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McLaren
Lando Norris - "Little Lando"
More Kisses? - LN4 + âOne kiss is just never enough.â
This Christmas - LN4 + âThereâs no way Iâm letting you spend Christmas alone.â
Want You - LN4 + "But I don't want them, I want you." đ„§đ
I'm All Yours - You and Lando have been in the talking stage for some months now. After Lando's third win, he knows he's missing something important. You being his girlfriend.
My Type - where the reader thinks she isnât Landoâs type
Our Love Is Strong - You weren't going to let your eating disorder destroy your relationship until it did.
Good Luck Kiss - Lando is a fully independent guy until you are around.
First Choice - Lando and the Reader have been best friends since they were babies. Lando has been in love with the Reader since he was a teenager, which is why he has never had a serious relationship.
Gold in Snow - you and lando are in a relationship but you're reserving hate comments about you being a ginger, with freckles because the fans don't think you're his type
Sweet Pain - lando just took his wisdom tooth out and you, his best friend, was assigned to take care of him at home
Sleeping Medicine - Lando is known for sleeping in the paddock and other places and getting caught for it. You seem to increase those chances by being Lando's girlfriend and his pillow.
Spa Day - Lando tried to go to a spa to relax after his win in Hungary, he didn't think he would fall in love with his Massage Therapists.
Soft Hands - Lando Norris getting a full body massage from you after a triple header
Birthday Boy - Lando has been counting down the days till his birthday - cuz of his birthday and he gets to see you again for months of long-distance.
Our Day - Lando has been counting down the days till his birthday - cuz of his birthday and he gets to see you again for months of long-distance.
Her Type - In a gathering, Lando had heard a bit of your conversation saying that your type is black guys. He decides to try to be your friend since he found you so attractive.
His Calm - Lando has a panic attack and looks for you only.
Planning Kisses - Lando plans mistletoe around the house and kisses you all the way.
You Matter - You and Lando just started dating and everything was great until you were getting racist comments
Soft Touches - Lando's love language is touch which is something you've never been used to before
Long Way To Go - Lando is courting you and in every way, Lando's got a long way to go
Officially Whipped - Lando being whipped for you which is all the time
Worthy Of You - You don't feel like you're not worthy of being the girlfriend of the newest F1 World Champion
Favourite Girls - Lando feels like it's time for you to meet the other favourite girl in his life, his niece Mila
Let Me Help - You ate an aphrodisiac chocolate by accident before the Silverstone grand prix and Lando just wants to help you
Chat's Favourite - When Lando introduced you to his stream, they loved you more than him
Physical Touch - You're not used to having a boyfriend that is into PDA
Oscar Piastri
Mistletoe Magic - OP81 + âWhat are you doing with that mistletoeâ oh.â
Baby Fever - OP81 + babysitting a child
24 Hours Without You - A dare from Lando led to Oscar not having any contact from you for 24 hours. Well he tried to.
My Husband - when you accidently called Oscar your husband, you didn't think it would affect him that much
Yes To Me - OP81 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment
Sleeping Medicine - Oscar always gets the maximum sleep needed, thanks to his warm and cuddly girlfriend but what happens when you go back to uni?
Stranger Danger - What happens when you're being followed by a staff member in McLaren's motorhome on your first day of work and a certain driver saves you. . . .
Not Friends Anymore - McLaren are glad and Oscar is mad. Who can help? His bestie!
Birthday Gift - Ten years ago, two loved ones died on your birthday and you've never celebrated it ever again until Oscar came into your life....
First Dance - You and Oscar decided that the first dance would be a slow one.
Maroon String Theory - You are one of the first black families to stay in Australia. Everyone was discriminating against you except your neighbours, the Piastris.
By Your Sea - You never expected Oscar to propose you like this.
Can't Avoid - You and Oscar have been best friends for ages until your friend says she has a crush on Oscar, you backed away to give her a chance.
Quality Time - You and Oscar have been dating for a while and you've noticed that he loved your company more than anything.
Ride A Cowgirl - For the Austin Grand Prix, Oscar is forced by McLaren to learn how to ride a horse by a hot cowgirl.
New Conditions - You and Oscar have been dating for a while and you've noticed that he loved your company more than anything.
Brother's Best Friend - The first person your brother, Lando calls after your break up is Oscar.
