb hesitated for a split second before he looked at her with an apologetic, almost pained expression. "Take it, Jackie," she whispered, forcing a small smile that felt like it was breaking her face.Â
Oscar nodded slowly, his jaw tight. "Iâll just be a minute," he said, already turning away. As he walked toward the far end of the terrace, his voice dropped into that soft, attentive tone he used to save just for her. She watched him go. The second his back was turned, her smile vanished, replaced by a look of such profound longing it was almost physical. She stared at the silhouette of his shoulders, her heart screaming for him to turn around, to hang up, to tell her that the plan didn't matter anymore, but he kept walking, disappearing into the shadows of the stone pillars. She wrapped her arms around herself, the yellow satin of her dress feeling like a costume she was tired of wearing.
"You look like you're a million miles away." She jumped slightly, looking up to see Ollie standing there. He looked kind, his eyes full of the soft, uncomplicated warmth that had initially made him the perfect target for their plan. He immediately takes off his blazer, draping it onto her shoulders.
"Ohâhey," she said, wiping a stray tear before it could fall. "Is this seat taken?" he asked, gesturing to the spot Oscar had just vacated. She shook her head, and Ollie sat down, not quite as close as Oscar usually did, but close enough to be comforting. He didn't ask why she looked sad; instead, he pulled a small, silver foil-wrapped chocolate out of his pocket. "I stole this from the dessert table. Kimi was guarding the mousse, but Iâm faster than I look."
A small, genuine laugh escaped her. "Youâre a lifesaver, Ollie."
"I try," he grinned, nudging her shoulder playfully. He started telling her a ridiculous story about a mishap in the simulators earlier that week, his voice light and easy. For a moment, the heavy fog in her chest lifted. She leaned into the conversation, her laughter growing louder as he acted out a particularly chaotic maneuver. Across the patio, Oscar clicked his phone shut. The call with Lily had been everything heâd spent weeks working toward. She was charmed, she was interested, she kept telling him that she wanted to see him when he got back to the UK. It was a total victory, but as he turned back toward the bench, the sight felt like a punch to the gut. There she was. She was glowing under the moonlight, her head thrown back in a beautiful, unrestrained laugh, and Ollie was right there, leaning in, his hand resting casually on the back of the bench behind her. They looked perfect. They looked like the kind of couple people wrote songs about.
Oscar stood frozen in the shadows, his heart aching with a sharp, jagged jealousy he could no longer pretend was part of the act. He had cleared the path for Ollie to take his place, and now that it was happening, he felt like he was watching his entire world being handed to someone else. He walked toward them, his footsteps heavy and slow. When she noticed him, she didn't stop laughing immediately, but her eyes quickly searched his face.
"Everything okay with Lily?" she asked, her voice bright, though she didn't move away from Ollie. "Yeah," Oscar said, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. "Everything is exactly how it should be.â He stood there, the third wheel in a trio he had helped create, realizing that while he was busy winning over a girl, he had officially lost the girl.
ââ .âŠ
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lando replied to your story: simp! đ«”đ»
lando replied to your story: jackie is so down bad ain't he? đđ«”đ»
liked by hattiepiastri, herinsta, lando, kimi_antonelli, georgerussell63 and 700K others
oscarpiastri thanks for having us :)
user87 bro says thanks for having us then uses the most romantic song ever and posting a picture of him looking at his girl like she hung the stars
user16 LMAOOOO bro thinks he can get away with being the most in love man
user33 Notice how he never uses house music when he posts her!!!!!
lando JACKIE THE SIMP
âł oscarpiastri didn't I restrict you?
âł lando you WHAT
âł oscarpiastri nvm
âł oscarpiastri also please don't call me jackie, only my girl calls me that
georgerussell63 you cannot convince me you know who one direction is
âł oscarpiastri did you forget that i'm a genz you old man?
âł lando he's lying, i asked him if he listened to harry styles' new album and he said "harry who?"
âł oscarpiastri @.lando how do you keep popping up I limited your access
âł oscarpiastri @.georgerussell63 it's @.herinsta 's favourite band
âł herinsta @.lando dm me I have thoughts about HS4 I need you to weigh in on
âł lando already typing
âł oscarpiastri ????
âïž The ultimate guide to every F1 fic (fake texts and freaky agendas) Iâve posted on my blog. Youâll find everything organized by driver, so you can easily find exactly what youâre in the mood for. The list will be updated regularly.
âïž Everything I write is:
purely fictional, and just for fun;
18+, explicit, and contains mature/sexual content, unless specified (please, always read the warnings);
âshe/her readerâ, because you guys wonât catch me dead using Y/N, itâs just not working for me, sorry :(
my duets can be read as standalone pieces (unless specified), but I do recommend reading them as a package.
Donât want to miss the next update?
Make sure to turn on post notifications so youâre the first to read it!
oscar has a soft spot for you. (or: the one where oscar does karaoke for the first time.)
êź starring: oscar piastri x reader.
êź word count: 0.8k.
êź includes: fluff, romance. profanity. title from keshi's soft spot.
êź commentary box: wrote this in one sitting after i saw this sportbible video. this is part of my soft spot mini-series. đŠđČ đŠđđŹđđđ«đ„đąđŹđ
âYouâve got no idea what youâve done, have you?âÂ
Youâre usually much more adept at seeing through Landoâs bullshit. Today, though, youâre thrown off by the suddenness of his accusation. You shoot Lando a look of mild exasperation, and he responds by jerking his head in the direction of his co-driver.Â
âHeâs never done that before,â says Lando.Â
âDone what?âÂ
âKaraoke.âÂ
Your eyes flit over to Oscar, whoâs in the middle of re-filling his water bottle. A disbelieving laugh escapes you. âYouâre kidding,â you say to Lando. âWho the hell lives this long without doing karaoke?âÂ
âOscar fuckinâ Piastri, it seems.â Lando sips from the drink, his lips curling around the mouth of his glass. Heâs always had a penchant for joking around, but thereâs something about the sharp glint in his eye that tells you this might not be one of those instances.Â
âWell, heâs done it now. Yâknow, he wouldnât do it for meââ The Brit pauses. Lets the words sink in. âBut I guess heâs willing to do it for someone.âÂ
The implication isnât lost on you; Lando Norris wasnât really known for his subtlety. The tips of your ears burn red as you mumble a low âsod off,â refocusing your attention on the McLaren race engineer now belting an Adele song.Â
Gracefully, Lando takes your advice and leaves you alone. He shoots you a final conspiratorial wink. You resist the urge to flip him off.
