Summary: Traveling the world as a sports journalist covering the Spanish National Team during the 2026 World Cup, you’re determined to keep things strictly professional. The only problem? Ferran Torres. The confident winger turns every post-match interview into a playful game of banter and tension. On the eve of the final, a cheeky bet is set: if Spain lifts the trophy, he gets a kiss. When Ferran scores the winning goal to make Spain world champions, he marches straight past the cameras and crowds to claim his prize right on the pitch. But a single kiss in front of millions was never going to be enough. Later that night, when a knock sounds at your hotel room door, the newly crowned World Champion makes it clear that the best part of his victory will happen behind closed doors.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (smut), playful banter/teasing, public displays of affection, light swearing.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
Traveling the world covering the Spanish national team was the absolute peak of my sports journalism career. I’d already survived chaotic time zones, tense press conferences in the scorching heat, and live broadcasts in pouring rain inside packed stadiums. Professionalism had always been my whole brand — steady, sharp, and totally unshakeable.
The only hiccup in my picture-perfect routine went by one name and one surname: Ferran Torres.
It all started two years ago during Euro 2024. What should’ve been just another mixed-zone interview after a group-stage win turned into ground zero for the striker’s obsession. Ferran answered my tactical questions looking straight into my eyes, totally ignoring half the mics surrounding us, and decided right then and there that I was his favorite off-pitch target.
Now, at the 2026 World Cup, things had gotten completely out of hand — in the most charming, teasing way possible.
It didn’t matter how many big-name journalists from global networks were lined up. If I was in the mixed zone with my camera and mic, Ferran walked right past everyone else. It was an unwritten rule.
He always stopped in front of me first. He’d fix the collar of his La Roja jersey, fix his hair, and pull off that half-smirk, side-smile — complete with that shameless, charming Spanish look that made my fellow reporters standing next to me try so hard not to laugh.
“Hola, mi capitana,” he’d say, leaning into a Valencian drawl that should’ve been illegal during business hours.
“Torres. Quick breakdown of today’s match, please. Stay focused,” I’d shoot back, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face while holding my notepad.
“Oh, my focus is great. The problem is my best angle is always on your camera,” he’d wink, following up with a totally sharp, brilliant breakdown of the match right after — just to prove he could throw me off without missing a beat.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
The night Spain locked in their spot in the 2026 World Cup knockout stage was pure chaos. The stadium was still buzzing, fans were chanting outside, and the locker room was full-on party mode.
In the mixed zone, I managed to get my camera guy set up for an exclusive live interview with Rodri, the team captain and the voice of reason. Rodri was super serious, talking about tactical discipline and the team's commitment, while I kept my cool, running the segment like a pro.
“...and the squad's mindset now needs to stay grounded, because from here on out, every mistake costs you… ” Rodri was explaining, totally dialed in.
Out of nowhere, a strong arm threw itself around Rodri’s neck, pulling the captain off balance.
Ferran Torres crashed the shot. He had his match jersey draped over his shoulder, hair still damp from the shower, and a water bottle in hand. He looked right into my camera, then at me, showing off a triumphant grin.
“Perdón, capitán, but the international press’s priority right now is me,” Ferran said, completely unabashed, giving Rodri a light tap on the chest.
Rodri let out a long sigh, shaking his head with a resigned smile. He’d been watching this play out for two years.
“You’re hopeless, Ferran. Let the professional do her job,” Rodri joked, stepping away from the mic and patting the striker on the back. “She’s the only reporter who doesn’t buy your line of lines.”
“Not yet, cap’n. Not yet,” Ferran winked at Rodri before turning completely toward me, leaning his elbows on the media barrier separating the players from the press.
He was standing dangerously close to my mic. The smell of woody perfume mixed with fresh post-game air filled the space between us.
“Torres, we were live with the captain,” I said, trying to sound strict, but the heat rising up my neck totally gave away the effect he had on me.
“The captain talked a good game, but I’m the one who scored the winning goal,” Ferran shot back, tilting his head with a playful smirk. His dark eyes glinted under the stadium lights. “Besides, you know I’m your favorite interviewee. No need to lie to the cameras.”
“I don’t have favorites, Ferran. I’m an unbiased journalist,” I parried, adjusting my earpiece while the director in my ear laughed and yelled at me to keep the camera on him.
“You’re a terrible liar for someone who works with the truth,” he chuckled softly — a low, raspy laugh that my mic picked up perfectly. He leaned an inch closer, dropping his voice so only I could hear it clearly despite the noise. “You’ve chased this team all over the world, traveled thousands of miles... and you’re still gonna sit there and tell me it’s just for the football?”
“It’s my job, Torres,” I whispered, holding his gaze even though my heart was pounding like a last-minute final.
“Then do your job and ask me about the match,” he smiled, completely cheeky and irresistible. “But if I answer it right, you’re having dinner with me at the team hotel tonight. No mics. No cameras. Just the toughest reporter in the world and the striker who won’t stop pushing his luck.”
I glanced at the camera, then back at him. He was still wearing that confident smirk, one eyebrow raised, waiting for my answer like a guy who’d just drawn a penalty in stoppage time.
“First question, Torres...” I started, brushing off the offer (for now), but finally letting myself give a small, inevitable smirk. “How does it feel to be the most shameless player at the World Cup?”
Ferran burst into a rich laugh, adjusting the jersey on his shoulder as he looked at me with pure admiration.
“Feels amazing... especially because it worked, and I got you to smile.”
A 2–0 victory over France in the semifinals had sent Spain straight into the 2026 World Cup Final against Argentina. The entire world paused to watch the coverage, but behind the scenes at FIFA's official broadcast, everyone was just as hooked on the unofficial romance that had been unfolding in the mixed zone for weeks.
Ferran Torres was having a tactically flawless tournament — fast movement, clutch assists, defensive work — but he just couldn't score. The striker's goal drought was headline news everywhere.
And, of course, the person assigned to do the live, exclusive interview on the eve of the final — straight from the glass studio set up right at the edge of the pitch — was me.
The broadcast opened with the stadium glowing in the sunset behind us. Ferran showed up in his La Roja track jacket, fixing his earpiece as he slid into the seat next to me at the desk.
“We are live worldwide with Ferran Torres, striker for the Spanish national team,” I began, looking into the camera with my usual polished composure. “Ferran, tomorrow is the biggest match of your life. Spain is ninety minutes away from the trophy, but the press has been all over your goal drought this tournament. How are you handling that pressure heading into Argentina?”
Ferran adjusted his lapel mic, turned his head toward me, and flashed that smile. That shameless, charming look that had already gone viral as a GIF across social media all month long.
“Honestly? The pressure doesn't bother me. What actually bothers me is that I’ve spent the whole month trying to impress you, and you’re still pretending you’re just my 'professional friend,'” he said casually, like we were grabbing coffee around the corner and not talking to hundreds of millions of viewers.
I felt the blood rush straight to my cheeks, but I scrambled to regain control of the segment.
“Torres, we’re live. We’re here to talk about Scaloni’s tactical setup and Spain’s hunt for a second star.”
“I’m talking about serious goals here too,” he shot back, leaning forward slightly on the desk, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Cap’n Rodri told me if I don’t score in the final, he’s leaving me on the bench next year. And you’ve been brushing me off since Euro 2024. Life isn’t easy for me right now, writer.”
The camera guy made a subtle hand gesture, snickering behind the rig, while the producer in my ear screamed at me to roll with it.
“If you focused as much on your finishing as you do on coming up with pickup lines in the mixed zone, maybe that shot off the crossbar against France would’ve actually gone in,” I clapped back, staying sharp and keeping the pace.
Ferran let out a short laugh, caught off guard by the clapback, and sat up straighter in his chair.
“Ouch, low blow! But fair enough, I’ll take the bait,” he said, looking at me with an intensity that made the whole studio feel tiny. “Tell you what. A public challenge. If we lose tomorrow, you never have to hear another pickup line from me in the mixed zone ever again. I promise to act like the most boring, formal player on the planet.”
“And if Spain wins?” I asked, walking right into his trap without even realizing it.
Ferran rested his chin in his hand, looking at my face with insane warmth and confidence. The Spanish charm was at absolute maximum capacity.
“If Spain wins the World Cup... and I score the winning goal... you stop running from me,” he said, his tone straddling the line between playful and dead serious. “No short interviews, no 'I have to check the rundown.' A kiss. Live, right here, on the pitch with the trophy.”
The studio went completely silent for two full seconds. I blinked, stunned by how bold he was — even for him, this was pushing it.
“Torres, have you completely lost your mind?” I muttered, laughing nervously while trying to stay composed for the cameras.
“What’s the matter? Scared Spain’s gonna win? Or scared I’ll actually land the shot?” he teased, raising an eyebrow with an irresistible, challenging smirk. “Simple bet. The World Cup title for a kiss from the woman who’s been driving me crazy since 2024. The whole world is our witness. You in, or are you gonna chicken out before the final?”
I looked at the camera, knowing the internet was already blowing up over the clip, then looked back at the striker, who was waiting with that incredibly charming, confident gaze.
Holding his eyes, I let out a calm smile and adjusted my mic.
“Deal, Torres. If Spain wins and you score... the bet is on. But if you blow it and shoot wide, you’re giving me a two-hour interview talking strictly about Argentina’s defensive tactics.”
Ferran broke into a beaming smile, reaching out his hand to seal the deal right there, live on air.
“Done deal, mi capitana. Tomorrow, you’re gonna have to pay up.”
━━━ ✦ ━━━
The noise inside the packed stadium was deafening, but for me, the world felt like it was spinning on a completely different frequency. For ninety regular minutes, Spain put on a absolute masterclass. It was a football clinic: overwhelming possession, sharp passing sequences, and a relentless barrage of shots that kept hitting either the Argentine goalkeeper or the woodwork. The score, however, stubbornly stayed locked at 0–0.
When extra time started and the manager called up number 7, my heart did a leap that had absolutely nothing to do with my professional duties.
Before stepping onto the pitch, Ferran adjusted his shinguards, took a deep breath, and turned his head straight toward the media zone. He searched for my camera among dozens of others. When our eyes locked, he didn’t look bothered by the weight of a World Cup final in the slightest. He just pulled off that smirk — the exact same one from when he used to crash my interviews, the one that had been keeping me up at night since Euro 2024—and gave me a wink.
In the 106th minute of the match, destiny collected its debt.
In a play built up all the way from the defensive line, the ball broke clear right at the edge of the box. Ferran hit it on the volley — a clean, laser-focused strike right into the top corner. The stadium went off. The winning goal for the World Cup title. The goal drought was officially over at the single most important minute in Spanish football history.
When the final whistle blew, the pitch turned into absolute chaos — gold confetti flying, players breaking down in tears, and photographers vaulting over barriers. I was standing right near the tunnel, holding the mic with slightly shaking hands, trying to pull my thoughts together before going live for the global broadcast.
That was when the crowd of reporters started clearing a path.
Ferran was heading straight over. He brushed off his teammates’ arms trying to pull him into the group celebration, ignored the TV cameras chasing him down, and walked over to me with total purpose. The Spanish flag was wrapped around his waist, his number 7 jersey soaked in sweat, hair a total mess, but his eyes... his eyes were locked strictly on me.
“The bet, mi capitana,” he said, his voice raspy and strained from exhaustion and screaming in celebration, stopping just inches away from me.
“Ferran, the whole world is watching... you need to go lift the trophy with the team,” I tried to scramble for words, my voice wavering as the ultimate pro reporter completely evaporated, leaving behind a woman with zero composure.
He didn’t say another word. He just smirked, gently cupped my face with one hand, and pulled me close — locking our lips right there in the middle of the pitch, in front of millions of viewers and under the non-stop flash of cameras from all over the world.
It was a warm, urgent kiss, packed with a victory that went way beyond a golden trophy.
But the romantic trance didn’t even last three full seconds of quiet. Before he could even pull back completely, a loud, chaotic horde of red jerseys invaded our personal space.
“OHHHH FERRAAAANNN!” the hysterical chorus echoed, practically blowing out the eardrums of anyone within a ten-meter radius.
Pedri was the first to hurl himself onto his back, nearly knocking the number 7 right into me, while messing up his friend’s already messy hair. Right behind him, Lamine Yamal and Nico Williams came bouncing in like a pair of hyper kids, pointing at us and making dramatic heart hands, shouting at the top of their lungs:
“OHHH FERRAAN! LOVE WINS! THE SHARK IS IN LOVE!” Nico teased, cracking up and shoving the striker’s shoulder.
“Pay up the bet, hermano! Paid up live on international TV!” Yamal chimed in, grabbing a water bottle he was holding and squirting a stream directly over Ferran’s head, who was trying to shield his face, blushing bright red and laughing uncontrollably at the same time.
Gavi came sprinting in from behind, diving into the pile and letting out a piercing whistle right in my ear before grabbing Ferran by the collar of his jersey:
“Enough romance, padrino! The trophy’s up on the podium and you’re out here embarrassing yourself on TV! OHHH FERRAAN!”
Ferran tried to hold onto his smooth-guy persona for one more second, but it was impossible to fight off the middle-school energy taking over the Spanish national team. He looked at me over the guys’ shoulders, rolling his eyes as Pedri and Gavi dragged him away by his collar and the flag around his waist.
As he was slowly dragged off — leaving me completely out of breath, cheeks burning red under the chants and laughter of the pack escorting him to the podium — he still managed to turn his head back, press his forehead against mine for one last quick millisecond, and whisper through the chaos with that unmistakable Spanish charm:
“Winning the World Cup was incredible... but this? This was my real win.”
He winked, gave my microphone a affectionate little tap, and let himself be pulled away by his teammates, who kept screaming the chant the whole way there. He turned to run toward the podium, leaving the toughest reporter on the global broadcast standing frozen in the middle of the chaos, speechless for the first time in her life.
But if I thought paying off the bet and getting teased by the team meant his obsession was over, I couldn't have been more wrong. Ferran Torres was never the type to settle for just one win.
The stadium lights had been shut off for hours, the buzz of the media outlets in the press room had gone dead quiet, and the silence in the hotel hallway felt completely surreal compared to the monumental chaos from earlier.
Back in my room, I was desperately trying to slow my brain down. I’d taken off my press badge, let my hair down, and swapped the broadcast suit for something infinitely more comfortable. On the open laptop resting on the desk, the screen displayed news portals from all over the world. The photo of our kiss on the pitch was already the biggest meme, the top headline, and the main trending topic on every social media platform on the planet.
That was when I heard it.
Two quiet, steady, impossibly calm knocks echoed against the door of my suite.
I checked the clock on the nightstand — it was past three in the morning. I walked slowly to the entryway, looked through the peephole, and let out a sigh that was equal parts disbelief and a sudden, unavoidable race in my chest.
I opened the door.
Standing outside, leaning against the doorframe in a relaxed posture, was the hero of the final. Ferran had swapped his match kit for a basic black tee and jeans, but the World Cup gold medal was still hanging around his neck, shining against the dark fabric. And, of course, he was wearing that same smug, absurdly charming smirk that had been tormenting my sanity since Euro 2024.
“Hotel reception gave me your room number. I told them it was a state emergency for the Spanish national team,” he said, his raspy voice dropping into a near-whisper in the quiet hallway.
“Ferran... have you completely lost your mind?” I asked, resting my hand on the edge of the door, trying to sound firm — though the truth was, his gaze was completely unraveling me. “If a photographer catches you in the hallway of my room at this hour, my career as an unbiased journalist is officially over.”
“Mi capitana, your reputation as an unbiased journalist died the exact second you took that bet live on air for the whole world to see,” he chuckled softly, taking a step forward and forcing me to take a step back into the room.
He walked right in without asking, shutting the door softly behind him. The click of the lock locking into place seemed to echo through the suddenly tiny space.
“What are you even doing here? Wasn’t the official team party down in the main ballroom?” I questioned, crossing my arms, trying to cling to whatever tiny bit of professional posture I had left.
Ferran carefully slid the medal off his neck and set it on the desk, right next to my laptop screen still showing the photo of us on the pitch. Then he turned back to me, closing the distance between us until there was no room left to run.
“I tried celebrating down there. I stayed for half an hour, had a glass of champagne with Rodri, but I couldn’t do it,” he confessed, his eyes dropping to my lips before rising back to mine with an intensity that sent my stomach into a total freefall. “I couldn’t focus on anything. I kept thinking that the pitch bet was good... but it was way too fast. And you know I hate unfinished business.”
“Ferran...” I murmured, my warning tone losing all its edge.
“I told you on the pitch: winning the World Cup was incredible,” he held my waist gently, pulling me against him without any rush, with that natural confidence of someone who knew exactly what game he was playing. “But I spent two years chasing you all over the world, taking your low blows in the mixed zone, and waiting for the right moment. Did you really think I was gonna be satisfied with just one celebratory kiss?”
He leaned in, brushing his lips against my neck before slowly tracing his way up to my cheek, sending goosebumps straight through my whole body.
“The World Cup is over, writer,” he whispered against my skin, his voice dripping with that unmistakable Spanish charm. “We’re in extra time now. And this time, there are no cameras.”
The quiet room seemed to magnify every breath, every rapid heartbeat in my chest. The mention of extra time was still hanging in the air when Ferran’s hand slid slowly from my waist to the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling softly in my hair.
There were no microphones between us anymore. No studio cues, no live cameras, no clock ticking down.
“Ferran...” I tried to whisper one last objection, but the word died in my throat as he moved even closer.
“No interviews right now, mi capitana,” he murmured against my mouth, his tone equal parts teasing and sweet. “Just you and me.”
This time, it wasn’t the impulsive, electric kiss from the pitch, powered by the high of the trophy and the chaos of the celebration. It was slow, deep, and dangerously unhurried.
When his lips finally touched mine, all the control I’d spent two years building crumbled in a matter of seconds. Ferran pulled me closer, sealing the space between our bodies, while his other hand anchored firmly onto my waist with a gentle, undeniable hold. He tasted warm, marked by that effortless Spanish charm, but now totally stripped of any performance for the cameras. It was pure intention.
I felt his lips move against mine in a steady rhythm, exploring every corner, drawing a soft, breathy sigh out of me that he caught with a subtle smile in the middle of the kiss. My hands, which had been trying to maintain professional distance, gave into the impulse and slid up his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his black tee.
The kiss deepened, his breathing getting heavier against my cheek as he pressed me gently against the room door. The sheer feeling of having the hero of the World Cup completely undone right here, focused solely on me as if the trophy downstairs meant nothing compared to this exact moment, made my head spin.
When he finally pulled back—just enough for our lips to part with a soft snap — he didn’t let go of me. He stayed there with his forehead resting against mine, his dark eyes shining in the dim light of the room, a gorgeous contrast to the flush on his cheeks.
“Yeah...” he let out a low, husky laugh, fondly sliding his thumb across my cheek. “I definitely made the best decision of my life when I crashed that interview with Rodri.”
I tried to catch my breath, resting my hands on his chest while a genuine smile — without a single layer of journalist defense left — finally broke across my lips.
“You’re shameless, Torres. A world champion, completely shameless.”
“Maybe,” he winked with that irresistible smirk before pulling me into another, even longer kiss. “But I’m your favorite shameless guy.”
I didn’t need to say another word. Every defensive wall and professional shield I’d kept under lock and key for two years completely caved in.
I grabbed the collar of his black tee with both hands and yanked him back to me, taking the lead and turning up the heat of the kiss. I felt the sharp gasp of surprise in Ferran’s breath, which quickly turned into a low, satisfied growl against my mouth.
If he’d spent the entire tournament teasing me and trying to break down my walls, now it was my turn to show him I wasn't playing for a draw.
The kiss got hot, urgent, and completely relentless. Ferran matched the intensity, wrapping his hands around my waist and lifting me slightly off the ground, taking my feet right off the cool floor of the room. I wrapped my legs around his waist without breaking lip contact for a second, hearing the muffled sound of the triumphant laugh he let out against my skin.
Without breaking the kiss once, he started moving through the room. He took blind steps backward, tripping slightly on the rug and bumping awkwardly into the corner of the desk — making his world champion gold medal clatter hard against the wood.
“Careful, Torres...” I murmured between kisses, already running low on air, my hands sliding up from his chest to the still slightly damp hair at the back of his neck.
“Forget the desk... my focus is still flawless, mi capitana,” he panted raspy-voiced, running his lips down my jawline until reaching my neck, pulling a sharp shiver right down my spine.
He kept guiding us through the relative darkness of the room, taking two more unsteady steps until the back of his legs hit the edge of the mattress. Ferran didn’t waste a second. With a smooth, firm movement, he let himself fall backward onto the bed, bringing me right down on top of him.
The soft thud onto the plush duvet sent the room spinning.
I was draped over him, my hair falling over his face. Ferran held my waist tightly, his dark eyes shining brightly in the half-light, a breathless, shameless smirk painted across his parted lips. His breathing was just as wrecked as mine.
“See that?” he whispered, his hand slowly tracing up my ribcage, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “The international press should be covering this right here. The hardest coverage of your life.”
“You never shut up, even when you’re winning, do you?” I teased, leaning over him, resting my elbows on either side of his head and holding his challenging gaze.
“I only shut up when you make me,” he winked with that undeniable Spanish charm, pulling my face down to drown us in another deep kiss.
Ferran’s low, raspy laugh vibrated against my chest — a muffled sound packed with victory that seemed to fill every inch of that room.
“Then make me, mi capitana,” he dared, his tone dropping to a teasing murmur a millimeter from my mouth.
I didn't need a second invitation. Keeping my guard up for two years had been exhausting, but right here, with the weight of his body under mine and the air thick with electricity, there was no reason left to fight it. I leaned down and locked our lips again, this time without any room for jokes or teasing.
Ferran let out a deep sigh against my mouth, surrendering completely to the rhythm. The kiss turned deep, urgent, and insanely intoxicating. His hands, which had been holding my waist firmly, started exploring my body without any hurry — sliding down the curve of my hip, trailing up my back, and making my skin burn wherever his fingers touched. Every touch carried that unmistakable Spanish heat — a mix of possessiveness and a subtle tenderness that completely knocked the wind out of me.
I sank into the touch, running my fingers through his hair and pulling him closer, while my hands slid down his solid chest, feeling the racing heartbeat of number 7. The way he reacted to every move I made — with a quiet gasp, a tighter grip on my waist, a slight tilt of his head to deepen the kiss even further — made it crystal clear that in this match, neither of us wanted the final whistle to blow.
He flipped our bodies over on the bed with a quick, fluid move, swapping positions without breaking the kiss for even a second. Now on top, propping up part of his weight on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush me, Ferran scattered a trail of warm, soft kisses from my chin down to the curve of my neck, pulling a breathless gasp from me that made him smile against my skin.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he whispered near my ear, his raspy voice dripping with an intensity that gave me chills all over, while his hands traced the contours of my body with near-devout fascination. “The World Cup was just the excuse, writer. I was gonna find a way to get you right here either way.”
I looked up at him in the half-light, taking in the victorious shine in his dark eyes and the charming mess of his hair. I smiled, tugging on the collar of his t-shirt to pull his mouth right back to mine.
“Less talk, Torres... more action.”
He let out another short, irresistible laugh before surrendering completely to me, drowning us in a sea of kisses and touch that would last all night long.
Ferran’s laughter slowly faded, replaced by a heavy sigh as the mood in the room shifted completely. The atmosphere, once defined by playful banter and media tactics, made way for total surrender, packed with raw, heightened sensations.
Hovering over me, he looked down at us for a moment. The striker’s dark eyes seemed to trace every single detail of my face, overflowing with a genuine admiration that went way beyond his usual teasing charm.
“No more talk,” he agreed in a raspy murmur, his voice barely above a breath.
Here is a smooth, natural, and casual English translation of the story:
The first thing to go was his shirt. With a quick movement, Ferran pulled it off by the collar and tossed it onto the floor, letting the direct heat of his skin touch mine. As he leaned back down, the feel of his firm, warm chest pressed against mine stole the breath right out of my lungs.
His hands started working with captivating precision. Ferran’s nimble fingers slowly traced down my back, gliding over the thin fabric of my top with calculated patience. Every single touch felt like it left a trail of fire on my skin. Finding the hem of my shirt, he lifted it up slowly, his thumbs brushing the curve of my ribs, making me shiver all over as the fabric got lost in the shadows of the bed.
When his lips left mine, it wasn't to stop. He started a slow trail of warm, lingering kisses down my jawline, traveling down the curve of my neck until he found the hollow of my collarbone. Every kiss came with a quiet sigh from him — a sense of relief and possession that gave me goosebumps every time he touched me.
Ferran’s breathing was completely wrecked, hot against my bare skin. His firm, possessive hands kept moving, tracing the contours of my hips and sliding down my legs with an almost devoted fascination. There was no rush. For someone who had waited two years through press conferences, travel, and mixed zones, he was savoring every second, every inch conquered, feeling the ragged rhythm of my breathing respond to his touch.
I clung to his shoulders, feeling the muscles in his back tense with every move, with every deeper kiss he stole from me while the rest of our clothes became totally useless in the middle of the messy comforter.
“This…” Ferran muttered against my skin, his voice heavy with a wave of pure daze and desire, rising again to seal our lips in a deep, wet kiss, “...this beats any trophy in the world.”
Sunk in the bedroom's shadows, lost in intense touches, heightened sensations, and a chemistry that had been begging to break free for a long time, the World Cup hero and the toughest journalist at the tournament finally forgot about the rest of the planet.
The room felt even hotter now, the air thick with an anticipation that had been building up with every match, every shared look in the mixed zone.
Ferran’s mouth kept moving down, leaving my lips for a second to trace a slow, hot, unhurried path across my chest, taking his time down to the curve of my stomach. Every kiss there was punctuated by a raspy sigh from him, his breath burning against my sensitive skin, sending involuntary shivers through me and leaving me feeling suddenly weightless.
His hands followed suit. The touch of his palms was firm and warm, sliding over my curves with a smooth, natural intimacy, as if he already knew every single inch of that map. There was no sound of cameras or judgment from the outside world—just the overwhelming feeling of being so physically close, the concentrated heat where his fingers roamed, and our total surrender to each other.
When his mouth moved closer, the impact of his touch made the world spin faster. It was an overwhelming, deep chill that ran straight down my spine, making me lose all control over my breath.
Unable to stay still against that kind of intensity, my hands instinctively moved down to his hair. I tangled my fingers in Ferran’s thick, slightly damp hair, gripping tightly and looking for something to hold onto while my body moved softly against his, matching the rhythm, responding to the touch and the overpowering presence of the number 7.
He let out a muffled murmur against my skin — a mix of triumph and surrender — tightening his grip on my waist and pressing his mouth deeper into me, with no intention of holding back.
That muffled sound against my skin was the trigger that dissolved any last bit of hesitation. The firm pressure of Ferran’s hands on my waist pulled me even closer, erasing the tiniest gap that dared to exist between us, while the heat radiating off him seemed to take over the whole room.
He was in no rush; he enjoyed every single reaction of mine. The contrast of the room's thin air with the scorching touch of his hands created its own rhythm, set by the heavy thud of his chest against mine.
With a gentle tug on his hair to guide him back, I caught his eyes meeting mine for a split second — dark, filled with that intensity he usually hid behind press-conference smiles.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, cariño…” he whispered, his voice barely audible, before taking my lips again in a deep, dominant kiss that completely sealed our surrender to the night.
His hands kept their precise path down my thighs, sinking us deeper into the mattress and making it clear that from here on out, the outside world and the pressure of the pitch were completely in the background.
When his mouth moved just a millimeter closer, an electric, overwhelming shock ran through my entire body. It was such an intense, deep, hot feeling that the air vanished from my lungs and my mind went totally blank. The sheer intensity hit me all at once, pulling a broken, almost pleading gasp from the back of my throat as my body involuntarily arched into his.
“Ferran…” I panted, my voice failing and shaky, giving up every last bit of my self-control.
His response was a restrained shudder through his shoulders. Without breaking skin-to-skin contact, the number 7’s mouth started its way back up. He moved slowly, leaving a faint trail of wet, hot kisses across my stomach, climbing up my chest until he reached the curve of my neck, where he let out a heavy breath that made me tremble all over.
When his lips finally found mine again, the kiss wasn't calm — it was urgent, hungry, and loaded with everything we’d buried in the mixed zone and back corridors. Ferran framed my face in his hands, his fingers tangling in the nape of my neck as he deepened the touch, pulling us completely into a whirlwind of sensations where only the two of us existed.
The air in the room seemed to run out entirely, replaced by a heavy, thick atmosphere charged with suffocating electricity. The urgency that used to be held back by disguised looks and quick chats in the mixed zones exploded without warning. There was no room left for self-control; it was just two bodies testing each other's limits in the dark.
Ferran moved with a fluid dominance, shifting over me while his hands, hot and tireless, traced the contour of my hips, pulling me into him until we were completely, viscously close.
With every movement, the heat trapped between us seemed to grow exponentially — a spiral of sensations so sharp and overwhelming that every nerve ending on my skin felt like it was on fire.
His pace grew firmer, driven by a wild need to get lost right there. When the rhythm intensified and a massive wave of pleasure hit me, my breath hitched again. I couldn't hold it in; a loud, raspy, uncontrollable groan escaped my throat, laying all my vulnerability out for him.
Against my hot skin, I felt Ferran’s chest vibrate. He didn't stop. Instead, hearing that raw sound leave me, a cocky, almost desperate smirk touched his lips against my throat. He loved it. He loved knowing the exact power he had over every single reaction of mine. He picked up the pace, burying his head in my neck while his own breathing turned into a ragged growl in my ear.
My body’s response was pure instinct. I grabbed his bare back with both hands and dug my nails into his skin, dragging them along his firm muscles and sliding down in a deep trail. Ferran let out a muffled curse against my chest, the subtle pain of the scratch blending with the peak of pleasure, making his whole body tense up in response.
We were right at the edge. The feeling turned into an uncontrollable storm, a tightness in my chest that expanded until it burst into an overwhelming wave that shook me from head to toe. My legs wrapped tighter around him as I sank into that blind ecstasy, losing all sense of time and space. Ferran matched my final rhythm with a desperate push, letting out a low, raspy groan as he completely surrendered to the same peak, collapsing his weight onto me.
The silence that followed was filled only by the loud, steady sound of our ragged breathing. Ferran rested his head in the crook of my neck, his chest heaving heavily against mine, sweaty and exhausted. The number 7 left a long, soft kiss on my still-warm skin, keeping us wrapped around each other in the dim light of the room while the world outside kept turning, completely irrelevant.
As our breathing slowly started returning to normal, Ferran gently rolled over to his side, pulling me close to his chest before the air between us could even cool down. The warmth of his body was still comforting, but now there was a calm, cozy silence that seemed to shield the room from everything outside.
He rested his chin on top of my head, one of his hands lazily stroking my back, tracing invisible circles right where my nails had instinctively left marks minutes earlier. I felt his chest rise and fall slowly, his heartbeat gradually settling against my cheek.
“I think…” he started, his voice cracking and raspy from exhaustion, his Spanish accent even thicker than usual, “...starting today, those mixed zone interviews are gonna be a lot harder to answer without looking at you.”
I let out a muffled laugh against his skin, feeling his lips curve into a gentle smile against my hair.
In no rush to face the next day, the cameras, or the pressure of the pitch, he pulled the blanket over us both. There, in the cozy dark of the room, the number 7 finally closed his eyes, keeping us tangled together while the rest of the world simply faded away.
Summary: After a bitter disqualification in Vegas and a disastrous weekend in Qatar, Lando Norris arrives at the Abu Dhabi finale crumbling under the weight of the championship title. The pressure spills over into a painful, heavy fight, driving a wedge between you right when he needs you most. Refusing to abandon him, you slip into his McLaren motorhome on race morning with a final, handmade gift — a custom sticker symbolising your journey together — and a quiet promise to cross the finish line. Hours later, after securing his historic World Championship, Lando makes good on that promise. But the real victory comes when the cameras fade, the hotel door locks, and the raw, desperate heat of reconciliation proves that no trophy compares to having you back in his arms.
Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader
Genres / Tropes: Angst to Comfort, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Sports Romance, Championship Finale, Desperate Reconciliation, Emotional Sex
Word Count: 5,10K
Warnings: Heavy emotional angst, intense relationship tension/arguments, explicit sexual content (smut), light swearing.
♡ ♡ ♡
The AC in the McLaren motorhome couldn’t handle the suffocating Abu Dhabi heat, but the real tension was coming from inside.
Lando hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Ever since the Las Vegas DQ — that bureaucratic nightmare that wiped out our points lead — all the way to the disastrous weekend in Qatar, I felt like I was walking on eggshells around him.
The math was simple, painful, and cruel: Lando was leading, but the margin was paper-thin. Max was right on his tail in second, completely unstoppable. Oscar was on the other side of the garage in third, just waiting for any mistake.
To win the World Championship, Lando literally just needed a P3. It sounded easy on paper. But in the real world, under the Yas Marina floodlights and surrounded by the endless stream of hate, threats, and toxic comments online, that lead felt like a massive target painted on his back.
I walked into his private room after FP2. Lando was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his jeans and half-unbuttoned team shirt.
Damp hair, exhausted eyes.
The glow from the screens around him highlighted his deep dark circles and his blank, hollow stare. His phone was buzzing non-stop on the mattress.
"Lando, babe..." I started softly, shutting the door behind me and keeping my voice as gentle as possible. "You need to get ready. Your engineer’s already calling you for the debrief."
He didn't even blink.
"I saw what they were saying on Twitter earlier," he muttered, his voice raspy and drained. "Saying I'm gonna choke. That McLaren threw the championship away because of me. That Oscar deserves it more."
I sighed, stepping closer to grab the phone out of his hand, but he yanked it away, his eyes snapping to mine with a flash of defensive anger.
"Give me that, Lando. You know you shouldn't be reading this stuff right now. Forget the crowd, forget the internet. It’s just you and the car. You just need a P3."
"'Just a P3'?!" He let out a harsh, humorless laugh and jumped up. The sudden movement sent the chair beside him wobbling. "You say that like it's the easiest thing in the world! Like Max isn't gonna swallow me whole into Turn 1! Like Oscar isn't playing his own game! You have zero clue what it’s like to carry all this shit on your shoulders!"
The unprovoked aggression hit me like a punch to the gut. I’d been biting my tongue for days — swallowing my own fatigue, his anxiety, and his sudden snaps — but that crossed the line.
"Don't take this out on me, Lando! I'm right here trying to keep you grounded while you lose your damn mind!" I snapped back, taking a step forward without backing down. "I know exactly how heavy this is, because I'm the one staying up all night watching you pace back and forth in the room, barely able to breathe!"
"Then maybe you shouldn't even be here!" he yelled, his face flushing with frustration as his hands gestured wildly. "All you do is remind me of how much I'm losing it! I need some peace, and even you’re constantly suffocating me, telling me what to do like I'm some kid who can't handle the pressure!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Those words cut deep. I felt my eyes sting with angry, hurt tears, but I refused to let them fall in front of him right then.