Never Letting Go - Oscar gets drunk at a party and won't leave your side
Protector - You've never had a boyfriend that protects you every time
His Solution - When Oscar keeps getting bad results, he closes himself off from the best thing in his life, you
Right Person, Right Time - Yours and Oscar's partner broke up with you two so Lando decides to hook you two up
Red Bull
Max Verstappen - "Mad Max"
Teach Me - MV1 + âI never had any special tradition for the holidays while growing up,"
My Priority - MV1 + "You're my priority." đđŠ
Birthday Boy - It's getting to Max's birthday and you know what he wants for it.
Love Sick - You and Max have been together for a while and you knew he loved you but you didn't know to what extent.
Favourite Smell - a pilot with max and it ends up in smut like "I love your smell" +18
Timeless Desire - You had always been Mercedes fan since you were young and it didn't change when you became Max's best friend. Based on British Grand Prix.
Power Couple - Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.
Don't Stop - "The problem is, if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."
Ocean Eyes - "Please stop." "Stop what? I didn't even do anything." "I can see the look you're giving me. Stop it."
His Choice & Her Choice - You are a redhead, you're dating Max but you're a WWE wrestler so you're not the influencer or model that f1 drivers "normally" date.
Bouquet Catcher - You caught the bouquet at your friend's wedding and you locked eyes with your crush, Max
Not A Burden - You had a bad racist encounter in the paddock and you hide it from Max, letting it slowly eat away at you
Real In His Eyes - Max asks you to be his girlfriend for his father to get off his back and fortunately Jos falls for it. Unfortunately you fell for it too.
Dirty Dancing - Max is dragged to go to a strippers club with his friends after he has been broken up with and sees you.
His Loss - After Max made the decision to get a divorce 2 years ago, he has never suffered more. When he sees you again, he can't just let go again.
Relax - After a week of working, Max puts his foot down and make you relax one way or another
Better Tool - After being caught masturbating, Max makes sure to tell you know he's better than a sex toy
Celebrations - After winning his 5th championship, you decided to treat him good
Big Family - After the rookies adopted Max as their father on paddock, you became their mother
Worship - You've never had a boyfriend that worshipped you
Brat - You've never had a boyfriend that knows how to handle your brattiness differently
Your Gift - For his birthday, you secretly painted him his favourite picture
Daniel Ricciardo - "Honey Badger"
Fragments of Hope - You had an argument with Daniel and you decided to leave him for a while. What you didn't know is that he can't live without you.
Birthday Boy - It's Daniel's birthday and you two are still oblivious to your feelings. Time for the grid's help.
Yuki Tsunoda - "Muscle Packet"
No More Excuses - Yuki has been saying to himself, to you, to his fans that he's okay and that he just needs time to adjust to the car but after finishing out of points for the fourth time, he breaks in front of you.
Ferrari
Charles Leclerc - "Lord Perceval"
Winter Wonder - CL16 + Winter Power Outage
You Know Me Best - Charles has a bad day and you as his best friend always knows what he wants, but do you really? +18
Just One Kiss - You & Charles are just best friends but when he wins in his home for the first time, things might change
Speak Baby - you are going out with Charles, you can speak his language, but don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.
Lose my Mind - âThe way your eyes get darker when you get aroused, is making me lose my mind.â +18
Tell Me Your Confessions - You go on vacation with Max, who is one of your closest friends as well as with his other friends, one which just happens to make you feel like you have a high school crush.
Most Important - You knew something was wrong when Charles crashed harshly and he didn't get out of his car or reply on the radio.
Touches & Victory - "It feels like I ruin everything I touch." "If you ever wish to test that theory, you're more than welcome to do so with me."
First Time - You just got married to the love of your life. Great! Until you realise you have to do the nasty nasty and you have no experience at all.
Just A Plate - You broke a plate and you thought that Charles would hit you like your ex. But Charles is not like them.
Golden Duo - At the start of Charles's F1 career, having you as his race engineer made him win podiums and wins. You two were the unstoppable duo until you disappeared.
The Red Dress - âMove an inch and you wonât be coming tonight.â
Meeting The Parents - Charles was scared to meet your parents, being from a whole different continent and all.
Leo's Nanny - Charles is in need of a pet sitter and Leo somehow picks the best one.
Baby Leclerc - You're pregnant and you try and hide it because you're scared how he'll react
Favourite Interview - You are an interviewer for Sky Sports and Charles always manages to leave you flustered by the time he leaves
Favourite Duo - Charles has always had Ollie under his wing, which you think is cute
Rare Gem - Charles went to vacation in Sicily and found a rare beauty.