As much as you donât want to read into it, you canât help the way your mind whirrs with thoughts. Oscar Piastriâ for all his straightforwardnessâ was a puzzle that youâve yet to complete, and all the scattered pieces lay out in front of you now.Â
How Oscar hadnât really been keen on going out tonight, but you asked once and he booked the two of you a cab. (Not without sighing about it, though, and mumbling on the entire car ride to the venue. The point still stands: He came out tonight.Â
For you? No. You shake your head. Thatâd be stupid to assume.)Â
Oscar, who seemed a bit flustered when you asked him for his go-to karaoke song. Oscar, who spent an arduous amount of time scrolling through his phone before finally even trying to pick something out of the book. (Lando claims that his co-driver had been Googling âSongs To Sing At Karaokeâ, but youâve never really trusted Lando when it came to things like this.)Â
Oscar hadnât really known how to navigate the song bookâ kept mixing up the index system, not knowing what to look for. He took too long, too, when it came to punching in the numbers on the machine. Like each digit was a step towards a death sentence of some sorts.Â
And when he eventually did come up to the microphone, the room had gone crazy. You thought everybody was just being supportive, but it had struck you as odd. The way everybody filmed the entirety of Oscarâs off-tune rendition of The Final Countdown; the entire five minutes, immortalized on everyoneâs phones like he were some popstar you all paid money to see.Â
You look up, look for him. Heâs still across the room, chugging water like his debut karaoke performance had taken the breath out of him more than any race.Â
But when he catches your gaze, that hint of a smile tugs at his face. The one not everybody is privileged to be on the receiving end of.Â
As Lando jumps up to the microphone for a Kendrick Lamar track, Oscar walks back over to you. The couch is big enough for him to sit a little further down, but he opts to be negligibly close. His side against yours; your knees pressed together. He gingerly takes one half of the song book, resting it between both your thighs.Â
âHave you picked a song yet?â he asks, pitching his voice low. Itâs just quiet enough that you have to lean in a bit to hear him, undoubtedly making it look like the two of you are in your own bubble.Â
The pieces of his affection, the ones youâve denied to acknowledge until nowâ
âWe should do one together,â you blurt out.Â
Oscar pauses in the middle of leafing through the song book. His thumb absentmindedly rubs at the corner of the page, like he might somehow find the answer to everything in between Maroon 5âs She Will Be Loved and keshiâs Soft Spot.
âIs that something you⊠want?â he stammers. (As if heâs scared to get his hopes up.)Â
âIs it something you want?âÂ
At your question, Oscar turns to look at you. Really look at you. You feel his gaze despite the dimness of the karaoke room.
His eyes linger on your face as he answers. âIt is,â he says softly, âsomething I want.âÂ
A wild night in Vegas left you hungover, married, and shocked to discover your new husband is Max Verstappen, four-time Formula 1 World Champion. What starts as a drunken mistake turned into something more and a question you never thought youâd askâwas this really just a stupid decision, or the best thing that ever happened to you?
pairing. Max Verstappen x wife! fem! reader.
warnings. rom-com (i tried), 10,6k words, accidental marriage, soulmates-ish, love at the first sight, my poor humor, soft! max, reader is clueless about f1, domestic fluff (literally just reader and max bullying each other white theyâre married) alex s. m., lestappen bromance, pet names (schatje, baby).
YOU CAME TO LAS VEGAS FOR ONE REASON: to have fun. Maybe gamble a little, maybe dance a lot, and definitely forget about the stress of your everyday life. It was supposed to be a wild weekend with your friendsâfilled with overpriced cocktails, glittery outfits, and questionable decisions. You knew the Grand Prix was happening the same weekend, but you werenât exactly a sports girl. Formula 1 meant fast cars and loud engines, and the only thing you really cared about was how the race would mess up traffic. You had no idea how much more it would mess up your life.
One night, your friendâwho always seemed to know someone who knew someoneâdragged you to a party she swore would be crawling with celebrities. You didnât believe her, but you went anyway, dressed in something sparkly and slightly too short, because why not? Vegas was built for nights like this. The party was on a rooftop, lights glowing against the desert sky, music thumping through your bones, and drinks flowing like water. You werenât sure who was famous and who was just pretending to be, but everyone looked expensive and slightly untouchable.
And then you met him.
He was tall, with messy hair and a grin that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. Dutch, he said. His name started with an MâMark? Max? You couldnât quite remember. He was charming in a way that felt effortless, confident in a way that bordered on cocky, and somehow still made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You didnât know who he was, but you liked him. And the drinks kept coming. Tequila shots, champagne, something neon blue that tasted like candy and regret.
The night blurred into a haze of laughter, dancing, and whispered conversations that felt like secrets. You remembered him pulling you onto the dance floor. You remembered him saying something about fate and bad decisions. You remembered kissing him. And thenâ
Well, no drink could have prepared you for what came next.
âââ
You woke up with a headache so sharp it felt like someone was playing drums inside your skull. The room was too bright, too quiet, and far too unfamiliar. But what truly terrified you wasnât the painâit was the man sleeping beside you.
His back was turned, broad and bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction. He looked peaceful, annoyingly comfortable, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.
You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the chaos of whatever had happened the night before. Your dressâwhat was left of itâwas draped over a chair like it had given up. One heel peeked out from under the bed. The other was missing entirely.
You glanced at him again, trying to piece together the night, and thatâs when your eyes caught something that made your stomach drop.
A ring.
On his left hand.
Bold, shiny, and impossible to miss.
Your heart stuttered. Oh God. Did you sleep with a married man? You stared at the ring, panic rising in your throat. But something about it tugged at your memoryâa flash, a moment, a laugh. You looked down at your own hand, slowly, carefully, like you were afraid of what youâd find.
And there it was. The same ring.
Only yours had a diamond. A very large, very catchy diamond.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Oh fuck.
Your heart was already racing, but it kicked into overdrive when your eyes drifted to the nightstand. Amid the clutterâan empty glass, a phone, a crumpled napkinâwas a piece of paper that looked far too official for a party night in Vegas. Thick, cream-colored, with bold lettering across the top. You leaned closer, squinting through the haze of your hangover, and your stomach dropped.
It wasnât just a piece of paper.
It was a marriage certificate.
You froze, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked hard enough. But it didnât. It stayed right there, mocking you with its very real, very legal presence. You reached out with a shaky hand and picked it up, scanning the names printed neatly in black ink.
Max Emilian Verstappen.
You blinked. That name sounded⊠familiar? Maybe? You werenât sure. It rang a bell, but not loud enough to make sense of it. You looked down, and there it wasâyour own name, printed right beneath his. Only now it had a new addition. His last name. Your name, with his last name.
You stared at it, mouth slightly open, brain refusing to catch up.
You married him.
You didnât walk. You launched yourself out of the bed like it had burst into flames, nearly tripping over the twisted sheets as you scrambled to grab your phone. Your heart was racing, your brain still foggy, and you had no idea what you were doingâonly that you needed to not be in that room. You bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it like you were hiding from a monster. For what? Safety? Privacy? Maybe just a moment to breathe. Or maybe in case Max Verstappen woke up and decided it was time for a honeymoon on a yacht. You didnât know what married people did. You werenât supposed to be one of them.
The bathroom light was way too bright, and you winced as it hit your face. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasnât pretty. Your makeup was smeared like a bad painting, your hair looked like it had fought a tornado, and your eyes were wide with panic. You looked exactly how you feltâlike a disaster. A very confused, slightly drunk, newly married disaster.
Your thumbs were shaking as you opened Google, typing in the name from the certificate as fast as you could.
Max Verstappen.
And then your screen exploded with results.
Photos. Headlines. Videos. Interviews. All of it.
âFour-Time World Champion Max Verstappen Wins in Las Vegas.â
âVerstappen Dominates Under the Vegas Lights.â
âUndeniable King of Formula 1.â
You stared at the screen, jaw slowly dropping.