"Suffocating?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly before hardening up. "Is that what I'm doing when I try to save you from yourself?"
Lando ran a hand through his messy curls and looked away at the wall, his chest heaving. He knew he’d gone too far, but the sheer adrenaline and pride wouldn't let him apologize.
"If you think I'm getting in the way during the most important week of your life..." I muttered, taking two steps back until my hand hit the doorknob. "I'll go to the hotel. Good luck in quali tomorrow."
"Babe, wait..." He tried to take a step toward me, panic flickering through his anger for a split second, but it was too late.
"No. Just focus on your P3, Lando. That's all you need, right?"
I slammed the door behind me, leaving the muffled sounds of the motorhome—and the man I loved — completely isolated in his own storm.
♡ ♡ ♡
I grabbed my watercolor set and the special sticker sheets I always carried with me on travel days. Drawing and painting had always been my escape, and Lando knew that better than anyone. He was always the one making sure to surprise me with new paint tubes in every country we visited, gifting me canvases and brushes so I'd never stop creating. He was the biggest supporter of my art.
I sat at the hotel desk in the dim twilight of the early morning and started sketching. Nothing too complex, but something packed with soul: a small, stylized butterfly whose wings blended with the curves of his driver number 4. The wings were painted in the exact shades of McLaren's yellow and papaya, mixed with subtle hints of sky blue — our lucky color that we always joked about when we got married. Along the edges, I wrote in tiny lowercase letters: “Fight like a boy, win like my man.”
The butterfly was our quiet symbol: transformation after so much pain, the lightness to fly above all the hate, and the strength to weather the worst storms. I carefully cut out the little sticker, sealing the painting with a clear waterproof layer.
♡ ♡ ♡
At 7 a.m. on race day, I slipped quietly into the McLaren motorhome. The mechanics and engineers were still setting things up, and the hallway outside his room was dead quiet. I used my wife badge to unlock the door, trying to make as little noise as possible.
Lando was sitting on the couch with his race suit pulled down to his waist, his head buried in his hands. He looked up when the door clicked open. Seeing me, shock and relief flashed across his face for a split second, only to be instantly replaced by pure awkwardness.
He looked completely embarrassed — eyes downcast, body tense, swallowing hard. It was the weight of the guilt from how he’d spoken to me last night, mixed with the pride that was still holding him back. He tried to open his mouth to say something, but the words just completely failed him.
I didn't give him any room for excuses, nor did I walk over to hug him. The sting of what he’d said was still burning in my chest. I kept a safe distance, standing tall, instinctively twisting the wedding ring on my finger to stay grounded.
"I'm not here to talk about us," I cut in before he could try to speak, my voice cold but steady. "You have a race to win today."
I walked over to the coffee table and placed the little sticker right next to his helmet. Lando tracked my every move in dead silence, looking deeply ashamed, his shoulders hunched like a kid who knew he'd messed up big time.
"You buy me paint in every country so I can paint what I feel," I continued, keeping my eyes locked on his — eyes that seemed to be begging for a sign of affection I wasn't about to give right now.
"That's how I feel about you today. It's your strength, it's our history. The hate out there doesn't know who you are, but I do. Don't let all of this be for nothing."
Lando looked down at the table and picked up the sticker with his fingertips. As his eyes read what I’d drawn and written, I saw his throat work hard. The shame in him mixed with raw, painful emotion. He looked up at me, his mouth slightly open, eyes glassy—clearly choked up that I was standing there backing his dream even after the way he’d treated me.
"Babe... I..." his voice cracked, almost a whisper, completely unable to pull together a proper apology.
"Focus on the P3, Lando. Good luck."
Turning my back before my own guard could drop, I walked toward the exit.
Behind me, in the heavy silence of the room, I heard only the soft sound of the sticker being peeled from its backing. Lando didn't say another word, but deep down I knew: in a silent gesture of promise and redemption, that little piece of my art—and our love—was going to cross the finish line stuck right on his car.
♡ ♡ ♡
The 58 laps under the Yas Marina floodlights felt like they dragged on for an eternity.
I tracked every single sector on the garage monitors, clutching the lanyard of my wife pass so tight I could barely breathe. On track, it was total war: Max was flying in the lead, flawless, with Oscar in second pulling a ridiculous pace. And Lando... Lando was in third, managing the insane pressure of keeping the car in one piece while the weight of the whole world rested on his shoulders.
Every corner felt like a massive risk; every lapped car, a mini heart attack. But inside that cockpit, right in the eye of the storm, I knew my watercolor butterfly was stuck there, firm, staring down the exact same tarmac as him.
When the checkered flag finally dropped, my father-in-law's scream and Lando’s mom grabbing me in a desperate hug completely broke me.
P1: Max Verstappen P2:
Oscar Piastri
P3: Lando Norris — 2025 FORMULA 1 WORLD CHAMPION.
The McLaren garage exploded into pure chaos — screams, tears, and beer flying everywhere. Lando had actually done it. Against all the hate, against the mistakes from past races, against the nightmare of Las Vegas and Qatar.
The second he turned the car off in parc fermé, Lando jumped out of the McLaren like he was on fire. He ripped his helmet and balaclava off, revealing a face completely drenched in sweat and tears, his eyes red as he sobbed openly, not giving a damn about the dozens of cameras pointed right at him.
He sprinted awkwardly toward the family fence. He threw himself into his mom’s arms, crying like a heartbroken kid, sank into a tight hug with his dad and brother, and clung to his sisters, shaking from head to toe. It was the breakdown of someone who’d just lifted tons of bricks off his chest.
And then, his eyes scanned the frantic crowd until they found me.
Lando froze for a second. The anger from our fight two days ago, the shame from that morning, and the unbelievable relief of being world champion all melted together in his look. He shoved his way past engineers, photographers, and marshals, practically yanking me against his chest with pure desperation.
The kiss he gave me right there, amidst the deafening roar of the fireworks and the screaming crowd, was the hungriest, most apologetic, and most passionate kiss of our entire lives. A kiss of forgiveness, gratitude, and raw love.
When our lips finally parted, he wouldn't let me go. I rested my forehead against his, feeling his tears mixing with mine.
"I saw it..." he choked out, his voice completely broken by sobs, crying right against my lips as he squeezed my waist. "The sticker... I looked at it every single lap... I swore to myself I wasn't gonna let you down... I'm so sorry, babe... Please, I'm so sorry... I'm nothing without you."
"You're the world champion, Lando," I whispered, cupping his face and wiping away the tears that just kept falling. "And I love you. Always."
He pulled me into another kiss, crying softly against my mouth, making it crystal clear to the entire paddock that this trophy belonged to both of us.
After the official podium ceremony — where he sprayed champagne with Max and Oscar and practically cried himself dehydrated while the national anthems played — the crowd started to disperse.
Protocol was over, but Lando didn't want to come down.
Up there, at the very top of the Abu Dhabi podium, he stayed completely by himself for a few minutes. Taking it all in with the team and the fans below. He cried out everything he’d bottled up all year. Every piece of criticism, every moment of doubt, every sleepless night. It was the cry of pure freedom.
When he finally found the strength to walk down the steps, a sea of papaya shirts was waiting for him at the bottom. Lando was swallowed up by the team, hoisted onto the engineers' shoulders, screaming and laughing like crazy while his family and I watched from just a few steps away.
He searched for my eyes again, beaming, his wedding ring flashing on his left hand and the World Champion trophy held tight in his right. The storm had passed. And we had won.
♡ ♡ ♡
The official night was over, but the real celebration was just getting started away from the spotlight.
All the adrenaline built up on the track, the tears on the podium, and the euphoria of partying with the team had turned into a completely different kind of electricity between us. Down every hotel hallway, through every second of privacy we could steal in the elevator or behind a lobby pillar, Lando kept pulling me close. He couldn't keep his hands off me. Urgent, stolen kisses, warm champagne breath, and husky whispers against my neck promising what would happen the second we were alone.
When the keycard finally beeped and the bedroom door swung open, there was no time to turn on the lights.
Lando didn't even wait for the door to shut properly before pushing me against the cold wood, using his body weight to pin me there. The dull thud of the door slamming shut was drowned out by the sound of his ragged breathing against my mouth.
He kissed me with a devastating intensity. It wasn't a calm kiss; it was hungry, desperate, driven by days of built-up tension and distance. His right hand moved firmly up my neck, fingers tangling in my hair to pull my head gently back and deepen the kiss, while his other hand gripped my waist tight, pulling me completely against him.
"I went out of my mind without you..." he murmured against my lips between kisses, his voice deep, raspy, and raw from crying earlier and wanting me now. "You have no idea what it was like seeing you so far away from me this morning..."
His hands started exploring my body without asking. He ran his fingers down my spine, pulling me even closer, wanting me to feel every bit of his urgency. My body responded instantly. I wrapped my arms around his neck, digging my nails into the nape of his neck, feeling his muscles tense beneath the thin fabric of his team shirt.
Lando broke away from my mouth for just a second to trail a path of warm, wet kisses along my jawline, down my neck to my collarbone. Every single touch made my skin burn. He nipped at the soft skin there, pulling a low sigh from me that made his chest vibrate against mine in response.
"You're mine..." he growled softly, his breath hot against my skin as his hands slid under my clothes, the cool touch of his wedding ring lightly scratching my exposed waist. "My wife... My life. I needed you so badly today..."
He started kissing me with even more hunger, pulling my legs up around his waist while keeping me pinned against the door. The weight of the world championship, the online hate, and all the F1 pressure had completely vanished. In the darkness of that room, the only thing that mattered to the new world champion was claiming his real prize.
The touch of his hands sent a violent shiver down my spine. Having Lando’s weight pressing me against the cold wood, his warm champagne breath, and the scent of his cologne flooding my senses made it impossible to think straight. But I didn't want clarity; I wanted to lose myself in him.
I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist, feeling his thigh muscles contract to hold me up. I looked into his green eyes, glowing in the dim light of the room, filled with a raw hunger.
"Is that so?" I whispered, my voice breathy, a playful smile curving my lips as I dragged my nails up the back of his neck, brushing the sensitive skin behind his ear. "I thought your only priority today was the gold champions' trophy... But it seems the world champion has other preferences for his celebration night."
Lando let out a deep, husky laugh that vibrated straight against my chest.
"You have no idea," he growled, his eyes darkening instantly.
Without giving me time to react, he unhooked my legs, spun me around effortlessly, and threw me over his right shoulder like I weighed nothing at all.
I let out a muffled gasp through my laughter, grabbing the back of his shirt as I hung upside down, watching the dark hallway of the room go by. Lando gave my thigh a firm swat, making my skin sting in the best way, before taking long strides toward the king-sized bed.
"Lando!" I protested, laughing, but with zero intention of actually telling him to stop.
He completely ignored me, dropping me onto the soft mattress — careful enough so I sank into it, but with enough urgency to make the wooden headboard creak softly.
Before I could even adjust, his body was already over mine, blocking me in on all sides. Lando pinned me to the bed, his gaze locking onto mine for a fraction of a second before he leaned down and devoured me in another kiss.
This time, the kiss was slower, deeper, and dripping with a passion that consumed us completely. Our breath filled the quiet room.
Taking advantage of him being totally lost in the kiss, trailing gentle nips from my bottom lip to my cheek, I took control with my own hands. I slid my palms over his broad chest, feeling his heart pounding wildly beneath my touch. Bold and playful now, my hands trailed down his toned stomach to the hem of his McLaren polo shirt.
I slipped my hands under the fabric, feeling the warm skin of his abdomen. Lando let out a low groan against my neck as my nails lightly scratched his ribs, pulling the shirt up in a hurry.
"Take it off..." I whispered against his ear, tugging at the cloth impatiently. "I want to see you. Nothing between us."
Lando pushed himself up over me for a second, eyes burning with desire as he looked down at me, his curly hair completely messy over his forehead. With impatient speed, he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it into some dark corner of the room, leaving his bare chest fully exposed.
The moonlight filtering through the cracked window outlined his muscles, and when he lowered himself back onto me, pressing his bare chest to mine, the heat of his skin made me gasp softly. His hands slid down to my waist, gripping me tight, looking at me as if I were the only valuable thing in the entire universe.
Lando let out a heavy sigh, his warm breath burning against the curve of my neck as his chest rose and fell against mine. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the soft skin under my chin, beginning a trail of slow, teasing kisses down my throat.
He took his time, making me arch my back against the mattress.
"You drive me crazy..." he murmured, his deep voice muffled against my skin as he planted burning kisses along my collarbone.
His right hand slid down, pulling up the hem of my dress. His large, warm fingers met my bare thigh, and that direct skin-to-skin contact made my whole body tense with pure pleasure.
Lando didn't hesitate. He palmed my thigh firmly, his wedding ring lightly brushing my skin as he pulled my leg up, hooking it over his hip. He moved his hand higher, gripping me with a dominance that took my breath away.
"Lando..." my whisper sounded almost like a plea, my voice cracking under the surge of intensity rushing through me.
The contrast between the firm pressure of his hand and the soft, wet kisses he kept giving my neck was sheer perfection. He knew exactly what he was doing. Feeling my reaction, my slight shiver, and the way my nails dug into his bare shoulders, Lando chuckled low against my skin, tightening his grip on my thigh to make it crystal clear that the night had just begun.
Lando pulled the dress over my head with almost reverent care, tossing it somewhere on the dark floor. When his eyes met mine again in the dim light, his breath hitched. The look in his eyes wasn't just desire; it was pure devotion.
He leaned back in, covering my lips in a deep, slow, unhurried kiss. His hands flattened against my back, pulling me even closer to his bare chest. I felt his heat radiating against mine, the wild rhythm of my husband's heart beating against my own.
Lando trailed firm kisses down my neck, making my chest heave. He moved down, mapping every inch of sensitive skin with teasing touches that pulled quiet sighs from the back of my throat.
Panting, Lando finally broke the kiss and stood beside the bed.
The faint light through the window traced the outline of his body. With hands trembling from adrenaline and urgency, he reached for his belt, trying to unbuckle it quickly.
I sat up on the edge of the bed, hair falling messily over my shoulders, and gently caught his wrists to stop him.
Lando looked down at me, eyes dark with desire, his shoulders rising and falling fast.
"Let me do it," I whispered softly, keeping my eyes locked on his.
I slid my hands over his hips, feeling the firm muscle of the world champion under my fingers. With teasing slowness, I unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, revealing his skin little by little. Lando let out a low groan, his head tilting back slightly as my nails lightly brushed his inner thighs while pushing the fabric down.
The second his pants hit the floor, he didn't wait another beat. Lando knelt on the bed over me, pulling me back down onto the mattress and sealing our lips in another urgent kiss, ready to love me until dawn.
He caught my wrists with a firm yet careful grip, bringing my hands above my head and holding them against the mattress. That simple move left him even more surrendered to me.
Without giving me room to catch my breath, Lando kissed me again. There was a raw hunger now, a built-up urgency that felt like it wanted to consume every part of me. His lips met mine with overwhelming intensity, taking control until the only sound in the room was our uneven breathing.
I felt the warm weight of his body completely molded to mine. He trailed fast kisses down my chin, reaching the curve of my neck, leaving a trail of bites and kisses that pulled an involuntary gasp from my throat.
"You have no idea how long I've waited for this," he whispered against my skin, his raspy voice brushing my ear before capturing my mouth once more.
I pressed my wrists lightly against his grip, refusing to stay completely passive under him. A teasing smile touched my lips mid-kiss when he finally pulled back slightly for air.
"If I knew you were this impatient, I would've teased you much sooner," I murmured, my voice breaking slightly as I brushed my lips along his jawline to his ear.
To prove my point, I shifted under him. I moved my hips slowly, brushing against him in a steady rhythm. I felt his abs contract instantly, his breath hitching for a second before turning into a low growl from the back of his throat.
"Let's see who's hungrier now, Lando," I challenged, looking right into his eyes, feeling his grip on my wrists tighten as he took in every bit of the provocation.
Taking advantage of a split second where his focus wavered, I used my leverage on the mattress. In one swift, fluid motion, I flipped our positions, rolling him onto his back.
His hands instinctively let go of my wrists as he stared up at me, eyes hazy with surprise and desire, his chest heaving to catch his breath.
I settled over him, straddling his hips in a dominant pose. I slid my hands slowly down his chest to his waist, feeling his abs flex under my nails.
I leaned over him, stopping just millimeters from his lips so he could feel my hot breath against his.
"You worked hard all season, didn't you?" I murmured, my voice low, husky, and full of mischief. "The world champion shouldn't have to ask for anything... he deserves his reward."
Lando let out a deep, muffled groan at my words, his firm hands immediately shooting up to grip my thighs, pulling me flush against him as a satisfied smile spread across his lips.
I leaned in closer, sealing our lips in a slow, deep kiss, setting the pace while feeling his hands anchored on my thighs.
Breaking the kiss, I trailed warm lips down his chin and neck, listening to his breathing falter with every touch. I dragged my nails with teasing pressure across his chest down to his ribs, feeling his whole body tense under my control.
"Let's see how long you can hold onto that self-control..." I whispered against his chest, moving slowly over him, calculated to drive him out of his mind.
I adjusted myself over him.
Lando threw his head back against the mattress, letting out a low, husky sigh that echoed through the room. His hands moved quickly from my thighs to my waist, pulling me close to eliminate any space between us, his bright eyes locking onto mine.
“You’re playing a dangerous game…” he warned, his voice shaky and his breath completely uneven, matching my movement, accepting the challenge and ready to take back control.
The rhythm between us turned into a seamless flow of touch, soft sighs, and synchronized movements, where the initial teasing gave way to a deep, uninterrupted closeness. With every soft kiss and shared breath in the dimly lit room, the initial urgency shifted into pure harmony, only slowing down when a good kind of exhaustion and quiet bliss finally took over.
When the moment reached its peak, Lando pulled me in close, wrapping his arms tightly around me and bringing me against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, letting out a slow breath as both of our breathing gradually settled back to normal.
Our hands stayed intertwined on the messy sheet. He softly ran his fingers through my hair, leaving sweet kisses on top of my head and forehead, completely surrendered to the moment.
“I think you won this race…” he whispered in a raspy voice with a playful touch, holding me a little tighter against him, with no intention of letting go as the quiet comfort of the night took over the room.
“I’m not done with you yet, champ,” I said, resting my forehead against his chest and trailing soft kisses up to his jaw.
He caught his breath as my fingers gently traced his back.
He closed his eyes for a second, letting his head rest back against the pillow as a shallow breath escaped his lips. It wasn't just about being close, but how easily I could read his every reaction, offering just the right comfort and intensity he needed after an exhausting day.
The soft rhythm of our touch brought a subtle urgency, perfectly tuned to how his body responded. Lando let his hands slide gently through my hair, looking for anchor points, his fingers resting there as he gave in to the moment. The playful tone from earlier turned into a deep sigh, filled with pure vulnerability.
In that cozy space of the night, where the outside world seemed to fade away, he didn't need to be the focused driver under pressure. Right there, guided by my hands, he just needed to let go.
The air in the room felt still and intimate, marked only by our lingering warmth. Lando rested his hand softly on my waist, holding me close as if staying grounded while the rest of the world disappeared.
The urgency gave way to total comfort. With a deep breath and a gentle pull to bring me even closer, he fully relaxed against the sheets.
Lando didn't pull away; he held me softly by the nape of my neck and kissed me again.
The rhythm between us remained a gentle dialogue of touch, quiet sighs, and steady warmth, where the initial excitement gave way to a deep, uninterrupted peace.
With every soft kiss and shared breath in the quiet dark, the initial intensity turned into perfect harmony, slowing down as exhaustion and contentment settled in.
As everything finally quieted down, Lando pulled my body close, wrapping his arms around me and resting my head on his chest. He buried his face in my neck, exhaling slowly as our breathing synchronized once more.
Our hands remained intertwined over the messy sheets. He ran his fingers softly through my hair, leaving tender kisses on my forehead, completely at ease in that moment.
“You definitely won…” he whispered softly with a light laugh, holding me a little closer, with zero intention of letting go as the peace of the night took over the room.
♡ ♡ ♡
The soft early morning light started creeping into the room through the cracks in the curtains, casting golden lines across the messy sheets. Lando was still asleep beside me, one of his arms wrapped heavily around my waist, keeping me glued to him even in his sleep. His breathing was calm and deep — a stark contrast to the storm of sensations from the night before.
As he felt me shift slightly to get more comfortable, his arm tightened its grip, and Lando muttered something unintelligible against my pillow before slowly opening his eyes. It took a few seconds for his dark eyes to focus, but a lazy, visibly satisfied smile soon spread across his lips.
“Good morning…” his voice came out even raspier from sleep as he rested his forehead against my shoulder. “Don’t think I forgot about the tactical beatdown you gave me last night.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, letting the sheet slip down a bit while looking at me with a playful, affectionate glint in his eyes, running his fingers through my messy hair.
“For someone who handed me the ‘champion’s prize,’ you look suspiciously whole. How are you feeling?”
I pulled the sheet tighter against my chest, letting out a soft laugh as I took in that arrogant grin and the adorable mess of his hair on the pillow.
“ ‘Whole’ is a pretty strong word for someone who had to deal with you all night,” I teased, stretching slightly and letting out a lazy sigh. “But if you really wanna know… I feel great. How about you? Does the world champion need ten more minutes in bed to recover, or is breakfast already in your plans?”
Lando let out a raspy laugh, burying his face in my neck for a few seconds and leaving a loud kiss there before pulling back slightly to look at me again. He slid his hand around my waist, pulling me a little closer, in zero rush to get up.
“I might be the champion, but you’re the one calling the strategy today,” he murmured with a mischievous glint in his eyes, sliding his thumb across my cheek. “I just can’t promise I’ll let you out of this bed anytime soon.”
He leaned down to give me a slow, gentle good-morning kiss, sealing the start of a morning that was so much calmer than the night we had left behind.
When our lips parted, he stayed right there, forehead resting against mine, with that serene look that showed he couldn't care less about the world outside. The urgency and intensity of the night had made way for a cozy perfection — the kind where time just seems to stand still.
“You know what? Breakfast can wait a little longer,” Lando whispered, pulling the blanket back over both of us and wrapping me up in his warmth, making my body fit perfectly against his.
I closed my eyes, snuggling into the champion’s chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart. Between the good kind of tiredness from the night and the sweetness of that morning, there was nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.
Summary: During the World Cup in the US, the line between glory and total disaster is razor-thin. Being Declan Rice’s sister and Jude Bellingham’s girlfriend means the pressure is already sky-high — but seeing the two most important men in your life face off in a brutal, violent semi-final against Argentina leads to physical pain, heated brawls, and a soul-crushing loss. But once the dust settles and the third-place match against France turns into a historic ten-goal thriller, Jude realizes that bronze medal doesn't magically erase the heartbreak — it teaches you how to get back up. And no matter what the scoreboard says, you will always be his ultimate safe haven.
Pairing: Jude Bellingham x Reader
Side Characters: Declan Rice, Sister-in-law (Declan’s girlfriend), Mark Bellingham, Denise Bellingham, and Jobe Bellingham
The noise in the stadium wasn’t just loud; it was a total physical vibe, vibrating straight through my chest and making the VIP seats shake under my feet. On one side, a sea of red and white from the England fans; on the other, Argentina’s raging tide of sky blue and white. You could literally cut the tension in the air with a knife.
At the entrance of the suite, I froze for a second. Just breathing. Trying to force my heart back to a normal rhythm.
This wasn't just a World Cup semi-final. For anyone else, it’d already be the night of their lives. But for me... it was way too personal.
In a few minutes, two of the most important people in my world were stepping onto that pitch: my brother and my boyfriend.
"You know that face isn't fooling anyone, right?" a voice next to me said, followed by a gentle nudge to my elbow.
I looked over and saw my best friend — and now sister-in-law — staring at me with her arms crossed and a little smirk on her face.
"What face?" I tried to brush it off, adjusting my bag strap on my shoulder.
"The 'I'm having a total internal meltdown but pretending I'm just enjoying the view' face."
I let out a breath all at once, giving a weak laugh.
"I'm calm."
"Yeah, right. That’s why you spent ten minutes asking if Declan was off the bus yet."
"He's my brother! I'm allowed to worry."
"And you asked twice if Jude looked too quiet during warm-ups," she blinked, her smile getting softer. "Relax. I'm freaking out over Dec too, but freaking out together is way better."
Honestly, that was the only reason I was still standing. Having her there, sharing the weight with me at a game this huge, was the only thing keeping me sane.
We picked up the pace to catch up with the family in our box. Mark and Denise were already in the front row. Denise turned the second she saw us, looking so relieved:
"Thank God! I thought you guys were never gonna get here."
"Traffic around the stadium was insane, Denise," my sister-in-law replied, hugging my mother-in-law while Mark got up to greet us. You could totally tell his jaw was clenched tight from anxiety.
When the teams finally walked out onto the pitch, the stadium exploded. I looked for my brother first. He was super serious, dead focused. But when his eyes caught us up in the box, Dec gave a quick nod — our little silent code for "everything's good." Then he put his hands to his lips and blew a kiss to my sister-in-law.
And then, my eyes automatically drifted to Jude.
He looked massive down there. I caught the subtle way he rolled his left arm. His shoulder. That nagging injury he’d been dragging around for weeks and swore up and down didn't hurt anymore. As if he felt me watching him, Jude looked up, scanning the stands until his eyes locked onto mine. He gave me a tiny smile, put both hands to his chest, and made a heart with his fingers. Just a quick gesture. Then he tapped his chest and turned around to get into position — giving a quick wave to my friend, his mom, and his dad on the way.
"He made the heart," my sister-in-law whispered, lightly bumping her shoulder against mine. "He is so ridiculously crazy about you."
"Yeah..." I muttered. And that’s exactly why the fear hurt so much.
The first half kicked off and turned into a total meat grinder. Argentina came out aggressive, playing right on the edge of dirty, and the ref just stood there watching without pulling out a single card.
"This is ridiculous! The refereeing is completely out of control!" Mark slammed his hand on the railing, furious at the lack of calls. "They’re gonna snap our players in half and he’s not gonna do a damn thing?!"
"He's letting the game get way too out of hand, he’s gonna lose control!" my sister-in-law chimed in beside me, grabbing my hand tight.
Then came the play that made my blood run cold.
Jude got the ball in midfield and turned. Before he could release it, an Argentine player came in dirty, slamming his hand right into Jude’s left shoulder with crazy force. The heavy impact sent him crashing down hard.
"NO!" I screamed, jumping out of my seat instantly.
Denise slapped both hands over her mouth, completely shocked.
On the pitch, Jude was rolling around in pain, clutching the grass. Declan ran over like a madman, getting right in Paredes’ face to protect his future brother-in-law, while the rest of the team swarmed the ref.
"That was on purpose! He went straight for his injured shoulder!" Denise fumed, eyes brimming with tears. "How is that not a red card?!"
The ref just handed out a yellow for the arguing and called a simple foul. No real punishment. I felt my chest tighten with pure rage and helplessness.
The second half started and, to our massive relief — and absolute chaos in the suite — England opened the scoring just minutes in! Quick play, Gordon got the ball on the wing, cut inside, and fired a absolute rocket right into the top corner. 1-0 England! We hugged, jumped around, and cheered until our throats were raw.
But the hype didn't last long.
Instead of riding the momentum to finish the game, England made the worst possible call: they park the bus. The manager pulled everyone back, jammed the team into the penalty box, and handed the ball to Argentina on a silver platter.
"No, no, no... what are they doing?!" Mark was pacing back and forth, freaking out. "Giving Argentina the ball and inviting them into our box is a recipe for disaster!"
"They stopped attacking! Jude and Harry are totally isolated up front!" I said, gripping the railing until my knuckles turned white. "With the ball at Messi's feet, it's just a matter of time..."
The clock hit 90 minutes. The fourth official put up six minutes of stoppage time. It was the longest, most painful six minutes of my life.
At 92 minutes, the suffocating pressure paid off for them. A cross into the box, a scramble, and Argentina tied it up. 1-1. The blue side of the stadium went wild. In our box, dead silence dropped like a heavy blow.
"Stay calm, we still have extra time..." my sister-in-law tried to reassure us, but her voice was shaky.
Except England was mentally done. And at 95 minutes, on the very last play of the game, came the dagger. Another fast attack, a low shot into the corner. Goal, Argentina. 2-1.
The final whistle blew right after. The heartbreak was real.
Right then, I watched Jude drop to his knees on the grass. He buried his face in his hands and pressed his forehead into the turf, totally crushed, without the strength to even stand up.
The Argentine fans in the stands were losing their minds, and their players started mocking everyone on the pitch. One of them ran right past Jude, yelling and getting right in his face.
Jude snapped. In the heat of the moment, blinded by the pain of losing and the cheap taunts, Jude scrambled up and slapped the back of the guy's head hard.
"Jude, don't!" I screamed from the box, even though there was no way he could hear me.
All hell broke loose. Players from both sides started shoving, and a full-blown scuffle broke out in the middle of the pitch. Declan sprinted into the mess, grabbing Jude by the chest and pulling him back hard — trying to protect him before things escalated and got him a massive suspension.
I stood there in shock, watching my brother drag Jude away from the brawl. Jude’s eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving out of control, caught right between pure rage and the heartbreak of watching his World Cup dream slip right through his fingers. And all I wanted to do was run down onto that pitch and pull him out of there.
✤ ✤ ✤
The players' family lounge in the basement of the stadium felt like it was floating in a numb, heavy silence. The air conditioning was blasted way too high, the smell of brewed coffee mixed with pure exhaustion, and the wait felt straight-up endless. It had already been over an hour since the final whistle blew.
Mark was pacing back and forth near the drinks table. Denise sat right next to me, holding my hand in a vice grip. My sister-in-law kept her eyes glued to the glass doors where the players were supposed to come out.
Then, footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Declan was the first one through the doors. He was still keeping it together: shoulders back, head held high, swapped out of his kit and into his official tracksuit. He gave one of the security guards a firm nod, looking completely fine on the outside. The picture-perfect image of a professional.
But the second his eyes swept the room and locked with my sister-in-law's, his armor shattered.
Dec didn't even look left or right. He practically marched straight toward her. My sister-in-law jumped up, and the moment she reached him, Declan pulled her into a desperate, crushing hug. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and just broke down. His chest was heaving with silent sobs, that bulletproof composure giving way to a man who had poured his absolute soul into the game, only to feel the crushing weight of the world on his shoulders. She held him tight, rubbing his back and whispering sweet, quiet words meant only for him.
Slowly, Denise and Mark stepped over to give my brother some love. I took a step back to give them their moment — we'd talk later — but my eyes never left that door.
He still wasn't out.
A few more agonizing minutes ticked by before the door opened again.
Jude finally walked in.
He’d already showered and changed into his light blue England hoodie, hands crammed deep into the front pocket. He had a dark cap pulled way down over his head, the brim almost touching his nose — a subtle, painful attempt to hide his face from the cameras and keep anyone from seeing just how red and swollen his eyes were from crying in the locker room.
There was zero trace of the dominant, larger-than-life presence he usually had on the pitch. His expression was completely blank, eyes locked on the tile floor. He looked like he’d literally shrunk.
My sister-in-law and Declan stepped back a bit, and Mark made a move to step up and say something about the match, but Denise gently put a hand on her husband's arm. My mother-in-law looked at me and just shook her head softly. They knew Jude didn't need tactical breakdowns, football condolences, or cheap clichés right now.
He just needed me.
I didn't wait for him to make it over to the table. I walked over to him slowly.
Jude stopped dead in his tracks when my shoes came into his line of sight. Slowly, he tilted his head up a little. From under the brim of his hat, I caught the glint of tears he was still trying so hard to hold back, along with the raw, gut-wrenching pain in his eyes.
I didn't say "you played great." I didn't say "it wasn't fair" or "there's always next time." Words like that don't fix the agony of watching your ultimate dream get ripped right out of your hands.
I just opened my arms.
In that exact second, Jude took that last step and just surrendered.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face right into my shoulder. The brim of his cap brushed against my neck, and I felt his warm, shaky breath heavy against my skin. I pulled him in with every ounce of strength I had, lacing my fingers through the back of his neck, holding onto him like I was trying to piece every broken part of his heart back together.
He didn't utter a word. He just stood there in silence, leaning all his weight onto me, letting all the exhaustion, the pain in his shoulder, and the sheer rage of the loss melt away into that embrace.
And right there, in that cold, lifeless stadium hallway, the rest of the world completely dissolved. That hug was the only safe place left on earth.
✤ ✤ ✤
The dust from the semi-final took its sweet time to settle. In the days that followed, while the England squad remained locked in to prepare for the third-place match, I stayed behind in the States right alongside the Bellingham family.
Our routine shifted into a gentle attempt at getting back to real life. We’d grab lunch together at the hotel, go for quiet walks around the training grounds, and whenever the coaching staff gave the green light, we’d catch practice from the stands. Declan and Jude looked completely spent physically, but the vibe in the group was slowly shifting away from a funeral atmosphere into a search for dignity in their World Cup farewell.
One afternoon, we were all gathered out on the hotel patio sipping juice. Denise set her phone up on the table to answer a video call. Jobe’s face popped up on the screen, calling straight from Germany, still rocked out in his team’s yellow and black training kit.
"Thank God the signal went through! How’re things going over there in the land of Uncle Sam?" Jobe’s voice blasted through the speaker, loud and full of energy.
"We’re surviving, sweetheart. How was training today?" Denise smiled, her face lighting up the second she saw her youngest.
"All good, Mom. But tell me..." Jobe raised his eyebrows, looking around the screen for someone. "Where’s the superstar? I heard he got booked for slapping an Argentine and turned into World Cup breaking news."
Jude, who was sitting right next to me holding a glass of water, let out a heavy sigh and covered his eyes with his free hand.
"Shut up, Jobe..." Jude grumbled, but there was no real bite to it.
"Shut up, nothing! You almost started World War III in the middle of the pitch!" Jobe cracked up on camera, pointing right at the screen. "And by the way, that cap you had on leaving the stadium... you looked like a secret agent trying to dodge the press. Looked like a total idiot, mate."
Denise and I locked eyes and ended up bursting out laughing.
"Drop it, man. You weren't even there," Jude shot back, trying to keep a straight face, but the corner of his mouth was already twitching.
"I wasn't, but I definitely saw the clip of you crying on your girlfriend’s shoulder," Jobe winked at me through the camera. "Good thing she was there to take care of you, 'cause if it was up to Declan, he’d just give you a earful."
Jude couldn't hold it in anymore. For the first time since that heartbreaking night, a real, genuine smile broke across his face. A short laugh, but it looked like it lifted a massive weight right off his chest.