Only Choice - Your friends flirt with your boyfriend because they think they have a chance so Charles decides to show he only picks you
Carlos Sainz Jr. - "Chilli"
Christmas Ball - CS55 + fake dating for a Christmas party/ball
Happy Ever After - a Romeo and Juliet vibe
Golf Gurl - an AU where Carlos is attracted to the new receptionist at the golf course he and Papa Sainz frequent
Destiny's Will - You and Carlos were childhood friends until you two were separated before he got to F1. The next time they meet, they're enemies.
More Amor - you are going out with Carlos, you can speak his language, but you don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.
Heavy Love - Carlos got a surgery of his appendix but that doesn't stop him from treating his girl how he usually does +18
Yes To Me - CS55 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment
The Garter - You wore a garter on yours and Carlos' wedding and you didn't think it would affect him that much.
Truly Loved - You were scared to meet Carlos' family, afraid that your skin colour will make them dislike you. Turns out it's the opposite.
Calm Chaos - You are wild and independent, which drives Carlos, a control freak, insane.
Snowed In - You and Carlos were stuck in his house because the house got snowed in.
Breaking Traditions - You are the princess of Spain and your father begs you to get married but you reject all suiters except the Smooth Operator.
Better Than Him - Your man has never treated you right and Carlos is here to show you it's supposed to be
No More Stamina - You are exhausted and Carlos still has a lot more rounds in him
Shoot The Shot - Franco has been bringing his older sister to races and Carlos can't help but shoot his shot
Deserving You - When Carlos got kicked out of Ferrari, he didn't think he was worthy of anything including you
Best Honeymoon - It's you and Carlos's honeymoon and you've never been so in love with each other
Simp - You originally didn't take Carlos for a simp but you love it regardless
Lost Time - You originally didn't take Carlos for a simp but you love it regardless
My Darling - Out of all the things George says over the years, there's one word that still makes you blush.
My Love - It was George's fathers birthday and he decided to invite the whole family to a yacht... which includes you, being 'George's love of his life'.
Kimi Antonelli - "Max's Successor"
Italian Lessons - You're trying to learn Italian again and what a better way to learn than to get your best friend's best friend to teach you.
Differences Aside - You and Kimi come from different backgrounds; rich and poor though you two met in school and Kimi hasn't let go of you since. You think that even with your love, you and Kimi would not work out because of you two differences. Here's where Kimi comes in; Operation: Get Advice on How To Ask You Out!
In His Arms - Kimi and you are in a long distance relationship because you're still in uni but when you two finally are able to see each other for the first time in ages, Kimi refuses to let you go.
Alpine
Franco Colapinto - "Il Padrino"
Dancing on Ice - FC43 + âI canât ice skate amor, Iâll break all my bones.â
Distract You - FC43 + "Let me distract you."
Pierre Gasly - "Mr. Monza"
Accept It - You and Pierre have known each other for all your life... unfortunately for you. You two were the opposite. Grumpy with Sunshine, smart pretty with jock pretty etc. But what happens when you see him in Spa. . . .
Aston Martin
Lance Stroll - "Daddy's Cash"
No 1 Defender - Who's been defending Lance Stroll in his comments section?? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? It's you who is also his bestie and his biggest crush.
Williams
Alex Albon - "Albono"
You're Cute - Being George's twin sister, you get a lot of advantages: VIP paddock passes, meeting celebrities on the daily but there is one rule: don't date any of the drivers and you took that as a challenge.
Haas
Ollie Bearman - "The Red Baby"
My Lover - You and Ollie have been in a secret relationship for months now because of your strict parents and the potential hate from fans but what happens when someone flirts with you in the club. . . .
Take It Off - It's your birthday and you're wearing Ollie's favourite dress.
Esteban Ocon - "Estie Bestie"
Beauty Of Curls - You've been begging your boyfriend to get this haircut for months and after a while, Esteban gives in and you couldn't have fallen in love more.
Red Bull Racing
Isack Hadjar - "Le Petit Prost"
Unexpected Cupid - Isack's main goal has always been to become best friends with Lewis Hamilton and when that's achieved, Lewis invites him to meet his daughter, who just happens to be his age and very beautiful.
Podium Prize - You flew to the Netherlands in secret to surprise your boyfriend not knowing he would get his first podium in F1.
Surprise? - You've been gone 10 years, no 'bye', no 'see you', just gone. You had no right to show up at his birthday party like nothing happened.... But God he missed you.