There he was. The man in the bed. Standing tall in a sleek racing suit, champagne bottle in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the podium lights. His arms were raised in victory, his grin wide and confident, like he owned the world. Another photo showed him on the top step of the podium, gold trophy in one hand, waving with the other. Cameras flashed around him. Fans screamed his name.
And okay. You could admit it.
Your husband? He was hot.
Like, really hot.
Of course he had to be the kind of guy who looked even better sweaty. Of course he had to have that smirk. That face. That body. That entire vibe. And of course he had to be one of the best athletes in the world.
âFuck!â you hissed the second your phone buzzed in your hand, nearly dropping it into the hotel sink.
Incoming call: my girl xx
You didnât even hesitate. You smacked the green button and brought it to your ear like it was a direct lifeline to reality.
âI think I married Max Verstappen!â you whisper-screamed the second the call connected, pacing across the bathroom in bare feet, trying not to pass out or throw up orâgod forbidâwake him up. You had no idea if the feeling in your chest was joy or terror. Probably both. Definitely both.
There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.
Then: âY/n, what the fuck? Did you take something? Are you high?â
You let out a strangled laugh, half-sob, half-manic giggle. âNo! I meanâI donât think so? But like⊠I woke up next to this guy, okay? Big, hot, Dutch guy. Tall. Sleepy. Smug. And he had a ring on. And then I had a ring on. And thenââ you reached over to snatch the paper from the counter again, yes you took it with you ââthereâs literally a marriage certificate. Signed. With both our names. His is Max Emilian Verstappen. I googled him. Heâs a four-time Formula One World Champion?!â
You stopped to breathe, then whispered aggressively, âI married a rich race car driver.â
Your best friend went quiet again, then finally said, âWait⊠Max Verstappen? Like, actual Max Verstappen? The hot one who wins everything and never smiles?â
âYes!â you hissed. âExcept he does smile, and I think he kissed me last night, and he definitely slept next to meâand with me, and now I donât know if I should cry or call Vogue and pitch a cover story as his wife.â
âY/n, I left you alone for five minutes and you got married?!â your best friend shrieked so loudly through the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear before it shattered your eardrum.
âI didnât do it on purpose!â you whisper-yelled, pacing the bathroom like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Your bare feet slapped against the cold tile, your sheet toga flapping behind you like a cape of shame. âThere were drinks! There was dancing! He had a really nice smile, okay? I donât even like racing! I came to Vegas for overpriced cocktails and bad decisions, not a whole husband!â
You were so deep in your meltdown that you didnât hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.
Thenâtwo soft knocks.
âAre you panicking in there?â a deep, amused voice called through the bathroom door.
You froze. Completely. Like a deer caught in headlights. Like someone had hit pause on your entire body.
Your eyes went wide. Your mouth opened. That voiceâit was him.
Your husband.
Max Verstappen. Actual Max Verstappen. Speaking. To you.
You turned toward the door, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. âYesâI mean no!â you called back, instantly cringing at how weird your voice sounded. You sounded like someone who had definitely married someone by accident.
There was a pause. You thought you heard him laugh. Just a little. Low and quiet. Like he found this whole thing funny.
You turned back to your phone, whispering like you were in some kind of spy movie. âGotta go. Iâll call you later.â
âWait, Y/n! Does he have any hot friââ
You hung up before she could finish the sentence and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned your hand. You stared at the door, heart racing, brain spinning, and absolutely no idea what you were supposed to say next.
You couldnât stay locked in the bathroom forever, no matter how much you wanted to hide from the worldâor from the man waiting outside. You had to face it. Face him. Face the fact that you were somehow married to Max Verstappen.
Slowly, you reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open just enough to peek your head out. You werenât sure what you expectedâmaybe chaos, maybe cameras, maybe him halfway through packing his bags to escape this mess. But instead, you saw him standing there calmly, looking like heâd just rolled out of bed and into a magazine cover. His hair was still messy, shirtless, but he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was just another normal morning.
âThere you are,â he said, his voice soft but amused. âDo you want something? Coffee? Water? You look pale.â
You blinked at him, stunned. âYeah, and you look completely fine! You shouldnât!â you said, stepping out and slowly making your way back to the bed. You sat down carefully, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to keep your brain from short-circuiting.
He tilted his head, clearly confused. âWhy?â
You stared at him, trying to find the right words. âBecause youâre Max Verstappen! Youâre like⊠F1âs big dog. The guy who wins everything. You married a random girl in Vegas!â You paused, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all. âOh my god, can you imagine the drama? The headlines? The press? The fans? Your team? Your mom?â
âWe can keep it secret for now, if you want,â Max said, his voice calm and casual, like he was suggesting you skip breakfast or order room service. Not like he was talking about hiding a marriage from the entire world. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just woken up married to a complete stranger. His expression was unreadableâcool, collected, almost amused.
Meanwhile, you felt like your entire body was buzzing with panic. Your heart was racing, your thoughts were spinning, and you were pretty sure your eye was twitching. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, trying to figure out how your life had turned into a headline overnight.
You stared at him, trying to process what heâd just said. Keep it secret? Like it was no big deal? You couldnât even think straight, and he was already planning how to cover it up. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.
âWe should annul it,â you blurted out, the words tumbling out fast and loud. âObviously.â
Max turned his head slowly to look at you, like youâd just said something completely ridiculous. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadnât quite figured out yet.
âWhy?â he asked, voice still calm. âI like you.â
Your brain stopped working.
You blinked at him, mouth falling open, unsure if youâd heard him right. âWhâwhat?â you stammered, eyes wide. âYou like me? We met likeâwhatâten hours ago?â
Max shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. âAnd I liked those ten hours.â
You stared at him like heâd just suggested you move to Mars. âThatâs not a reason to stay married!â you said, your voice high and full of disbelief. You couldnât believe you were even having this conversation. You were wrapped in a hotel sheet, hungover, and somehow arguing about the validity of a marriage with a man youâd met less than a day ago.
Max didnât flinch. He didnât laugh. He just looked at you with those stupid, perfect blue eyesâcalm, steady, and annoyingly unreadable. âItâs not a bad one either,â he said, voice smooth and quiet. But there was something in his eyes. A spark. A glint of amusement, maybe interest. Maybe even a challenge. Like he was waiting to see what youâd do next.
You clutched the sheet tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto reality, but your brain had already started to drift. You couldnât help it. You imagined itâbeing his wife. Not just the ring on your finger or the chaos of last night, but the life that came with it. The luxury. The attention. The private jets and race paddocks. The kind of dinners where the wine cost more than your rent. The interviews where people called you Mrs. Verstappen. Waking up in Monaco. Falling asleep in Italy. Kisses in Singapore.
It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was completely out of your comfort zone.
And yet⊠it didnât sound bad.
Okay. Maybe annulment was a little dramatic.
âOkay,â you sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair as you sat up straighter on the bed. The sheet was still wrapped around you like some kind of makeshift armor, and you were starting to feel like youâd need it. Your head was spinning, your heart was still racing, but you knew you couldnât keep dodging the reality of what had happened. âWe should⊠talk about this. All of it.â
Maxâs lips curled into a smirk the moment the words left your mouth. He looked far too amused for someone who had just woken up married to a stranger. âThatâs how I like you,â he said, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. âAssertive. Calm. Rational.â
You gave him a look. A sharp, tired, are-you-kidding-me look. âIâm none of those things right now.â
He shrugged, completely unfazed, his eyes still sparkling with mischief. âStill. Be grateful you married me and not Lando.â
You blinked. âWhoâs that?â you asked, your eyebrows pulling together in confusion.