"You are unbearable, you know that?" Jude shook his head, chuckling softly.
"I’m your younger brother, it’s my sacred duty. Now get your head up and go win that third-place match, or else don’t even bother coming back to Europe."
The call went on for a few more minutes, packed with typical banter and family love. By the time we hung up, the whole atmosphere felt noticeably lighter.
That evening, the hot, muggy American summer air gave way to a gentle breeze. The squad’s hotel had a massive garden out back, surrounded by soft low lighting and towering trees.
After dinner, I asked Jude to go for a quick walk with me. He agreed without a word. We strolled slowly along the stone path, hand in hand, listening to nothing but the crickets and the sound of our own footsteps.
Jude was way too quiet. The smile Jobe had managed to pull out of him earlier was gone, replaced by that distant, heavy look in his eyes.
We stopped near a small fountain in the center of the garden. Jude let go of my hand, leaned his forearms against the stone ledge, and just stared down at the illuminated water.
"What’s going through your head?" I asked quietly, stepping closer.
He took his time to answer. He exhaled slowly through his mouth, covering his face with both hands before looking up at me.
"I feel like I let everyone down," he finally admitted. His voice cracked, carrying a raw vulnerability he never, ever let the cameras catch. "My family, the country... you. I spent the entire year prepping for this exact moment. I promised I was gonna take us to the final and... at the end of the day, I just wasn't enough. My body gave out because of my shoulder, my head gave out in that fight... I just got everything wrong."
Watching the person I loved most in the world tear himself down like that completely broke my heart.
I stepped in, placing myself right in front of him and blocking the space between him and the water. I grabbed his right hand tight.
"Look at me, Jude," I asked softly, but with total certainty in my voice.
Slowly, he looked up and met my eyes.
"You never have to win a game to deserve my love."
The words echoed in the quiet garden.
The effect was instant. His defensive walls completely crumbled. Jude’s eyes widened, his lips trembling slightly. That single sentence undid him entirely, stripping away the brutal pressure of having to be the invincible hero the whole world demanded him to be.
"Babe..." he whispered, his voice completely breaking.
Without another word, Jude stepped forward and pulled me into his arms with absolute desperation. He hugged me so tight he practically lifted me off my feet, burying his face in my neck as he took a deep, shaky breath — inhaling my perfume like it was the only clean air he’d found in days.
I held tight onto his waist, feeling his heart rate slowly settle against me. Right there, in the middle of that garden in the US, Jude Bellingham wasn't a hundred-million-euro football superstar.
He was just my boy. And he knew that, with me, he didn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.
✤ ✤ ✤
July 18, 2026.
Going back to that stadium had a completely different flavor to it. The pain of the semi-final loss was still lingering somewhere under the surface, but the atmosphere this time was entirely renewed. Both England and France were stepping onto the pitch without the crushing weight of playing for the title, but with the hunger to honor the shirt in a match that would go down as the absolute single greatest spectacle of the entire US World Cup.
England started out with both Harry Kane and Jude Bellingham on the bench. The decision to rest them due to physical fatigue and Jude's nagging shoulder left our box in serious suspense. Even if it was just a third-place playoff, the pressure was as real as ever.
I watched every single play on my feet, practically glued to the glass railing.
And what went down from the opening whistle was a total goal fest.
Just three minutes in, Declan pounced on a loose ball in the box and smashed it into the back of the net. We screamed in unison in the suite as I watched my brother sprint toward the crowd. He pointed right up at my sister-in-law, and I beamed with a huge smile. At eighteen minutes, Konsa doubled the lead with a header. At thirty-seven, Saka scored an absolute beauty of a chip, and in first-half stoppage time, Saka bagged another one: 4-0 England.
Literally nobody could stay seated in VIP. Mark was screaming until his throat went raw, Denise was almost in tears at every dangerous chance, and my sister-in-law was gripping my hand so tight my fingers actually started to ache. It was a beautiful celebration — light, free-flowing football.
But France wasn't about to just hand over the game.
In the second half, the French comeback hit like a straight-up hurricane. Mbappé pulled one back at 48 minutes. Barcola made it two at 54. And when Mbappé scored again at 66, bringing the score to a dangerously close 4-3, the tension came roaring back.
That’s when the stadium absolutely lost its mind: Jude was called up from the bench.
The England fans roared his name so loud the whole box felt like it was shaking. Seeing Jude step out onto the pitch made my heart run wild.
At 87 minutes, the ref awarded a penalty to England. The whole stadium figured Jude would grab the ball to take it. But he did something way bigger: he picked up the ball, walked straight over to Saka, and placed it right in the kid's hands, pulling him into a gentle hug and telling him to trust himself. Saka stepped up and buried it like a masterclass, completing his hat-trick. 5-3.
But the madness just wouldn't stop. Deep in stoppage time, at 96 minutes, Dembélé hit a ridiculous strike from outside the box. 5-4.
You could physically feel the tension in the air. One minute left. All of France was pushed up into our box searching for the equalizer.
And then came the play that literally stopped the world.
The English defense cleared a French cross on the rebound. The ball sat wide open in the middle of the pitch. Jude took off like a bolt of lightning.
He collected the ball right at the center circle. Overcoming the sheer exhaustion, the pain in his shoulder, and the absolute limits of his own body, Jude sprinted on a ruthless counter-attack. A defender tried to grab his shirt and was left completely in the dust. Right at the edge of the box, he pulled off a filthy, heart-stopping cutback on the French defenders, rounded the keeper with a subtle touch of his left foot, and walked it into the open net at 98 minutes.
6-4 England.
The final whistle blew seconds later.
Game over.
The stadium simply exploded. An unbelievable, insane game — 10 goals, an epic battle between two giants of world football that ended in a bitter, yet deeply honorable and well-deserved third-place finish.
I started jumping around like crazy in the box. I cried, screamed his name until my voice completely gave out, hugging my sister-in-law, Denise, and Mark in an absolute unhinged celebration.
Down on the pitch, right in the middle of the players celebrating, Jude pulled off his shirt, threw his arms wide open in his iconic celebration, and turned straight toward the family section.
He tilted his head up. His eyes scanned the packed stands until they locked right onto mine.
Even in the middle of tens of thousands of people screaming and jumping, even with confetti raining down from the American stadium sky... our eyes met. The whole world seemed to shrink down until it was just the two of us.
Jude smiled. A light, peaceful smile, completely free of every heavy weight he’d been carrying around. He brought his hand to his chest and made our heart sign one last time.
This time, there was no pain. No regret. Just the pure pride of someone who gave his entire soul on the pitch — and the absolute certainty that, no matter what happened, he always had a home to come back to.
✤ ✤ ✤
The dust from the match had finally settled, and the medal ceremony on the pitch had just wrapped up. I was waiting in the tunnel leading to the locker rooms alongside Mark, Denise, and my sister-in-law, as the roar of the crowd in the stands slowly faded into a distant echo.
Dec came through first, the bronze medal already gleaming on his chest, pulling his girlfriend into a long, deep hug before giving us each a quick kiss on the cheek and heading inside the locker room.
A few moments later, Jude stepped into the corridor.
He was still in his full kit, hair damp with sweat, holding his medal in his hand. The second his eyes swept down the tunnel and locked onto mine... he picked up his pace. I didn't even think twice: I took off running straight toward him.
We collided in a crushing embrace, so intense I almost lost my footing. His arms locked around my waist, lifting me slightly off the ground, and I threw my arms around his neck, holding him as tight as I possibly could. I could feel his heart hammering wildly against my chest, still riding high on matchday adrenaline.
He buried his face into the crook of my neck, taking a deep breath of my scent, and whispered in a low, trembling voice:
"I thought you’d be disappointed in me..."
I pulled back just enough to look right into his eyes. They were still glossy with tears, but now they were shining with a beautiful sense of relief.
"Jude Bellingham..." I gave him a soft smile, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "I fell in love with you. Not your goals."
He let out a quiet, genuine laugh right through the tears that were still stubbornly falling. Using my thumbs, I gently wiped his cheeks. Jude pulled me in by the back of my neck and kissed me. A calm, deep, unhurried kiss that felt like it officially sealed the end of every storm we'd survived over those past few days.
When we pulled apart, Jude stepped to the side, where his parents were watching us.
Mark and Denise had been taking in the whole moment from a short distance, exchanging a silent look of deep, unspoken understanding. Denise’s eyes were glistening with emotion, and Mark gave his wife’s shoulder a gentle pat, like a dad thinking, He found the right one.
Jude walked over to them and threw his arms open, pulling them both into a tight family hug.
"I’m proud of you, son," Mark said, his voice steady as he clapped Jude on the back. "You were a absolute warrior out there."
As he stepped back from his dad, Jude turned to Denise. Without saying a word, he unclasped the third-place bronze medal he was holding, unlooped the ribbon, and carefully placed the necklace and medal right around his mom’s neck.
Denise slapped both hands over her mouth in complete shock, cradling the medal against her chest as her eyes welled over with tears.
"Jude... this is yours..." she whispered, overcome with emotion.
"It’s ours, Mom," Jude smiled, planting a sweet kiss on her forehead. "You guys and her held everything together when I thought I was gonna fall apart. This win belongs to all of you."
Denise hugged him tightly all over again, while Mark stood there beaming with his arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulders. Jude turned back to me and reached out his hand, pulling me right into the center of his family’s circle. Right there, in that stadium tunnel in the US, with the medal resting on his mom’s chest and my hand firmly in his, the pain of the defeat was officially gone.
There was only love, peace, and the long road back home.
✦ EPILOGUE — THE WAY BACK HOME
The bus ride back to the hotel on the team’s family shuttle was an absolute comedy of a celebration. Sure, everyone was completely exhausted, but the adrenaline from a ten-goal thriller had taken total control of the room.
Mark couldn't sit still in his seat for the life of him. He was re-enacting literally every single play of the match like a live commentator, gesturing wildly in the aisle:
"Did you guys see his burst of speed on that sixth goal?! He picked up the ball in midfield, the defender tried to yank his shirt and got absolutely nothing! I knew he was putting that right into the top corner!"
Next to me, Denise was scrolling through her camera roll, proudly showing me dozens — no joke, dozens — of photos she’d taken of Jude during the ninety minutes. The vast majority were completely blurry or focused straight on the back of the head of the fan sitting in front of her.
"Look at this one! This one came out perfect!" Denise pointed to an image where you could barely tell if it was Jude or the referee. "I'm sending this to the family group chat right this second."
My sister-in-law nudged me, cracking up as she tried to take a sip of water:
"If Denise doesn't stop spamming photos, my phone is gonna crash. And I need to save whatever voice I have left, because after that penalty, I think I blew out my vocal cords for good."
To top off the absolute chaos, Jude’s phone buzzed. It was a group video call coming in straight from Germany. The second Jude picked up, Jobe’s face popped up full-screen, shouting:
"THIRD PLACE! THE WORLD IS YOURS, YOU IDIOT!" Jobe burst out laughing on camera before dramatically shifting his tone to a full-on rant: "But I demand you guys brawl with my team next World Cup so I can actually be there! Watching a ten-goal circus on TV while Dad screams his lungs out right next to you guys at the stadium is straight-up psychological torture!"
The entire bus burst out laughing. Even Declan, who was half-asleep three rows ahead, threw his arm up in the air to agree with my brother-in-law.
In the middle of all that noise, the loud laughter, and cross-conversations, I felt Jude’s hand weave into mine. He gently squeezed my fingers, pulling my hand down to rest against his thigh.
I went quiet for a few moments, watching his reflection in the window while I laughed along with his family. Jude was looking over at me with a soft, genuine smile playing on his lips.
That bronze medal resting on his mom’s chest didn't magically erase the heartbreak of the semi-final, nor was it supposed to. But it symbolized something way more beautiful: the power to get back up after getting knocked down.
As the World Cup officially drew to a close, he knew one thing for certain — no matter what happened on the pitch, I would always be the home he'd want to come back to.
Life update: New sports, new stories & F1 one-shots! 🤍
Hey guys! 🤍
I wanted to share a little something with you all.
A lot of you know me for writing about Formula 1, but long before I fell in love with motorsport, there was another sport that held a massive piece of my heart: football. ⚽
Honestly, it was the very first sport I truly fell for. That love really bloomed during the 2010 World Cup, and for some reason, all that passion came rushing back in full force now in 2026. It felt like reconnecting with a part of me that had been asleep for a while.
After football came volleyball, which also marked a huge chapter in my life. And only after all of that did F1 come along, eventually becoming the main focus of my stories.
Because of that, I’m seriously thinking about starting to write football imagines too! 🫶🏻
On top of that, I want to expand things a bit around here: I’m going to start posting F1 one-shots between chapters. I think it’ll be a fun way to explore couples, characters, and ideas that might not turn into a full series.
But don't worry — I am not abandoning Two on Track. It’s still one of my favorite projects, and I can already tease that the next imagine will be Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo! ❤️🏎️
So stay tuned, because there’s a lot of new stuff coming your way. Thank you so much for reading my stories and for all the love. I hope you guys enjoy this new phase as much as I do! 🤍✨
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟: A week after the chaos in Mexico, Formula 1 hits a brief pause, but McLaren settles for no rest. To honor legend Mika Häkkinen, the team hosts a special event at the McLaren Technology Centre. Accompanied by her family, reserve driver Marie Häkkinen navigates the fine line between pride and professional composure while walking the halls beside her iconic father. Between fake coincidences, subtle touches during photoshoots, and a dangerously bold interview, Lando Norris makes no effort to hide his intentions. When the official ceremony ends and the crowds disperse, Lando steals Marie away into the empty, quiet corridors of the MTC. Driven into a private meeting room, the long-suppressed tension between them finally breaks — forcing them both to face what happens when keeping secrets is no longer an option.
Words: 7,86K
Themes: reserve driver!reader x driver!lando norris, secret lovers, coworkers to lovers, forbidden romance, paddock dynamics, formula 1 setting, legendary dad trope, touch-starved, emotional tension to passion, power couple energy, meeting room trope, "we should stop hiding".
Warnings: smut, explicit content, sexual tension, secret relationship, possessiveness, dominance switch, established feelings, public/private relationship conflict, strong language, romantic ending.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
Off the Record
A week after Mexico, I realize Formula 1 never actually stops. It just changes settings.
Out go the burning tracks, in come the flawless hallways. Out go the urgent radio messages, in come the polished interviews. Out goes the smell of race fuel, in come expensive perfumes and corporate coffee. The pace stays the same — it just puts on a different outfit.
The headlines from that weekend are still everywhere. My name pops up way more than I’d like. The unlikely podium, a debut that blew past expectations, “Mika Häkkinen’s daughter impresses,” “Two women at the top of Formula 1,” “McLaren finds new talent.” I’ve read enough versions of the exact same story to know it’s time to start ignoring them.
A break in the calendar is supposed to mean rest.
But McLaren clearly sees "rest" as a prime opportunity for some sleek marketing.
That’s why I’m back in England, standing in front of the McLaren Technology Centre, where the team is hosting a special event honoring one of the biggest names in its history.
Mika Häkkinen.
World champion.
Absolute legend.
A name that still makes people lower their voices in respect whenever it’s spoken around here.
And, at the same time, my dad.
That duality never stops feeling weird to me. To the world, he’s a legend. To me, he’s still the guy who asks if I’m getting enough sleep, complains about how much coffee I drink, and watches my races in almost annoying silence.
The McLaren building stands tall in front of me like always: glass, steel, clean lines, calculated perfection. The artificial lake surrounding it reflects the gray English sky with a stillness that doesn't fit the sport inside at all.
My dad is talking to team members a few feet away, blending right back into the environment like he never left. My siblings, Aina and Hugo, are arguing animatedly over which historic car they want to see first, pointing at every detail with the hype of kids who grew up hearing stories about this place.
I should be focusing on them.
On how proud I am to be here with my dad.
On how much this tribute matters.
On the nice kind of weirdness that comes with seeing him return as a guest of honor.
Instead, my brain keeps drifting back to another problem.
Lando Norris.
Ever since Mexico, we’ve entered a dangerous, blurry territory of human interaction. We talk almost every day. What started as a casual text turned into way-too-long video calls, conversations about nothing that somehow turn into everything, and inside jokes that are moving a bit too fast for comfort.
He calls me to talk about everyday nonsense. Complains about the sim. Makes dramatic comments about hotel food. Narrates Oscar’s daily routine like it’s a National Geographic documentary. Says he can already tell from my voice when I’m tired.
I tell him that’s ridiculous.
He says what’s really ridiculous is that I answer every single call.
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong about that either.
Standing near the main entrance, I pull my coat tighter against the cold and casually scan the crowd. Staff members walk in and out, photographers set up, old team members arrive with big smiles, and journalists try way too hard to look casual.
Then my phone buzzes.
‘five minutes away. behave.’
I look down at the text and catch myself smiling before I can even stop it.
I text back:
‘impossible.’
I put my phone away and look back toward the entrance.
My dad is still talking. My siblings are still arguing. The English wind is still being miserable.
And I’m still standing here, waiting for a guy who, honestly, is becoming way too much of a distraction for someone who used to pride herself on having total self-control.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
Being by my dad’s side is a totally different experience from anything else I’ve ever been through in Formula 1.
I’ve walked into major paddocks before. I’ve navigated crowded garages. I’ve sat in briefing rooms where million-dollar decisions get made in minutes. I’ve worn the team kit. I’ve driven their car on an official race weekend.
None of that prepares me for this.
Because it’s one thing to wear McLaren’s colors as a reserve driver.
It’s a completely different story to walk through the main entrance of the team’s historic headquarters next to Mika Häkkinen while the entire place reacts as if part of its very architecture just came back home.
My dad remains totally unbothered.
Of course he does.
He walks with his usual calm posture, hands in his coat pockets, expression neutral enough to fool anyone who doesn't know him. But I know how to spot the subtle clues: the almost invisible relax in the corner of his mouth, the sharp eyes taking in old details, the way he looks around the building like someone revisiting a big part of his life without needing to say a word.
Beside me, Aina and Hugo are the exact opposite.
Completely amazed.
My brother points at everything in sight like he’s ten years old again. My sister tries to act a bit more composed, but her curious eyes give her away immediately.
“This place is massive,” Hugo whispers.
“You say that about literally every glass building,” Aina replies.
“Because glass buildings are impressive.”
I let out a soft laugh, grateful for the distraction.
Because calling me “nervous” right now would be a massive understatement.
I try to keep a professional posture. Shoulders back. Calm steps. Serene face.
Inside, my brain is in controlled chaos.
Staff members pop up from every direction to greet my dad.
Some of the older ones clearly know him personally. Others have that look in their eyes of someone standing in front of a childhood hero.
“Mika, great to have you back.”
“So good to see you.”
“Still looks the same.”
He answers everyone with his usual few words, firm handshakes, and subtle smiles that feel extra valuable precisely because they're so rare.
Former team members appear out of nowhere.
Gray-haired guys kicking off stories with “remember Suzuka?” and “do you still recall that setup change?” My dad listens, doesn't say much, but remembers every single detail.
Current executives roll in shortly after, overly smiley with carefully rehearsed corporate enthusiasm.
Photographers follow every single movement, capturing the legend’s return to the place where he became immortal.
And I walk beside him, caught somewhere between total pride and growing embarrassment.
Pride because he deserves every single bit of it.
Embarrassment because half of these people are now looking at me, too.
The daughter.
The reserve driver.
The girl who made the podium last race.
The walking comparison.
“You’re stiff,” my dad mutters in Danish without even turning his head.
“I’m normal.”
“You’re walking like you’re going to a military inspection.”
“Thanks for the support.”
“Relax.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“Genetics.”
I roll my eyes, and honestly, that helps more than any sincere advice ever could.
We’re guided through the spotless hallways of the HQ, passing historical display cases, legendary cars, and staff members trying—and failing—to act subtle while sneaking peeks. The whole place feels designed to remind literally anyone walking through that excellence is the baseline around here.
And then, the real problem appears.
Lando Norris shows up way too early.
I spot him before I even hear his voice.
Casually dressed in expensive clothes that pretend to be low-key. Casually handsome in a way that honestly should be taxed. Casually way too interested in our group for someone who, on paper, was just supposed to be turning up for the event.
“Morning,” he says, walking over with suspicious naturalness.
He greets my dad with genuine respect. Greet my siblings like he’s known them for years. And then he looks at me for one second longer than necessary.
“Hi.”
Just that.
Hi.
Two letters, and my entire inner peace goes out the window.
“You’re early,” I say.
“I work here.”
“Today?”
“Especially today.”
Liar.
In under ten minutes, he’s already volunteering to show my siblings around the building.
Hugo accepts instantly.
Aina tries to act unbothered and fails miserably.
“Do they let you drive everything here?” Hugo asks.
“Only the expensive things,” Lando replies.
“Then definitely take him,” I say.
My dad watches the whole interaction in dangerously interested silence.
A little later, Lando shows up again carrying coffees that nobody actually asked for.
Hands one to my dad.
“Thought you might want one.”
My dad takes it.
“Good instinct.”
Lando clearly counts that as receiving a national medal of honor.
After that, he starts “helping” with access passes that were already completely sorted out. Adjusts wristbands. Points out totally obvious directions. Explains schedule details we already knew.
He materializes anywhere I go through coincidences that get less and less believable by the minute.
If I head toward the photo area, he pops up there.
If I pause near the historical car showcase, he’s right beside me making some useless comment.
If I talk to Aina, he happens to walk past “by chance.”
If I’m left alone for thirty seconds, he literally manifests.
Oscar figures out the whole thing in about five minutes.
I notice when he walks past us, looks at Lando, looks at me, and pulls that exact smile of someone who just cracked the entire plot.
“Interesting,” he mutters before keeping it moving.
Zak Brown takes maybe seven minutes.
He watches us from a distance during some random conversation, spots Lando showing up for the third time with a fresh set of excuses, and has to turn his head away just to hide his amusement.
Nobody says a word.
Nobody steps in.
Because it’s way too entertaining to watch Lando Norris—a grown man and lead driver for McLaren — try to act cool while blatantly orbiting around me inside his own team’s headquarters.
“Are you following me?” I ask when he pops up next to me again near the auditorium entrance.
“No.”
“That came out way too fast.”
“I know the building better than you do.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I’m just being hospitable.”
“You’re being obvious.”
He gives me a half-smirk, completely unbothered and shamelessly confident.
“And yet, here you still are.”
I hold his gaze for a second too long.
Then I adjust my lanyard around my neck and keep walking.
Because, annoyingly enough, he’s not wrong about that either.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
The photo shoot starts right after the main reception, when some event coordinator decides everyone needs to be strategically lined up for “institutional content.”
Translation: a bunch of well-dressed people running around like crazy trying to position drivers like they’re expensive pieces of home decor.
A little setup has been built in an open area of HQ — McLaren backdrops, flawless lighting, and photographers shouting in three directions at once.
They call out the main names first.
Mika Häkkinen. Lando Norris. Oscar Piastri. Marie Häkkinen.
Then they call over engineers, reserve drivers, execs, and guests for various combinations.
I’m already exhausted before the first camera even clicks.
My dad, of course, looks completely unfazed. He drops into whatever pose they ask for with the calm of a guy who’s been doing this for decades.
Oscar treats the whole thing like light entertainment.
Lando treats it like a golden opportunity to push buttons.
For the first sequence, they put my dad in the middle, with me on one side and Lando on the other.
“Perfect, hold there,” the photographer says.
Perfect for who? I ask myself.
I square my shoulders and try to look like a professional human being. Flash clicks once.
Then I hear the quiet voice right next to me.
“Do you always look this serious in photos, or is it just because I’m nearby?”
I keep my smile frozen on my face.
“Silence.”
“Was that…?”
“That was a threat.”
More flashes.
The photographer switches angles.
“Great. Now a little more relaxed.”
“She can’t,” Lando mutters under his breath.
“Yes, I can.”
“Prove it.”
I smile at the camera with a sweetness so fake it almost physically hurts.
On the other side, Oscar starts cracking up.
For the next lineup, they swap positions and end up putting me between Lando and my dad again.
I genuinely feel like someone is doing this on purpose. Probably multiple people.
While they adjust the lighting, I feel a light touch on my elbow.
Lando.
“Your hair got caught in your coat.”
He frees a strand of hair with absurdly unnecessary care.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
On my other side, my dad keeps staring straight ahead like nothing is happening.
Which makes it ten times worse.
More clicks. More poses. More orders.
“Look at each other.”
I look at my dad.
The photographer laughs.
“No, no — Marie and Lando.”
I turn slowly.
Lando is already looking right at me.
Naturally.
Like he’s been waiting hours just to do that.
The camera fires off multiple shots while I try to hold a straight face—and fail in ways way too subtle to actually admit out loud.
Next, they call Oscar over and take a photo of the team’s current trio with my dad standing behind us.
Oscar whispers: “This is better than Netflix.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
“Never.”
Then, the photographer decides to make things even worse.
“Closer together, please.”
Before my brain even processes the sentence, Lando moves way too fast.
He takes a small step in, presses his body close to my side, and rests his hand lightly on my back like it’s the most natural gesture in the world.
My heart reacts in a deeply inconvenient way.
I almost lose my cool. Almost.
“Wonderful,” the photographer cheers.
Not wonderful for me.
I lift my chin and stare hard at a random point in the distance.
My dad notices. Of course he notices.
I feel it without even looking.
That silent, total awareness he’s always had about everything happening around him.
I glance over casually and catch his face—completely neutral.
Zero reaction. Zero comments. Zero help.
He literally just pretends he didn’t see McLaren’s lead driver cozying up way too close to his daughter in the middle of an official photo shoot.
Traitor.
When they finally call a wrap on that group, I immediately take a step forward.
Lando walks right with me.
“You ran off pretty fast.”
“Survival instinct.”
“From me?”
“From the sheer embarrassment.”
“Same difference.”
Before I can even reply, they call for another group shot—this time with the entire team.
I use it as an excuse to place myself a few spots away.
Two minutes later, Lando pops up right next to me again.
“Coincidence. Together again,” he says.
“Unfortunately,” I correct him.
Oscar overhears and bursts out laughing.
My dad stares at the ceiling for a second, like he’s reconsidering old parenting choices.
And the shoot goes on — constant flashes, rehearsed smiles, and the distinct feeling that nobody there is actually interested in the photos so much as watching me try to pretend Lando Norris isn’t having the time of his life at my expense.
Just when I think the public torture is over, I find out McLaren saved one last activity for us.
Digital content.
Of course.
We’re led to an indoor studio built right inside the building—flawless lighting, cameras set up at three different angles, and high stools placed in front of a sleek team backdrop. The exact kind of setup meant to look super casual while being completely staged.
A producer holding a clipboard smiles at me with dangerous energy.
“Marie, you’ll be hosting this segment with Lando.”
I stop mid-step.
“Excuse me?”
“Interviewing Mika. Memories, legacy, fun questions.”
I look at my dad. He looks completely unbothered.
I look at Lando. He looks way too delighted.
I look at the ceiling. Zero divine intervention.
Five minutes later, I’m sitting on a stool with cue cards in my lap, a mic pinned to my top, and a growing sense that this is going to go horribly wrong.
Lando sits next to me like he was personally trained to throw me off my game in professional settings.
Too comfortable. Too handsome. Too excited.
My dad settles into the chair across from us — impeccable posture, hands resting in his lap, his usual calm completely intact.
The producer counts down with her hand.
“Three… two… one…”
Red light turns on. Automatic smile.
I take the lead because someone in this room needs to be an adult.
“Hey everyone! Today we’re at the McLaren Technology Centre with a absolute legend of the team, Mika Häkkinen.”
My dad tilts his head slightly.
Lando jumps right in.
“And with Marie, who is trying very hard not to be biased.”
“I’m not biased.”
“You literally share DNA with the guest.”
“Keep smiling and shut up.”
The crew behind the cameras chuckles.
Great.
We start with safe questions. About his first world title. About the pressure back then. About what it meant to drive for McLaren during such competitive years.
My dad answers like he always does: direct, sharp, not wasting a single word.
“Winning never feels easy while it’s happening,” he says at one point. “It’s only afterward that people call it inevitable.”
I make a mental note of that because it’s such a him thing to say.
Lando takes over the next part.
“You raced in an era without social media. Better or worse?”
“Better.”
“Quick answer.”
“I didn’t have to read stupid opinions in real time.”
Oscar, somewhere behind the cameras, lets out a muffled wheeze.
We keep going. We ask about Ayrton Senna. About respect between rivals. About old grudges. About the difference between cars back then and cars now.
Lando asks: “Who’d be faster on a flying lap — you in your prime, or me right now?”
My dad looks at him.
“Me.”
“Without even thinking about it?”
“Especially without thinking about it.”
More laughs.
I’m just starting to relax when I catch a shift in Lando’s eyes.
That specific look.
Imminent trouble.
He rests his cue card on his leg, crosses one knee, and speaks like he’s about to ask a completely normal question. Except we were out of questions.
“Last question.”
My survival instincts kick in instantly.
“Lando…”
Too late.
“What advice would you give to someone interested in your daughter?”
The entire studio goes dead silent.
Absolute, total silence.
Even the air seems to stop moving.
I close my eyes for half a second because dying right here, right now, honestly feels way easier.
When I open them, nobody has moved.
The producer has frozen. The camera operator’s eyes are wide open. Oscar has disappeared behind a monitor, trying not to explode.
I turn slowly toward Lando.
He looks back at me with the most innocent face ever worn by a blatantly guilty man.
Traitor.
Then I look at my dad.
Mika Häkkinen stares at Lando in complete silence.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Long enough for me to age five years emotionally.
Then he replies, as calm as if he’s commenting on the weather:
“Being fast helps.”
For a second, nobody processes it.
Then the whole studio completely loses it.
Oscar literally chokes behind the monitor. Someone drops something on the floor. The producer puts her head down on her clipboard, shaking.
I cover my face with both hands.
“Dad.”
“It was a legitimate question.”
“You are not helping.”
Lando is beaming.
“So there’s hope?”
My dad looks at him again.
“I didn’t say that.”
Oscar almost falls off his seat.
I stand up from the stool.
“We’re done. The interview is over.”
The producer, still cracking up, waves her hands frantically.
“We’re definitely keeping that in.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Already backed up twice.”
Lando leans over toward me as I unclip my mic.
“Your dad likes me.”
“My dad tolerates entertainment.”
“Close enough.”
“I’m going to throw you in the lake.”
“Are you really?”
I turn around and walk away before my own smile gives me away.
Behind me, I hear my dad say with absolute calm:
“She threatens people when she’s nervous.”
And Oscar laughs like he just witnessed the best piece of content all season.
After the interview — and my public humiliation officially recorded in high definition—we’re ushered toward the main auditorium of the headquarters.
The vibe changes completely.
Where before everything felt lighthearted and back-stage casual, there’s now real weight in the air. Elegance. Respect. History.
McLaren’s main auditorium is huge, modern, and quiet in an almost reverent way. Dimmed lights, a central stage, a massive screen in the background, and rows filled with current employees, team veterans, special guests, select media, and people who clearly helped build major chapters of this place.
My dad doesn't say much while we wait. Neither do I.
There are moments when silence says a lot more.
We sit in the front rows. Me between my siblings, with my dad sitting up front for a few minutes before being called over to the side of the stage. Aina gives my hand a subtle squeeze.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe.”
Hugo leans in.
“If you cry, I’m telling everyone.”
“If you say one more word, I’m disowning you.”
He smiles, completely satisfied.
The lights dim.
The event starts.
A voice introduces Mika Häkkinen as one of McLaren’s eternal legends, and then the big screen comes alive.
The old footage rolls out, one clip after another.
Victories. Aggressive starts. Clean, decisive overtakes. That iconic yellow helmet cutting through rain, corners, crowds. Mechanics sprinting in the pit lane. Arms raised high on the podium.
My dad, decades younger, smiling that rare smile he still uses today.
The audience reacts to every scene with murmurs, laughs, spontaneous applause.
I watch in silence.
It’s weird and beautiful seeing someone who’s always just been my dad get turned into a collective memory right in front of my eyes.
To me, he’s always existed in regular clothes, way-too-early coffees, and blunt advice over the phone.
Here, he’s a symbol. A legend. Part of the very identity of an entire racing team.
At the end of the video, the entire auditorium gives a standing ovation.
Then I hear my name.
“To present this special tribute… Marie Häkkinen.”
My heart skips a beat.
I turn to Aina.
“I hate everyone.”
“Go,” she replies, smiling.
I walk up to the stage, trying to keep my steps steady. The lights feel way brighter up here. The room feels bigger. The award sits on a subtle pedestal in the middle — sleek, metallic, engraved with his name.
My dad walks up next under another round of applause.
He looks at me just once. Calm. Like he knows exactly what I need right now: normalness.
I grab the mic.
Breathing feels like a difficult task for about two seconds, but then I start.
“It’s strange trying to introduce someone who, to so many people in this room, represents so much… while to me, he still represents very simple things.”
A few soft laughs ripple through the room.
I look at him.
“I grew up seeing his name honored all over the world. In garages, paddocks, airports, museums, documentaries, late-night driver chats. I grew up slowly realizing that what was just everyday life to me… was extraordinary to a lot of people.”
The auditorium stays dead silent, listening.
“But what hit me the most was never the trophies.”
I pause.
“It was the quiet things.”
I catch my dad lowering his eyes slightly.
“The discipline without the show. The hard work without needing to announce it. The high standards always paired with genuine care. The way he always taught me more through his actions than through speeches.”
My voice sounds steadier now.
“And above all, something I only truly appreciate the older I get: he always treated me as his daughter first… and as a racing driver second.”
I swallow hard before continuing.
“That gave me the freedom to fail, to learn, to try again, and to find my own path in a sport that sometimes tries to define who you are before you can even speak for yourself.”
I see a few people nodding in the crowd.
“So today, I’m not just handing this award to a world champion or a McLaren legend.”
I look right at him.
“I’m giving it to the man who taught me that real greatness almost always comes quietly.”
The room explodes into applause before I even finish speaking.
I turn, pick up the award with both hands, and hand it to him.
My dad holds the trophy, then looks at me.
For a single second, his composure cracks. Just one second. More than enough.
Then he hugs me. Tight. Taking his time. Without any need to hide his emotion.
Rousing applause echoes through the entire auditorium.
I close my eyes for a moment and just take it all in.
When we pull back, he mutters close to my ear:
“Good speech.”
I let out a quiet laugh, way too emotional.
“You could’ve told me that at home.”
“Would’ve been less effective.”
Of course it would be.
We take a few steps back to pose for photos. The crowd keeps clapping. Aina is subtly wiping her eyes. Hugo is trying to act like he’s totally unbothered and failing miserably.
Before heading off the stage, I glance quickly at the front row.
Lando is sitting right there.
In a rare moment of quiet. No quick jokes ready. No playful smirks. No distractions.