Liam Lawson - "The Shield"
Heated Love - You were only a family friend of Liam Lawson so you didn't expect to be invited to the Bahrain Grand Prix. The heat wasn't the only thing you needed to worry about.
Lando Norris - "Little Lando"
Our Doggie - Part 1 - Part 2
After McLaren let you watch your boyfriend interact with the animals from the Battersea. One dog found a clear interest in you instead....
Second Choice Best - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6
Your best friend, Amelia married a mafia boss but the second in command has his eyes on you
Carlos Sainz Jr. - "Chilli"
Real Love - Part 1 - Part 2
You and Carlos were just supposed to be a PR couple for less than a year but someone decided to catch feelings....
Enemies Though Generation - Part 1 - Part 2
Out of all the people Carlos could fall in love with, he fell in love with you. Max's older sister....
Charles Leclerc - "Lord Perceval"
A Lover's Touch - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4
In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one....
Max Verstappen - "Mad Max"
Need Saving - Save You - We're Saved - My Saviour
You are the first woman to be racing in Formula 1 and you and Max are already best friends. To Jos' dismay.....
Not Just Nice Part 1 - Part 2
Being Max's childhood friend means that you always get to see Max's good side but what happens when you think his true feelings are him just being 'nice'.
Real In Your Eyes - Real In His Eyes
Max asks you to be his girlfriend for his father to get off his back and fortunately Jos falls for it. Unfortunately you fell for it too.
Her Teammate - His Teammate
You and Max are teammates. You hated his cockiness and his flirting but when he crashes badly, you forget about everything else.
Lewis Hamilton - "Billion Dollar Man"
Wild Imagination - Show You Domination
You were just an interviewer for the Met Gala when you were able to meet the Sir Lewis Hamilton.....
Hey, I had an idea for a fic for either Max or lando. From iloveitiloveitiloveit by Bella Kay " Oh, fuck it, baby, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it when we fight, and I like it when you're mean We don't have to get into what that says about meOh, shut it, baby, I love it, I love it, I love it, I'm a couple minutes out from relapsing
Do you remember the last time this happened?" Where the driver and the reader are in a kinda toxic realtionship where they aren't in a fully committed realtionship yet and are maybe hiding the realtionship from everyone. Maybe the reader is a Charles younger sister if you're doing max but for lando it could be another driver's sister.The reader tries to end it but the driver realizes how much they messed up and need the reader?
ILoveItIHateItILoveIt
Summary: Max realizes how much he messed up and needs you.....
Song: Sweater Weather · The Neighborhood
Authorâs note: I LOVE this idea! Thanks for requesting it! Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 1.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The smell of burnt rubber and expensive espresso usually calms you, but today, standing in the shadows of the Red Bull hospitality motorhome, it just makes your stomach twist.
You pull your oversized designer sunglasses further down your nose, praying that nobody from the Ferrari Ferrari garage spots you here.
Nobody is supposed to know. Not the mechanics, not the media, and certainly not Charles. Your brother is fiercely protective, and if he ever found out that his younger sister was the secret outlet for Max Verstappenâs relentless intensityâthe one he turns to when the track gets too suffocatingâhe would lose his mind.
And you? You are supposed to be smarter than this.
You hear the heavy, familiar crunch of gravel behind the motorhome. A familiar figure rounds the corner, the red and blue of his team kit smeared with grease from the simulator session.
Maxâs hair is wind-whipped and messy, his blue eyes sharp and searching until they land on you. When he sees you, the sharp edges of his face soften just a fraction, a subtle change that only you are meant to catch.
"You're late," you say, your voice barely a whisper against the low hum of the air conditioning units. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to build a wall of air between you two. "I told you I was done, Max. I meant it."
Max stops a few feet away. He doesnât crowd you, which is rare for him. Usually, he takes up all the oxygen in the room, his presence heavy and demanding. Today, he looks almost⊠unsteady. He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture erratic.
"We need to talk," he says, his voice gravelly from hours of radio chatter. "You can't just leave a text like that and then ignore me for twenty-four hours."
"Watch me," you retort, though your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "It's over, Max. This... whatever this is. Sneaking around, fighting like we hate each other, and then pretending we don't exist the moment a camera points our way. It's toxic. You donât even want to claim me."
A flicker of raw, unadulterated panic flashes across his face. He takes one sharp step forward, invading your space this time, his scent a mix of familiar expensive cologne and the sterile air of the paddock.
"Toxic? You think this is toxic?" Max scoffs, though there is no malice in it, only a desperate kind of fear. "Is it toxic that I need to see you before a race to clear my head? Is it toxic that all I think about when I'm on the grid is getting back to the motorhome so I can find you?"