Max paused, then actually laughed. A real laugh. Not a smirk or a chuckle, but a full, amused laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. âOh wow. You really donât know anything about Formula One, huh?â
You stared at him, unsure if you should be embarrassed or proud. âIs he, like⊠worse than you?â
Max tilted his head, clearly enjoying the question. âDebatable,â he said, his grin growing wider. âHeâs a walking red flag though.â
You didnât know what that meant exactly, but the way Max said it made you laugh. Just a little. Just enough to forget, for one second, that your life had completely flipped upside down.
âââ
The hotel breakfast room was way too quiet. That strange kind of quiet that only happens when everyoneâs hungover and pretending they arenât. Even the soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup felt like it echoed through your skull. You were surrounded by people who probably had millions in their bank accounts, all dressed in expensive clothes and sipping tiny espressos like they hadnât made a single bad decision the night before. But you knew better. You could see it in their tired eyes and slow movements. Vegas had worked its magic on everyone.
You sat across from Max, your very real, very hot husband of roughly ten hours, trying to act like this was normal. Like you did this kind of thing all the time. Like waking up married to a stranger and then sharing breakfast with him was just another part of your weekend plans. You picked at your croissant, trying to look casual, even though your brain was still spinning.
âSo,â you said, raising an eyebrow as you tore off a piece of pastry, âtell me something about you, my husband.â
The word husband still felt strange coming out of your mouth. It made your stomach flip a little. It was weird, but also kind of exciting. You barely knew anything about Maxâother than the fact that he was ridiculously attractive, strangely calm about the whole situation, and apparently some kind of international sports legend.
Max leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. âWell,â he began, âIâm Dutch, but I was born in Belgium. So technically Iâm Dutch-Belgian. My mumâs from Belgium.â
You nodded slowly, pretending to take that in like it was important information. But honestly, your brain was stuck on the way he said my mum. It sounded so soft, so sweet, and it didnât match the image of a guy with arms like his and a face that belonged on a billboard.
âI started karting when I was four,â he continued, âthen got into Formula One when I was seventeen. And now Iâm hereâwith four world championships.â
You blinked. âCasual,â you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even though your jaw wanted to drop.
Max gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. He wasnât bragging. He was just telling the truth. And somehow, that made it even more impressive. You could tell he wasnât trying to show off. He was just⊠being himself.
And honestly? He was kind of a racing nerd. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up when he talked about karting, in the quiet pride in his voice when he mentioned his career. You werenât into sports. Like, at all. But there was something really endearing about how much he cared. It wasnât just a job to him. It was his whole world.
And because you couldnât help yourselfâbecause even though you didnât follow racing, you did know the one headline that had practically broken the internetâyou tilted your head and asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.
âArenât you the one who robbed Lewis Hamilton of his eighth title?â
Max didnât answer right away. He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. There was a flicker of something in his expressionânot anger, not guilt, just⊠something unreadable. But then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. Calm. Cool. A little smug.
âThatâs what some people say, yeah.â
You blinked, surprised. That was not the reaction you expected. No awkward laugh. No defensive speech. No attempt to explain or justify. Just a simple, quiet answer that carried more weight than a whole press conference. He didnât flinch. He didnât back down. He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he hadnât just casually admitted to being part of one of the most controversial moments in sports history.
It was the kind of energy that made your stomach twist. The kind that said he knew exactly who he was and didnât feel the need to explain it to anyoneânot the media, not the fans, and definitely not the girl heâd accidentally married in Vegas.
You chewed slowly, studying him. You werenât sure if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.
But deep downâand youâd never admit it out loudâyou were starting to think you mightâve married someone weirdly interesting. And dangerously charming.
âBut thatâs a long, boring story,â Max said with a casual wave of his hand, brushing off four world championships and one of the biggest rivalries in sports like it was nothing. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and gave you a lookâthe kind that made your heart skip a beat. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, playful and curious. âI want to know something about you, Mrs. Verstappen.â
The way he said itâso smooth, so relaxed, like it wasnât the most insane thing either of you had ever doneâmade your stomach flip. Mrs. Verstappen. Youâd been trying not to think about how official that sounded. How serious. How⊠weirdly not awful. It was ridiculous, but hearing it out loud made something flutter in your chest. You werenât sure if it was panic or something else entirely.
You cleared your throat, trying to snap out of it. âUhâwell,â you began, suddenly feeling very aware of how painfully normal you were compared to him. He had trophies and fans and a career that spanned continents. You had⊠a messy Instagram feed and a half-used planner.
âMostly I live off my dadâs money,â you said, giving a small, awkward laugh. âBecause, you know, he prefers to pay me to leave him alone.â You took a sip of juice, hoping it would make you sound less ridiculous. âBut I studied art. And now I sort of work in marketing? Like, social media stuff. Influencer-adjacent.â
You winced a little as the words came out. God, you sounded lame. Like you were trying to explain your life to someone whoâd never had to worry about rent or job interviews or whether their post got enough likes. You were sitting across from a man who drove cars at 300 kilometers an hour for a living, and you were talking about hashtags.
Max didnât laugh. He didnât tease. He just nodded, like everything youâd said made perfect sense. Like you made sense. It was strange, reallyâhow someone so far removed from your world could listen like heâd known you for longer than ten hours. His expression was calm, open, and maybe even a little curious.
âAnd I, uh, moved to Monaco a few months ago,â you added, almost as an afterthought. You werenât sure why you said it. Maybe because you wanted to sound a little more interesting. Maybe because you wanted to find some common ground with the man sitting across from you.
But that got a reaction.
Maxâs eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. âNo way,â he said, leaning forward slightly. âYou live in Monaco?â
You nodded, feeling a little sheepish. âYeah. Mostly for the tax thing, but letâs pretend it was for the vibe.â
Max grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made your stomach flip again. âMe too.â
Your jaw dropped a little. âYouâre kidding.â
He shook his head, still smiling. âIâve lived there since I was eighteen.â
You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around that. Eighteen. Already living in Monaco. Already racing in Formula One. Already building a life that sounded like something out of a movie. Meanwhile, you were still figuring out how to pay your phone bill on time at that age.
âI mean, most of the drivers do,â Max said, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. âYou live in Monaco and donât know anything about Formula One? Even though thereâs a Grand Prix happening there every year? Itâs like⊠the biggest event in the city.â
You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. âHey! I do know who Charles Leclerc is,â you said, lifting your chin slightly. âHeâs Monacoâs biasâthe hometown hero everyone pretends theyâre not obsessed with.â
Max blinked, then burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a full, warm laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was the kind of laugh that made your chest feel lighter, like youâd said something genuinely funny and not just accidentally charming.
âI married the right girl,â he said, still grinning, shaking his head like he couldnât believe his luck.
You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that was now impossible to fight off. It was ridiculous. You were still hungover. You were still confused. You were still technically married to a man you barely knew.
You loved every second of it.