Just staring at me like he completely forgot to hide something really important.
Mesmerized. Completely and totally.
And, for some reason, that throws me off almost as much as my dad’s hug.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
Here is the informal, natural-sounding English translation that captures the emotional beat, the teasing banter, and the internal monologue of the scene:
The applause is still echoing through the auditorium when I finally manage to slip away.
Not because I want to leave.
I just need to... breathe.
I walk through a few hallways of the McLaren HQ, barely even noticing where I’m going. The foot traffic drops off the further I get from the main hall, replaced by a comfortable silence. Large glass windows let the English afternoon light pour into the corridor, reflecting off the lake surrounding the building.
I hold onto the commemorative award they handed me as a keepsake from the event and let out a long, heavy sigh.
My heart is still racing.
From the speech. From my dad’s hug. From the way he looked at me.
And, mostly... From the way someone else looked at me.
“Do you always run away after making everyone cry?”
The voice comes from right behind me.
I don’t even need to turn around. I’d know that accent anywhere.
A small smile touches my lips before I even answer.
“I didn’t make anyone cry.”
“Sure.”
I keep walking.
“You’re following me again.”
“Coincidence.”
“We already used that excuse today.”
“It’s still working.”
I laugh softly under my breath.
“You really don’t give up, do you?”
“Not even a little bit.”
I hear his footsteps closing the distance until we’re walking side by side.
For a few seconds, neither of us says a word. It’s funny how the silence between us stopped being awkward.
A few weeks ago, I could barely look at him for more than five seconds straight.
Now... Now walking in silence feels entirely too natural.
“Your speech was beautiful.”
I keep my eyes ahead.
“Thanks.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I know.”
“You were so worried you were going to get emotional.”
“I did get emotional.”
“Yeah.”
He smiles.
“And it was the best thing that happened all day.”
My face heats up instantly.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Not always.”
“You definitely are this time.”
“Definitely not this time.”
I stop in front of a massive window overlooking the lake. I cross my arms, trying to hide the nerves spiking inside me for no obvious reason.
Or maybe for a very specific one.
Lando stops right beside me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Marie.”
“Nothing.”
He chuckles softly.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“That was a compliment.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Trust me, it was.”
I roll my eyes again and start walking.
He matches my pace. He always matches my pace.
“Can I ask a question?”
“Depends.”
“Are you going to run away again?”
“Depends on the question.”
“Are you running away from me...” He pauses for a second. “...or from how you feel about me?”
My steps slow down.
Dammit.
I look at him for just a split second.
Long enough to realize that, for the first time since we started getting close, he isn’t joking around.
No smirk. No sarcasm. Just total honesty.
I avert my eyes.
“Lando...”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t change the subject this time.”
“I’m not changing it.”
“You are.”
I turn to keep walking.
He gently catches my wrist.
Not to force me to stay. Just to get me to look at him.
“Marie.”
My heart completely forgets how to do its job.
“Look at me.”
I obey. Massive mistake.
His eyes have never looked this serious.
“Every time you get nervous around me, you make up some excuse.”
“...”
“Every time I try to get closer, you change the subject.”
“...”
“Every time someone teases us, you pretend you didn’t hear it.”
I take a deep breath.
“Lando...”
“I like you.”
Just like that. No beating around the bush. No buildup. No room to interpret it any other way.
The words just land right in front of me.
“I’ve liked you for a while now.”
My brain comes to a complete halt.
“After Baku, I tried convincing myself it was just excitement.” A small smile touches his lips. “After Singapore, I thought it was just respect.” He takes a step closer. “After Austin, I realized I was constantly looking for you in every corner of the paddock.” Another step. “In Mexico...” He shakes his head. “...I gave up pretending.”
Now there’s less than a single step between us.
“And today.” He smiles in that quiet way that completely breaks down every single defense I have. “Today, I was 100% sure.”
My hands go cold.
“Lando...”
“You don’t have to answer right now,” he says softly. “I just needed you to know.”
I stay dead silent.
Not because there isn’t an answer. There is. There has been for a long time. I just never had the guts to say it out loud.
I drop my head for a moment.
“Your timing is horrific.”
“I know.”
“My dad is literally still in the building.”
“I know.”
“You have terrible timing.”
“Guilty.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Just a quiet laugh.
He smiles right along with me.
“Finally,” I say, looking back up into his eyes. “You are impossible.”
“I’ve heard that one before too.”
I take a step back. Or at least I try to.
He follows just enough so the distance between us practically disappears again.
“Gonna run away again?”
It’s almost a whisper.
I swallow hard.
“Maybe.”
“I won’t let you.” His voice drops so low it almost gets lost in the silence of the hallway. “I’ve never been very good at giving up.”
I feel a sudden wave of courage come out of nowhere—from a place I didn’t even know existed.
Without thinking, I reach up and rest my hand against the side of his face.
My fingers touch his cheek.
He closes his eyes for a split second, leaning his face slightly into my hand.
“Then...”
I murmur.
“...I think I have a problem.”
He smiles.
“What problem?”
“I like you too.”
I barely get the words out.
He closes the rest of the distance gently, giving me every chance to pull back if I wanted to.
I don’t pull back.
Our faces move closer until our lips finally meet.
The first kiss is quiet. Almost hesitant. Like we’re both just confirming that this is actually happening.
When we pull back just a couple of inches, our foreheads stay resting together.
We both smile at the exact same time.
“And here I thought you were gonna run.”
“I thought I was too.”
He lets out a soft laugh before leaning in to kiss me again—this time with a whole lot more confidence.
Outside, the event goes on.
Inside, hidden away in the quiet hallways of McLaren, all that matters right now is that, for the first time, neither of us has to pretend anymore.
Here is the translation adapted into a natural, informal, and immersive English style while preserving all the intimacy, rhythm, and tension of the scene.
But the second kiss doesn’t ask for permission. The confidence in his laugh shifts straight into intent, and the distance between us just vanishes.
His hand drops its earlier restraint, sliding up the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling my head back slightly. His touch is warm, urgent, sending a shudder down my entire spine. No more hesitation — just a built-up hunger neither of us is trying to hold back anymore.
I give in to his rhythm, pulling him by the collar of his shirt until I can feel the heat of his chest pressed against mine. The kiss deepens, heavier and more desperate. His tongue finds mine with a boldness that catches my breath. Every brush of our lips, every breathless, muffled sigh against each other's mouth makes all reason completely fade away.
He pushes me gently, but with a possessive firmness, until my back hits one of the frosted glass walls of the hallway. The contrast of the cold surface against the heat of his body pressed into mine makes me gasp — a sound he immediately devours in an even deeper kiss. His hands slide down to my waist, digging into my skin with an intensity that marks every point of contact, pinning us together for good.
The friction, the sound of our uneven breathing, and the racing beat of our hearts echo through the dim, deserted hallway. The world outside — with the event and the lights of headquarters — is just a distant blur. In here, in the quiet and heat of this stolen space, the long-suppressed tension finally explodes.
The intensity between us seems to completely ignore where we actually are.
His hands, which had been holding my waist tightly, move without asking for permission. His fingers dig into the fabric of my clothes, squeezing my ass firmly and without hesitation, pulling my hips against his. The full contact makes my whole body react instantly; an audible gasp escapes my throat right against his mouth as I feel the exact weight of what that touch does to both of us.
He breaks the kiss for just a second, his lips still brushing mine, his breath completely out of control, his eyes dark and heavy with desire.
Without losing the connection of our heat, his hand slides down to my wrist. He leads us with restrained haste down the silent hallway to the nearest door: one of the private meeting rooms. He turns the handle, pulls me inside, and the second the door shuts behind us — cutting off any last trace of light or sound from outside — he locks it.
In the dim room, before I can even take a step, he presses me against the firm wood of the sealed door, taking my mouth again with a hunger that’s only grown.
The cold wood of the door at my back seems to vanish the moment his hands return to my body. Without breaking the kiss for even a second, he wraps his arms firmly around my waist, lifting me nearly off the floor and guiding me blind through the darkness of the room.
Every step back is slow, hungry, driven by an urgency neither of us wants to slow down. My hands slide up to his shoulders, gripping the fabric to keep my balance while the muffled sound of our footsteps and the rhythm of our breathing fill the air-conditioned space.
With one continuous, possessive motion, he positions me right in front of the large conference table at the center of the room. His hand slides a little lower on my waist, and with a firm, precise tug, he lifts me until I’m sitting on the edge of the polished wood.
The height difference only makes everything feel that much more visceral.
He fits himself immediately between my legs, pressing his hips to mine while his hands move up from my waist to my thighs, pulling me even closer. The kiss deepens to the absolute limit, leaving no room for air or distance, turning the formality of that room into the backdrop of our complete surrender.
He leans over me, his lips leaving my mouth for a moment to trace slowly down my jawline until they reach the sensitive skin of my neck. The heat of his breath there makes me tilt my head back involuntarily, letting out a ragged sigh. Every kiss along my neck is heavy, hot, and teasing, punctuated by soft bites and subtle nips that leave electric trails wherever he touches.
While his mouth gets lost on my skin, his hand slides down from my hip and finds the hem of my dress. Unhurried, but with a determination that makes my chest heave, his fingers slip under the thin fabric.
The palm of his hand, warm and slightly rough, moves slowly up my bare thigh. The contrast of his temperature on my skin makes my whole body break into goosebumps immediately. As he hitches the dress higher, pulling the fabric up to my waist, his lips slide back up to my jawline, finding my eyes in the dark before devouring my mouth once more with a thirst that seems endless.
With his eyes locked on mine, he pulls back just enough to grab one of the upholstered chairs in the room, setting it directly between my open legs. The movement is calculated, heavy with intent.
He sits down facing me, leaning his torso forward with his arms resting on my exposed thighs. His hands move slowly and firmly over my skin, pulling the dress up even more until the cool air in the room almost makes me shiver — a total contrast to the burning heat of his presence.
His gaze drops, and his breathing turns even heavier.
Before he even touches me, the closeness of his warm breath on my sensitive skin makes me grab the edge of the table tightly. When he finally leans in and lets that first soft, damp touch find that knot of pent-up tension, the feeling is so overwhelming my head drops back instantly. A low groan echoes through the quiet room while his fingers dig into my thighs, holding me steady against him as we completely lose ourselves in the moment.
The pace he sets gets more and more intense, a perfect, continuous pressure driving my body to the absolute edge. The sensation builds in waves of pure heat, making my heart race until there’s no control left. A louder gasp escapes my throat, and the peak hits me out of nowhere — a hard, electric tremor sweeping through my whole body, making my thighs tense and my fingers dig into his hair as I completely surrender to the wave.
He stays there for a few more seconds, feeling every reaction of my body until the initial shaking starts to subside.
With his breathing just as wrecked as mine, he slowly gets up from the chair. His eyes meet mine, heavy, dark, and loaded with a visceral satisfaction. He steps back between my legs, pressing his body against mine again while I try to catch my breath on the edge of the table.
Without breaking eye contact, my still-trembling hands reach for his waist.
With a sudden rush of urgency, my fingers find the leather strap of his belt. The metallic click of the buckle unfastening echoes clearly in the dim room — a stark reminder that the control that brought us here was left strictly on the other side of that door.
His gaze darkens even more as he catches the quick movement of my hands. Without waiting another second, he grabs my waist tightly, pulling me to the very edge of the table so there isn't a single millimeter of space between us. The direct contact of his warm body against mine is instant, and the weight of his intention sends chills through me.
When he finally aligns and pushes in, the feeling of being filled is complete.
His entry hits like a shock of thick, molten heat that locks the breath in my throat. It’s a firm, precise pressure stretching every fiber of my body in a wave of pleasure so intense it’s almost painful. There's no hesitation; the steady rhythm as he takes over makes my back arch against the table, sending an electric shiver from the point of contact straight to the base of my spine.
A sharp, surrendered sigh escapes my lips at the exact moment his hands dig deeper into my skin, making sure I feel every single inch of him taking me over. It’s an overwhelming feeling of total unity, where the firmness of his touch and the suffocating heat of the room become the only center of gravity left.
The full intrusion turns the air in the room dense, almost impossible to breathe. He braces himself on the edge of the table, on either side of my body, locking his arms to keep control while his heavy, ragged breath hits my neck.
He starts to move. Slow at first, deep, testing every limit and making sure every millimeter of my body registers his presence. The direct, hot, continuous friction sets my skin on fire. The feeling of being filled with every thrust is so overwhelming that my legs wrap around his waist on instinct, pulling him in even deeper.
"Look at me," he asks in a raspy voice, barely a dragged-out whisper against my ear.
When I open my eyes, I find his gaze in the dark, completely consumed by the same desire that’s burning me up. The pace picks up. The initial slowness gives way to harder, more precise, rhythmic thrusts, making the large conference table creak softly under our weight. With every impact, a muffled groan slips from my throat, lost between the friction of our bodies and the suffocating heat taking over the room.
My hands slide up his back, feeling his muscles tense with every movement, my fingers digging into his skin as I lose myself completely in the raw frequency of that rhythm, where nothing else in the world exists except the two of us.
The muffled sound of our groans and the steady, firm beat of his thrusts fill every corner of the locked room. The formality and order of that corporate space have been completely wiped away by the suffocating heat and the urgency with which we give in to each other.
He speeds up, every movement deeper and more precise than the last, leaving no room for a pause. With every heavy hit against my body, the pleasure builds intensely in my lower belly, shortening my breath to shallow gasps and driving my fingers deeper into his tense back.
"Faster..." the plea slips out of my throat almost on its own, thick with unyielding desire.
He answers instantly. His eyes, dark and locked onto mine, carry an absolute possessiveness as he picks up the pace, holding my waist firmly to guide every motion. The continuous, burning friction drives us too fast toward the edge. The tension in my chest stretches to its absolute limit until the wave crashes — a hard, uncontrollable spasm that makes my whole body shake, clamping around him tightly as I gasp his name on a ragged breath.
Feeling my reaction is the final trigger for him. With one last deep thrust, he lets out a low growl against my neck, his entire body going rigid for a few seconds as he completely undoes himself, pouring into me while keeping us glued together, breathless in the dark room.
Gradually, the suffocating rush of the moment gives way to a heavy quiet. Both of our ragged breaths echo through the dim room, a stark contrast to the usual pristine order of the McLaren space.
He stays pressed against me for a few seconds, his forehead resting on my shoulder as his chest rises and falls against mine. Slowly, he pulls back just enough to fix our clothes, never breaking eye contact. There’s a different look in his eyes now — less wild, deeper, and insanely sincere.
I smooth myself out on the edge of the table, trying to catch my breath and fix my wrinkled dress while watching him button up his shirt.
"You are unreal," I murmur, letting out a soft laugh and shaking my head. "If someone had walked in here..."
"No one did," he replies, taking a step forward. His hands slide up to frame my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks with a gentleness that completely contrasts everything that just happened. "And honestly? I’m done caring about who might see or what the paddock thinks."
I go quiet, looking at him. His tone has lost any trace of teasing.
"No more hiding in hallways or pretending this is just workplace tension," he continues, looking straight into my eyes. "I want you. For real. I want to be able to kiss you without having to lock a meeting room door at the factory. Be my girlfriend?"
The question hits me right in the chest, making my heart race in a completely different way than it was minutes ago. An unstoppable smile breaks across my face.
"Are you serious?" I ask softly.
"I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life," he answers, sealing our lips in a quick kiss, full of promise.
I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Of course I will."
He smiles against my skin, relieved, before pulling back a few inches to adjust his belt, stepping back into that confident smirk I know so well.
I watch him for a few seconds, crossing my arms as I connect a few dots that had been bothering me for weeks.
"By the way... speaking of calculated moves," I start, raising an eyebrow, "now that we're officially dating, do you want to explain how we ended up taking practically all those photos together at my dad's celebration? Marketing never puts us in the same set that often."
He pauses for a second, adjusting his belt buckle, and lets out a low, raspy laugh that hums through the room. He steps closer again, leaning in until his face is just inches from mine.
"Well..." he smirks, pure mischief in his eyes. "Let's just say the official photographer happens to be a good friend of mine. I just had to give him a little 'encouragement' to pitch our on-camera chemistry as the main concept of the night."
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟: Following the chaos of Baku and Mexico, two figures vanish off the grid right when everyone expects them back in England. Leaving no trace — and showing zero respect for Alex Albon’s peace of mind — Carlos and Sophie take off for a quiet getaway to Spain. Between private houses, hidden island beaches, and late-night dinners under the stars, away from radio comms, telemetry, and paddock politics, the distance between them vanishes. What starts as a quiet escape soon turns into an unavoidable collision of desire and absolute certainty.
Words: 8,22K
Themes: driver!carlos sainz x reservedriver!sophie albon, secret romance, F1 setting, brother's best friend / rival, getaway trope, secret trip to spain, banter to lovers, rich boyfriend energy, unbothered power couple, touch-starved, quiet intimacy, protective brother dynamic, stolen moments.
Warnings: smut, heavy sexual tension, explicit content, secret relationship, possessiveness, praise, banter, teasing, island setting, swimwear removal, established chemistry, romantic ending, mild foul language.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
SECRET ESCAPES
We’re already on the plane when it finally hits me what I’ve done.
Or rather: what we’ve done.
I’m sitting right next to Carlos Sainz on a private flight to Spain, while everyone probably thinks I’m somewhere in the airport on my way to England.
It all happened way too fast to feel real.
While everyone was arguing about luggage, schedules, connections, and post-race logistics, Carlos simply grabbed my hand, guided me down a side hallway, and kept walking like sneaking off with me was just another casual Tuesday.
No announcement.
No goodbye.
Zero respect for my brother’s emotional state.
By the time I realized what was happening, we were already far from the main gate, far from the chaos, and way too deep into an impulsive decision to turn back.
Now the plane is slowly climbing above Mexico City, and I lean my head back against the seat, letting out a soft laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” Carlos asks beside me.
“At the fact that we just vanished.”
“We didn’t vanish.”
I turn my head to look at him.
“Carlos.”
“We just geographically relocated south.”
I laugh out loud this time.
“My brother is going to spontaneously combust,” I say with a grin, knowing exactly where this is headed.
“Your brother spontaneously combusts over smaller things.”
He’s not wrong, so I don’t even argue.
I grab my phone and check the only message I’ve received.
Marie.
‘you guys actually vanished. so proud of you.’
I chuckle again.
I text back:
‘don’t say a word.’
Her reply comes almost instantly.
‘never. i wanna see alex figure it out on his own.’
I put my phone away and shake my head.
“Only one person knows,” I say.
Carlos raises an eyebrow.
“Marie?”
“She saw the whole thing.”
“She won’t tell.” He smiles.
“Nope,” I agree. “She just loves a bit of controlled chaos.”
He gives me that subtle smirk that always feels a little dangerous.
Outside, the city lights grow smaller under the clouds. Inside, the silence between us is way too comfortable.
I should be worried.
I should feel guilty.
I should be texting Alex to explain that I haven’t been kidnapped and am, in fact, still alive.
Instead, I’m crossing my legs in the leather seat, looking at the man next to me, and trying to ignore how exciting all of this actually feels.
“So,” I say, turning to him. “What’s the actual plan here?”
Carlos looks at me calmly.
“Taking you home.”
My heart skips an annoyingly hard beat.
“Did you rehearse that?”
“Nope.”
“Terrible lie.”
He smirks again.
And I look out the window to hide my own reaction.
We’re heading to Spain.
Without telling a soul.
Except Marie.
Which, honestly, is already more of a witness than we needed.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
It’s already night when we land in Madrid.
me lights spread out below the window like someone spilled liquid gold across the dark, and for a second I completely forget that I’m supposed to be in another country, on another flight, living a much more predictable life.
But I’m not.
I’m here.
With him.
We leave the airport through a quiet, low-key route—no photographers, no shouted questions in Spanish or English, no cameras trying to capture why a Williams reserve driver vanished right after a historic podium in Mexico. And considering that public kiss after Baku, why this is looking less and less like a mystery to anyone paying even a little bit of attention.
Carlos drives with an annoying level of calm, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear stick, like he didn’t just emotionally kidnap someone a few hours ago.
Madrid passes by the window in blurs of light and elegant buildings.
I watch the city.
Then I watch him.
Then I go back to watching the city so I don’t look suspicious.
When we finally arrive, I step back into the real world and immediately realize that this house couldn't belong to anyone else.
Sleek.
Effortlessly handsome.
Quietly comfortable.
Everything carefully curated without looking flashy.
The door opens and I walk in slowly, leaving my suitcase by the entrance as my eyes take in the space.
Family photos in subtle frames.
Old helmets on a perfectly lit shelf.
Trophies arranged with almost offensive balance.
Neatly aligned books.
Sofas are way too light-colored for someone who spends his life racing around the world.
And an organization so flawless that it makes me instantly want to mess something up just on principle.
I take a few more steps, looking around with playful curiosity.
“Your place is way too nice for a formerly single guy.”
Carlos closes the door behind us.
“Thank you.”
“I’m not finished.”
He crosses his arms, waiting.
“And your girlfriend is lucky you’re this organized.”
I see the corner of his mouth slowly curl up.
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It wasn't.”
“Pity.”
I chuckle softly and keep walking around the living room.
There’s something strangely intimate about stepping into someone’s home like this. More intimate than a public kiss. More intimate than a hotel. More intimate than even fleeing the country together.
Because home is real territory.
It’s where you drop your guard.
I run my fingers along the edge of a bookshelf, looking at another photo of him with his family.
“You smile differently in these photos.”
He steps up behind me.
“Different how?”
“Less rehearsed.”
“You overanalyze.”
“I drive in Formula 1. It’s practically the same skill set.”
He laughs.
The sound echoes softly through the empty room.
No paddock nearby.
No engineers calling.
No brother popping up out of nowhere.
No strict schedules hanging on some invisible wall.
Just the two of us.
For the first time, for real.
I turn around to face him and find him closer than I expected.
Close enough to make me forget half of what I was going to say.
“So,” I say, resting my hips against the table behind me. “Is this where you bring all your international fugitives?”
“Only my favorites.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“Dangerous question.”
He stops in front of me, looking at me with that way-too-calm gaze.
And I realize that the easygoing vibe of the whole trip shifts temperature in seconds.
Because now there are no distractions.
Just him.
Just me.
Just the dangerously short distance between us.
The night passes slowly, as if Madrid understands it doesn't need to rush for anyone.
Carlos turns on just a few lights in the house, leaving the atmosphere low and golden, way too cozy to ignore. I kick off my shoes near the entrance and walk barefoot into the kitchen while he opens a bottle of Spanish wine with the irritating confidence of someone who knows exactly what he's doing.
“You’re gonna like this.”
“You said that about running away with me.”
“And I was right.”
I don’t answer.
Because he was.
I pour myself a glass while he starts pulling out plates, ingredients, and small things that seem way too simple for someone who drives three hundred kilometers an hour on Sundays.
There’s something dangerously attractive about Carlos Sainz cooking.
The focus.
The rolled-up sleeves.
The calm attitude.
The moderate arrogance of someone who genuinely believes everything he makes turns out great.
“This is insufferable,” I say, watching him.
He looks over his shoulder.
“What is?”
“You being handsome and functional at the same time.”
“Sounds like a compliment.”
“It wasn't that either.”
He chuckles softly.
The table is set with zero formality. Small, traditional tapas filled with flavors he insists on introducing me to like he’s running a mandatory cultural workshop.
Jamón.
Spanish tortilla.
Pan con tomate.
Croquetas way too hot for me to bite into without complaining.
I complain anyway.
He laughs at me.
“You eat like someone who's suspicious.”
“I am suspicious.”
“Of food?”
“Of men who cook well.”
“Fair enough.”
Between one glass and the next, the conversation stays light.
We talk about the race.
About the chaos at the airport.
About Alex, who is probably having a full emotional meltdown by now.
About Marie, who is definitely having the time of her life watching it all unfold from afar.
We laugh more than expected.
And bit by bit, the space between us shrinks without either of us bringing it up.
In the kitchen.
On the couch.
In the hallway.
Until at some point he rests his glass on the counter, wraps his hand around my waist, and kisses me mid-sentence before I can even finish it.
Slowly at first.
Like we’re still playing around.
Then not so slowly.
As if we both knew the whole night had been heading toward this since takeoff.
The taste of wine is still on his lips.
My hands slide up to his neck without thinking.
His hands pull me closer with dangerous ease.
The city stays alive outside.
Distant cars.
Lights in neighboring windows.
Madrid breathing.
But inside the house, time slows down.
Between one kiss and another, he still tries to get me to try desserts he pulls from the fridge as if it's a top priority.
“You paused that for sweets?”
“It’s important.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Just try it first.”
I take a bite just to spite him.
It’s amazing.
I hate that.
Later, we end up on the couch, sharing the same blanket for no real reason, a second bottle opened halfway, and the kind of comfortable silence that only shows up when two people don't feel the need to impress each other anymore.
Lazy kisses, quiet laughs, distracted hands finding each other’s skin with no rush, and conversations cut short by being just a little too close.
For the first time in a long time, there’s no schedule. No paddock. No radio calls.
Just the night.
Just Madrid.
Just the two of us making every minute count, like the rest of the world can wait until tomorrow.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
The next morning comes silent and way too bright.
For a second, eyes still closed, I forget where I am. There’s only the cozy weight of sleep, the messy sheet, and that rare feeling of having slept deeply.
Then I reach out to the side of the bed.
Empty.
My eyes snap open instantly.
The first five seconds are dedicated to pure, irrational drama.
Great. I fled the country with Carlos Sainz and got abandoned in less than twelve hours.
By the sixth second, I smell coffee.
I close my eyes again.
Right.
I get up slowly, still groggy, slipping into an oversized t-shirt that clearly wasn’t mine last night. The cold floor wakes me up more than it should as I walk down the hallway in silence.
I find him in the kitchen.
Grey hoodie.
Messy bedhead hair.
Broad shoulders leaning against the counter while he finishes making coffee like he was born to annoy exhausted women at eight in the morning.
He clearly notices I’m there the second I walk in.
But he pretends he doesn't.
Insufferable.
I stand there for a few seconds just watching him.
The morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting the counter, the cups, him.
He’s almost offensively handsome.
Without fully turning around, he grabs a mug and holds it out behind him in my direction.
“Good morning, fugitive.”
I take the mug, and its warmth instantly boosts my mood.
“Good morning, accomplice.”
He finally turns around, and that lazy smirk appears like he already knows he won some invisible competition.
“Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” I smile, “until I noticed you vanished.”
“I went to make coffee.”
“Without warning? Cold.”
“Next time I’ll leave telemetry.”
I take a sip.
It’s perfect.
That annoys me too.
“You’re way too good at this.”
“At what?”
“Coffee. Organization. This whole domestic routine.”
He walks over slowly, holding his own mug.
“And at whisking you away to another country?”
“Especially that.”
I laugh softly and sit at the counter, pulling one of the high stools over with my foot.
He keeps moving around the kitchen as if he’s physically incapable of standing still for too long — tending to toast, sliced fruit, something in the oven, and probably three other secret tasks.
“Do you always wake up this early?”
“Almost always.”
“Even on days off?”
“Especially on days off.”
“Psychopath.”
“Disciplined.”
“Same thing, just better marketing.”
He laughs.
I grab a grape off the plate before he finishes arranging everything, and he looks at me like I just violated home protocol.
“That was a garnish.”
“Now it’s breakfast.”
“You’re trouble.”
“You’re the one who brought me here.”
He stops right in front of me, leaning his hands on the counter, trapping me between him and the island without actually touching me.
“I did.”
The way he says a single word should genuinely be illegal.
I take another sip of coffee just to buy time.
“What’s today’s plan?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how much you trust me.”
“After the airport stunt?”
“Exactly.”
I tilt my head.
“That doesn't boost your credibility.”
“Boosts my adventure track record, though.”
“Your ego is exhausting.”
“And yet, here you are.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right about that too.
Again.
He leans in and kisses my forehead — way too casually for the effect it actually has.
“Go get ready.”
“Was that an order?”
“An invitation.”
“Even worse.”
“We have another flight.”
I pause mid-sip.
“Another flight?”
He smiles that calm, dangerous smile.
“Did you really think Spain ended in Madrid?”
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
A few hours later, I realize that Carlos Sainz’s concept of a “simple day off” clearly doesn’t match mine.
We left Madrid early, took a short flight to the coast, and before I could ask enough questions to stop anything, we were already on a private boat heading to a smaller island, tucked away from the main crowds.
Nothing overly extravagant.
Nothing flashy.
Just private.
Beautiful.
Quiet.
The kind of annoying luxury that pretends to be modest.
The water around us is ridiculously clear, reflecting the sun in thousands of bright sparkles. The warm wind messily blows through my hair and spreads the salty sea air all over. The sky is clear, way too blue to look real.
I lie down on the front deck of the boat, stretching my legs out in the sun while pretending to be totally relaxed. Behind my sunglasses, I watch Carlos at the helm.
He holds the steering wheel with almost theatrical concentration, staring out at the horizon like he’s conducting a high-complexity maritime mission.
Light-colored shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
Sunglasses.
Tanned arms.
A ridiculously confident posture.
Insufferable.
I raise my head slightly.
“Are you trying to impress me or are you playing captain?”
Without even looking back, he replies:
“Both.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“You like it.”
“I tolerate it.”
He smirks to himself, because he knows when I’m lying.
I lie back down, resting my arms behind my head. The boat cuts smoothly through the water, leaving a long white trail behind us.
There’s something almost surreal about all of this.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was in a paddock, surrounded by engineers, radio comms, tires, journalists, and adrenaline.
Now I’m in a bikini on a Spanish boat, on the run with a driver who clearly believes he’s the main character in a movie.
I look at him again.
Still at the wheel.
Still pretending to be extremely useful.
“Do you actually know how to steer this thing?”
He finally turns his head toward me.
“Sophie.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How well?”
“More than well enough.”
“Classic overconfident guy answer.”
“Answer from a guy who’s getting you there safely.”
“Right.”
He shakes his head, chuckling softly.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
A few minutes later, he walks over to the front and hands me a cold glass with some citrusy drink that looks way too dangerous to be innocent.
I take it.
“Is room service included too?”
“Only for selected guests.”
“What’s the criteria?”
He looks at me over his sunglasses.
“You.”
I hate when he does that.
Because it works.
I take a sip and settle back into the sun, feeling the warmth on my skin and the gentle sway of the boat beneath me.
“If my brother finds out about this, he’s going to faint.”
“Your brother already fainted yesterday.”
“True.”
“So we’re safe.”
I laugh softly.
The wind picks up for a few seconds, bringing the distant sound of waves crashing against the hull. Carlos goes back to the wheel, way too pleased with himself.
The island begins to appear on the horizon.
Small.
Lush and green.
Surrounded by crystal-clear, almost see-through blue water.
Way too perfect.
I slowly cross my legs and watch him at the wheel once more.
“Did you plan all of this beforehand or did you improvise after kissing me on the podium?”
He answers without hesitation:
“Planned it after the airport.”
“That should probably worry me.”
“Gotta admit it’s impressive, though.” He gives me a sly smirk.
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
He laughs, genuinely amused.
And I turn my head toward the sea to hide my own smile.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
The island comes into full view as the boat draws closer, and for a second I’m convinced Carlos rented a movie set instead of an actual destination.
Everything looks excessively beautiful.
Small private cabins scattered near the light sand, each one far enough from the next to guarantee complete privacy. Narrow trails wind through dense, lush greenery, hiding paths that look like they were meant to be discovered slowly. The sea surrounds it all in absurd shades of blue — pale near the shore, deep further out, sparkling under the sun as if someone dialed up the saturation of the entire world.
And there’s something rare here.
Real silence.
No engine roar.
No radio chatter.
No notifications.
No people asking for things.
Just the wind through the leaves and the water breaking against the sand.
“This is ridiculous,” I say the second we step off.
Carlos grabs our bags effortlessly.
“Good ridiculous or bad ridiculous?”
“Ridiculous as in: ‘how on earth did you find this place?’”
He smiles.
“Trade secret.”
“You’re a race car driver.”
“Exactly.”
I roll my eyes and follow the small wooden path up to the cabin, feeling the warm sand under my feet and the salt air all around us.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
The rest of the day fades away effortlessly.
We dive into the clear water more than once, swimming until we completely lose track of time. Carlos insists on turning even the most pointless things into a competition—who can swim faster to a rock, who can hold their breath longer, who can make it back to shore first.
I win a few.
He contests every single one.
“You cheated.”
“At swimming?”
“At attitude.”
“Explain that.”
“Don’t have to.”
Later, we walk along the almost empty stretch of sand with no destination other than to keep moving. Sometimes side by side. Sometimes him trailing just far enough behind to annoy me. Sometimes pulling me by the hand to show me some “must-see” view that’s clearly just an excuse to touch me.
Eventually, we stop in silence under some makeshift shade near the rocks.
We do nothing.
Literally nothing.
Me lying down with my eyes closed.
Him sitting beside me, absentmindedly messing with the sand.
Neither of us seems to feel the need to fill the air with words.
And that catches my attention more than it should.
Because in the paddock, Carlos is a different story.
Precise and controlled.
Always measuring his responses, always ready for the camera, the radio, the strategy, the media.
Out here, away from everything, he’s lighter.
He laughs easier.
He teases without overthinking it.
He stays quiet without feeling distant.
Less calculated.
More real.
More dangerous.
I open my eyes to find him watching me.
“This is weird,” I say.
“What?”
“You being relaxed.”
“I relax.”
“Not publicly.”
“Maybe I curate my audience.”
My stomach does an annoying flip.
I sit up slowly, leaning back on my hands.
“So I’m VIP audience?”
“You’re improving your grid position.”
“Cocky.”
“You’re gonna lose places with that tone.”
He leans a little closer.
The wind blows a strand of hair across my face, and he casually brushes it away with his fingers.
“You’re different here, too.”
“How so?”
“Calmer.”
“Liar.”
“More honest, then.”
I stay quiet for a second.
Because maybe he’s right.
On the island, there’s no team.
There’s no last name.
There’s no overprotective brother.
There’s no grid.
Just blue water in every direction.
Just heat.
Just him way too close.
Just me realizing that Carlos outside the paddock might be even worse for my sanity than Carlos inside it.
As the sun begins to set, the island shifts tone completely.
The harsh afternoon heat gives way to a warm breeze, the sky turns from golden to soft shades of pink, and slowly, everything slows down. As if even time itself decided to take a deep breath before the night.
I head back to the cabin after a quick shower and find Carlos outside waiting for me like this is completely normal.
Light linen shirt.
Loose pants.
Barefoot on the wooden deck.
Ridiculously handsome.
“Did you dress up for a deserted island?” I ask.
“So did you.”
“I did not dress up.”
He smiles like he doesn’t believe a word. And he’s clearly about to reply with some charming comeback.
“Shut up, Sainz.”