"Yes," you hiss, refusing to look away, though your eyes are stinging with unshed tears.
"Because when the helmet comes off, Iâm just your dirty little secret. You're so afraid of Charles, so afraid of what the media will say, that I'm only allowed to exist in the dark. I'm a couple of minutes out from completely breaking, Max. I can't keep relapsing into this."
Max flinches at your words, as if youâd physically struck him. He closes the distance completely, his hands hovering tentatively near your waist before he gently takes your wrists in his grip. His touch is warm, grounding, and terrifyingly familiar.
"Baby, don't say that," he pleads, his voice losing every ounce of its characteristic championship arrogance.
He looks down at you, searching your eyes as if looking for a lifeline. "I messed up. I know I did. I was so caught up in the championship, so used to keeping everything locked down and controlled, that I didn't realize what I was doing to you. I took you for granted. I thought you'd always just be there, waiting in the wings."
You pull your wrists back, but he doesn't let goâhe just shifts his grip so his calloused palms hold your hands securely. "I'm not a pit stop, Max. I'm not something you visit when you need to refuel."
"I know," he whispers, leaning down so his forehead rests against yours. You close your eyes, the warmth of his breath washing over your face. "I know. Look at me, please."
You open your eyes, finding yourself drowning in his intense gaze. Max looks terrified. Itâs a side of him the world never gets to seeâthe dominant, aggressive driver is stripped away, leaving only a boy who is genuinely scared of losing the one person who truly knows him.
"I need you," he says, the words coming out rough, as if they are physically painful for him to admit. "Itâs not about hiding you. I just... I was so afraid of ruining things between us, so afraid of bringing you into this circus full-time, that I handled it in the worst way possible. I need you in my corner. I don't know how to do this without you. When you're not there, the silence is too loud."
You let out a shaky breath, the fight draining from your limbs, replaced by a deep, aching tenderness that scares you almost as much as the toxicity did. "Max, we can't just keep doing this cycle. It's destroying me."
"We won't," he promises, his thumbs gently caressing the backs of your hands. "We won't hide anymore. Not from Charles, not from anyone. If I have to fight everyone in the paddock to keep you, I will. But I need you to stay. Please. Just give me the chance to do this right."
He searches your face, his expression so open and raw that the lingering anger in your chest begins to dissolve into a heavy, quiet understanding.
Youâve both been dancing this dangerous, magnetic dance for months, pulled into each otherâs orbits by the same reckless momentum that drives his car. But looking at him now, seeing the genuine remorse and need in his eyes, you realize that neither of you is ready to walk away.
You sigh, the sound trembling in the quiet space behind the motorhome. "If we do this, if we try... it has to be different, Max. No more secrets. I won't be your secret."
"No more secrets," he repeats, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lipsâa rare sight that makes your heart skip a beat.
He releases your hands only to wrap his arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. You bury your face in his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent that has become your undoing. "I'll tell Charles tonight."
You tense in his arms, pulling back slightly to look up at him. "Tonight? Are you serious?"
"Yes," Max says, his jaw tightening with determination. "I'm not losing you over a stupid fear of confrontation. I'll go to him, I'll explain. Heâll be angry, but heâll get it eventually."
"He'll probably try to punch you," you warn, though a small, fond smile tugs at the corner of your lips.
Max chucklesâa low, quiet sound against your earâand presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "I deserve it. But I'll take whatever comes, as long as you're with me when the dust settles."
You wrap your arms around his neck, finally giving in to the overwhelming relief washing over you. The toxicity of the past few months seems to evaporate, replaced by the heavy, steady weight of his commitment.
You know there will be mountains to climbâthe press, the paddock whispers, and an inevitable, explosive confrontation with your brotherâbut standing here in Maxâs arms, none of that seems to matter.
"Okay," you murmur against his chest. "Let's do it."
Max pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with a quiet intensity that promises a completely different kind of relationship. He leans down and captures your lips in a slow, deliberate kissânot the frantic, hurried kisses you've shared in the past to hide from prying eyes, but a slow, unhurried claim that tastes of absolute certainty.
When you finally pull apart, Max keeps a protective arm around your waist, his thumb stroking your hip. He doesn't let you go, and you don't want him to.
"Come inside," he says softly, guiding you toward the steps of the Red Bull motorhome. "I need to clean up and do a debrief, and then we're going to talk to your brother. Wait for me inside?"