âââ
Youâd been in Monaco for a few days now, and somehow, without really planning it, youâd spent most of that time at Maxâs place. His apartment was sleek and modern, with huge windows and a view that looked like it belonged in a travel magazine. Sometimes he came over to your place too, and it was starting to feel⊠normal. Comfortable. Like youâd known each other for way longer than just a few chaotic days. You went on cute datesâlate-night walks by the harbor, quiet dinners tucked away from the cameras, even a grocery run that turned into a mini adventure. Youâd both agreed to act like you were just dating, like the marriage part was a funny secret between you. And honestly? It worked. It felt easy. It felt right.
So when Max insisted that you had to bake a cake for your one-week anniversary, you didnât argue. You went out and bought all the ingredients, found a beginner-friendly recipe online, and tried to convince yourself this wasnât going to end in disaster.
Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by flour, eggs, and a very confused Max Verstappen, you gave him a look. âIâm warning you,â you said, tying your hair up and glancing at the recipe again. âThe last time I baked anything, I was eighteen. It was a birthday cake for my best friend, and it was⊠not great.â
Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with a smirk. âWell,â he said, gesturing to himself, âdo I look like Iâve baked anything in my life?â
âNo,â you said as you rolled up your sleeves, determined to make this cake happenâeven if it ended up more like a sweet disaster than a masterpiece. Max stood beside you, watching the recipe on your phone like it was written in a foreign language. You handed him the whisk and pointed to the bowl.
âOkay, start mixing the eggs and sugar,â you said, trying to sound confident.
Max squinted at the bowl, then at the whisk, then back at you. âYouâre trusting me with this?â
âYou drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour,â you said, grabbing the flour. âI think you can handle a whisk.â
He gave you a dramatic nod, like he was accepting a mission, and started whisking with way too much enthusiasm. Sugar flew out of the bowl. You gasped and jumped back, laughing as tiny crystals landed in your hair.
âMax!â you shrieked, swatting at him with a dish towel.
He grinned, completely unbothered. âPrecision is overrated.â
You tried to stay focused, measuring flour and butter, but Max kept sneaking little pokes at your side, bumping your hip, stealing spoonfuls of batter when he thought you werenât looking. At one point, he dipped his finger into the mix and held it out to you.
âTry it,â he said, eyes sparkling.
You leaned in, tasted it off his finger, and paused. âNot bad.â
He smirked. âTold you. Natural talent.â
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was fluttering. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar, and the air was warm with laughter and something softerâsomething sweeter.
The cake was safely tucked away in the oven, and for the first time in the past hour, the kitchen was quiet. Warm. Sweet-smelling. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard and moving too fast. Max stood nearby, watching you with that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip every time.
âYou have flour on your nose,â he said, pointing at you and laughing softly.
You reached up to wipe it off, but then paused, a mischievous idea forming. You looked at him, narrowing your eyes playfully, and moved your hand toward his face.
âOh, donât you dare,â he warned, stepping forward just as you lunged.
Before you could get him, Max caught both of your wrists in his hands. His grip wasnât tightâjust firm enough to stop you, but gentle enough to make your heart flutter. You tried to wriggle free, laughing, but he was too strong, too steady. And honestly? You didnât really want to escape.
He pulled you closer, slowly, until your body was pressed against his. Your chin rested just under his collarbone, and you tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft now, not teasing, just⊠warm. You smiled without meaning to, and he smiled back, like he couldnât help it either.
And in that moment, something shifted.
You felt it in your chestâa quiet, fluttering feeling that wasnât panic or confusion anymore. It was something sweeter. Something softer. Were you falling for your own husband? The thought hit you like a whisper, unexpected but not unwelcome.
Max leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your lips. It was gentle, slow, like he was testing the waters. Like he wanted to make sure you were still with him in this strange, beautiful mess.
You smiled against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. âWas this part of the recipe?â
He grinned, eyes sparkling. âObviously,â he said, and kissed you againâthis time longer, deeper, like he didnât care if the cake burned.
When the oven finally beeped, you jumped a little, startled out of the warm haze youâd been floating in. You grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the cake out, setting it down on the counter. You blinked at it, surprised. It actually looked⊠good. Like, really good. Golden, fluffy, not burned. You tilted your head, inspecting it like it might suddenly collapse, but it held its shape perfectly.
âSee?â Max said proudly, stepping beside you. âIt looks fantastic.â
You laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. âYeah, but does it taste fantastic?â you teased, eyeing the cake like it might be lying to you.
Max didnât answer. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out a bowl of whipped creamâdark blue, of course. âI want to decorate it,â he said, already grabbing a spoon and getting to work.
You raised an eyebrow, amused. âOkay, Picasso,â you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter to watch.
Max was focused, tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he carefully spread the whipped cream across the top of the cake. He wasnât fast, but he was determined. You stepped closer, peeking over his shoulder, and smiled at the mess he was making. The letters werenât perfect, the spacing was off, and the whipped cream was a little too runnyâbut it was adorable.
And then you saw it.
Written in slightly crooked, slightly smudged letters across the top of the cake:
Max + Y/n, always and forever
Your heart did a little flip.
You stared at the words, warmth blooming in your chest. It was silly. It was messy. It was whipped cream on a cake made by two people who barely knew what they were doing. But it was also sweet. Thoughtful. Real.
You looked up at Max, who was still focused on smoothing out the edges, and felt something soft settle in your chest. This wasnât just a joke anymore. It wasnât just a wild Vegas story. It was starting to feel like something more.
âAww,â you whispered, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
Max glanced at you, eyes twinkling. âToo cheesy?â
You shook your head. âJust cheesy enough.â
âââ
One thing about your husband, Max Verstappenâhe adored Charles Leclerc. Like, actual bromance level. The kind of friendship that involved inside jokes, constant teasing, and way too many shared podium selfies. So when the idea of a double date came up, it wasnât dinner or drinks or something chill. No. It was karting. Because of course it was. The most on-brand plan imaginable for two Formula One drivers who couldnât go five minutes without turning something into a race.
The guys were hyped. Already texting about lap times and trash talk before youâd even left the apartment. And you? You were nervous. Really nervous.
Alex was everything. Fashion icon. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged on magazine covers and red carpets. She was Charles Leclercâs girlfriendâthe it-girl of the paddock. And you were⊠well, you. Clumsy. Still adjusting. The newly accidental wife of Max Verstappen who had only just learned what a pit stop was.
You clutched Maxâs hand tighter as you both walked toward the karting center, your stomach bubbling with nerves and regret over the fizzy energy drink youâd chugged earlier. Your heart was racing, and not in the fun, adrenaline kind of way. More like the what if I embarrass myself in front of Monacoâs golden couple kind of way.
âMax,â you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, âwhat if they donât like me? I mean, Iâm not exactlyââ
âSchatje,â he cut in gently, turning his head to look down at you. That soft half-smile was already forming on his lipsâthe one that always made your brain short-circuit a little. âTheyâre both excited to meet you. Charles has heard so much about you already.â
You blinked up at him, heart still fluttering, but something about the way he said it made you feel a little steadier. Like maybe you werenât walking into a disaster. Like maybe you did belong here, even if you werenât sure how yet.
You stepped inside the karting center, your nerves buzzing just beneath your skin like tiny sparks. The smell of rubber and engine oil filled the air, and the sound of distant engines revving made your heart beat a little faster. You spotted Charles and Alex waiting near the entrance, both dressed casually but somehow still looking like they belonged on a magazine cover. Maxâs face lit up the second he saw them. He walked straight over and pulled Charles into one of those quick, half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back greetings that guys do when theyâre trying to act cool but are clearly happy to see each other.