He chuckles softly and holds out his hand.
I take it without a word.
We follow a small path through the lush greenery to the open beach on the other side, and as I step out from the trees, I see the table set up near the water.
I freeze automatically.
Fairy lights strung between wooden posts sway gently in the breeze. Subtle candles light up the white tablecloth and the plates already served. The sound of the ocean breaking just ahead fills the rest of the space.
Nothing over the top.
Nothing flashy.
Just the right amount of beautiful.
I slowly turn my face toward him.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Still feels like one.”
I laugh despite myself.
Carlos knows exactly what he’s doing.
We sit barefoot in the sand, the low table between us and the sea just a few feet away. The whole thing feels way too surreal for me to pretend it’s normal, so I choose not to pretend.
Dinner starts off light.
Fresh fish, warm bread, grilled vegetables, wine that’s way too cold to be a coincidence.
“If you tell me you cooked this too, I’m swimming back,” I warn him.
“I know my limits.”
“Finally.”
We talk with no rush.
About karting.
About tiny tracks and oversized helmets when we were kids.
About dads in freezing paddocks early in the morning.
About learning how to lose before learning how to win.
Carlos tells me about a race when he was nine and crashed out because of pure overconfidence.
“Did you cry?”
“Of course not.”
“Liar.”
“I cried strategically.”
I laugh so hard I almost knock over my glass trying to rest my elbow on the soft sand.
The wine sloshes dangerously.
Carlos catches the base of the glass before it tips over, completely calm, as if he can predict even my social accidents.
“Impressive control,” he remarks.
“You distracted me.”
“With a childhood memory?”
“With your smug face.”
“Fair enough.”
Gradually, the conversation shifts naturally.
Childhood turns into family.
Family turns into expectations.
Expectations turn into pressure.
The kind of subjects nobody really touches unless they have to.
We talk about last names that arrive in a room before you do.
About carrying comparisons.
About the annoying habit of always acting like we’re in total control, even when we’re clearly not.
“You do that all the time,” I say.
“What?”
“Act like everything’s under control.”
He slowly swirls his glass.
“And you act like you don’t care about anything.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know.”
The wind passes between us, carrying the scent of salt and the night air.
For a moment, neither of us says a word.
And I realize that the silence between us doesn’t feel heavy at all.
It just exists.
I look up and catch him watching me.
Quiet.
No smile this time.
No teasing.
Just that focused gaze that seems to notice way more than he actually says out loud.
It’s worse than flirting.
Much worse.
Because it asks for nothing.
It just stays.
I look away first and grab my glass again.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to charge you.”
“How much?”
“Depends on the damage.”
He smirks slowly.
“I can afford it.”
My heart responds in an infuriatingly intense way.
We stay out there for longer than I can track.
Eating slowly.
Drinking slowly.
Talking about everything and nothing.
And at some point, I realize I’m not thinking about anything else.
Just the man sitting across from me.
Which is, honestly, a massive problem.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
The walk back happens slowly, as if neither of us is in a rush to get there and, at the same time, as if we both know exactly where the night is going to end.
The path between the beach and the cabin is narrow, flanked by dark vegetation that sways with the sea breeze. Small outdoor lights mark the way at spaced intervals, just enough to cast soft shadows across the wooden deck and sand. Above it all, the full moon does the rest.
I walk a few paces ahead.
Not because I'm running away.
Just because I like the feeling of knowing he’s right behind me.
I hear his steps approaching without any hurry — firm, calm, the kind of presence that doesn't need to announce itself to be felt.
When he reaches me, he doesn't speak.
Nor does he speak when his hand finds mine naturally, his fingers sliding between mine as if it were a long-held habit rather than a dangerously recent turn of events.
Neither of us says a word.
We just keep walking side by side, in silence, with the steady sound of the ocean keeping us company.
The cabin appears ahead, glowing with low light from the windows. Simple, beautiful, isolated enough to feel like a small world cut off from everything else.
I take the two steps up to the porch first.
I open the door.
I step inside.
And I barely hear the click of the door closing behind us before the entire atmosphere shifts.
It's immediate.
The silence is no longer comfortable.
It’s dense.
Full.
Heavy with everything that’s been hovering between us since breakfast, since the boat, since the beach, since before any of this.
I turn around slowly.
Carlos is standing a few paces away, looking at me with a calm that only makes things worse.
No broad smile.
No quick joke.
Just that focused gaze, lingering on me with zero intention of hiding it.
I hold his gaze for a few seconds.
Then a few more.
The distance between us becomes far too small to keep existing.
He steps closer without any theatrical urgency, without a show, and without needing to prove a thing.
When his hands reach my waist, his grip is firm and steady, pulling me in slowly until I'm pressed completely against him.
As if the outcome of this night had been inevitable from the very start.
My body responds before my brain can catch up.
My hands slide up to his shoulders.
The kiss comes first.
Slow.
Warm.
Firm enough to make me forget the entire journey here.
Forget everything.
His hands slide up, gripping my hair to pull me into a deeper kiss.
Then another, with no space left between them.
The taste of wine still lingers somewhere between us.
He kisses me like he has all the time in the world.
And maybe he does—after all, we're miles away from reality.
As his lips find mine once more, I feel his fingers reaching the ties of my bikini behind my back.
No rush.
No hesitation.
With that calculated calm he brings to everything he does well.
The knots untie effortlessly. The fabric gives way bit by bit, sliding slowly over my skin.
I smile against his lips.
“Cocky.”
His response comes low, way too close.
“And efficient.”
I let out a short laugh, muffled between us.
“Arrogant.”
“You like it.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s already kissing me again before I can even try to lie.
Outside, the ocean keeps breaking against the sand, rhythmic and steady, as if nothing in the world had changed.
Inside, the night is just beginning.
And going to sleep early ceases to be a realistic option the moment he pulls me even closer.
His hands, previously firm on my waist, now trace a path of fire upward, mapping every inch of my bare back. The touch of his warm palm against my cool skin creates a contrast that makes me arch my body instinctively, seeking more of that heat.
He’s in no hurry, yet there’s a restrained urgency pulsing through his every move. I can feel the texture of the rug beneath my feet and the weight of his gaze on me when he pulls back just enough to admire what he’s just released. The moonlight streaming into the room bathes his features, hardened by desire, while a smirk — that exact same cocky smirk that infuriates me and sets me on fire — reappears on his lips.
His hands are possessive, guiding my face with a precision that leaves me completely defenseless. I feel the gentle yet undeniable pressure of his fingers at the roots of my hair, tilting my chin up until my throat is entirely vulnerable to his view.
He pauses, his dark eyes trailing over the expanse of my skin as if devouring every detail before taking the next step. The air between us feels thicker now, charged with the electricity of everything yet to come.
He traces a path down with agonizing slowness, letting the tip of his tongue explore every curve and dip of my neck. It’s a warm, damp touch that contrasts with the salty breeze drifting through the window, making my skin throb under his touch.
He knows the exact pressure points, moving with a confidence that completely disarms me. His tongue glides along my jawline down to where it meets my shoulder, drawing invisible outlines that seem to burn.
His hands, large and impatient, slide down my torso in a possessive stroke, claiming every curve before finally finding what they were looking for. When his fingers cup my breasts, the contrast between the heat of his palm and the sensitivity of my skin makes me release a sharp breath, my hands reaching out to anchor themselves against his muscular arms.
He molds them with firm pressure, squeezing gently to feel their weight and softness against his touch. There’s no hesitation in his movements; he acts with the absolute authority of a man who knows precisely the effect he has.
He pauses the movement of his hands for a second, just long enough for me to miss his touch, and forces me to look at him. His eyes are dark, heavy with a predatory satisfaction that takes my breath away. Without averting his eyes from mine for even a fraction of a millimeter, he slowly lowers his body over mine — a controlled descent heavy with tension.
Soon, I feel the softness of the bed and the cool sheets beneath my back.
Maintaining that eye contact is almost unbearable; it’s as if he’s reading every single one of my reactions before I even feel them. When his face finally reaches the level of my chest, he makes a deliberate pause, letting his warm breath hit my goosebump-covered skin.
My hands act on instinct, threading through his hair as he loses himself in me. I feel the texture between my fingers, soft one moment, tense the next, moving to the rhythm of the hunger with which he devours me. It’s an anchoring gesture; I pull him closer, feeling the heat of his neck under the palm of my hand while my body responds to every single sweep of his mouth.
The contrast is total: the tenderness of my touch amidst the chaotic surge of sensations he creates.
His sense of urgency kicks into high gear. What started as a meticulous exploration turns into a desperate need. I feel his teeth lightly graze my sensitive skin — a dangerous contrast to the soft stroke of his tongue — and the sound that escapes my throat is an invitation he doesn’t hesitate to take.
My nails dig into his scalp, pulling him in hard, setting a pace he obeys with dark satisfaction. He knows he’s got me right where he wants me, but the way he loses himself in my fingers shows he’s just as deep in this as I am.
I hold his gaze, locked into the intensity of his eyes, feeling the weight of his hand slide down between my thighs. His touch is firm, heavy with a possessiveness that makes me shiver before he even gets to where he’s going.
When his fingers finally find my sweet spot, he takes his time. The lace barrier feels almost nonexistent under the pressure of his palm, radiating a warmth that could melt whatever resistance I have left.
"You're so sensitive right here..." he murmurs, his voice vibrating so low it feels like it's coming from inside me.
He gently presses harder, using his thumb to circle that sensitive spot over the damp lace. The pleasure is so sharp my hands grip the sheets tight, and my head rolls back, losing the battle to keep my eyes open as he calmly and expertly pushes me way past any limits.
The intensity between us hits a point of no return. He hovers over me, arms locked to hold his weight while he keeps up his relentless work between my legs. The moonlight filtering through the window outlines his tense muscles, every fiber of his body vibrating on the same frequency as mine.
He’s not satisfied with just touching me through the fabric. His fingers push harder against the lace, completely soaked now, exploring my body with an almost scientific curiosity and a purely primal hunger.
He keeps his hand steady, applying constant pressure that takes my breath away, but he doesn't resume the movement right away. The bedroom is dead silent, except for the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
He grabs my jaw with possessive firmness, keeping me from turning away or closing my eyes to hide in the pleasure.
“Mírame.” The order is a raspy command, carrying an authority that makes my body hum before he even touches me again.
I open my eyes and meet his. All I see is a devouring fire, an intensity that wants to consume every last bit of my restraint. He holds my gaze, staring straight into my soul while his fingers down there start moving again.
The pace picks back up, but there’s no room for softness now. The movement is steady, deliberate — every press calculated to pull a sound from my throat I didn't even know I could make. He forces me to watch my own undoing, keeping eye contact as the pleasure turns into a physical force, a wave crashing over me with magnificent violence.
He leans down, bringing his face so close his hot, heavy breath mixes with my own frantic breathing. His control is absolute; he knows my pressure points, the exact moment my grip on the sheets turns into a spasm, and he uses that to keep me hanging on that fine line between sanity and the edge.
"That's it," he whispers, his voice vibrating against my lips. "Don't look away. I want to see the exact moment you lose it."
The friction against the thin lace gets faster, more demanding. The heat from his touch spreads like fire through my veins, turning every single nerve into pure electricity. I feel everything around us fade — the shadows of the curtains, the pale glow of the moon, the quiet of the night — until nothing is left except those dark eyes and the overwhelming feeling that I’m about to burn to ashes.
The climax approaches like an inevitable storm. My hips lift on their own, chasing more, begging for the release only he can give. He doesn't give in or back off; instead, he doubles down, his hand working with ruthless precision that makes my back arch, his name dying as a silent gasp between us as reality finally shatters into a thousand pieces of light.
He lets out a low, barely audible chuckle when he feels how I react to the new touch. Without wasting a second, he slides his hand under the elastic of my underwear, and the direct skin-to-skin contact feels like a short circuit. He doesn't waste time on slow foreplay — his fingers dive right in, finding me completely surrendered and ready.
The vibe changes drastically. What was a curious exploration turns into pure urgency. He starts moving insanely fast, his fingers working at a frantic pace that leaves me no room to breathe. It’s technical, but driven by a raw hunger, focused right where he knows I feel it most.
My back arches violently off the mattress. The sound coming out of my mouth doesn't even sound like me — high-pitched, broken, driven by the relentless speed of his hand. He doesn't soften up; if anything, the fast, continuous friction turns the pleasure into something so intense it almost hurts.
He watches it all from above, eyes locked on mine, seeing how every fast thrust of his fingers makes me lose control of my senses. I try to keep up with the rhythm, but the world is already spinning way too fast, throwing me straight into the eye of the storm he built with his own hands.
In the middle of all this chaotic sensation, I reach for his face, pulling him into a deep, hungry kiss. My tongue entwines with his in total surrender while my hands get lost in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to merge our bodies for good. The speed of his fingers down there doesn't slow down; instead, he hits such a perfect rhythm that the world explodes all over again. The second orgasm hits me like a shockwave, more intense and overwhelming than the first, making my body shake violently against his while the kiss buries my muffled scream.
He barely lets me catch my breath. With a rough movement full of a new kind of possessiveness, he reaches for the side of my hip. His fingers pull the string of my bikini hard, untying the knot and ripping the piece off in one impatient gesture, tossing the fabric somewhere far from the bed.
Before I can even object, he moves me with crazy strength, flipping my body over and putting me on my hands and knees, facing the big bedroom mirror. The sight is raw, completely stripped of any hesitation. He lines up right behind me, hands firmly locking my hips in place while his eyes catch my reflection.
I open my eyes, focusing on our reflection while trying to catch my breath. The image in the mirror is mesmerizing; the moonlight highlights his skin against mine and the way he dominates me with a calm possessiveness.
He pauses for a second, feeling the tension in my body. With a slow movement full of obvious intent, he uses my own wetness to prep the way, sliding his hand with extreme, deliberate care. There’s no rush, just the desire to make sure every single bit of this surrender is perfect. The touch of his fingers, now firmer and more direct, makes me shiver and lean on my forearms.
"Look at us..." he whispers, his voice raspy right in my ear as his eyes lock onto mine through the mirror. "I want you to see how much I want you."
When he finally enters me, he goes deep, filling every space — a fit that feels custom-made. He starts moving with a powerful, steady rhythm, a mix of strength and an almost painful tenderness. I feel his hands tighten on my waist, guiding the movement while he watches us in the reflection, fascinated by the way our bodies move in sync.
With every thrust, the pleasure gets heavier, more real. He doesn't look away for a single second, keeping that eye contact that burns just as much as the physical touch.
"You look so good like this," he murmurs, his heavy breath mixing with my sighs. "Completely mine."
The impact of the climax leaves the room vibrating, but the energy between us doesn't fade. He slowly lets go of my hair, fingers still tangled in the strands as he catches his breath, but his body stays firm, keeping a constant, possessive pressure against mine.
Still feeling his warmth inside me, I take the lead. Taking advantage of the pause, I prop myself up on my elbows and quickly spin my body around. He follows the movement without ever breaking contact, eyes fixed on mine as I slide underneath him. In one smooth, decisive move, I flip our positions — my hands push his shoulders back until he hits the mattress, and within seconds I’m straddling him, taking control of his hips.
I lift myself up, feeling the connection instantly click back in place, even stronger than before. I pin his wrists to the bed above his head, locking eyes with him. He lets out a low, husky laugh, his abs flexing beneath me, clearly loving my boldness and the fact that I still have so much energy left.
"My turn now..." I whisper, leaning in so my hair falls like a curtain over his face, blocking out the rest of the world. "Don't think I'm done with you."
He looks up at me, eyes shining with fresh desire, and his hands come free to find my waist, guiding me firmly into the rhythm I’m starting to set.
I rise above him, feeling the deep, instant connection lock back in. The feeling of control is intoxicating; my hips find the right rhythm, setting a cadence that flips between teasingly slow and firmer, more decisive thrusts. I hold his wrists against the mattress, pinning them above his head with enough force to make his back arch, his abs contracting with every move I make.
His face is a picture of pure desire. He watches me from below, his dark eyes following every detail of my silhouette in the dim light of the bedroom. I feel one of his hands slip from my grip just to find my waist, fingers digging into my skin to guide the impact, helping me come down harder on him.
I pick up the pace, feeling the heat rise with every bit of friction. The rhythm gets more demanding, more visceral. My fingers let go of his other wrist and move down to his chest, lightly scratching his tense skin as I ride him with total surrender. He lets out a low growl, burying his head in the pillow while his hips lift to meet mine, chasing maximum depth, completely losing himself in the rhythm I'm now controlling.
The pace I set gets frantic, but he quickly takes back control without having to pull me off. His hands leave my waist and move up my back, pulling my body down until my chest is pressed flat against his. He holds me tight in a possessive grip, locking me in while his hips start driving from below with overwhelming power.
The thrusts are deep, fast, and precise, hitting the exact spot that makes me lose my mind. The sound of our skin connecting is loud and steady, drowned out only by my moans coming out completely uncontrolled.
"Oh God... right there... don't stop!" I beg, my voice cracking as I bury my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and desire coming off his skin.
He doesn't slow down. If anything, he seems to feed off my surrender. He holds me with one arm while his other hand glides up to the back of my neck, lightly pulling my hair to force me to look at him again. The intensity in his eyes is almost too much to handle — it's a fire burning me from the inside out. With every upward drive, I feel the pressure build, electricity stacking up at the base of my spine, ready to blow.
"Look at me..." he demands, his voice barely a rasp over his heavy breathing.
The pleasure turns into a massive wave, impossible to hold back. I feel my internal muscles contract hard around him, a desperate grip that makes him drop a loud, raspy growl. My whole body goes rigid, my toes curl, and I completely lose track of where I end and he begins.
The climax hits me with devastating force — a long, deep spasm that turns my vision dark for a second. I scream his name, my voice echoing off the bedroom walls while he keeps up the relentless movement for a few more seconds, making sure every last drop of ecstasy is drained, before pulling me into one final, crushing hug as the world around us slowly fades back in.
I collapse beside him, my body heavy and shaking as the adrenaline starts to fade, leaving that delicious tingling feeling in my legs. We both lay there stretched out, staring at the ceiling, chests heaving in perfect sync like we just ran a marathon.
I take a deep breath, pulling in air, smelling the mix of the two of us and the night air coming through the window. I turn my head slightly to the side, looking at his profile — still sweaty, eyes glowing.
"What came over you?" I ask, my voice still shaky, a playful smirk forming on my lips. "That was... intense. Where did all that rush come from?"
He lets out a low laugh, a raspy rumble that fills the room, and turns his head on the pillow to look back at me. His gaze dips for a second to the spot where my bikini used to be, then snaps back to my eyes, full of playful mischief.
"To be honest? I was dying to know what would happen if I pulled that string," he admits, letting out a fuller laugh this time. "It was distracting me all night. I needed to see the rest."
I burst out laughing, the tension finally dissolving into pure lightheartedness. It’s impossible not to laugh at his honesty and how something as simple as a bikini knot was the trigger for that whole explosion. He laughs along with me, and the sound of our laughter fills the quiet bedroom, creating a moment of connection that goes way beyond physical.
Slowly, the laughter dies down into a comfortable silence. He leans over, propping himself up on one elbow, using his thumb to tuck a strand of damp hair behind my ear. His look softens, shifting back to that mix of affection and desire that completely melts me. Without saying another word, he closes the distance between us, catching my lips in a soft, deep kiss full of promises for the rest of the night.
✦ ── ✦ ── ✦
MEANWHILE, in Monaco...
The silence in Alex Albon’s apartment is thick, broken only by the rhythmic pitter-patter of the light rain hitting the windows overlooking the harbor. He’s slouched on the couch, the blue glow of his phone screen reflecting in his eyes as he mindlessly scrolls through his Instagram feed. It’s a post-workout ritual: check his tags, see what the fans are posting.
His thumb freezes on the screen.
It’s a random photo posted by a tourist visiting a harbor in Spain. The caption talks about the "peace of the Mediterranean," but it’s not the scenery that makes Alex’s blood run cold. In the background of the image — blurry, but completely unmistakable to anyone who grew up beside her — is his sister.
He zooms in fast. The pixels stretch, but the confirmation is instant: it’s her. And right next to her, the unmistakable side profile of a guy whose broad shoulders and relaxed posture Alex knows all too well from driver briefings and racetracks around the world.
The phone stays frozen in his hand. For a few long seconds, Alex doesn't blink, doesn't move. The silence in the room becomes absolute, heavy with a tension that makes the air feel charged. The realization of what that photo means — where she is, the secrecy of the trip, and above all, who she’s with — hits him like a crash at 200 mph.
Slowly, he lowers the phone, his knuckles turning white from how hard he's gripping the device. His eyes narrow, burning with a mix of shock and a surge of protective fury.
He takes one deep breath, his voice coming out low, raspy, and dead serious:
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟: The 2025 season was supposed to be a testing ground, but the Mexico City Grand Prix just rewrote the history books. With Oscar Piastri still sidelined, Marie Häkkinen continues her breakout streak with McLaren alongside Lando Norris — and between team promos and track telemetry, the unspoken tension between them has officially become impossible to ignore. But Mexico had even bigger surprises in store. When Sophie Albon tops the timing sheets in FP1 and later joins Marie and Lando for a historic, logic-defying triple podium, the paddock completely loses its mind. The real chaos, however, sparks off the track: from a live-broadcasted kiss in parc fermé to a sudden, romantic international escape to Spain, Carlos Sainz and Sophie thoroughly shatter the peace of the Albon family. As George Russell records the fallout for content and Lando watches the world burn with a smirk, a deeply betrayed Alex Albon faces a legendary emotional meltdown at the airport, proving that nobody is in control of the grid anymore.
Words: 4,681 words
Themes: reserve_driver!reader x driver!lando norris, secret relationship!carlos sainz x reader's bestie!sophie albon, protective brother!alex albon, teammates to podium finishers, legendary father!mika häkkinen, paddock dynamics, slow burn, mutual pining, romantic impulse, airport family drama, pure chaos energy.
Warnings: public exposure of relationships, extreme emotional denial, sibling heart attack, canon-typical paddock gossip, George Russell filming other people's misery for views, Lando Norris being unhelpful and smug, absolute lack of communication, soft and chaotic ending.
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
PART 2
Mexico GP, November 1st, 2025
After the podium, the ceremony, the official photos, and spending way too much time watching his own sister’s kiss being replayed on the giant screens around the circuit, Alex Albon finally decides he needs to have a serious conversation.
Or at least the closest thing to it that his personality allows.
He walks into the Williams garage with his race suit still half-unzipped, helmet-hair messy, wearing an expression of someone trying desperately to look intimidating, even though he still just radiates the energy of a disappointed golden retriever.
Carlos is leaning against a workbench, sipping water like nothing extraordinary has happened.
Sophie is scrolling through her phone, way too calm for someone at the center of a family disaster.
George Russell shows up at the door with the transparent excuse that he was "just passing by."
Lando Norris appears right behind him, clearly because he wouldn't miss this scene for the world.
Marie tags along, more out of loyalty to her friend than any actual desire to witness a meltdown.
Alex takes a deep breath.
He points at Carlos first. “You.” Then at Sophie. “You.” Then he gestures with both hands in the air, completely lost. “You two.”
Carlos nods calmly. “Yes.”
Alex waits for some sign of remorse. He gets none.
George lets out a laugh that is way too loud. Alex ignores him with visible effort.
He turns back to Carlos, trying to make his voice sound tougher. “Are you dating my sister?”
Carlos thinks about it for a second. “Technically, she is dating me too.”
Lando is literally crying from laughing so hard.
Alex closes his eyes like he’s channeling spiritual strength. “Carlos, this isn't funny.” “Calma, cabrón. For me, it is.” “You’re not helping.” “I disagree.”
Sophie crosses her arms and steps into the argument like a defense attorney.
“You’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting?” Alex repeats, in disbelief. “I found out on the giant screen!”
“It was romantic.”
“It was televised!”
George has to lean against the doorframe for support. Lando is already red in the face from laughing.
Marie stays quiet until Alex turns to her, searching for the only seemingly neutral face in the room. “Marie... did you know?”
She freezes. She looks at Sophie. She looks at Carlos. She looks at the floor. Then she replies in a low voice, way too honest to lie. “It’s just… you were literally the only person who didn't know.”
Absolute silence.
George makes a choked-up sound. Lando turns his back just so he can breathe.
Alex stares at his friend for a few seconds, feeling betrayed on a deeply personal level. “Did Luke know?”
Luke, who happens to walk in at that exact moment holding an isotonic drink, freezes in the doorway. “I’m gonna leave and come back later.” “DID LUKE KNOW?”
Luke raises an eyebrow. “I thought you knew.”
Alex buries his face in both hands.
Nobody says anything out of respect. Or because they’re too busy trying not to laugh.
He stays like that for a few seconds, motionless, processing the sheer emotional humiliation. When he drops his hands, he looks five years older. “I need to sit down.”
“There’s a chair right here,” Lando offers between laughs. “Don't talk to me.” “Fair.”
Carlos takes another sip of water. Sophie stays completely unbothered. George is still laughing. Marie offers an apologetic look.
And Alex Albon slips into a completely silent emotional breakdown, surrounded by the least supportive group of people imaginable.
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
The Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez is still mostly quiet in the early hours of Friday morning, but it’s a deceptive silence — the kind that only exists right before Formula 1 cars start screaming.
The Mexican sky is clear, the air is thin because of the altitude, and everything feels a bit lighter… until the cars head out of the pit lane.
FP1 is a bit different this time around.
It’s a free practice session reserved for rookie and reserve drivers—a rare shot to show what you've got without the direct weight of the championship on your shoulders, but with enough eyes watching from across the paddock to turn any single lap into a public judgment.
At Williams, that means Sophie Albon is in the car.
Alex Albon is tracking everything from the pit wall, arms crossed, wearing the ultimate big-brother posture — pretending to be calm but clearly ready to question every single strategic decision in the universe.
Luke Browning is standing right next to him, trying to look relaxed and failing miserably.
“She’ll be fine,” Luke comments.
Alex doesn't take his eyes off the screen. “I know.” “Then why are you acting like this?” “Because she also knows how to be reckless when she wants to be.”
Luke thinks about it for a second. “That doesn't help.”
Out on track, Sophie is already on the pace. And it’s not an adaptation pace either. It’s a statement pace.
The Williams car seems to handle differently in her hands—more direct, sharper on corner entry, cleaner on exit. She isn't testing limits; she’s finding them way too fast.
First push lap. Second. Third.
And when the times start flashing on the pit wall monitor, the mood in the air shifts.
The Williams engineer tilts his head. “…that’s competitive.”
Alex narrows his eyes. “Define ‘competitive’.”
The monitor updates again. And again. And again.
Sophie isn't just on the pace. She’s cracking the timing sheets wide open.
Over at McLaren, Red Bull, and Ferrari — glances start being traded as her name climbs higher up the leaderboard.
Until the Williams team radio crackles, almost with a sense of contained disbelief: “Provisional P1.”
Silence.
Luke lets out a quick, “…okay.”
Alex doesn't answer right away. “What?” “Provisional P1.”
Now he just lets out a nervous chuckle. “Of course.”
In the cockpit, Sophie completes her cool-down lap with the utter nonchalance of someone who just did something perfectly absurd and hasn't decided if she’s even going to mention it.
When she parks the car, she removes the steering wheel calmly, as if she hadn't just rattled the entire paddock.
She climbs out of the car. Helmet still in hand. Breathing under control.
And for half a second, nobody says a word — because sometimes even chaos needs a second to be processed.
Until the Williams garage completely erupts.
Luke practically bursts out laughing. “DID SHE JUST SET THE FASTEST TIME?”
“YES!” someone shouts.
Alex closes his eyes. “I am never going to hear the end of this for the rest of the week.”
Sophie just flashes that simple smirk, as if she hadn't just caused a minor diplomatic crisis across the entire paddock.
And then she spots Carlos.
Carlos Sainz Jr. is leaning near the back area of the garage, taking it all in with that look of someone who figured out the situation before everyone else — and who, for some reason, looks way more satisfied than he probably should.
He doesn't wait for her to come over. He goes to her. No announcement. No hesitation.
Just closing the distance in two quick strides before pulling her into a more discreet corner behind the garage structure, out of the immediate line of sight of the main broadcast cameras.
Sophie barely has time to react. Carlos is already way too close.
“You just made the entire paddock lose their minds,” he says, with a smile that isn't exactly innocent.
“I was just driving.” “You were emotionally attacking the timing sheets.”
She laughs, but doesn't answer. Because he doesn't leave her any room to.
Carlos cups her face with a dangerous level of familiarity — like it’s the most obvious thing in the world right there between practice sessions and telemetry — and kisses her.
No warning. No buildup. No attempt whatsoever to look professional.
It’s quick at first, but not exactly light. There’s that annoying mix of confidence and composure he always carries… which, for some reason, throws her off balance more than it should.
When they pull back just enough to breathe, Sophie still has that slightly dazed, slightly self-aware smile about what just happened right in the middle of an F1 paddock.
Carlos rests his forehead gently against hers, as if nothing around them matters.
And he whispers, with an absolutely unfair level of calmness: “You’re going to need your energy later.”
She lets out a soft laugh, still catching her breath. “Is that a threat or a piece of advice?”
“Depends on how you want to take it, corazón.”
And before either of them can say anything else, the ambient noise of the paddock floods back in — as if the world just remembered it can’t stop just because someone decided to mix business with pleasure between corners and telemetry.
But for a split second, nobody there seems to be in any rush to go back to being professional.
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
Marie walks back through the paddock, still feeling light after dropping by the Williams area, where she had just run into Sophie. The two of them had traded quick laughs and that easy familiarity of people who have shared years of karting and chaos together.
Sophie, however, was clearly in a completely different state of mind.
Her hair was a bit messier than usual, her posture less composed, carrying the exact vibe of someone who had tried to look professional and failed somewhere along the way. Marie clocks it instantly — not with surprise, but with absolute certainty.
She flashes her friend an amused look, scanning her from head to toe with calculated calmness, like someone who already knows exactly what happened and doesn't need a single word of confirmation.
Sophie notices and tries to keep her poker face, but she isn't fooling anyone.
Marie just lets out a low laugh, almost a teasing smirk, as if she’s locking that away as a very obvious secret.
She keeps walking through the paddock, unzipping the top of her McLaren race suit as she makes her way back, with the smug satisfaction of someone who just watched her best friend completely lose her cool for a few minutes — and finds it absolutely worthy of a mental breakdown registry.
The day continues normally… until it doesn't.
McLaren is having one of those days where everything looks chill on the outside… but on the inside, there’s that quiet tension of knowing FP1 delivered way more drama than it was supposed to.
Marie Häkkinen is standing near the garage, her suit still half-unzipped at the top and her helmet tucked under her arm. She didn't land P1 — but she did something very close to it in terms of impact: consistency, clean pace, and instant respect from the paddock. The kind of performance that makes everyone look twice.
She tries to look calm. She really does.
But she fails completely the second she looks to the side.
Because he is standing right there.
Mika Häkkinen.
And that was definitely not in the script today. Not at this hour. Not in this paddock. Not at this specific distance between surprise and reality.
She blinks once. Then twice.
Her gaze softens instantly, her brain needing half a second to fully process it.
“Aren't you… supposed to get here tomorrow?”
Mika is talking to Zak Brown, who is gesturing wildly, clearly mid-conversation about data, performance, and something involving McLaren being McLaren. Mika answers calmly, perfectly relaxed, as if he never left this environment — because, in a way, he never did.
He slowly turns his head when he hears her voice.
“I decided to change my flight.”
Marie stands frozen a second longer than she should. And then, her face completely gives way to a surprised smile — that small, genuine, almost childlike smile.
“You decided to change your flight like it was just… a strategy meeting?”
“It was important.”
It always was.
She doesn't think twice. She just goes. Two quick strides and, for a second, everything else in the paddock completely vanishes: engineering, pressure, radio, telemetry. Just a daughter.
She hugs her dad tightly.
And Mika, who isn't one for dramatics, doesn't say much. He just holds her firmly. Like he always does. Quiet pride. Wholehearted pride.
He pulls back just enough to get a better look at her.
“Good session.”
Marie lets out a short laugh, still a bit emotional.
“It was no big deal.”
“It was good.”
She rolls her eyes, unable to hide her grin.
“You can’t just show up and say that like I just won the championship.”
“Not today.”
That makes her laugh a bit more.
Zak, who had been standing by watching the scene with that team-principal smile of someone who has seen it all but still loves these raw human moments, chimes in naturally.
“Okay, this is officially the best paddock content of the day.”
Marie points at him, still smiling. “Aren't you supposed to be working?”
“I am working right now.”
Mika looks at Zak with that calm, silent, measuring gaze of his. “She is doing well.”
Zak nods. “She is doing incredibly well. And the whole paddock has already noticed.”
Marie lets out a soft breath, feeling a bit self-conscious now. “You guys are talking like I did something massive.”
Zak shrugs. “In the context of McLaren… it is massive.”
She laughs, but before the conversation can go any deeper, the atmosphere shifts slightly — not dramatically, just enough to catch their attention.
Because Lando Norris appears in the background.
Lando Norris.
He’s walking over with his usual casual stride, clearly intending to just find her, maybe tease her a bit, flash his usual smile, and go about his day.
He raises a hand when he spots her. “Hey…”
And then he stops. Dead in his tracks.
Because he sees Mika Häkkinen.
Time seems to slow down in a completely unnecessary way.
Silence.
Lando blinks. He looks at Marie. He looks at Mika. He looks at Zak, as if the universe had decided to shove every level of emotional and professional authority into a single frame.
He takes a deep breath.
“Right… I can come back later.”
Marie is already starting to laugh before she can even answer. “No.”
Mika observes Lando with absolute composure, the kind of quiet presence that doesn't need to raise its voice to command a room.
Lando takes another step, much slower this time.
“Hi… Mr. Häkkinen.”
Instant silence. Marie covers her mouth, desperately trying not to laugh out loud.
“You didn't need to do that.”
“I definitely did.”
Mika extends his hand naturally. “Lando.”
He shakes it. Firm, direct, unhurried.
Lando pulls his hand back, suddenly a bit more hyper-aware of his own existence than he’d like to be.
“An absolute… pleasure.”
“I know who you are.”
“That could be a good thing or a worrying thing.”
“Depends.”
Marie chuckles quietly beside them, thoroughly enjoying the chaos.
“You just lost about 40% of your confidence right there.”
“I never had 40% anywhere near this guy,” Lando murmurs, subtly nodding toward Mika.
Zak chuckles under his breath. “This is the paddock in its purest form.”
Mika, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened, looks at Marie and then at Lando.
“You drove well today.”
The tone shifts again. Simpler. More direct.
Lando’s shoulders instantly drop in relief. “You saw?”
“I saw.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Lando can’t hide the proud smirk spreading across his face. Getting praised by one of his team's greatest legends.