You nod, squeezing his hand. "I'll wait."
The interior of the Red Bull motorhome is sleek, quiet, and meticulously organized. You sit on one of the plush, grey leather sofas, watching as Max efficiently gathers his things.
Itâs strange to see him in this environmentâstripped of the racing suit, his athletic frame dressed in simple team wear, yet still radiating the hyper-focused energy that defines him.
He moves with purpose, but every few minutes, his eyes dart over to where you are sitting, as if checking to make sure you haven't vanished. Each time your eyes meet, he offers a small, reassuring smile that warms you from the inside out.
Eventually, the door opens and Christian Horner steps inside, a stack of papers in his hands.
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you sitting on the sofa, his sharp eyes flicking from you to Max, who immediately steps in front of you in a subtle, protective gesture.
"Ah," Christian says, a knowing, slightly amused expression crossing his face. He raises an eyebrow at Max. "I see we're having a rather productive weekend, then."
Max doesn't look away or stammer. He holds his boss's gaze, his posture rigid and uncompromising. "We'll be in the media pen later, Christian. But right now, we have personal things to sort out."
"Of course," Christian replies, a dry smile touching his lips. He glances at you with a polite nod before turning and exiting the motorhome, leaving a heavy, expectant silence in his wake.
Max lets out a breath he seemed to be holding, turning to you with a slight chuckle. "Well, that's one person who knows."
"Probably," Max admits, walking over to the sofa and sitting down beside you. He takes your hands in his, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles on your skin. "I'm sorry about before. I was an idiot. I was so tunnel-visioned on the races that I forgot to race for the things that actually matter."
"Is that your way of being romantic, Verstappen?" you ask, a playful smile on your lips as you tilt your head.
"Maybe," he says, a rare, genuine blush creeping up his neck. He leans in closer, his blue eyes searching yours with an earnestness that makes your breath hitch. "I love you. I'm terrible at saying it, and I'm probably even worse at showing it when I'm under pressure, but I do. I need you to know that."
The words hang in the air, heavy and precious. Youâve known for a long time how deeply your feelings ran, but hearing him say itâstripped of all the adrenaline and the gamesâleaves you entirely speechless. Your heart swells, erasing the last lingering doubts in your mind.
"I love you too," you whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly roughened by the wind and the sun. "Even when you're mean."
Max chuckles, leaning into your touch. "I'm only mean because I get frustrated. When you're around, I just... I forget how to be normal. I want to be better for you."
"Good," you say, your voice dropping to a softer tone. "Because I'm holding you to that."
The two of you sit in the quiet for a long time, talking in hushed tones about the past few months. It's a strange kind of therapy, dissecting the arguments and the secretive dates, unearthing all the ugly parts of your relationship that you both had tried to sweep under the rug.
In the past, your interactions were often defined by arguments and a fierce, electric tension, fueled by the fact that you both wanted more but were too afraid to ask for it. Now, talking openly, that tension melts into something steady and comfortable.
The sound of the paddock outside gradually begins to quiet down as the sun dips lower in the sky. The evening light filters through the motorhome windows, casting long, golden shadows across the grey leather.
"Are you ready?" Max asks eventually, looking at his watch. He laces his fingers through yours, his grip tightening.
You take a deep breath, your heart beginning to hammer again, though the nervous dread has transformed into a sharp, thrilling kind of anticipation. "As ready as I'll ever be. Where is he?"
"The Ferrari hospitality," Max says, standing up and pulling you gently to your feet. He doesn't let go of your hand, holding it firmly as the two of you walk toward the door. "I'll do the talking. You just stand there and make sure he doesn't kill me."
"Oh, I think he's definitely going to try," you say, a nervous but fond laugh escaping your lips as you step out into the cooling evening air of the paddock.
The walk to the Ferrari hospitality area feels agonizingly short. The paddock is mostly empty now, save for a few mechanics cleaning up equipment and the occasional journalist rushing to catch a flight.
Max walks with a determined stride, his broad shoulders shielding you from the slight evening breeze. He holds your hand with a possessive, unyielding grip, a silent declaration that he has no intention of letting you go.
When you reach the sleek, red-and-white motorhome, you see Charles standing outside on the terrace, talking animatedly with a few team members.
He looks relaxed, a glass of water in his hand, laughing at something his engineer just said.
As you approach, the group disperses, and Charlesâs eyes land on you. His smile is warm and bright, but as his gaze shifts to the man walking beside youâand more importantly, to the way Max Verstappen is holding your handâhis expression shifts in an instant.