Before you could even process the moment, Alex stepped toward you with a bright smile and zero hesitation. âYou must be Y/n,â she said, her voice warm and confident. âYou look stunning, girl.â
You blinked, caught off guard by how friendly she was. Before you could even say thank you, she pulled you into a hugânot the awkward kind, but the kind that felt real. The kind that said, youâre safe with me. It was soft and strong all at once, and something in your chest loosened. Just like that, you knew: this girl was going to be your girl.
âAnd youâre even prettier in person,â she added with a grin, looping her arm through yours like youâd been friends forever.
You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. âYouâre literally so cool, this is unfair.â
Max, overhearing your comment, smirked and leaned toward Charles with a playful glint in his eye. âMaybe we should do a few laps without them,â he said, voice teasing. âYou know, as revenge for that time you pushed me off track.â
Charles rolled his eyes, already used to Maxâs drama. âYou brake-tested me,â he replied, deadpan.
Max waved him off, already distracted by the sight of you and Alex laughing together like old friends. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced over, he was smilingâthat soft, proud kind of smile that made your stomach flutter.
Alex leaned in and whispered, âI think weâll definitely find something to talk about.â
You nodded, heart lighter than it had been all day. You werenât just the accidental wife anymore. You were part of something. Something fun. Something real.
Max walked over, his voice quieter now, just for you. âCheer for me, schat,â he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it lingered as he grabbed a helmet and headed toward the karts with Charles, already tossing playful insults back and forth.
You and Alex sat down on the bench near the track, the loud buzz of go-karts filling the air as Max and Charles disappeared around the first corner. At first, the sound was a bit much engines roaring, tires screechingâbut after a few minutes, it started to feel kind of normal. Like background noise to a day that was already turning out better than you expected. You leaned back, letting the sun warm your face, while Alex pushed her sunglasses up and turned to you with a friendly smile.
âSo,â she said, her voice light, âhowâs it going? Being a WAG and all?â
You laughed softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. âItâs new. I didnât grow up watching racing or anything, so Iâm still learning. But⊠Iâm happy.â
And you meant it. Even though everything had happened so fastâ the wild Vegas night, the surprise marriage, the dates, the quiet morningsâit felt good. Like youâd landed somewhere that made sense, even if it was unexpected.
Just then, a blur of navy and red flew past the pit lane. Maxâs kart. He lifted one hand off the wheel and waved as he sped by. Even with the helmet on, you could tell he was smiling. And without thinking, you smiled tooâlike it was automatic now.
Alex saw it and grinned. âYouâve got it bad,â she teased. âBut donât worryâMax is even worse.â
You blinked. âReally?â
She nodded. âHe called Charles the morning after Vegas. Didnât even say hi. Just started talking about you. Said you were funny, smart, and somehow kept up with him better than anyone else.â
Your mouth opened a little. You hadnât known that. Max had never told you. Youâd been wondering if this was just fun for him, something casual. But hearing that heâd been excited enough to call his best friend the next morning?
Your heart did a little flip.
Alex leaned closer, her voice softer now. âHeâs serious about you. Iâve never seen him like this.â
Max and Charles walked over with matching grins, the kind that spelled trouble in the most entertaining way. Their hair was messy from the helmets, their cheeks slightly flushed from the race, and they looked way too proud of themselves for two grown men whoâd just spent twenty minutes trying to out-drive each other.
âTheyâve got two-seater karts,â Charles said, clearly amused. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was up to something. âWanna race?â
Max stepped forward, smirking straight at you like he was already imagining the chaos. âAnd you two are driving,â he added, handing you a helmet like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Your eyebrows shot up. âMe driving? With you in the kart?â
âExactly,â Max said, his voice calm but teasing. âDonât worry, I trust you.â
You stared at the helmet in your hands, heart thudding a little faster. You werenât a racer. You werenât even sure you knew how to start the kart. But Max was looking at you like you could do anything. Like he believed in you without question. And somehow, that made you want to try.
Charles turned to Max with a smug smile. âWeâll see which coupleâs faster. Verstappenâs or Leclercâs.â
There was something in his toneâplayful, yes, but also curious. Like he was watching closely. Like he could feel there was more going on than you were letting on. You were still supposed to be just Maxâs girlfriend, after all. But something about the way Charles looked at you, then back at Max, made your stomach twist. He was catching on. Maybe not the whole story, but something.
You and Alex exchanged a quick glance, wide-eyed and a little too in sync. You could tell she felt it tooâthe shift, the tension, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.
Alex leaned in, her voice low and full of humor. âIf we crash,â she whispered, âat least we look cute doing it.â
âMâlady,â Max said with a dramatic little bow, holding the helmet like it was a crown. You laughed, nerves still buzzing in your chest, as he gently placed it on your head. His hands were careful, adjusting the straps with surprising focus, making sure everything was secure. His fingers brushed your skin, and even through the nerves, you felt a little sparkâsoft, warm, grounding.
You took a deep breath, the weight of the helmet settling over you like a reminder that this was real. You were about to drive a kart. With Max Verstappen sitting beside you. No pressure, right?
âIâm sorry in advance if we crash,â you said quietly, trying to joke your way through the nerves.
Max looked at you, that familiar grin spreading across his faceâ confident, playful, and just a little smug. âWe wonât,â he said simply, sliding into the seat next to you like heâd done it a thousand times. âYouâve got this. Youâre a Verstappen now.â
Your heart did a little flip at that. The way he said itânot as a joke, not as a tease, but like it meant something. Like it was something.
You glanced over at Alex one last time, catching her smile through her helmet. She gave you a thumbs-up, her eyes full of encouragement. You smiled back, grateful for her calm energy, her warmth, her quiet way of saying youâre not alone.
The countdown lights began to flash in front of youâred, red, redâ and your grip tightened on the wheel. Your heart was racing now, faster than the engines around you. You werenât sure if it was fear or excitement, but it didnât matter.
The lights turned green, and you hit the gas a little harder than planned. The kart jolted forward, and Max let out a quick laugh beside youânot mocking, just amused. âOkay, okay, not bad,â he said, gripping the side of the seat. âKeep it steady, baby. Eyes on the track.â
You nodded, trying to focus, but everything was moving so fast. The wind rushed past your face, the engine roared beneath you, and the track curved ahead like it was daring you to mess up. Max leaned slightly toward you, voice calm but firm.
âBrake a little before the turn. Not during. Youâve got this.â
You followed his instructions, easing into the curve, and to your surpriseâit worked. The kart glided through the corner without spinning out or crashing into the barrier. You grinned under the helmet, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.
âSee?â Max said, clearly proud. âNatural talent.â
You barely had time to process anythingâthe speed, the noise, the curve aheadâbefore Max reached over and casually placed his hand on your thigh. It wasnât rough or rushed. Just steady. Warm. Like it belonged there. Like heâd done it a hundred times before.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your heart jumped straight into your throat, and your grip on the wheel faltered for just a second. The next turn came up fast, and you almost missed it entirely.