Marie bites back a smile for a second—and fails. It would be so nice if…
“Thanks for coming, Dad.”
“I said I would.”
“You never say things like that without a reason.”
“Today had a reason.”
For a split second, the paddock fades away again. Just father and daughter. Just quiet pride, now lighter, more visible.
Until Lando, trying to claw back whatever emotional control he has left, inserts himself back into the conversation.
“Okay, just for the record… I’m proud too, but this is getting emotionally unfair for me.”
Marie turns to him, laughing. “You’re not competing with anyone.”
“Yes, I am.”
Mika looks at Lando calmly. “He is competitive.”
“I am not competitive with drivers' dads!” Lando defends.
A brief silence. Marie laughs harder.
“That was oddly specific.”
Zak almost runs out of air from laughing so hard quietly.
Mika gives Lando a gentle pat on the shoulder — simple, no pressure.
“Good luck.”
“With…?”
“Everything.”
And with that, he walks away, as if he hadn't just caused a minor collective emotional meltdown in three different people simply by existing there with pure Finnish calmness.
Lando stands frozen for two seconds. Then he looks at Marie.
“Your dad is terrifyingly chill.”
“Welcome to Scandinavia.”
He lets out a breath. “I came over here to talk to you and ended up being psychologically evaluated.”
Marie smiles. “And did you pass?”
“Depends on the criteria.”
She laughs. And the paddock carries on as if nothing happened — but now with the distinct feeling that McLaren just received a visit that completely flipped the emotional gravity of the entire day
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
Night falls over Mexico with that signature orange glow across the circuit, and the entire paddock is already on another energy level — higher, tenser, more alive. What started as just a regular practice weekend has turned into something nobody can even pretend is "normal" anymore.
And now, right before the main event, comes the announcement that completely flips the script.
The FIA, following internal talks with the teams and a joint request for sporting development and data evaluation, authorizes something rare — almost historic.
For testing purposes and to observe real-world race performance, Sophie Albon will be taking Alex Albon’s seat for the official race.
The explanation is technical, formal, packed with jargon about long-run data validation, stint consistency, and performance under pressure.
But the paddock isn't listening to that.
The paddock only hears one thing: two women on the Formula 1 grid in an official race.
And that changes everything.
Marie Häkkinen, over at McLaren, already feels the sheer weight of the day before she even steps into the car.
Lando Norris is right beside her for the final briefing, quieter than usual — not nervous, but locked in with a rare kind of focus.
Zak Brown watches it all with the look of someone who knows he isn't just watching a race, but a moment that’s going to be remembered forever.
The grid slowly forms.
The cars line up under the artificial lights of the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez.
The sound of the engines isn't just noise — it’s a physical vibration in everyone's chest.
Lando on pole. Marie right beside him. Sophie a few spots back, already inside the Williams, taking deep breaths inside her helmet.
The camera zooms in on the details: hands on the wheel, fingers adjusting clutch control, controlled breathing over the radio, engineers speaking softly as if that could somehow alter destiny.
Red lights. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
They go out. The race is on. And the world explodes into motion.
Lando gets a clean getaway — perfect, zero hesitation. Marie tags along right behind, protecting the slipstream, while the whole pack fanned out behind them like an aggressive spread of strategies.
Sophie gets a great start — way too aggressive for a "test reserve," way too fast for someone who’s theoretically just there for analysis.
The opening corners are pure chaos.
Heavy braking into Turn 1, a quick snap of dirty air, cars reorganizing themselves like living chess pieces.
Marie holds off the pressure from one side and attacks from the other, exploiting a tiny opening on the main straight to swipe a position from a Ferrari with surgical precision.
Lando builds a small but steady gap — he’s in control of the race, but he’s definitely not in a comfort zone.
And that makes everything so much more interesting.
Lap 6: Sophie is already driving at full-on race pace.
Lap 8: she pulls off a double overtake going into Turn 4, lunging the Williams down the inside with a level of bravery that leaves the team radio dead silent for two seconds before someone says, “Okay… that worked.”
Alex, over on the pit wall, already has his hand on his forehead. “She didn't need to do that.”
Luke replies: “But she did.”
Up front, Lando and Marie begin a silent battle. Not aggressive — technical. A game of non-stop pressure.
Marie closes the gap through the high-speed corners; Lando pulls it back on the straight.
Lap 15: Marie attempts a move under braking into Turn 1. Close. So close. But Lando shuts the door right at the limit.
The McLaren radio explodes with quick instructions, energy management updates, and tire saving. Nothing is left to chance. Everything is millimetric.
Meanwhile, Sophie keeps climbing.
Lap 18: she’s already in the top 5.
Lap 21: she enters the provisional top 3 after a flawless undercut strategy from Williams.
And the paddock starts to realize this isn't just a test anymore. This is a real race.
Lap 30. Lando is still leading. Marie is glued to his gearbox. Sophie is now firmly in a podium position.
The tension becomes physical. Every single lap is a stark choice between strategy and survival.
Lap 41: Marie tries again. This time, she manages to poke the car down the inside into Turn 12, capitalizing on a split-second hesitation from Lando.
For half a second, she has it. But Lando answers back with experience, reclaiming the spot on the exit of Turn 13.
It’s clean. It’s intense. It feels almost too personal to just be racing.
Final lap.
Lando Norris crosses the line first. Lando Norris wins.
Marie Häkkinen finishes right behind in second after a textbook race of pace and intelligence.
And then, Sophie Albon crosses in third.
And the whole paddock just halts. Because it’s not just a podium. It’s a podium completely outside the realm of reality.
Lando Norris in P1. Marie Häkkinen in P2. Sophie Albon in P3.
A scenario nobody would have put into a simulator without it looking like overkill.
Absolute silence for half a second. Then… total explosion.
Radios screaming, teams reacting completely off-protocol, engineers laughing, others in absolute shock.
Zak Brown just shakes his head, like he just witnessed something that’s going to dominate conversations for years.
Before the podium ceremony, while the cars are still being rolled back into parc fermé, the paddock remains in a state of emotional suspense.
Sophie climbs out of the car first, breathing heavily, still trying to grasp what just went down.
And then she sees Carlos Sainz Jr.
He doesn't wait for protocol. He doesn't wait for cameras. He just goes.
And he pulls her into a quick, intense kiss, completely breaking the standard rules of public race behavior — but absolutely fitting for the emotional chaos of the day.
The paddock sees it. The broadcast catches it. The big screen shows it.
And the silence returns — but with a different texture this time. More shock. More confusion. More “did that actually just happen?”
Alex, off in the distance, literally freezes for a second. Then he buries his face in his hand. “I am not watching this happen again.”
Luke, right next to him, just mutters: “Yes, you are.”
Alex takes a deep breath. “I need a room with zero information.”
And while all of this plays out, Marie stands near her McLaren, still trying to process her own podium, looking at Lando beside her like reality had decided to play around with impossible odds.
Because on that day in Mexico… The impossible didn't just happen. It won.
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
The podium is still being dismantled when the entire paddock seems to enter that weird state between euphoria and disbelief. The track lights are still beaming, but it already feels like the end of a chapter — as if everyone is waking up from a collective dream that nobody wants to admit was real.
Somewhere in the paddock, Lando Norris is holding his trophy with that smile that’s half-shock, half-way-too-satisfied to even try and hide it.
Just below, Marie Häkkinen is still in her own world for a few seconds, breathing deeply, looking around as her brain processes in slow motion the fact that this actually just happened.
And then she sees him.
Her dad.
He isn't in the center of the cameras. He doesn't need to be. He’s further back, by the McLaren hospitality, watching everything with that classic expression of a man who doesn't do dramatics… but feels everything.
Pride. Silent. Heavy. Real.
When his eyes meet hers, he doesn't make a big gesture, he doesn't wave wildly. Just a slight nod of the head.
And to Marie, that means more than any public celebration ever could.
Over in the Williams garage, the chaos is on a whole different level.
Sophie is surrounded by the crew, still laughing out loud, being pulled from one side to another while engineers talk all at once, and Alex tries to process the fact that his sister just scored a historic podium.
At McLaren, Zak Brown is literally laughing out of pure nervousness while repeating to someone: “That wasn't a race. That was an unauthorized historic event.”
The headlines start popping up before the press conference even begins. “McLaren and Williams secure an impossible podium in Mexico.” “Two women on the Formula 1 podium for the first time in an official race.” “Lando Norris wins historic and chaotic Mexican Grand Prix.”
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
And while all of this is exploding outside the paddock… the post-race routine should have been simple.
They were all supposed to fly back to England. Organized flights. Standard schedules. Post-GP briefings.
They were supposed to. But that’s not what happens.
In the airport departure lounge, Alex Albon is already pacing back and forth like he’s caught in an emotional emergency simulation.
“No. No. No. This isn't possible.”
Alex Albon literally cannot stand still.
“What do you mean they went to Spain?!”
He stops. Breathes. Starts pacing again.
“They just… vanished.”
Marie, leaning near the luggage, tries to speak calmly, acting like she’s mediating a diplomatic crisis. “They’ll come back…”
“When?” “I don't know.” “EXACTLY.”
Carlos Sainz Jr. and Sophie Albon had quietly slipped away after the race. Nobody saw the exact moment they left the team's normal flow. They only realized it afterwards.
And now, there was a glitch in the system.
Alex keeps pacing. “This isn't normal. This isn't professional. This isn't… this is unacceptable.”
Lando, sitting on top of a suitcase, watches it all with a growing smirk that he isn't even trying to hide. “This is so funny.”
Alex whips around instantly. “It’s not funny!” “It really is.” “It’s not!”
George Russell, leaning a bit further back, has had his phone out since the very beginning. George Russell isn't just watching — he’s documenting.
“This is going to yield three videos, minimum.”
Alex points a finger at him. “YOU ARE NOT HELPING.” “I’m helping history.”
Marie tries to choke back a laugh but fails somewhere along the line. “Alex… breathe.”
“I AM BREATHING TOO MUCH.”
Lando tilts his head, still laughing. “They’ll come back alive. Probably.”
Alex freezes. Looks at him. “PROBABLY?!”
Absolute silence. George laughs louder.
Marie rests a hand on Alex’s shoulder, trying to soften the chaos. “They just… decided to celebrate in a different way.”
“DIFFERENT DOESN'T MEAN DISAPPEARING INTERNATIONALLY!”
Lando finally stands up. “It was an impulsive, romantic gesture.”
Alex looks at him like he’s just lost his collective sanity. “I DO NOT NEED EMOTIONAL ANALYSIS RIGHT NOW!”
George is already filming everything. “This is going viral in twelve minutes.”
Marie covers her face, laughing quietly.
And while the airport continues to be the stage for an unofficial Formula 1 emotional breakdown… two people are already way too far gone to be easily found.
And the entire paddock, for the first time all day, agrees on one single thing: nobody is in control of anything anymore anyway.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟: The 2025 Azerbaijan Grand Prix was supposed to be just another race, but Baku had other plans. When an FP1 crash sidelines Oscar Piastri, McLaren calls up their quiet, fiercely talented reserve driver, Marie Häkkinen. Making a sudden F1 debut is enough pressure on its own, but having to share a garage with Lando Norris — the teammate she has been secretly crushing on for years — makes it a total emotional meltdown. Meanwhile, over at Williams, a chaotic media day and a historic podium threat to shatter the peace of the Albon family. Carlos Sainz Jr. and Sophie Albon have a massive secret, and Alex Albon is the only man in the paddock who is completely blind to it. Between hidden feelings, unsaid words, and a live-broadcasted kiss that paralyzes the entire grid, Baku becomes the exact weekend where everything changes.
Words: 4,198K
Themes: reservedriver!reader x driver!lando norris, secret relationship!carlos sainz x reader's bestie!sophie albon, protective brother!alex albon, best friends to coworkers, rookie debut, paddock dynamics, slow burn, mutual pining, protective teammate, fake it till you make it, chaos energy.
Warnings: extreme emotional pining, mutual awkwardness, public exposure, family drama, canon-typical paddock gossip, George Russell laughing at other people's chaos, absolute lack of communication, soft ending.
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
PART 1
Azerbaijan Grand Prix (Baku), September 21, 2025
The 2025 season is in full swing. The first few races of the year are already setting up some juicy rivalries; a few teams are starting to deliver on their pre-season hype, while others are still scrambling for consistency. The paddock is in that phase where anything feels possible, but nothing is set in stone just yet. There’s pressure, anticipation, and that familiar feeling that the championship is about to really take shape.
And when the calendar hits Baku, that feeling only hits harder.
The Azerbaijan Grand Prix is never just a walk in the park. This street circuit demands absolute precision, punishes the slightest slip-up, and has a knack for turning ordinary weekends into unforgettable chaos. In Baku, a clean lap can turn into a disaster in seconds, and a controlled race can completely unravel on a single restart. Nothing stays quiet there for long.
For McLaren, the game plan heading in is simple: bag some solid points and keep the momentum going. Lando Norris is feeling competitive, Oscar Piastri is right there with him, and the vibe in the garage is pure confidence. Their driver lineup is one of the strongest on the grid, and the team knows they have to capitalize on every single chance to stay in the title hunt.
But Friday changes everything.
During FP1, Oscar crashes out, ending his weekend way too early. The impact doesn't just wreck the car; it also requires immediate medical attention. Ruled out for the rest of the event, he’s sidelined, leaving McLaren with a massive decision to make — and fast.
So, the team calls up their reserve driver.
Marie Häkkinen.
As the daughter of Mika Häkkinen — two-time world champion and a certified McLaren legend — Marie carries a last name that's impossible to ignore. Still, anyone who actually knows her knows she’s not just riding on her dad's coattails. She’s been quietly building her own career through discipline, talent, and solid results away from the spotlight. Reserved, polite, and incredibly dedicated, Marie never demands attention — she earns it.
Even so, making a sudden F1 debut on a track like Baku is enough pressure to break anyone.
But in her case, there’s an extra twist.
Her teammate for the weekend will be Lando Norris.
McLaren’s golden boy, a major star on the grid, and the guy Marie has been secretly crushing on for way too long. It’s a quiet feeling she's nurtured through brief run-ins, discreet glances, and everything left unsaid. For Marie, just sharing a garage with Lando would be intimidating enough. Having to share the track with him in front of the entire world? That just feels plain unfair.
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
While McLaren is scrambling to rewrite their playbook, the vibe over at Williams couldn't be more different.
The team is hosting a super laid-back media day with Carlos Sainz Jr., Alex Albon, Luke Browning, and their reserve driver, Sophie Albon. It's the usual mix of interviews, fun challenges, and fan meet-and-greets — the exact kind of lighthearted PR duty that comes with modern Formula 1.
Well, in theory, anyway.
Because "predictable and quiet" just isn't Sophie Albon's style.
As Alex's younger sister, she grew up surrounded by older brothers and learned early on how to hold her own. Unlike Alex, who is naturally sweet and protective, Sophie is fiercely independent, quick-witted, and confident enough to shut down any attempt to control her. She’s fun, sharp, and absolutely refuses to let anyone else call the shots for her.
But there’s something going on behind the scenes that Alex is completely clueless about.
Carlos Sainz Jr., his own teammate, also happens to be Sophie’s secret boyfriend.
Secret only to Alex, of course.
Because honestly, the whole paddock feels like they've already figured it out. The mechanics notice the lingering glances. The engineers spot the "coincidences" happening way too often. The other drivers are basically just enjoying the show. The only guy genuinely blind to the romance between his sister and his teammate is Alex Albon himself.
And Baku, as usual, isn't exactly known for keeping secrets.
Between unexpected debuts, hidden feelings, undercover relationships, and families on the verge of a meltdown, this weekend in Azerbaijan stops being just another race on the calendar.
It becomes the exact moment everything starts to change.
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
The news hits way too fast for Marie to process it with any actual dignity.
First comes the summons from the team. It’s not every day Zak Brown and Andrea Stella call you in for a chat. Then come the technical jargon, the medical updates, the schedule changes, and a barrage of urgent instructions piling on top of each other. Somewhere between “Oscar is out” and “you’re taking the car this weekend,” her brain just decides to check out.
When she leaves the room, she walks a few paces in a straight line, stops, takes three steps back, stares at a wall for way too long, and concludes that she is officially having a meltdown.
She’s going to race in Formula 1. In Baku. For McLaren. Alongside Lando Norris.
That last part is what really breaks her.
Marie tries to breathe like a civilized human being, fails miserably, and makes the only logical choice available: find Sophie. If anyone can talk her down from this emotional trainwreck, it’s her best friend.
She practically sprints through the paddock, ignores two staff members trying to talk to her, walks straight past the wrong entrance of the Alpine hospitality, apologizes to a plant she almost knocks over, and finally barges into the Williams private area without a shred of ceremony.
Inside, the vibe couldn't be more different.
Sophie Albon is sitting on a high stool, laughing at something on Luke Browning’s phone, looking completely chilled out — like the world is a totally stable and safe place. Luke is laughing along, leaning against the counter, and both of them look like people who have never experienced an ounce of anxiety in their entire lives.
Marie appears in the doorway like a dramatic ghost.
“I’m going to die.”
Sophie doesn't even flinch. She looks up, takes one look at her friend's state, and replies with impressive calm:
“Good morning to you too.”
Luke turns around instantly.
“Marie? What happened?”
She points to herself, then to the empty air, then to nowhere in particular.
“Oscar crashed. He’s out. I’m racing. In his car. In Formula 1. Not today, but this weekend. With tires. And radio. And cameras.”
Luke blinks.
“…right. Usually, races tend to have all of those.”
Sophie is already sliding off the stool.
“Breathe.”
Marie starts pacing in circles.
“I can’t breathe, Sophie. There’s too much information in the air.”
“You always knew this could happen.”
“I knew it theoretically. Theoretically, I also know sharks exist. Doesn't mean I want to bump into one.”
Luke steps forward with the serene energy of someone who has probably calmed down plenty of stressed-out drivers in the junior categories.
“Hey. You deserve this, everyone knows you do. You’re ready.”
Marie stares at him as if he just started speaking Latin.
“Luke, I can barely feel my hands.”
“That’s adrenaline.”
“No, that’s total organ failure.”
Sophie crosses her arms and waits out the drama for a few seconds before hitting the real target.
“You’re not losing it because of the race.”
Marie freezes.
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I completely am.”
“Marie.”
Silence. Luke looks from one to the other, recognizing the inevitable arrival of the truth.
Sophie tilts her head.
“You’re good enough. The problem is you fancy him.”
The words hit a bullseye. Marie’s eyes widen.
“I don’t…”
“You do.”
“Sophie…”
“Big time.”
“That’s not relevant.”
“It’s completely relevant.”
Luke tries to hide a smirk and fails. Marie points at him, deeply offended.
“You knew too?”
“I… had my fond suspicions.”
“Nobody in this room respects me.”
“I respect you,” Luke says gently. “I just think it’s funny.”
Marie buries her face in her hands.
“I’m going to drive at 300 kph in front of the man I secretly love. I’m going to crash.”
“So dramatic,” Sophie comments.
“I’m not dramatic, I’m a realist.”
“You wrote ‘Marie Norris’ on the back of a page in Monza.”
“I was fifteen!”
“And last week you blushed because he asked for the salt.”
“That was an involuntary physiological response.”
Luke is openly laughing now. Before Marie can craft a legally sound defense, a new voice chimes in from the garage entrance.
“¿Interrumpo una terapia de grupo?”
Carlos Sainz appears with that irritatingly smooth confidence of someone who always knows how to make an entrance. Sunglasses on, easy smile, and the posture of a man who thoroughly enjoys watching other people's chaos.
Marie lets out a desperate sound.
“Carlos.”
He doesn't hesitate. He walks over and pulls her into a firm, warm, and quick hug.
“I’m proud of you.”
The sheer simplicity of it melts away the rest of her panic for a split second. Marie pulls back to look at him.
“Really?”
“Very. You worked for this. Now stop shaking like a lost puppy.”
She almost cries.
“That was sweet and rude at the same time.”
“I’m versatile.”
Carlos then turns to Sophie, casually walks over, and murmurs something in Spanish right by her ear.
“Buenos días, cariño. Estás muy guapa hoy.”
Sophie, who could face an entire press conference without blinking, goes instantly red. Luke watches the transformation like he’s witnessing a rare scientific phenomenon.
Marie narrows her eyes.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Internal matter.”
Carlos smiles with effortless arrogance.
“A problem between her and me.”
“That’s gross,” Marie declares.
“Is that jealousy?” Sophie teases with a smirk.
“Of you?” Marie fires back. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Luke replies.
“I do at this exact moment.”
For a few seconds, the four of them just stand there amidst the laughs, the banter, and the constant hum of the paddock around them. It's the kind of familiar scene among people who have known each other long enough to turn a crisis into collective entertainment.
And right there, in the middle of it all, a major truth finally clicks for Marie.
She’s still nervous. Incredibly so. But she’s not doing this alone.
And for someone about to make their Formula 1 debut, maybe that’s exactly what she needed.
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
Baku's media day kicks off just like any other: way too much noise, blinding lights, producers rushing all over the place, and drivers trying to act natural while being shoved into yet another round of interviews, silly challenges, and social media videos.
To the fans, everything looks totally spontaneous.
Behind the scenes, though, it’s all schedules, scripts, tape marks on the floor, and someone shouting “two minutes left” every thirty seconds.
Late that afternoon, a main stage had been set up right next to the paddock, complete with giant screens on the sides and a grandstand packed with fans. The goal is simple: put rival drivers through some childish games and watch highly competitive adults take it way too seriously.
Representing McLaren are Lando Norris and his surprise substitute for the weekend, Marie Häkkinen.
Williams fires back with Carlos Sainz Jr. and Alex Albon.
Backstage, at the top of a narrow flight of stairs leading straight to the stage, the three guys are waiting for their cue while the host hypes up the crowd below with some professionally exaggerated energy.
Marie shows up late, trying her best to look cool.
She isn't.
She smooths down the side of her trousers for the fifth time in less than a minute, adjusts her posture, looks out at the crowd, and decides that casually fainting might be a pretty elegant way out.
As she gets closer, she spots Lando Norris.
He’s standing right by the entrance.
Way too close.
Way too real.
Way too handsome, which honestly isn't helping at all.
So, Marie makes the mature executive decision to act like he simply does not exist.
She turns to Carlos first.
“Hey, Carlos.”
“¡Hola! The star of Baku.”
Then to Alex.
“Hey, Alex.”
“Hey, Marie. Nervous?”
“Nope.”
“Liar.”
“Completely.”
Alex smiles with instant warmth. As usual, he has that rare ability to make you feel comfortable without even saying much.
Marie relaxes a fraction of an inch.
Then she realizes there’s one person left in the greeting circle.
Lando.
Her brain goes into a total lockdown, and she chooses the only survival tactic left: pretending to be deeply fascinated by the staircase railing.
Carlos clocks it instantly.
He looks at Marie.
He looks at Lando.
He stares into space for two seconds just to keep from laughing right in their faces.
Lando, on the other hand, stays quiet. Arms crossed, a curious look on his face, watching the driver who just chatted with everyone around him and completely skipped his existence.
That definitely gets his attention.
Alex, totally oblivious to the emotional soap opera happening less than a meter away, strikes up a conversation totally naturally.
“Is your dad here yet?”
Marie sends a silent thank-you to the universe.
“Not yet. I think he gets in tomorrow.”
“He’s gonna lose his mind seeing you race for McLaren.”
“I just hope it’s from pride.”
“It’ll be both,” Carlos chimes in.
Marie lets out a soft laugh. Alex keeps going.
“You’ve always been good on street circuits. Baku suits you.”
“Either that or I bin it into the wall at Turn 3 and we all pretend it never happened.”
“If you crash, I’ll crash too out of solidarity,” Alex replies.
“How comforting.”
Carlos almost chokes trying to hold back his laughter.
Lando stays silent, now looking thoroughly amused.
Down below, the host cranks up the volume.
“BAKUUUU! ARE YOU READY?”
The crowd roars.
“Please welcome… McLAREN versus WILLIAMS!”
A producer cues them.
That’s their line.
Carlos heads down first, waving like he's running for office. Alex follows right behind, flashing a big smile. As Lando passes Marie, he holds onto the side of the stairs to make room for her.
“After you.”
Those are the first direct words he’s spoken to her.
Marie almost loses her emotional and physical balance at the exact same time.
“Thanks.”
She makes it down without tripping by a literal miracle.
On stage, the host is managing the chaos with a microphone and enough enthusiasm to power three cities.
“We have a clash of titans today! On one side, McLaren! On the other, Williams! And we have a very special debut: Marie Häkkinen!”
The grandstand goes wild.
Marie blinks, completely taken aback.
Lando looks at her sideways, noticing just how much the crowd loves her.
And he smiles, softly.
The games begin.
First up, a reflex challenge with light-up buttons. Lando misses two because he's busy playing to the crowd. Carlos complains that his button was lagging. Alex apologizes to his button for hitting it too hard. Marie wins with terrifying ease.
Next is an F1 and general racing quiz — questions about circuits, tires, flags, and historic trivia.
Carlos gets the year of his own dad’s first rally title wrong.
The crowd playfully boos him. Sophie, watching from the side of the stage with her Williams pass on, shouts, “You’re an embarrassment to the Spanish nation!”
Carlos points at her, deeply offended. “Traitor!”
Lando starts cracking up into his microphone.
Marie gets practically everything right. T
he host's eyes go wide. “Did Marie come here to study or did she come to humiliate everyone?”
For the third challenge, it's a pit stop assembly with prop parts.
Alex drops a fake wheel. Lando tries to help and just gets in the way. Carlos decides to just bark orders without doing any actual work. Marie organizes everyone in ten seconds flat and wins again.
On the final scoreboard, McLaren takes the win, almost entirely because of her.
The host dramatizes the result: “Ladies and gentlemen… carried on the back of Marie Häkkinen, McLaren wins!” Lando immediately throws his hands up. “I always believed in her.” Marie stares at him, and he smiles like they’re old friends. Her heart considers handing in its resignation.
Right after, they open it up for a quick fan Q&A. Mics pass around, fans scream names, and the host picks a girl in the front row. “Question for Marie!” The fan takes a deep breath. “What’s it like being Lando Norris’s teammate?”
The crowd reacts with that collective ooh of people who live for any potential awkwardness. Marie feels her soul leave her body. Lando turns his head to look at her, waiting for the answer. Carlos literally bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Alex just smiles innocently. Marie holds the microphone like it’s a live grenade.
“It’s really cool. He’s really fun and super experienced, I can't wait to race alongside him.”
The crowd cheers. Lando raises an eyebrow.
The line would have been great if they’d ever actually had a single full conversation in their lives. They haven't.
When the event wraps up, the four of them head down the stairs surrounded by media crews, security, and people trying to pack up cables. At the bottom of the steps stands Sophie Albon, leaning against the railing, scrolling through her phone like nothing happened. She looks up and smirks.
“Congrats, geniuses. Especially you,” she says, pointing at Marie. “You carried three grown men on your back on live TV.”
“Thanks,” Marie replies.
Lando’s demeanor shifts instantly. “Soph!” He walks right up to her totally naturally and throws a casual arm around her shoulder like someone who’s been doing it for years. “Long time no see.”
“It’s been three days,” Sophie replies.
“Missed you for real.”
“Liar.”
“How’s the family?”
“Chaotic.”
“Standard.”
The two of them keep chatting with effortless intimacy, laughing at old inside jokes, completely at ease. Marie watches in silence. No jealousy. No surprise. She knows they’re close—they’ve always been. They grew up in the same circles, shared paddocks, seasons, stories. It makes sense.
And maybe that’s exactly what makes her… more self-aware. Because with Sophie, everything about Lando seems simple. Natural. Fluid.
With her… everything just freezes.
Carlos notices her silence and casually steps closer. “You alright?”
Marie takes a deep breath before answering. “Yeah. Just… processing.”
“Welcome to Formula 1,” he says, amused.
Alex looks between them, as clueless as ever. “What is going on?”
Carlos fires back instantly: “Nothing.”
Marie almost laughs. And for the first time since the day started, she realizes the problem isn't the chaos around her. It’s the fact that, in the middle of all this… she still doesn't know how to just talk to him.
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
Sunday in Baku dawns with that elegant tension that only Formula 1 knows how to pull off.
The paddock wakes up early. Backs of trucks wide open, engineers crossing paths with tablets in hand, mechanics dead-focused on final tweaks, and drivers slowly emerging with headphones on and carefully blank expressions. The entire air feels like it’s buzzing with anticipation. On race day, everything just carries more weight.
For Marie Häkkinen, though, that weight feels different.
This isn't just another Grand Prix. It’s her official Formula 1 debut.
Back at the hotel, before she even heads to the track, her phone buzzes on the table. Her dad’s name pops up on the screen.
Mika Häkkinen was supposed to be in Baku this morning. The plan was for him to be right there with her for a moment way too symbolic to miss: his daughter debuting for McLaren, the exact team where he wrote his own legacy.
But an unexpected travel hiccup forced him to turn back mid-journey to sort out an urgent issue before he could get back on track. There just isn't enough time for him to make it to Azerbaijan before lights out.
His text is short, direct, and deeply Mika:
‘Proud of you.
Do it your way.
Talk later.’
Marie reads it twice. Then a third time.
She takes a deep breath and slides the phone away with excessive care, as if the gesture could keep him close. She doesn't say a word to anyone. She just arrives at the paddock quiet, looking more focused than usual.
Sophie is the one who notices.
Over in the Williams garage, while Luke Browning is adjusting his race suit and messing with his radio setup for his reserve duties, Sophie watches Marie walk in with that artificial calm that only happens when someone is trying incredibly hard not to feel anything.
She crosses her arms. “Your face looks way too put-together. What happened?”
Marie sighs. “My dad can’t make it.”
Luke snaps his head up instantly. “What?”
“Travel issues. He had to turn back halfway through.”
Sophie immediately slides off the counter she was sitting on. “He wanted to be here.”
“I know.”
“Is he gonna watch?”
“Yeah.”
“Then stop pretending everything is totally fine.”
Marie lets out a soft laugh. “It’s my defense mechanism.”
“It’s annoying.”
Luke steps up with his usual kindness. “He’s going to miss being here physically. But he won't miss anything important. He’s going to watch you make history.”
Marie stares at her friend for a second. “You sound like you work in motivational cinema.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Sophie throws an arm around her shoulders. “You’re gonna do great. And afterwards, I’m telling your dad every single detail—including if you cry.”
“I’m not going to cry.”
“Yes, you are.”
Luke chimes in, “If you make the podium, I’m crying.”
“Luke.”
“What? I’m sensitive.”
Despite the nerves, Marie flashes a genuine smile for the first time that morning.
A little later, the grid calls.
Alex Albon and Carlos Sainz are already in their cars, locked in for the start. Williams is having a promising weekend, and both have a real shot at a massive result. Sophie and Luke stay in the garage, tracking everything on the monitors alongside the crew.
At McLaren, Marie puts her helmet on and shuts the outside world out.
When the lights go out, Baku demands bravery from everyone.
The opening laps are tense, as always. Close walls, aggressive battles, zero room for error. Yet, Marie finds her rhythm incredibly fast for a rookie. She avoids incidents, manages her tires like a pro, and answers the radio with impressive composure.
On the McLaren pit wall, the strategists trade subtle glances. She’s ready.
Over at Williams, Luke tracks the timings on the screen. “She is absolutely flying.”
Sophie points to another monitor. “And look at Carlos.”
Carlos is driving a brilliant race too. Clean on the restarts, aggressive on the straights, and clinical on the defense. Alex, right behind him, is playing the perfect wingman, holding off rivals and maximizing the team’s haul.
“My brother is being useful instead of dramatic. Today really is historic,” Sophie quips. Luke laughs.
As the race unfolds, Marie climbs the order intelligently. She doesn't take stupid risks, but she never hesitates when a door opens. A clean overtake down the main straight triggers an instant roar from the grandstands.
Further ahead, Lando hears the constant praise for his new teammate over the radio. And he smiles to himself inside his helmet.
By the final lap, the order is locked in.
Max Verstappen George Russell Carlos Sainz Jr. Marie Häkkinen
Fourth place on her debut. A result that has McLaren celebrating like it’s a win.
And for Williams, it’s something even bigger. Carlos’s third place means a historic podium for the team in this new era. The garage explodes into pure chaos the second the cars pull into parc fermé.
Mechanics are shouting. Engineers are hugging. Luke jumps on top of someone who definitely didn't give him permission. Sophie sees Carlos climb out of the car smiling and completely throws all common sense out the window.
“Don't do it,” Luke warns, way too late.
She runs.
She darts past mechanics, dodges cables, ignores any shred of caution, and throws herself into Carlos’s arms hard enough to make him laugh before he even catches her.
And then she kisses him.
In front of the entire team. On the giant screen. Live. For the whole paddock. For millions watching at home.
Including Alex Albon.
The world freezes for two seconds. Carlos holds Sophie by the waist like this is just the most obvious outcome on earth. Luke covers his face with both hands. “I told her.”
On the big screen, the broadcast replays the kiss. In slow motion. Then from another angle. Then it cuts to Alex taking his helmet off, staring at the screen completely unable to process what he's looking at.
George Russell, walking past, catches the broadcast and starts cracking up. Lando doubles over laughing. Marie, still pulling her gloves off, puts a hand over her mouth to avoid making things worse.
Alex finally points at the screen. Then at Carlos. Then at Sophie. Then at nobody.
“What?!”
Sophie waves from a distance. “Hi!”
Alex stays frozen. Luke slowly shakes his head. “He’s gonna need to sit down.”
Baku, as always, delivers a show even after the checkered flag.
A story where the "benchwarmers" stop being team support and start being the eye of the storm. Between surprise tests, unlikely debuts, and decisions that shake the entire grid, the 2025 paddock is about to learn that being "reserved" doesn't mean staying still.
Because in Formula 1... even what was kept in reserve can change the whole game.
🏁 MARIE HÄKKINEN
Team: McLaren F1 Team
Role: Reserve Driver
From: Finland
Legacy: Daughter of 2x World Champion Mika Häkkinen
The Vibe:
Marie is low-key, polite, and always watching. Growing up with a massive legacy taught her early on to talk less and prove more. While she’s calm and almost shy off-track, she turns into a precise, technical beast behind the wheel. She doesn’t chase the spotlight—it just finds her.
On the Track:
Clean, consistent, and tactical. Marie doesn't do "unnecessary aggressive," but she knows exactly when to strike. Her strength is her race IQ — she’s always two steps ahead of everyone else.
Paddock Life:
Marie's Catchphrase: "My last name got me in the room. My lap times will keep me there."
Respected by the crew, but underestimated by outsiders. She’s constantly balancing the weight of the Häkkinen name with the fire to build her own identity.