The laughter dies in his throat. His jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow, the friendly, relaxed demeanor evaporating in a split second. He sets his glass down on the table with a sharp, metallic clink.
"Max," Charles says, his voice dangerously calm. He steps to the edge of the terrace, looking down at the two of you. His eyes flick to your intertwined hands before locking onto Maxâs face. "What are you doing with my sister?"
You feel a ripple of tension run through Max's hand, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he steps slightly in front of you, his posture squaring off.
"We need to talk," Max says, his voice level and devoid of its usual sharp edge. He looks at your brother with a quiet, unwavering focus. "We've been seeing each other for a while. I wanted to come and tell you myself."
For a moment, the silence is deafening. Charles stares at Max as if he has just spoken in a foreign language. His gaze darts to you, searching your face for confirmation, his eyes wide and incredulous.
"Seeing each other?" Charles repeats, his voice rising a notch. He steps down the stairs of the terrace, moving quickly until he is standing directly in front of you both.
He looks at you, a mixture of hurt and disbelief in his dark eyes. "You've been seeing Max? For how long? And you didn't tell me?"
"Charles..." you start, stepping out from behind Max's shoulder, though you keep your hand firmly in his. Your heart is pounding, but you meet your brother's gaze directly. "We were going to tell you. We just... we didn't know how."
"You didn't know how?" Charles scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his signature Monegasque temper finally beginning to show.
He glares at Max, stepping into his personal space. "You've been sneaking around behind my back? With Verstappen? Do you have any idea what the press would do if they found out? You're my sister. He's my rival. This is... it's a joke."
"It's not a joke," Max says, his voice perfectly calm and steady, refusing to back down even an inch. "I know how it looks, Charles. And I know you have every right to be angry with me. I should have told you months ago instead of hiding it. That was my mistake."
"Your mistake?" Charles snaps, his voice rising, drawing the attention of a few remaining people in the paddock. "You treat her like a secret. I've seen how you two act in the paddockâlike strangers. If you actually cared about her, you wouldn't have kept her in the dark."
"I do care about her," Max interrupts, his voice low and fiercely intense.
The champion's fire that you know so well is back, but it's not directed at an opponent on the trackâitâs directed at protecting whatâs his. "That's exactly why I'm here. I didn't come to ask for your permission, and I didn't come to make excuses. I came because I love her, and I'm not going to hide her anymore."
Charles falls silent, staring at Max with a look of pure shock. He wasn't expecting that. He blinks, the anger in his eyes warring with pure, unadulterated disbelief.
He looks over at you, his expression softening just a fraction, the protective older brother shining through the frustration.
"Is this what you want, Y/N?" Charles asks, his voice quieter now, filled with genuine concern. "Are you happy with him? He's..."
"He makes me happy, Charles," you say, stepping forward and letting go of Max's hand for a moment to place it gently on your brother's arm. "I know itâs a lot to process, and I know itâs messy. But itâs real. We wanted to tell you."
Charles looks down at your hand on his arm, the tension in his shoulders slowly beginning to dissipate. He sighsâa long, heavy, defeated sound that echoes the exhaustion of the race weekend. He turns his head back to Max, who stands there, unmoving, his gaze fixed on Charles.
"If you hurt her," Charles says, pointing a firm finger at Max's chest, "I don't care about the FIA, I don't care about the contracts. I will end you. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Max says, his voice solemn and sincere. He takes your hand again, his fingers lacing tightly through yours. "I won't hurt her."
Charles lets out another breath, looking at the two of you, shaking his head in a mixture of resignation and lingering annoyance. "I can't believe you. My sister and Max Verstappen. It's a nightmare."
"It's your reality now, Charles," you tease gently, though your eyes are shining with gratitude. "We're all going to make it work."
"Go away," Charles grumbles, though a small, begrudging smile finally touches the corners of his lips. He looks at Max with a pointed stare. "We'll talk about this more next week. And no more hiding. If I see you two acting like strangers in the paddock again, I'm going to personally crash into your car in Monaco."
"Understood," Max says, a slight, rare grin breaking across his face.
You step forward and wrap your arms around Charles, hugging him tightly. He holds you back, kissing the side of your head before pulling away and giving Max one final, warning look.
The three of you stand there for a moment in the fading light, the heavy, secretive tension that has hung over you for months officially broken.