âMax!â you shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking, as you swerved a little too wide. Your voice was breathless, your cheeks burning, and you couldnât stop smiling even though you were trying to act annoyed.
He didnât move his hand. Didnât even flinch. Just leaned in slightly, his voice low and full of amusement. âWhat? Iâm just helping you relax.â
You glanced at him, eyes wide behind the helmet visor. âYouâre distracting me!â
Max grinned, completely unfazed. âNot a chance. Youâre doing great.â
You shook your head, trying to focus again, but your heart was racing faster than the kart. His hand was still there, grounding you and distracting you all at once. And somehow, even with the chaos of the track and the roar of the engine, you felt safe. Like you could crash and it wouldnât matterâbecause heâd be right there, laughing beside you.
The checkered flag waved, fluttering in the wind like a final exclamation point, and your kart zipped across the finish line just a breath ahead of Charles and his. The moment you passed it, your heart nearly exploded with adrenaline. Youâd done it. Youâd actually wonâwith Max beside you, coaching you, cheering you on, and somehow making you feel like you belonged in his world.
Max let out a triumphant laugh, the sound full of pride and joy. He turned to you, eyes shining. âSee? Told you we wouldnât crash,â he said, grinning as you both reached up and pulled off your helmets at the same time.
You were breathless, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, but you couldnât stop smiling. The rush of the race, the thrill of the win, and the warmth of Maxâs presence all wrapped around you like a hug. You barely had time to catch your breath before Max leaned over, grabbed your waist, and lifted you out of the kart like it was nothing.
Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, laughing as he held you close. His arms were strong and steady, and you felt completely safe in themâlike the world could spin out of control and youâd still be okay as long as he was holding you.
Before you could even react, Max leaned in and kissed you. It was warm, gentle, and full of everything youâd been feeling but hadnât said out loud. Your knees went weak, your heart fluttered, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.
As Max pulled back from the kiss, still holding you close, you both heard the unmistakable sound of clappingâslow, exaggerated, and clearly sarcastic.
Charles stood a few feet away, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. âWell, well, well,â he drawled. âDidnât realize the winner got a kiss as a trophy. Is that FIA-approved?â
You laughed, cheeks burning, but Max just grinned and tightened his hold on you. âOh fuck FIA.â he shot back.
âââ
People always say that if your marriage can survive building IKEA furniture, it can survive anything. And honestly? They werenât wrong. Because if there was one thing Max Verstappen could doâbesides win races and make your heart raceâit was turn even the most ordinary task into something dramatic, chaotic, and somehow⊠special.
It had all started so innocently. One quiet evening, Max looked around the apartment, spotted the overflowing corner of helmets, trophies, race gloves, and random F1 gear, and casually announced, âI need another shelf.â Like it wasnât already the fifth one. Like his personal shrine to motorsport wasnât slowly taking over the living room.
Youâd barely finished your tea before you were in the car, heading to nearest IKEA. The store was a maze of bright lights and confusing arrows, and the two of you spent way too long arguing over shelf designs and trying to pronounce the Swedish names printed on the boxes. Max insisted that sturdiness could be judged by how aggressive the name sounded. You ended up choosing one that sounded like someone sneezing mid-sentence and tossed it into the trunk, blissfully unaware of the emotional damage waiting at home.
Now, you were on the floor, leaning against the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside you and How to Train Your Dragon playing softly in the background. The room smelled faintly of wood and frustration. Max sat cross-legged across from you, surrounded by a chaotic sea of screws, wooden pegs, and panels that all looked suspiciously similar. He studied the pieces like he was preparing for a race â focused, intense, and slightly overconfident.
You held the instruction manual in your lap, flipping through the pages with growing dread. The diagrams looked like theyâd been drawn by someone who hated happiness. You glanced at Max, who was already trying to fit two pieces together that clearly didnât belong.
You squinted at the instruction manual, turning it sideways, then upside down, then back again. The tiny drawings made no sense, the arrows pointed in every direction, and the parts in front of you looked nothing like the ones in the pictures.
âI canât understand a single thing,â you groaned, tossing the booklet onto your lap. âThis is actual nonsense.â
Max glanced over, already halfway through trying to jam two wooden panels together. He reached for the manual, flipping it over with a smirk. âMaybe because youâre looking at the French side,â he said, holding it up and pointing at the tiny flag in the corner.
You blinked. âOh.â
He handed it back to you, this time opened to the English section, like it was some sacred scroll. âVoilĂ ,â he said dramatically. âNow we build.â
You rolled your eyes, but couldnât help smiling. âYouâre so annoying.â
You were twenty minutes into building the SNĂRKLIGâor whateverâshelfâand already three emotional breakdowns deep. Your patience was dangling by a thread, or more accurately, by one tiny wooden peg that refused to fit anywhere it was supposed to. The living room looked like a battlefield. Panels were scattered across the floor, screws rolled under the couch, and the instruction booklet had become your personal lifeline.
âI told you that piece goes on the bottom, Max,â you said, clutching the manual like it was sacred scripture. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were wild. Youâd stared at the same diagram for so long, you were starting to see it in your dreams.
Max, sitting cross-legged across from you, held a long wooden panel sideways like it was a sword. âNo, it doesnât,â he insisted, pointing at the drawing. âIt clearly goes on top. Look at this!â
You leaned over, squinting at the page. Then blinked. Then sighed. âMax⊠the drawing is upside down.â
He paused, looked at the manual again, then slowly rotated it in his hands. His face shifted from confident to sheepish in about two seconds.
âOh.â
You stared at him, deadpan. âYouâve been building this thing backwards.â
Max shrugged, still gripping the panel like it hadnât just betrayed his entire sense of confidence. âWell, itâs a shelf,â he said, voice casual. âItâll still hold stuff.â
You stared at him, completely deadpan. âNo, Max. It will fall. With all your trophies. Do you really want to explain to Christian why your 2023 championship is lying in shattered pieces on the floor because you refused to read IKEA instructions?â
That made him pause.
His eyes flicked to the mess around youâscrews scattered like confetti, dowels rolling under the rug, and a pile of wooden panels that looked more like a failed art project than a shelf. He blinked slowly, like reality was finally catching up to him.
ââŠMaybe we should build it again,â he said, voice quieter now. Almost humble.
You didnât respond. You just stared at him, blinking once. Slowly.
Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning like heâd just lost a race by half a second. âOh, fuck this,â he muttered. âCanât we just steal Charlesâs?â
You blinked. âWait⊠you actually want to steal a shelf?â
Max held up a screw like it was proof of his suffering. âYes. Iâd rather get arrested in Monaco than build another one of these Swedish nightmares.â
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your water. âYouâre ridiculous.â
He gave you a serious look. âSchat, I drive F1 cars. I build engines in my sleep. But this shelf?â He pointed at the wobbly mess in front of you. âIâm ready to throw it out the window.â
You slid off the couch and sat beside him, bumping his shoulder. âOkay, okay. Weâll do it together. Iâll read the instructions. You build. And no making it up as you go.â
He sighed, but a small smile crept onto his face. âFine. But if it breaks again, Iâm calling Charles and asking for his shelf. Iâll say itâs an emergency.â
You snorted. âDeal.â
Max grabbed the screwdriver like he was on a mission, mumbling in Dutch as he started taking the whole thing apart. You sat cross-legged next to him, reading each step slowly while Toothless blinked on the screen, like he was silently cheering you on.