Team Dynamics:
At McLaren, Marie is known as "the silent prodigy." The engineers swear by her technical feedback, which is as sharp as her father’s, but she’s still fighting to be seen as a legitimate contender rather than just a marketing asset or a "simulator specialist."
Love Interest (Lando Norris):
Marie has had a crush on Lando for ages, but to him, she was always just an efficient shadow in the back of the garage. He barely realized she existed until she started smashing his lap times in the sim. Now, Lando is finally paying attention, but Marie can’t tell if he’s into her or just obsessed with the challenge she poses to his ego.
🏁 SOPHIE ALBON
Team: Williams Racing
Role: Reserve Driver
From: Thailand / UK
Legacy: Alex Albon’s younger sister
The Vibe:
Independent, witty, and naturally confident. Sophie never lived in her brother's shadow, no matter how much the media tried to push her there. She’s got a quick sense of humor and a presence that mixes chill vibes with intense competitiveness. She doesn’t flinch—not for big names, and definitely not for big risks.
On the Track:
Aggressive and intuitive. Sophie drives on pure instinct and guts, often pulling off risky moves that leave people speechless. Once she finds her flow, she’s gone.
Paddock Life:
The life of the party at Williams, but always pushing the limits of the F1 structure. Being "Alex's sister" is cool with her... until it’s the only thing people see.
Team Dynamics:
Sophie isn't your typical "sweetheart," but she’s earned huge respect at Williams. She’s highly social but with a very blunt, direct sense of humor. She won't sugarcoat things for the engineers—if the car setup is off, she’ll say it. She’s one of the crew, bonded by sharp wit and a "no-nonsense" attitude that keeps everyone on their toes.
Love Interest (Carlos Sainz):
♡ ─ ♡ ─ ♡
She and Carlos are basically the paddock’s worst-kept secret—to everyone except Alex Albon. While her brother lives in a bubble of brotherly protection and remains totally clueless, she and the "Smooth Operator" date openly enough for everyone else to notice. Carlos is hooked on her blunt honesty, and Sophie loves that with him, she can just be herself—not "Alex’s sister," just his equal.
Sophie's Catchphrase: "If I wanted to be protected, I’d stay at home. I’m here to race, Carlos is here to win, and Alex... well, Alex needs to open his eyes."
💌 Quick Note!
First of all, thank you so much for all the likes and support on the last posts! Seeing you guys hyped for this universe is what keeps me writing.
Just a heads-up: this series is going to be a bit of a slow burn and a longer journey than my previous ones. I really want to dive deep into Marie and Sophie’s development, the paddock drama, and all the technical details of their rise to the top. Get comfortable, because we’re in this for the long haul! 🏎️💨
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟: After an intense weekend at the Chinese Grand Prix, Athena boards Charles’ jet on the way to Monaco. Far from the cameras, Ferrari, and the constant pressure of the paddock, the flight becomes the place where long-kept secrets finally begin to crack. Between teasing, confessions, and chemistry impossible to ignore, Charles makes it clear he is tired of hiding what he feels. In Monaco, passion and vulnerability collide, forcing them both to face a decision that could change everything on — and off — the track.
Words: 7.9K
Themes: engineer!reader x driver!charles leclerc, secret lovers, coworkers to lovers, forbidden romance, paddock dynamics, formula 1 setting, rich boyfriend energy, touch-starved, jealousy-free relationship, emotionally constipated man in love, power couple energy, private jet to monaco trope, “we should stop hiding”.
The private jet is already there, waiting for us with the door open and the stairs lit up against the private runway. Away from the cameras, the paparazzi, and the non-stop chaos of the paddock, the silence of the night feels almost weird after an entire weekend surrounded by engines, radios, and crowds.
Charles heads in first, like he always does when he wants to make sure I’m right behind him.
And I am.
The second I step into the cabin, I let out one of those long sighs you don’t even realize you’ve been holding in all day.
The cabin is huge and sleek, glowing with low, warm lights. Everything is spotless. Light leather seats, a small table set with water and fruit, the bar discreetly stocked. It’s quiet luxury. The kind of place that seems to exist only for people who are used to never actually resting.
Charles takes off his watch before he even sits down.
A simple move.
But I know that move well.
It’s his way of saying the day is over.
That Charles Leclerc, Ferrari driver, can disappear for a few hours.
He drops his shoulders, undoes the top button of his shirt, and flops into the wide window seat, closing his eyes for a second like he’s finally back in his own skin.
I just watch it all in silence.
Then, I kick off my sneakers without a second thought and shove them into the corner with my toe, crashing into the seat next to him like I’ve just survived a war.
Charles opens his eyes instantly.
And he gives me that lopsided grin he always gets when I effortlessly tear down all the elegance around us.
“Finally, no cameras.”
His voice is low and playful, heavy with relief.
I lean my head back and cross my legs.
“No radios. No team principals. No journalists.”
I hold up a finger, adding:
“No Frédéric spawning out of thin air.”
Charles lets out a real laugh.
The short, warm kind you almost never hear in the paddock.
“He does have a talent for that.”
“He literally materializes,” I reply. “I swear, one time I heard his name and he appeared behind me in less than five seconds.”
Charles laughs again, shaking his head.
“That is terrifyingly possible.”
The plane starts taxiing down the runway, and for a few seconds, neither of us says a word.
Not because we have nothing to say.
But because that silence is just too comfortable.
I sink deeper into the seat, feeling for the first time all weekend like I can actually breathe without thinking about telemetry, tires, radio, or headlines.
Charles watches me with this quiet, focused look.
No public mask.
No "press-trained" eyes.
Just him.
“You’re exhausted,” he says.
“I’m just over it.”
“At least you’re still beautiful.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Careful. Too many compliments might ruin your 'tough driver' image.”
“My image takes a huge hit whenever I’m around you.”
He says it lightly, but his eyes linger on mine a second too long.
And that always makes my heart skip a beat.
The plane speeds up for takeoff.
I instinctively grab the armrest.
Charles reaches out his hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I look at his hand.
Then at him.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome, mon amour.”
I slide my hand into his.
His fingers close slowly, firm and warm.
As the jet leaves the ground, I feel myself pushed back into the seat.
But what really throws me off is the subtle smile Charles gives me while he keeps holding my hand — as if, finally, in here, there’s nothing left to hide.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
The seatbelt sign turns off a few minutes after takeoff.
The plane is steady now, soaring above the city lights, and the cabin feels wrapped in this rare kind of peace. No radios, no voices in our ears, no people rushing in and out every minute.
Just us.
I’m still holding Charles’s hand when I remember the article I’d saved earlier.
I let go of his fingers just to grab my phone and quickly pull up the post-race headline — the one talking about the intense podium battle, Ferrari’s strategy, and how perfectly Lewis and his engineer were synced up.
I smile to myself.
Then I forward it to Olivia with a quick text:
You’re gonna want to read this.
Charles leans back and watches me, looking relaxed but way too attentive to pretend he’s not interested.
“Still looking out for her?” he asks.
I look up.
“Always.”
I set the phone in my lap and add, totally chill:
“Especially since she finally hitched a ride on Lewis’s plane.”
Charles lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.
“Finally.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Don’t even start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he says, acting way too innocent to be true. “It just took you two months to get there.”
I laugh and sink deeper into my seat.
There’s no denying it.
Watching Olivia and Lewis throughout the season is like watching two people trying to ignore something the entire paddock has already figured out.
The lingering looks.
The way he always listens for her voice on the radio.
The way Olivia gets way too serious whenever his name comes up.
And how she acts like she couldn't care less right after.
“She’d deny it until she was eighty if no one gave her a little nudge,” I say.
Charles turns to me, looking amused.
“You literally poke and prod her to get her to accept it.”
“And I’d do it again.”
“I know.”
He gives me that lopsided grin he only uses when he’s genuinely entertained.
“But it was her call in the end.”
I nod.
“It was. And I like that.”
I stay quiet for a few seconds before adding,
“She deserves to stop treating everything like a logistics problem for five minutes.”
Charles lets out a low chuckle.
“Lewis Hamilton as an emotional fix. That’s a new one.”
“Don’t overdo it.”
“You think I didn’t see his face when she almost said no?”
I turn toward him.
“You saw that?”
“Athena, I’m standing right there.”
I start laughing.
Of course he saw.
Charles notices way too much when he wants to.
“He’s already made up his mind before he even asks,” he goes on. “He’s just waiting for her to say yes.”
“And she almost ruins it by trying to be polite.”
“She’s Spanish and complicated.”
“She’s Spanish and traumatized.”
“Even worse.”
I shake my head, smiling.
“But you agree with me, don’t you?”
Charles doesn’t even hesitate.
“Completely.”
He takes my hand again, interlacing his fingers with mine.
“It’s obvious they’re into each other.”
He says it simply.
Like it's a cold, hard fact.
“They just needed to stop acting like nobody noticed.”
I let out a satisfied breath.
“If it’s up to me, she’s gonna land in Monaco with all her guards down.”
“If it’s up to me,” Charles replies, pulling my hand toward his lips, “she’s gonna land happy.”
He kisses my knuckles, taking his time.
The move makes me smile instantly.
“You’re actually really sweet sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Charles pulls an eyebrow up.
“You’re the one who gets on my plane.”
“You’re the one who invites me.”
“You’re the one who comes.”
I pull my hand back just to mess with him.
He grabs it again immediately.
Outside, the night is still above the clouds.
In here, surrounded by comfort, chemistry, and the realization that two different stories are changing at the same time, I think that maybe some emotional nudges really are necessary.
The cabin gets even quieter as the plane gains altitude.
The lights are low, the city is a distant blur under the clouds, and that rare kind of calm starts to fill the space between us.
Charles is still holding my hand.
No rush. No need to even look at it.
As if touching me is so automatic now that it doesn't even require his attention.
His fingers play distractedly with mine, sliding slowly between my knuckles, tracing small, repetitive movements that seem way too simple to have the effect they do.
But they do.
Every single time.
He’s looking out the window when he speaks, his voice low—almost too casual for how heavy the sentence is.
“Love,” he says, eyes lost in the window.
“Yeah?” she answers, softly stroking his hand.
“We don’t have to hide forever, you know?”
I turn my head toward him instantly.
Charles keeps looking out the window.
But I know that tone.
He’s being serious.
It’s not a tease. It’s not charm. It’s not just something he’s throwing out there between jokes.
It’s an idea he’s been carrying around for a while.
“Charles...” My voice comes out more cautious than I meant it to.
“You’re a Ferrari driver.”
He finally turns to face me. “I know.”
“You don’t get it.”
“I get it perfectly.”
“No, you get it in parts,” I fire back. “You’re a walking headline.”
He lets out a little huff of a smile.
“That wasn't a compliment.”
“It wasn't supposed to be.”
I take a deep breath before going on.
“I’m a Ferrari engineer.”
I point to myself.
“And I love the peace we have.”
I really do.
I love the hidden hands in empty hallways. The low-key meetings in hotels. The stolen glances in the paddock.
The freedom that only exists because nobody knows.
I love having something that’s just ours in a world where everything turns into a headline.
But that’s not enough…
Charles watches me in silence for a few seconds.
No irony. No joking around. Just focused.
Then he gives my fingers a little squeeze.
“I love you.”
The words hit me in a way that’s annoyingly direct.
No fluff. No buildup. No escape route.
Silence falls between us.
Heavy.
Real.
The kind of silence that happens when someone says something too simple to be ignored.
My chest tightens a bit.
Charles leans in toward me, his eyes locked onto mine now.
“And I’m tired…” he goes on, his voice even lower, “of pretending you’re just someone else in the paddock.”
My heart skips a beat.
Because I know exactly what he means.
Every hidden touch.
Every conversation cut short when someone walks by.
Every smile held back in front of the cameras.
Every impulse to act like strangers when we want the exact opposite.
I try to hold his gaze like nothing in me has changed.
I fail completely.
“You picked a terrible time to be sweet,” I mutter.
Charles gives me that lopsided, devastating grin. “I disagree.”
He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles slowly.
“I think I picked the perfect time.”
My heart is pounding in a way that’s honestly ridiculous.
And, to make it worse, he notices.
I stay quiet for a few seconds, still sitting next to him, trying to claw back any bit of an upper hand in this conversation.
Useless.
Charles stays leaned back in his seat, looking annoyingly good with his collar slightly open and that calm expression of someone who knows exactly how he affects me.
He doesn't look away.
He just waits.
Like he’s got all the time in the world.
Like I’m inevitable.
I sigh.
And then I move.
I shift in my seat, turning fully toward him.
Way too close for any kind of neutrality to exist anymore.
My hands go to his collar, fixing the fabric he’d messed up earlier, just so I have something to focus on other than how close he is.
Charles doesn’t say a word.
Just watches me.
That focused silence always tears me down more than any sentence could.
“I think we’re better off keeping up the act,” I mutter, still messing with a button that doesn’t even need fixing.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Fine, but only until I decide I'm done with it.”
My fingers stop for a second.
I look up at him.
Arrogant.
Cocky.
Unbearably charming.
Before I can even fire back, his hand finds my waist and pulls me a few inches closer.
The move is firm.
Natural.
Like he already knows I’m not going anywhere.
“Bossy,” I whisper.
His smile grows slowly.
“Only with you.”
And then he kisses me.
No rush.
No show.
None of that urgency from someone trying to prove something.
It’s a calm, intimate kiss—the kind that only happens between two people who already know their way around each other.
The taste of my piercing metal mixes with the mint on his lips.
The kind of kiss that carries memories.
That recognizes.
That lingers just because it can.
My hands instinctively slide up to his shoulders, then to the back of his neck, while his stays firm on my waist, keeping me close like distance has stopped making sense.
There’s no desperation there.
But there is danger.
Because quiet kisses are usually the hardest ones to forget.
And because Charles Leclerc, when he chooses to be patient, is way more dangerous than when he’s speeding.
The plane stays steady above the clouds.
But inside that cabin, with his mouth on mine and his hand holding me like I’m something precious and inevitable all at once, nothing feels exactly steady.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
The landing is smooth, almost silent, as if the plane itself understood it didn’t need to interrupt whatever is going on between us.
By the time the jet stops at the private terminal, the vibe has already shifted.
No movement.
No flashes.
No press.
Just that controlled silence you get when everything around you was designed not to intrude.
I step out next to Charles, still feeling like my body is out of sync.
Not from the flight.
But from what happened during it.
The air on the runway is colder, more real, and for a second it feels weird to exist outside that closed cabin again.
Outside, the black Ferrari Purosangue is already waiting, perfectly parked under the terminal’s dim lights.
Charles walks ahead of me like he always does — not out of a rush, but out of habit — as if clearing the way is just automatic for him.
He opens the car door for me.
I hide a small smile.
“Very low-key,” I comment, running my hand over the spotless interior as I get in.
He walks around the car calmly, taking his time, as if the world has finally stopped demanding his attention.
He gets in and shuts the door.
“I’m humbly low-key,” he says, like he actually believes it.
I give a low laugh.
He does too.
This time it’s not that "paddock laugh."
It’s looser.
More tired.
More real.
The engine starts with a soft growl, and the car glides out of the terminal.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
The road to Monaco feels like a different reality.
Late afternoon.
The sky is slowly shifting colors, going from a pale blue to warm shades of orange and gold, like the day is taking its sweet time saying goodbye.
The French Riviera stretches out beside us, the sea reflecting the light like liquid glass.
It’s beautiful in a quiet way.
Almost unfair.
The window is down.
A light breeze drifts in, messing up my hair and bringing that coastal road scent that always makes me feel tiny compared to the world.
Music plays low on the car’s speakers.
Something instrumental — nothing important enough to compete with the silence between us.
Charles drives with one hand on the wheel.
Body relaxed, but still sharp.
And then, like it’s no big deal, his other hand leaves the wheel and drops onto my knee.
Without looking.
Without warning.
Without hesitation.
Just... natural.
The touch is firm and steady, as if he doesn't even realize it’s there — or as if he simply has no intention of moving it.
I look at him for a second.
He stays focused on the road, expression calm, eyes on the path ahead like this moment is just another part of his day.
But it’s not.
Nothing about this is just another part of the day.
“About that talk on the plane...” I sigh, already knowing his answer. “Do you still want to tell them?” I ask softly, breaking the silence.
Charles takes a few seconds to answer.
Long enough for the sound of the engine to fill the space.
Then he lets out a slow breath.
He turns his head just enough to catch my eye for a split second.
“Right now, I just want to get home.”
His voice is low.
No weight.
No guard up.
But full of meaning.
Okay, not exactly what I expected.
It’s not a full answer.
It’s a choice.
I look at him a second longer than I probably should.
And I get it.
It’s not about explaining anything to anyone.
Not about the paddock.
Not about Ferrari.
Not about the world outside.
It’s about not breaking the one thing that stays intact between us after everything else.
I lean my head back against the seat.
I let the silence keep going as Monaco starts to appear on the horizon, like it’s been waiting for us without any rush at all.
Entering Monaco has that vibe of a private end-of-the-world — narrow streets winding up in elegant curves, lights flickering on one by one while the sea peeks through the buildings, like it never really left.
His house appears after one last, quiet turn.
Modern.
Open.
Big enough to feel silent even before anyone steps inside.
Huge glass windows reflect the darkening sky, and the sea out front takes up half the horizon, still and deep.
The car pulls up smoothly at the entrance.
Charles kills the engine with a relaxed movement, like he’s finally reached the finish line of his day.
We get out.
The air here is different from everything before it — lighter, more intimate, almost as if this place doesn’t belong to the same world as the paddock, even though it’s literally his.
Charles is the first one in.
He unlocks the door without any hurry.
And as soon as he crosses the hall, he tosses his keys onto the light wood table.
The sound is sharp.
Simple.
Final.
Like he’s dropping everything the day threw at him right there with those keys.
I stand at the entrance for a few seconds, just watching.
The interior is effortlessly sleek.
Clean lines.
Natural light still bleeding through the windows.
And a silence that isn't empty — it’s a choice.
Charles doesn’t walk away.
He stays there, a few steps inside, and turns toward me.
And he just watches me.
No rush.
No distractions.
Just looking.
Like he finally doesn’t have to share his attention with anything else.
I feel it immediately.
The way he looks at me here is different from the paddock.
No audience.
No role to play.
No version of him that isn’t just him.
I look away across the room for a split second, just to catch my breath.
Then I look back at him.
“You’ve been looking at me weird since Nice,” I say softly.
My voice sounds steadier than I actually feel inside.
Charles doesn’t answer right away.
The silence between us isn't hesitation.
It’s a choice.
He takes a step toward me.
Then another.
Slow.
Without breaking eye contact for even a second.
“Since before that,” he says.
His voice is low and firm, without any need for extra explanation.
And that’s what shifts the vibe in the room.
There’s no doubt there.
No joking around.
No running away.
Just a statement of fact.
I stand still for a moment, feeling the simple weight of that sentence.
And for the first time since we stepped off the plane, I don’t look for an answer.
The stairs feel longer than they should, or maybe it’s just the way the silence between us has changed since we walked in.
I head up first.
Charles is right behind me — no rush, but no distance either.
The house is even quieter upstairs — low lights in the hallways, the distant sound of the sea drifting through the open windows, the kind of atmosphere that seems to slow down every thought.
I go straight to the bedroom.
He follows me without saying a word.
The room is huge, with an even wider view of the ocean outside. The city lights are starting to flicker on in the distance, but inside, everything stays soft — almost too intimate to just be a room.
I walk over to the mirror.
I catch myself giving a small smile as I reach for my earrings, starting to take them off slowly, like I’m finally leaving the whole day behind.
I hear his footsteps behind me.
I don’t turn around.
I just keep going.
One side.
Then the other.
And then I feel him stop right behind me.
Way too close.
Not touching me yet.
But close enough to change the air around us.
The mirror gives me his reflection first.
Charles, watching me.
No rush.
No distractions.
As if I’m the only thing in that room actually worth his attention.
Before I can say anything, I feel his lips lightly brush against the side of my neck.
Calm.
Warm.
Way too intentional to be casual.
My body reacts before my brain does.
His fingers find my waist easily, holding me there like they already know the way.
“I thought you were tired from the trip,” I mutter, still looking into the mirror, trying to keep some kind of control over my voice.
He stays quiet for a few seconds.
The kind of silence that isn't empty—it’s a choice.
Then he answers softly, right against my skin:
“Now the best part of my day starts.”
I turn around slowly.
Just enough to face him.
The mirror stays behind us, reflecting only half the scene, like it’s not allowed to see the whole thing.
Charles doesn't wait anymore.
The kiss is different from the last one.
More direct.
More present.
More impossible to ignore.
My hands find his chest without thinking, gripping his shirt like it’s the only steady thing in the entire room, while he pulls me a little closer — no rush, but no room for doubt.
When we pull apart for a split second, he stays close enough to speak against my lips.
“Come with me.”
It isn't an order.
But it isn't a request, either.
He takes my hand and leads me through the room to the bathroom without letting go.
The light in there is low.
Almost golden.
He turns on the shower, and the sound of the water filling the space completely shifts the vibe, drowning out the world outside.
The steam starts to rise slowly, fogging up the mirror in seconds, erasing reflections and making everything soft and blurred.
Charles doesn’t let go of my hand.
His other hand finds my face for a moment, as if he wants to make sure I’m still there before moving on.
And then the room, the hallway, the entire house start to fall away — a detail too distant to matter anymore.
The water keeps falling.
The air gets hotter.
And everything that’s been building between us since the plane finally finds a place to exist without interruption.
We get undressed slowly.
He takes care of stripping us both.
When the shower door shuts, all of Monaco stops existing.
The water hits our shoulders, but the heat I feel doesn't come from the shower jets. Charles keeps his hands flat against the marble wall, pinning me in, while his light eyes sweep over me with a hunger he’s trying, and failing, to control. The silence is filled only by the sound of the water and our ragged breathing.
“You have no idea how much I hold back,” he mutters, his voice vibrating deeper than usual, muffled by the rising steam.
Without a word, I close the distance. My hands slide up his chest, feeling the thermal shock between the warm water and his skin, which feels like it’s on fire. I don’t want polite conversation or sideways glances anymore. With a slow tug, I pull his face to mine, but before our lips touch, he stops millimeters away, just to feel my breath.
“Athena...” my name comes out like a broken prayer.
He breaks the last trace of space. The kiss isn't calm; it’s intense, loaded with everything that’s been bottled up for too long. Charles presses me against the cold marble, and the contrast of the ice on my back with the heat of his body in front of me makes me let out a low sound that gets lost in his mouth. His hands move down with urgency, squeezing my waist and lifting me up, while my legs wrap around his hips by instinct.
Water runs between us, but all I can feel is the pressure of his hands and the hardness of his desire against me — a clear promise through the wet touch that still separates us.
“I want every part of you,” he whispers against my neck, between lingering kisses that make me shiver. “Here, now. With no one in the world to interrupt us.”
My nails find the back of his neck, pulling him closer, as I feel his intensity pressing into me, already throbbing in response. Charles lets out a low sound, pure instinct, and I know that inside this shower, the “Prince of Monaco” gives way to something much rawer.
The kiss becomes a battlefield of built-up longing. Charles kisses me as if he’s trying to reclaim every second we spent acting like professionals in front of the cameras. It’s a deep kiss, tasting of urgency and everything that was repressed. His hands leave the wall and bury themselves in my hair, tilting my head back slightly so he can completely dominate my mouth.
“I hate having to hear you on the radio and not being able to say what I’m feeling,” he confesses between short, hungry kisses, his voice breaking while the water soaks our forgotten clothes on the floor. “I hate every time you give me a technical instruction and I have to pretend I’m just focused on telemetry, when all I want is to pull you aside and do exactly this.”
I feel the vibration of his voice in my chest. Being his engineer means I spend all day listening to his breathing through the headset, feeling his heart rate through the data, but nothing compares to the real heat of his skin against mine.
“Charles, we agreed it was best for the team...” I try to say, but he cuts me off, pressing his hips against mine with a force that leaves me breathless.
“I’m done with what’s best for the team, Athena. I want what’s best for us,” he murmurs, trailing kisses down my jaw until he finds the sensitive spot below my ear. “I want to walk off that track holding your hand. I want the world to know that the woman who guides me through the turns is the same one who owns every part of me.”
My hands slide down his back, feeling the tense muscles. I pull him closer, feeling his urgency claiming space between my legs.
“Are you serious?” I ask, my voice coming out raspy while my nails lightly scratch the back of his neck.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he answers, looking back into my eyes, that emerald-green depth shining under the water. “But right now... right now I just want you to be mine, with no one listening on the radio.”
He doesn't wait for a verbal answer; he silences me with an even more intense kiss, while his hands move to my waist, ready to eliminate any distance left between the engineer and her driver.
My piercing plays against his lips like a little secret of ours.
The kiss intensifies until there’s no oxygen left between us, becoming a hungry, desperate collision. Charles’s hands navigate my body like fire, leaving a trail of heat that burns as hot as our team's red cars under the Sunday sun. I feel my skin boiling, reaching the same unbearable temperature as the air radiating from the engines in the garage — a heat that consumes me from the inside out.
I, who am trained to stay cool under pressure, feel every one of my control gears failing. An irrational urge to do something crazy takes over; I want to press myself against him, to fuse my skin to his until we don’t know where one ends and the other begins. I feel every rigid muscle of Charles's body under the water, every detail of his anatomy pressing into mine with an urgency that no telemetry could have ever predicted.
He pins me against the cold marble of the shower, and the contrast makes me let out a raspy sound. My nails scratch his shoulders as I reach for more, wanting to feel the raw force he usually hides behind that prince-like posture. In here, in the steam, I’m not the calculating engineer and he’s not the disciplined driver; we’re just two bodies in combustion, about to cross every limit we’ve ever known.
Charles trails kisses down my neck, biting my skin with a possessiveness that makes me arch my back, while his hand slides down and grips my thigh, lifting me so I can feel the intensity of his desire against me. Control stays on the track; here, the only rule is absolute surrender.
The steam in the shower is already so thick we can barely see the marble walls, but I don’t need my eyes; every one of my senses is locked onto Charles’s touch. With a strength that blends urgency and the technical precision he usually only shows behind the wheel, he grabs my thigh and hoists my leg, hooking it around his waist.
The move leaves me completely open to him, and the contact of his wet skin against mine is like a short circuit. Charles takes advantage of every touch, every wild sensation our contact creates, moving his hips in a slow, agonizing way against mine. I feel every detail: the hardness of his abs, the insane heat radiating off him, and the way his heavy breath hits my neck, alternating between sighs and stifled sounds.
He runs his tongue along my collarbone while his free hand grips the back of my neck, forcing me to feel the full intensity of the moment. I’m melting, my tough engineer persona completely pulverized by this physical surrender.
But, in a rush of adrenaline, I claw back a trace of command.
I press my hands against his chest and, with one firm move, I shove him to the opposite side of the shower. Charles stumbles back, hitting the marble, surprised, his eyes darkened with desire and his chest heaving. I don’t give him time to process. I move in like someone retaking control of a lost race, pinning my body against his and starting a voracious, dominating kiss.
Now I’m the one setting the pace, my nails scratching his chest while my legs surround him, making him feel that even though he’s the driver, in that tiny space between the water and the marble, I’m the one in charge of the pressure.
The control I prize so much seems to evaporate along with the shower steam, turning into a boldness I rarely allow myself outside of this bubble. With Charles pinned against the wall, I back off just enough to see the effect I’m having on him. His green eyes are fixed on me, pupils blown, and his chest is rising and falling at a frequency I’d recognize on any telemetry graph as the absolute limit.
I don’t stop. I start to move down, my lips never losing contact with his skin. I kiss the trail of water running down his chest, feeling every heartbeat hammering against my mouth. Charles lets out a shaky sigh, his hands grabbing the metal wall support so hard his knuckles turn white.
I go down further, deliberate, feeling the texture of his abdominal muscles against my face. Water hits my back, but I only feel the heat coming off him. My kisses map the way, moving down his waistline, while my hands contour his hips, locking him there.
Finally, I drop to my knees on the wet floor.
I stay there, kneeling in front of him, under the constant sound of water hitting the marble. I look up for a split second, seeing Charles with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, the expression of someone completely losing the fight against his senses. Without looking away, I let my kisses trace the curve of his inner thigh before focusing all my attention on him, with an urgency I’m more than ready to satisfy.
In that moment, there is no engineering, no strategy, and the Chinese GP is just a distant memory. There’s only us and the absolute silence of someone who finally has total control of the situation.
Kneeling under the water that falls like a warm storm, I’m in no rush. Charles lets out a deep sound that vibrates in the humid air as soon as I wrap him in my attention. My eyes drift up for a moment, just to see the tension in his jaw; he looks like he’s struggling not to collapse right then and there.
My mouth explores him with a hunger I’ve been holding onto all weekend in the pits in China, and now, in the quiet of his home, every move I make is designed to push him to the edge, to make him forget every trace of discipline.
The difference is the cold metal of my hoop piercing right in the middle of my bottom lip. With every move, the ring brushes against his sensitive skin, creating an electric contrast between the heat of my mouth and the coldness of the jewelry. It’s an extra stimulus, a variable he can’t predict that leaves him breathless with every touch.
“Athena... mon dieu...” he gasps, his voice vanishing into the thick steam, his hands reaching for support against the marble walls as his knees seem to give out.
I feel his hands move down, fumbling and trembling, until they find my head. His fingers tangle tightly in my wet hair — not to pull me away, but to hold me there, dictating a rhythm that starts to get frantic. He’s no longer the composed driver from the interviews or Ferrari’s diplomatic “Prince”; he’s just a man being driven to madness by me.
I feel his pulse racing against my tongue, and the sound of his low moans, mixed with French curses, is the only feedback I need. I’m in total control of this sensory telemetry, moving with a boldness that leaves him completely unarmed. Charles pulls my hair a bit tighter, letting out a long breath when my piercing scrapes exactly where he feels it most, proving that between the two of us, precision engineering now serves only one purpose: our complete combustion.
His grip on my hair tightens as I intensify the touch, using my hands to squeeze his thighs as I work to give him everything he wants — and everything he didn't even know he needed. I feel his muscles twitch, his pulse pounding against my tongue. Charles throws his head back, hitting the marble lightly, totally at my mercy.
I relish the sound of his broken breathing, the sound of someone losing control of every turn, every sensor. Here, on the shower floor, I’m not the one giving orders over the radio; I’m the one driving him crazy, and I have no intention of stopping until he’s completely undone under my command.
His climax hits like an electric shock. Charles’s body locks up, his fingers burying into my hair with possessive strength while a long, raspy moan escapes his throat, getting lost in the noise of the water. I feel every throb, the total surrender of a man who just reached his absolute limit.
But the quiet only lasts a few seconds.
The adrenaline channeled from the last race seems to have transformed into an even more potent fuel. Before I can even catch my breath, Charles grabs my shoulders and hauls me off the floor with a raw agility. In one quick, fluid motion, he spins me around, pinning me face-first against the opposite wall. The icy marble against my chest contrasts violently with the heat of his body pressed against my back.
“I’m not done with you yet, Athena,” he whispers in my ear, his voice heavy with a dangerous urgency.
He doesn't give me time to process. His hand moves firmly down my thigh, lifting my leg and bending my knee, bracing it against the marble wall, forcing me to stand on only one foot while he tilts me forward. With his other hand, he grips my neck, keeping me pinned, vulnerable, and completely exposed.
I feel his touch, more impatient now. Without any warning, he slides two fingers inside me at once, a deep and steady thrust that makes me let out a sharp cry, the sound echoing off the glass walls. The fullness is immediate and intense, hitting the exact spot that makes the strength drain from my hands.
I’m arched, hands glued to the wet marble, while he moves his fingers inside me with an implacable cadence, setting a rhythm that makes me see stars. Charles is in total command now, using the same precision he uses to attack a curb on the track, but with a hunger that’s purely personal. I’m no longer the controlled engineer; I’m just the target of all the passion and pent-up frustration he’s been keeping secret for months.
The speed of Charles’s fingers is insane — a technical, fierce rhythm that mimics a motor at redline. He has zero hesitation left; the movements are fast, precise, and deep, creating a friction that sends my whole body into a short circuit. I feel every nerve respond to that relentless beat, a pressure rising up my spine like an electrical discharge.
“Charles... σε παρακαλώ...” I gasp, hands searching for any grip on the slick marble as my hips move involuntarily, trying to keep up with how fast he’s dominating me. (Charles… please…)
The pleasure comes like an explosion, a violent orgasm that makes me shake in his arms while his fingers maintain that frantic pace inside me, making sure I feel every wave of the peak. Before the trembling even passes, I turn to him, face flushed and eyes clouded by a desire that, instead of fading, seems to have caught more oxygen.
Our eyes meet for a split second — his challenge against my surrender.
Charles grabs me by the waist and lifts me off the floor with raw power, suspending me as if I weigh nothing. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his hips, locking him against me. He pins me to the wall, the marble now warm from the steam, and silences me with a devastating kiss. It isn’t just a kiss; it’s a claim of ownership — hot, wet, and loaded with everything we hide in paddocks around the world.
As our tongues tangle with the same urgency as a fight for position, he gets into place. I feel the tip of him pressing against my entrance, hot and insistent. He breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, but doesn't pull away; instead, he uses his teeth to catch the small metal hoop in my bottom lip. He gives it a light tug, barely there, but enough to send a shock of adrenaline straight to my core, making me arch toward him.
The sensation of the metal being tugged by his teeth, while his hot breath hits my face, is the final blow to my sanity. As our tongues entwine again with that same frantic urgency, he readies himself. I feel him pressing, hot and insistent, claiming the space that already belongs to him.
Charles keeps his face millimeters from mine. His green eyes, now dark and heavy with a dangerous promise, lock onto mine. He brushes his lips against my piercing again, whispering against my mouth in a voice that is pure desire and authority:
“My engineer. Only mine.”
And then, he sinks into me all at once.
The thrust is so deep and decisive that I lose my breath. The fullness is absolute, a connection that goes far beyond the physical. He keeps me suspended, the weight of my body anchored in his, as he begins to move with a rhythmic force that sends the shower water splashing in every direction. Every one of his lunges is a reminder that, even though we’re far from the Shanghai track, the real race — the most dangerous and addictive one — is happening right here, between the two of us.
The pressure of Charles’s body against mine is crushing, and the impact of that first deep drive still echoes in every nerve of my body. He keeps me pinned against the wall, his large hands squeezing my thighs with a grip that will definitely leave marks, but I only find myself wanting him to squeeze even harder.
His pace is insane, a physical translation of the speed he lives for on the track. He moves inside me with a frantic cadence, each thrust sending my back rhythmically against the marble. The sound of water hitting the floor mixes with the sound of our bodies colliding—a constant, wet snap that only feeds the fire.
“Putain, Athena... tu es incroyable,” he growls against my neck, the French escaping in a voice I barely recognize, loaded with raw, unfiltered desire.