Halfway through, Max smacked his forehead. âWaitâthis piece was upside down the entire time?â
âââ
The whole evening had felt strange from the start.
Youâd just gotten back from the Red Bull event, and something heavy had settled over you, like a weight you couldnât shake off. Everyone at the event had seemed so sure of themselves. They walked through the room with ease, dressed perfectly, laughing like theyâd known each other forever. They spoke in a language you didnât quite understandâF1 slang, sponsor talk, inside jokes that flew right past you. They belonged there. They fit.
And then there was you.
Youâd stayed close to Max, smiled when people looked your way, nodded politely during conversations you didnât know how to join. You werenât rude. You werenât awkward. But you felt like a shadowâpresent, but not really part of the picture. You werenât one of them. You didnât have the same shine, the same confidence, the same rhythm. You were just⊠there. A little too quiet. A little too unsure. A little too you.
And that thought had stuck. It had crawled into your chest and made a home there, whispering doubts every time you tried to push it away.
You didnât belong in Maxâs world. Not really.
And now, sitting in the quiet of your shared space, that realization was louder than ever. It stirred inside you, uncomfortable and sharp, making you question everything. Not because Max had done anything wrongâbut because you werenât sure you were enough for the life he lived. The spotlight. The pressure. The people who seemed born to be part of it.
You slipped off your heels slowly, one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft thuds. The dull ache in your feet was familiar, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on your chest. It had been building all evening, creeping in during small momentsâquiet glances, awkward silences.
Max sat beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didnât speak right away, just let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, but with that quiet edge that meant he wasnât going to let it slide.
âWhatâs going on?â he asked. âTalk to me.â
You kept your eyes forward, staring at the wall like it might offer you a way out. You blinked slowly, trying to keep your voice from cracking. âNothingâs going on,â you said, flat and controlled, like if you said it calmly enough, it might become true.
Max didnât respond right away, but you could feel the shift in him. The way he turned slightly toward you. The way his gaze settled on your face, searching. You didnât have to look to know he wasnât buying it.
âDonât lie, baby,â he said quietly.
âNoâI just think you shouldnât be with someone basic like me,â you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked at the edges, soft and shaky, but honest. âI feel like I donât belong in your world.â
You didnât need to look at Max to know he was staring at you like youâd just said the most ridiculous thing heâd ever heard. You could feel the shift in the air, the way his body tensed beside you, the way his silence turned sharp.
âDonât ever say that again,â he said, voice low but firm, no hesitation. âYouâre the best thing thatâs ever happened to me. What the fuck do you mean I shouldnât be with you?â
You shook your head, tears brimming, frustration bubbling up. âI meanâI donât know what tyre strategy works best in fucking Barcelonaââ
He snorted, cutting you off before your spiral could go any further. âNeither does Red Bull, so whatâs your point, schatje?â
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden humor in his voice. It was dry, sarcastic, but warm. And it made something inside you loosen just a little.
You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but the weight in your chest hadnât quite lifted. It was still there, lingering beneath the softness of the moment. âYou know what I mean,â you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
Max tilted his head, eyes warm and steady. âYeah, I do,â he said. âBut I donât need you to know every world champion since 1960. Youâre not Sebastian Vettel.â His tone was light, teasing, but full of truth. Then he reached out, palm open, waiting. âI just want you to be my wife. My Y/n. The one who makes me laugh when everything feels too damn heavy.â
You looked at his hand, heart thudding, and hesitated for only a second before slipping yours into his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like they belonged there.
A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief. âMy wife Y/n, who had to Google me the morning after marriage.â
You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming a the memory, âI thought you were footballer!â
âJust remember that you belong with me. Always,â Max said, his voice low and steady, each word wrapped in quiet certainty. He looked at you like you were everythingâlike nothing else in the world mattered more than you sitting right there beside him. âAnd the rest? Fuck it.â
You didnât even get the chance to respond. Before your thoughts could catch up, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. It wasnât rushed or dramaticâit was grounding. The kind of kiss that said Iâve got you, even when your doubts were loud and your heart felt unsure. The kind that made the noise fade, just for a moment, and reminded you that with him, you were safe.
âââ FEW MONTHS LATER
You were home alone while Max was away for the race weekend. Originally, youâd planned to go with himâpacked your bag, even picked out your paddock outfitâbut work had piled up fast, and someone had to stay back with the cats anyway. Maxâs spoiled little shadows had made it clear they preferred you when he was gone, taking turns curling up beside you or watching your every move from the couch like tiny, judgmental bodyguards.
Evening had settled in quietly. The sky outside was a soft shade of blue-gray, and the apartment was filled with the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional sound of a cat jumping down from furniture. You were slumped behind your screen, shoulders aching, eyes twitching from too many hours of emails and spreadsheets. You blinked hard, rubbed your temples, and muttered to yourself, Just one more email. Then Iâm done.
And thenâding-dong.
You jumped, heart skipping. The sound sliced through the quiet like a siren.
You hadnât ordered anything. You werenât expecting anyone. Max was halfway across the world, and no one ever just showed up.
Brows furrowed, you pushed your chair back slowly, the cats immediately hopping down to follow you like a tiny security team. One brushed against your leg, the other sat at attention near the hallway, tail flicking.
You padded toward the door, cautious, curious, and just a little unnerved.
You opened the door slowly, still unsure what to expectâand were immediately met with a wall of white lilies. A bouquet so massive it looked like it might swallow the delivery man holding it. You blinked, momentarily stunned, the soft scent of the flowers already drifting into the hallway.
âI didnât order anything?â you said, brows furrowing as you tried to peek around the blooms.
The man glanced down at the tag, then looked back up with a polite smile. âAre you Mrs. Verstappen?â
Your heart did a tiny flip at the sound of the name. Mrs. Verstappen. It still felt surreal every time someone said it out loud. You cleared your throat, suddenly warm all over. âUh⊠yeah. Thatâs me.â
He nodded and gently passed the bouquet into your arms. âThen these are yours.â
You took them carefully, the weight of the flowers surprising, petals brushing your cheek as you stepped back inside. The cats stared up at you like youâd just brought home a jungle. You sighed, closed the door behind you, and locked it with a soft click.
You carried the bouquet to the kitchen, heart fluttering, mind already racing with one thought:
Max.
You placed the stunning bouquet into a vase, the lilies blooming like soft stars across your kitchen island. Their scent filled the room, light and calming, and for the first time all evening, the apartment didnât feel so quiet. It felt like Max had somehow reached across the distance and wrapped the space in warmth.
As you adjusted the stems, fingers brushing against soft petals, something caught your eyeâa folded piece of paper tucked gently between the flowers. Your name was scribbled across the front in Maxâs unmistakable handwriting, a little messy, a little rushed, but so him.
Your heart fluttered as you pulled it free and unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the edges.
I wish you were here. Donât work too hard, and pleaseâeat something other than burnt toast. Even though Iâm halfway across the world, I need you to remember how deeply loved you are. Always and forever. With love, Verstappen.
babsie radio ! hope uâre not disappointed yâall cuz this is literally fluff w little plotâŠstill was fun to write <3 love love downbad! max. also yes, i love pet name âschatjeâ i am not sorry if itâs too many times đ€
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