He starts alternating between stray kisses and hungry bites on my shoulder and the curve of my ear. These aren’t calculated kisses; they’re desperate attacks, as if he’s trying to devour me. My sounds come out high-pitched, lost in the steam, as I bury my nails into his broad shoulders, trying to anchor the hurricane he’s causing inside me.
“Charles, faster... don’t stop,” I beg, my voice vanishing into a sigh when he hits the exact spot.
“Tu me rends fou,” he answers with a low curse, eyes fixed on mine, now almost black with want.
He accelerates. The speed is relentless, a sequence of short, intense movements that make me lose any trace of sanity. My moans become disconnected, a mix of pleasure and a delicious agony. I feel the heat of his abdomen against mine, the sweat and water making everything slippery and even more intense.
Charles is completely out of his mind. The “Prince” gives way to something raw and starving. He lets out French words every time I tighten my legs around his waist, egging him to go deeper. Control — something we both prize so much in our careers — is now a dead concept.
My head falls back, hitting the wall lightly, as I feel the peak coming like a giant wave. He gives me no quarter; his hands move up from my thighs to my body, squeezing me while maintaining that overwhelming rhythm. We’re in freefall, ten thousand RPMs deep, on a track where the only flag allowed is total surrender.
The tension in the shower hits critical mass, that moment where the telemetry indicates everything is about to explode. I feel Charles’s muscles tighten to the extreme, the veins in his neck bulging as he guns for that last drop of speed. My nails are dug into his back, marking his wet skin, as I feel every one of his pulses echoing inside my chest.
“Je vais... Athena, maintenant!” he gasps, his voice breaking in a French heavy with urgency.
He presses me against the wall with one final, almost crushing force, and starts a sequence so fast and deep that the world around us simply vanishes. The internal heat becomes unbearable, a voltage running through my body from my hips to my fingertips.
And then, the impact.
We both collapse at the same time. It’s a chain-reaction crash, a violent orgasm that hits us with the force of a high-speed collision. I let out a muffled scream against his shoulder as I feel the rhythmic contractions take over, and Charles lets out a low roar, burying his face in my neck as he unloads everything into me.
Our legs shake uncontrollably. He loses all his strength, the arms that kept me suspended falter, and we’re anchored by the wall, still joined, still trembling.
The silence that follows is filled only by the sound of the water still falling over us and our staggered, heavy, shared breathing. Charles wraps me in an exhausted hug, his head resting on my shoulder, while his body still shivers slightly against mine. In that little bubble of marble and steam in Monaco, the engineer and the driver no longer exist; we’re just two survivors of a storm we caused in each other.
As the steam begins to clear in his Monaco penthouse bathroom, the sound of the water hitting the floor seems calmer, matching the rhythm of our hearts finally slowing down. Charles keeps me held close, but suddenly lets out a low laugh — a vibration I feel against my chest.
I pull back a little, wiping the water from my face and looking into those green eyes that are now shining with genuine amusement.
“What? Why are you laughing?” I ask, curious about the sudden shift in mood.
“It’s just that none of this went how I planned it in my head,” he confesses, shaking his head and running a hand through his soaked hair. “Love, I had a whole script. I was going to get here, take you to dinner at that restaurant you love, make the official 'boyfriend' request so the whole world would know once and for all... and only then would we celebrate.”
He lets out another short laugh, cupping my face with his damp hands.
“Just so you know, there’s a diamond ring lost somewhere inside my suitcase. But we barely get through the door and I already lose all control.”
I smile, feeling my heart warm up. The "planning" Charles, the man who wants everything to be perfect, is just as captivating as the bold driver.
“I can’t take the secrets anymore, Athena. I want to tell the world how much I love you and screw the rest. The paddock, the newspapers, the theories... screw them all,” he says, his voice rising with a determination I rarely see outside the car. “I want to be able to hold your hand in front of everyone.”
He takes a deep breath, turning suddenly serious, the shower water still running between us.
“So, let’s skip the dinner for now. Athenas, will you be my girlfriend? For real now—no secrets, no hiding from anyone, from here to wherever we decide to go?”
I stop for a second. As an engineer, my mind travels through all the possibilities: the headlines, the team pressure, the gossip in the pits of every GP. It would be a logistical and professional mess. But looking at him there, vulnerable and certain in the middle of our shower, all the technical variables seem irrelevant compared to what we feel.
“I’m already your girlfriend, you idiot. But yes,” I say, feeling a huge weight lift off my shoulders. “Yes, Charles. A thousand times yes.”
He flashes a radiant smile — the kind he saves for the hardest-fought victories — and pulls me into a kiss that, this time, doesn't have the urgency of a secret, but the promise of a future the whole world is about to meet.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟: After an intense race, Olivia and Lewis leave the chaos of the paddock behind, but the tension between them reaches a breaking point at thirty thousand feet. What starts as a technical data analysis in the silence of a private jet cabin quickly spirals into a confrontation of repressed desires. Between the glow of the city lights far below and the adrenaline still coursing through their veins, the barrier between engineer and driver vanishes, revealing that the mutual trust built on the track was only the prelude to an absolute and inevitable surrender.
Words: 6.6K.
Themes: Platonic love, Engineer x Driver, Post-race adrenaline, Control and Power, Confessions.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Strong language, Possession markers, Nudity, Torn clothing.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞
The private jet’s already prepped by the time we get there.
The mobile stairs under the white fuselage were reflecting the private airport lights, and the silence there is a whole different world compared to the paddock. No shouting, no radios, no engineers rushing around or split-second decisions being made.
Just the light sound of the wind and the engine already leveled out, waiting for takeoff.
Lewis heads in first.
I followed right behind, still holding the tablet, but my body’s already starting to click out of race mode. Athena and Charles had gone another way — another flight — so this moment is just the two of us inside that enclosed space.
The cabin is sleek, quiet, and surprisingly cozy. Wide seats, soft lighting, a side table with water, papers, and comms gear.
Lewis is already seated by the time I’m fully inside. He doesn't say anything right away. He just follows me with his eyes for a second longer than necessary.
I pretend not to notice.
The flight attendants finish getting everything ready fast, with that discreet efficiency you only get on private flights. They explain the routes, offer drinks, and tweak the final details.
Then they left.
And the cabin door shuts.
The sound changes instantly.
The world outside stops existing.
For a few seconds, all that's left is the faint hum of the plane’s systems and the silence between us.
I sit in the seat across from him, still trying to keep some kind of professional mindset. I open the tablet again out of habit.
Lewis watches me.
“You’re still in race mode,” he says, totally chill.
I don’t look up right away.
“I’m always like this after.”
“You don’t have to be anymore.”
The sentence is simple.
But it hits.
I hesitate for a second, then let out a small sigh.
“I know.”
That’s it.
The plane starts moving slowly down the taxiway. The slight vibration of the engine brought that subtle feeling of movement, like the world was starting to pull away in slow motion.
Lewis leans back a bit.
“Today was… really good for us. It was exciting, you were essential for…”
I finally look at him, cutting him off.
“I just organized the strategy.”
He shakes his head slightly.
“No. You held the whole race together for me when everything went chaotic.”
I look away almost immediately.
“That’s the job.”
“That’s what you always say, love.”
Silence.
And my heart's racing because of that casual nickname.
The plane picks up speed.
And then we take off.
The slight pressure from the climb made the vibe in the room shift, like the air itself had become more heavy.
I slowly close the tablet.
“I’m heading to the restroom,” I say, trying to break the tension.
Lewis just nods.
“Sure.”
I get up.
I walk down the narrow cabin aisle, feeling the silence weigh heavier than it should.
The restroom is at the back of the plane.
I head in, take a deep breath, and wash my hands for a second longer than I actually need to.
Just trying to get my head straight.
By the time I come back out, the plane has already reached cruising altitude.
The light turbulence kicks in almost immediately.
Small shakes.
Nothing serious.
But enough to throw off my rhythm.
I’m walking back down the aisle at the exact moment a slightly stronger jolt hits the plane.
And it all happened so fast.
I lose my balance a bit.
Lewis half-rises out of his seat by instinct.
And in the next second, I’m already falling toward him.
It wasn't a hard hit.
It was cushioned by his own reaction, as he catches me instantly.
I landed in his lap for a moment, the fall broken by his hands gripping my waist firmly to keep me from sliding further as the plane shook.
The silence inside the cabin completely changes.
It’s not just silence anymore.
It’s presence.
I stay still for a second.
He does too.
His eyes meet mine from up close — way too close for any professional distance to exist in that moment.
The light turbulence continues in the background, but it doesn't even matter anymore.
I take a sharp breath, realizing the position I’m in, and pull away fast enough to try and regain control of the situation.
“Sorry,” I say quietly, fixing my hair and heading back to my seat with a move that’s way too quick to look natural.
Lewis lets go slowly, like the gesture was interrupted in the middle rather than actually finished.
“It’s fine,” he answers, but his voice is lower than before.
I sit back down, trying to act normal.
But the air in the cabin isn't the same anymore.
The plane flies on in silence for a few seconds.
And between us, there’s something left that doesn’t need racing, strategy, or any explanation to exist.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
The plane is cruising steadily now.
The turbulence is completely gone, leaving only the steady, almost hypnotic hum of the engines outside. The cabin feels more enclosed than before, as if the silence had taken on a weight of its own.
I’m already back in my seat, trying to fix my posture like what happened seconds ago was just some irrelevant detail.
But it wasn’t.
I can feel it in my body before I can even process it.
The way my breathing still hadn’t totally gone back to normal.
That slight tightness in my chest that has absolutely nothing to do with anything technical.
I grab the tablet again, almost by instinct, like it could somehow give me my balance back.
A notification from Athena pops up almost immediately.
I open it without thinking much.
It’s the post-race summary: radio clips, strategy analysis, and broadcast commentary. The usual stuff we swap after every weekend.
But there’s one highlighted part:
“Common broadcast commentary: Hamilton ‘took total control of the race with precise guidance from his track engineer.’ External narrative suggests the communication between the two was the decider in the pace shift.”
The photo of us hugging at the end was the cherry on top.
I frown.
None of that matches how I’d actually experienced it.
I glance over at Lewis.
He’s leaning back in the seat in front of me, but he doesn't look just relaxed anymore—he looks quiet in a controlled way, like he’s watching me without making it obvious that he’s watching me.
“This makes no sense,” I say quietly, mostly to myself, but my voice comes out a bit shakier than I’d like.
He looks up instantly.
“Which part?” his voice is calm, but lower than before, as if the room had automatically dialed down the volume because of me.
I show him the screen.
“They’re saying you ‘took total control because of the communication with me.’ Like I did something beyond standard strategy.”
I pause.
My heart is still beating a little faster than it should.
“Why do they always turn it into something else?”
He stays silent for a few seconds.
He doesn't look at the tablet.
He looks at me.
Straight at me.
The kind of look that isn't just paying attention — it’s reading you.
And then he answers, taking his time:
“Because you talked to me like I didn’t need anyone else there. Like I wasn’t being a champion of anything in that moment… just someone who needed to hear you.”
I feel it before I can even process it.
It’s not just the words.
It’s the tone.
Low.
Controlled.
But with a firmness that makes it feel like he picked every word with surgical precision.
Silence follows.
And it isn’t empty.
It’s way too full.
I realize I’m gripping the tablet without meaning to.
Harder than I need to.
Lewis shifts slightly in his seat.
Now he’s closer to me. Leaning over the small table between us.
Not invading my space.
But present in a way that I can feel even when he isn’t moving.
“Today, during the race… you didn’t talk to me like an engineer talking to a driver.”
He takes a short breath.
His voice is even lower now.
“You talked to me like I was just someone who needed you to guide them so they wouldn't lose everything.”
My stomach knots up.
And I hate the fact that I felt that physically.
I swallow hard.
“I was just...”
But my voice isn't steady.
It’s softer.
Less sure.
And I notice it immediately.
Lewis shakes his head slowly.
“Doing your job? Was that really all it was?”
No judgment.
Just a statement.
I look away for a second, but I can’t keep it up for long. The plane feels quieter now than it did before — like even the outside noise had been filtered out to leave more room between us.
“Lewis…”
He doesn't cut me off.
He just waits.
And then he keeps going, even softer:
“You have this way of organizing everything around you, like nothing ever gets past you.”
I feel my throat tighten a bit.
Not from fear.
From awareness.
“And when you talk to me like that… it feels like the rest of the world disappears and all that’s left is your call.”
My heart beats harder at that point.
Not in a dramatic way.
But steady.
Unsettling.
Way too real.
I don’t answer right away.
Because any answer feels too small for what he’s describing.
He hasn't moved any closer.
But I feel like there isn't enough space left to need him to.
“I’m not undermining you,” I finally say, quieter now, trying to keep some kind of control.
He nods slowly.
“I know.”
Another pause.
But a different one this time.
Longer.
Heavier.
“But you also don't realize what that does.”
Now my breathing isn't exactly regular anymore.
I notice it with a flash of internal annoyance.
Like my body decided to react before I did.
I look away for a second, trying to get back some kind of neutrality.
I fail.
“And what does it do?” I ask, without meaning to.
He takes a second.
Not out of doubt.
But because of the weight of it.
“It makes me trust you more than anyone else out there.”
Silence.
But not that empty kind.
This one is full.
Solid.
Almost physical.
I feel my hands relax slightly on the tablet without even realizing it.
And my chest still hasn't caught its rhythm.
The plane keeps on above the clouds, steady, stable.
But inside of me, nothing is exactly stable.
And I realize, with an annoying delay, that I’m not trying to understand the race anymore.
I’m trying to understand the effect he has on me.
Lewis moves first.
Slowly.
No rush.
Like any sudden move might break something that’s been hanging in the air for too long.
He turns his body fully toward me.
No longer like a driver talking to an engineer.
Not even like someone sharing a workspace.
It’s something else now.
More direct.
More exposed.
“I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”
His voice comes out low.
Raspier than before.
Like he’d been holding that in for way too long before finally letting it out.
“All these months… everything we’ve been through in here…”
He runs a hand over his face, like he’s trying to organize thoughts that don't fit into any kind of order anymore.
“And yet, we just kept pretending it was only… this.”
My heart skips a beat.
It’s not smooth.
It’s immediate.
And annoying.
Because I feel it.
He leans a bit closer to me.
The distance between us disappears without any effort at all.
“I don’t know how we can still be this blind.”
My throat feels weirdly dry.
“Blind to what?” I manage to ask.
My voice is lower than it should be.
Shakier than I want to admit.
His eyes stay locked on mine.
No looking away.
No running.
“To this.”
Silence.
But now it’s not just silence anymore.
It’s pressure.
It’s recognition.
He doesn’t need to explain any faster.
Because he just keeps going anyway.
“The looks.”
A tiny movement from him, almost impossible to see.
“The touches.”
I hold my breath without realizing it.
“The way we look at each other when we think nobody’s watching.”
And that’s when something inside me gives a little.
Not all at once.
But like something is finally stopping itself from being ignored.
Images flash back without permission.
Ferrari headquarters.
Him watching me while I adjusted data.
Meetings that went on way too long.
Silences that were never actually silent.
Practice sessions.
Mistakes.
The wins we kept contained.
The way he always waits to catch my eye before he gets out of the car.
And how I always find his gaze before I say a single word.
My chest tightens a bit.
Not from pain.
From realization.
Lewis watches me like he’s seeing all of this happening inside my head.
Like he’s remembering the exact same things.
He moves a little closer.
No rush.
No pressure.
Just inevitable.
“How did you manage to turn my whole world upside down in a year?”
His voice is even lower now.
Rawer.
Less guarded.
“From someone who walked in here alone… to someone who only thinks about racing because I want to hear your voice in my ear for two hours straight.”
My breath catches for a second.
And this time, it’s not surprise.
It’s impact.
Direct.
No filter.
He slowly raises his hand.
And he touches my face.
His palm is warm.
Real.
Right there.
Like he needs to confirm I’m not just an idea in his head.
His fingers graze my cheek.
Carefully.
Taking his time.
Like any mistake right here would be impossible to fix.
I don’t pull away.
I can’t even move.
“Tell me I’m crazy,” he whispers.
His voice is barely a sound now.
“Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.”
Our noses brush slightly.
And that makes everything else disappear even more.
The cabin, the plane, the steady hum outside — it all fades away.
“Tell me I'm not completely fascinated by every single thing you do.”
I should’ve taken a breath.
Thought about it.
Organized my head.
But I can’t.
Because it doesn't make sense to try and put things back in order anymore.
“You’re not crazy,” I say quietly.
I stop.
I swallow hard.
“I am.”
A short laugh breaks out of him.
Raspy.
Almost like he can't believe it.
And that just makes everything way more dangerous.
“I’m crazy…” I keep going, unable to look away from him, “to hear your voice in my ear too… complaining about every little thing that goes out of your control.”
He stays silent for a second.
But he doesn’t pull back.
Not even an inch.
“Seven-time champ,” I whisper, barely catching my breath.
He lets out another low laugh.
And then everything gets even quieter.
More focused.
More inevitable.
Our noses still brushing.
His hand still on my face.
And I realize there’s just no safe space left between us anymore.
“Aren’t you gonna kiss me, Sir Lewis Hamilton?”
My voice comes out weaker than I want it to.
With that slight shake I just can’t hide.
He stays still for a second.
Just one.
And then he answers, without hesitating, like it was decided long before any words were spoken:
“Yes, my lady.”
And he kisses me.
No doubt.
No hesitation.
Just a move that felt inevitable from the moment we stopped pretending it was just work.
The whole world outside that plane stops existing.
And for the first time since this all started between us…
I don’t try to figure anything out.
The kiss had zero hesitation.
It was like everything that had been said before pushed this moment to happen without a choice.
And the second it happens, I stop trying to control anything.
His hand stays firm on my face, but not aggressive — it’s like he’s holding onto something he finally doesn’t want to let go of.
The gap between us disappears completely.
I feel him pull me closer, with a steady move, like his body already knew exactly where I should be before I even thought about it.
And I don’t resist.
I don’t try to pull back.
My hand finds his shirt without planning it, like the gesture was already months overdue.
His touch shifts, firmer on my waist now, and that makes my breath hitch for a second that's way too short to be rational.
I completely lose track of any physical boundary left between us.
The world around us turned into something distant, blurry, with no real sound.
Just him.
Just the way he holds me like I’m the only thing that makes sense in this entire space.
And then, without breaking contact, he shifts his position with a naturalness that felt inevitable — pulling me closer, cutting down any possible distance between us until there was no way to tell where I ended and he began in that moment.
Now I’m on top of him.
My heart is pounding way too hard.
Not from fear.
From total awareness of everything happening all at once.
His breath hitches with mine.
Faster.
Heavier.
More there.
And I don't think about stopping.
Not for a second.
It’s like everything I’d been holding back finally found the only possible way out.
And when silence returns for a split second between one move and the next, there’s no going back to whatever "before" was.
His fingers slide through my brown hair with a slow precision, like he’s memorizing every detail of this moment.
The touch isn’t rushed — it’s intense, firm, loaded with an attention that makes the air feel heavy between us.
He pulls me slightly closer, and I completely lose track of any distance that’s left.
My breath catches for a second that’s too short to ignore.
The way he holds me leaves no room for doubt, only for being right here.
Everything about him seems focused on this moment, like the rest of the world stopped existing outside this tight space between us.
And I can’t keep my distance anymore either.
It’s not about control anymore.
It’s about the impact of feeling him so close — in a way that no technical or rational argument can put back in order.
Every movement between us seems to carry a silent urgency, as if everything repressed for too long had finally hit a breaking point.
And nothing here feels like it could ever go back to the way it was before.
His lips move down to my neck in a slow, almost teasing motion, like he’s testing just how much control is left between us.
We aren’t completely alone — there are people on board, the cabin is still part of a real flight. But that just makes everything quieter, more contained… and, somehow, more dangerous.
Lewis slides his hand along my waist with a naturalness that leaves no room for hesitation. He keeps me close, firm, like I already belonged in this space beside him without needing any explanation.
I let out a short breath, caught between surprise and tension, unable to put together a single coherent thought.
The way he’s holding me makes it impossible to pretend I’m neutral.
And the air between us feels harder and harder to catch.
His lips brush over my shoulders, moving down to my collarbone in a slow, deliberate way, like he’s testing my every reaction.
A sigh escapes my lips before I can stop it.
He pauses for an instant.
And when he looks up at me, he’s not just Lewis Hamilton anymore—the seven-time world champion, the calculating driver, the man always in control.
He’s another version of himself.
Closer.
Rawer.
More intense.
More human.
A look that doesn't belong to the driver, but to the person behind him.
Caring and careful… but also deeply marked by something more dangerous, something that feels like it’s holding back too much force to stay hidden.
“How long until Nice?” he asks softly.
Nice is the closest airport to Monaco, where we usually land.
I glance at the flight system screen, still trying to keep some kind of grip on reality.
“We have…” I do a quick check of the estimated time after leaving Shanghai, adjusting it in my head. “…still a few hours.”
He nods slowly, like that’s plenty of time.
“That’s all I need.”
And then he goes back to kissing me.
This time, it’s with more intensity — not rushed, but definitive, like any second thoughts were left way behind.
He pulls my top off and tosses it back. As soon as that sweet smile fades, a more intense one takes its place. He plants another kiss at the base of my chest before playing dirty once again.
He grabs my waist, pushing me against the table that separates us from the other seats. I lean forward, cupping his face and kissing him without holding back, stifling a short moan when his hands find the waistband of my pants.
We pull apart, breathless, just staring at each other.
There’s so much being said in our eyes.
Especially for Lewis.
Lost in my gaze, he pulls my pants down without holding back, leaving me in nothing but my underwear and my nerves.
His hands slide up my thigh, smoothing over my skin as he looks me up and down.
He traces a smirk while he kisses me, no shame, no excuses.
He wants all of me, and I’m burning with the urge to give him that control.
His lips slide along my chest, navigating down to my stomach; the touch makes me arch my back, giving him total freedom.
His eyes never leave mine while he explores every inch of me. When his fingers reach the edge of my panties, I feel a jolt in my core. He doesn’t ask for permission, and he doesn’t beg for affection — he just takes what’s his.
With a light movement, he kisses the fabric of my underwear, a touch that makes me shiver all over, right on the edge. I throw my head back, letting out a visceral, almost animal sound.
“Shh, love,” he whispers against my thighs. “We’ll draw too much attention like that.”
I let out an ironic laugh. He knows perfectly well we’re in a jet at over thirty thousand feet, with maybe six people on board. I don't think the sound is going very far.
He stares at me with an absolute lack of modesty and, with provocative slowness, moves the silk of my panties aside. The cold air from the plane hits my feverish skin, a thermal shock that makes my whole body recoil.
I roll my eyes, fighting to keep the moan trapped in my throat. But control is an illusion he decides to break. Without hesitating, he traces me with his tongue — a damp trail that doesn't miss a single detail, not a fold, not a nerve ending.
Muffling a sigh, I grab the linen tablecloth tight, arching my body to give him total freedom. And he takes it. I feel his finger — thick, precise, and frustratingly calm — invade me. It’s the same surgical precision he uses to clip an apex: lethal, exact, and with zero margin for error.
The pressure of his fingers increases, turning that frustrating calm into a rhythm dictated by a held-back urgency. It feels like he knows me — like he knows the breaking point before I even get there.
“Lewis…” his name escapes like a stolen breath, a plea he ignores with a victorious smile against my skin.
He pushes himself up partially, just enough so his eyes meet mine. There’s that glint of someone who has total control of the telemetry, calculating every reaction of my body. With his free hand, he holds my hip, anchoring me to the table while the other keeps working to push me to the limit.
The sound of the plane's engines becomes a distant hum, drowned out by the blood thumping in my temples. The tablecloth, now bunched up under my fingers, is my only link to reality. He leans in, kissing his way back up to my ear, where he breathes the words that make me fall apart:
“I told you not to make a sound, darling. But you were always terrible at following orders when I’m in charge.”
He shifts his angle, a sudden maneuver that makes me catch my breath. The pleasure is an electric shock, a corner taken at top speed with absolutely no intention of braking. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the vibration of the plane blur together with the tremors starting to take over my legs.
He doesn't stop. He never stops until the checkered flag drops. And there, suspended between the clouds and the abyss of desire, I realize he doesn't just want my surrender; he wants the chaos that only he knows how to organize.
The speed of his fingers picks up as he slides in a second one with the methodical dedication of someone chasing the perfect qualifying lap. My body thrashes, reacting to the hot breaths he blows against my ear and the hungry kisses he plants on the curve of my neck.
“Lewis…” my plea is a broken whisper, a total surrender to the rhythm he dictates.
He doesn't answer with words; instead, he raises the stakes. With the precision of someone who knows every inch of the track, he adds a third finger, filling me in a way that makes me lose my breath and my mind. The pressure is firm, technical, finding the exact angle to make me fall apart. The rhythmic friction, deeper and bolder now, turns my resistance to ash.
My fingers bury themselves in his hair, pulling him closer as my legs shake, unable to hold the weight of the pleasure. The world outside this cabin doesn't exist anymore; there’s no altitude, no passengers, just the relentless cadence of his hand pushing me to the limit.
I feel the magnetism of the peak approaching like a final straight. Lewis notices the tension in my muscles, the way my core tightens and my hips desperately search for more. He accelerates. The frustrating calm from before gives way to a possessive urgency.
The orgasm hits me like a high-speed collision: violent, inevitable, and overwhelming.
A sharp, silent sound escapes my throat as my back arches against the seat. The cabin lights seem to flare brighter for a second before everything becomes a blur of electric sensations. I float, feeling the waves of pleasure ripple through every nerve ending, while he stays right there, steady, feeling every spasm of my victory over control, savoring the chaos he caused.
The delicious exhaustion of the peak still vibrates in the cabin air when the movements stop. The silence that follows is filled only by the sound of heavy breathing and the steady hum of the turbines outside. For a few minutes, time feels suspended at thirty thousand feet.
We stay still for a few moments, just staring at each other. Lewis keeps his eyes locked on mine, a mix of triumph and raw admiration, while I struggle to claw back the oxygen he forced me to burn. There’s no rush, just the mutual recognition of a connection that defies any logic.
Slowly, I break the trance. My fingers, still shaking, slide under the hem of his shirt, finding the heat of his skin. I run my hands up his toned abs, feeling every muscle flex under the touch of my nails as I lightly scratch my way up. In one impatient move, I get rid of the fabric, pulling his shirt off with a renewed urgency.
Exposed now, he’s a masterpiece under the soft aircraft lights. I check him out without a shred of decency, my hungry eyes mapping his chest and his ink-covered arms. I trace the outline of one of his tattoos with my fingertip, feeling the texture of his marked skin, like I’m reading a story only I’m allowed to know.
Lewis lets out a low sigh when I touch a spot near his collarbone, but he quickly regains control. With a firm move, he leans forward, slotting his hips against mine with deliberate pressure.
I feel the world stop again. The intense, hard length under his suit pants presses against my thigh — a clear promise that everything so far was just the warm-up. The kiss starts again, fueled by a thirst that the first orgasm only served to sharpen. It’s a kiss that tastes like possession, adrenaline, and the danger of being so close to being caught but so far from caring.
The cabin silence is broken only by the metallic sound of the zipper on his tailored pants sliding down. I don't hesitate; my hands move down with a boldness that contrasts with the expensive, perfect cut of the fabric I'm pushing aside. When they drop, Lewis is left in nothing but white boxers that can barely hide the urgency of his desire, marking every contour mercilessly under the dim light.
I wrap my hand around the weight through the thin fabric, feeling his heat and pulse against my palm. Lewis locks his jaw and tilts his head back, letting out a muffled groan directly against my lips — a vibrating sound I feel more than I hear.
With a quick move, I get rid of the last barrier. The boxers are discarded, leaving him completely surrendered to my gaze. I don’t waste any time; my fingers close around him, starting a firm, rhythmic stroke that makes his abdominal muscles jump.
“Olivia…” he murmurs, his voice thick with a dangerous rasp.
He closes his eyes, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turn white. The precision he usually brings to the track seems to fail him here; he’s just reaction, pure instinct, while I dominate him with a provocative calm. I watch the expression on his face, savoring the contrast between the powerful man the world knows and the man who, right now, is completely at the mercy of my touch.
Any sense of restraint is completely gone. Lewis doesn't want delicate anymore. With a rough movement and a possessiveness that makes my blood boil, he catches the lace of my panties and, with a sharp, precise tug, rips the fabric, tossing it aside like it’s irrelevant.
He gets rid of his own underwear and, for a brief second, we lock eyes again — a duel of stares where the only rule is absolute surrender.
He lifts me off the table and pins me to the leather seat with a wild look in his eyes.
Lewis positions himself, knees pressing into the luxury upholstery while his hands find my thighs, spreading them and anchoring me under his weight. He doesn't wait. He leans forward and, with a deep, decisive thrust, he enters me completely.
The impact makes my back arch, a silent scream dying into a deep kiss he starts just to muffle any sound. The fullness is absolute, a pressure that connects every single one of my nerve endings. There’s no more room for calculated maneuvers; now it’s just the frantic pace of a chase.
He moves inside me with a rhythmic, hungry force, every thrust making the frame of the seat vibrate. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting to eliminate every last millimeter of air between us. The world below is a forgotten blur; up here, Lewis dictates the speed, and I lose myself completely in the trail of fire he leaves on my body.
The intensity inside hits a boiling point. The sound of our skin colliding and Lewis’s heavy breathing fill every inch of the cabin, creating a symphony of urgency. He has no mercy; every thrust is deep, marked by the same relentless determination he shows on the track. He’s conquering every part of me.
The pleasure is so sharp that my rationality shatters. I throw my head back, neck arched in a tight line, and instinct speaks louder than any protocol.
“¡Joder, Lewis! ¡Más, más!” the curse escapes in a raspy, visceral Spanish, coming straight from the back of my throat.
My hands, once lost in the air, find his bare back. I bury my nails into that firm skin, digging in hard and dragging them down in long scratches that mark the trail of my desperation. I want to feel him; I want to mark him as much as he’s marking me right now.
He answers my scratches with a low growl, picking up the pace. Lewis grips my hips with a pressure I know is going to leave marks, shifting his angle to hit the exact spot that makes me see stars. I lock my legs around his waist, pinning him against me, refusing to let him back off even an inch.
The rhythm becomes frantic, a succession of impacts that rattle the aircraft seat beneath us. He leans in, whispering hot, disconnected words into my ear while keeping a cadence that borders on unbearable. I feel the pressure building, a shockwave starting at the base of my spine and spreading like wildfire.
“¡Dios mío... Lewis!” my voice breaks as the peak approaches like a storm.
He notices the tremor in my legs, feels the way I involuntarily tighten around him. He doesn't brake; he accelerates for the final impact. The second orgasm hits me with overwhelming force, turning my scream into a long, ragged sigh against his shoulder. My muscles contract in wave after wave of electric pleasure, and I cling to his back, feeling the world spin at thirty thousand feet.
I’m completely surrendered, floating in the vacuum only he can create, feeling the weight of his body and the silent victory in every breathless gasp against my neck.
The pleasure is still pulsing between us when he moves me, guiding my body with that silent authority only he possesses. He positions me on all fours on the leather seat, and it’s in that moment that the world outside reveals itself. Through the jet’s panoramic window, the lights of some unknown city—a bright, living speck somewhere between Shanghai and Monaco—flicker like a carpet of diamonds thousands of feet below us.
“Look, Olivia,” he whispers, his voice vibrating against my lower back.
I press my hands against the cold glass, the temperature contrast sending a shock through my system as I watch the glowing vastness. Without warning, I feel Lewis position himself behind me. He slides back into me with a slow, deep thrust, drawing out a heavy sigh that fogs up the glass in front of me.
The rhythm now is hypnotic. He moves with a powerful cadence, watching the city with me, as if we’re claiming that territory from above. Seeing the glow of the lights below while feeling his strength inside me creates a vertigo that has nothing to do with the altitude. It’s a feeling of omnipotence.
The intensity builds; the sound of our breathing echoes in the luxury cabin, competing with the low hum of the turbines. Lewis grips my hips hard, his fingers digging into my skin as he speeds up, reaching for the peak. I feel his tension hitting the limit, the muscles in his thighs rigid against mine.
“Lewis!” I cry out, nails scraping against the glass.
The pleasure explodes. I feel his body lock up and the hot release fill me completely as he lets out a deep groan, burying his face in my neck. At the exact same moment, the city lights below seem to merge into a single flash in my mind as my own orgasm hits—overwhelming and final.
We stay there for a few moments, two bodies suspended in the sky, joined by sweat and exhaustion. When he finally pulls back, I turn around slowly, still breathless. My eyes meet his, soft now and heavy with a post-chaos admiration.
I lower myself before him with a provocative slowness, ignoring any shred of decency that might have been left. I start to clean him entirely with my tongue, tracing every inch of him with devotion and calm, savoring the taste of our moment until no trace of what we did remains—only the memory etched into our skin and the starlight watching us from outside.
After silence settles back over the cabin, Lewis pulls me onto his lap with a gentle possessiveness. We stay there, legs intertwined and chests rising and falling in the same rhythm, trying to find the air we left somewhere above the clouds. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against mine, while his hand traces lazy circles on my back.
"Why didn't we do this sooner?" he murmurs, his voice still raspy, sounding almost like a confession.
I let out a sigh, feeling the heat of his body.
"Because I thought I was feeling all of this alone," I admit, my voice low. "I thought you were just being polite, Lewis. That polished British way of yours... I didn't want to ruin things."
I let out a husky laugh, remembering all the times I looked away just so I wouldn't give my own desire away.
"Actually... the only thing missing was you getting on one knee and asking me to be yours," I continue, laughing at my own denseness. "Because thinking about it now, you never really hid how you felt. I’m the one who should’ve been paying more attention to the signs."
Lewis opens his eyes and stares at me with an intensity that makes my heart trip. A smirk plays on his face.
"Well, start paying closer attention from now on, Olivia," he warns, his voice dropping an octave, loaded with promise. "Because I don't plan on stopping. Ever."
A minute of silence falls over us, heavy and sweet at the same time. I lean in a bit to check the clock on the cabin panel and turn my eyes back to him.
"We still have two hours until Nice," I say, a challenging glint in my eyes.
Lewis grips my leg firmly, feeling my still-warm skin, and lets out a short laugh full of intent.
"Two hours..." he repeats, pulling me closer. "That’s still a lot of time."
I cup his face with both hands, feeling the texture of his skin against my palms, and smile with a mischief that only he can wake up.
"You know, Lewis... they say you're a master at managing time and wear," I whisper, brushing my lips against his. "I want to see if those seven world titles taught you how to keep this pace up for two hours straight, or if you're only fast on the track."
He doesn't answer with words. The kiss that follows is all the proof I need that the seven-time champ is ready for a lot more than just a flying lap.