Later that evening, you find yourself on the balcony of your brother's suite, looking out over the twinkling lights of the city. The noise of the paddock is miles away, replaced by the gentle evening breeze and the distant sound of the ocean.
The sliding glass door opens, and Max steps out onto the balcony, holding two glasses of cold water. Heâs dressed in comfortable sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair damp from a shower.
He hands you one of the glasses before stepping up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest.
You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder, watching the city lights.
"That went better than expected," Max murmurs against your neck, his lips brushing your skin. "I thought he was actually going to swing at me."
"He thought about it," you say, a soft laugh escaping your lips. You take a sip of the water, the cool liquid refreshing against your throat. "But he loves you really. In his own, incredibly competitive, Ferrari-loving way."
Max chuckles, his arms tightening around your waist. "I think he just hates the idea of me being right about anything. But itâs done. No more hiding."
"No more hiding," you repeat, the words feeling incredibly sweet on your tongue.
The toxicity of the past few monthsâthe late-night arguments, the fear of being discovered, the constant push and pull of an undefined relationshipâfeels like a distant memory.
Standing here in the quiet, with Maxâs steady heartbeat against your back and his chin resting on your shoulder, you realize that the chaos of the racing world only makes the peace you've found with him that much sweeter.
"I need to tell you something else," Max says, his voice suddenly shifting to a more serious, quiet tone. He turns you around in his arms so you are facing him, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light.
"What is it?" you ask, a small frown of concern forming on your lips.
"I was an idiot before," he says, his hands reaching up to gently cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "I was so focused on the racing, so scared of changing the dynamic, that I let you believe you were just an option. But I've been thinking about this all day. I don't want just a couple of weeks with you, Y/n. I want all of it. I want a future."
Your heart misses a beat, the quiet sincerity in his voice making your knees go weak. You look up at him, your eyes shining in the moonlight. "Max..."
"Let me finish," he whispers, a small, nervous smile touching his lips. "I love you. I need you in my life, not just in the motorhome when the cameras are off. I want to do this properly. Move in with me. In Monaco."
The offer hangs in the air, heavy and beautiful. It's a massive stepâa commitment that goes far beyond secretive dates and stolen kisses in the paddock. Itâs an acknowledgment that the dark, undefined period of your relationship is officially over.
"Are you serious?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
"Never more serious in my life," Max says, his gaze locked onto yours with absolute certainty. "I'll talk to Charles about it tomorrow, make sure he knows I'm not playing games. But I want you with me."
You look at him, seeing the genuine love and need in his eyes, and any lingering doubts in your mind completely disappear. Youâve both weathered the storm of his intensity, the paddock whispers, and your brother's temper, and youâve come out on the other side.
"Yes," you say, a radiant smile breaking across your lips. "I'll move in with you."
Max lets out a breath of pure relief, his face lighting up with a rare, dazzling grin. He pulls you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the ground as his lips crash into yours. It's a kiss that tastes of absolute certainty, of the future you are about to build together, and the end of all the secrets.
When he finally sets you back on your feet, he keeps his arms securely around your waist, his eyes burning with a quiet, fierce passion that has always drawn you to him.
"Come inside," he whispers, his voice low and husky against your ear as he guides you toward the suite. "We have a lot of lost time to make up for."
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest, and let him pull you inside, knowing that whatever chaos the racing season brings, you'll be facing it together.
No more hiding. No more toxic games. Just you, and Max, and the life you're finally ready to build. . . .
Hiii Iâm not sure if your taking requests but can you write a lando story based on the song staying by lizzy mcAlpine, creative liberty is up to you!! Tyyy
Leaving For The Best
Summary: It's for the best that you two go your own ways. . . .
Song: Body · Summer Walker
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 3.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The heavy Monaco air clings to you both as Lando pulls into the deserted driveway of his apartment. The deafening echo of the race weekend fades, leaving only the sound of ticking mechanics cooling in the night and the crushing weight of a conversation that neither of you wants to start.
The lift doors glide open with a cheerful ding that feels entirely out of place. You walk into his apartment, the sleek, minimalist living room looking less like a home and more like a high-end showroom. He doesnât turn the overhead lights on.
Instead, the soft glow from the expansive windows spills into the room, silhouetting the floor-to-ceiling glass and the faint lights of the yachts bobbing in the marina below.
Lando drops his race weekend bag by the door. It hits the floor with a dull thump. He lets out a long, shuddering breath, raking a hand through his damp hair.
The stress of the seasonâthe constant media scrutiny, the championship fight, the travelâseems to radiate off him in waves.
You walk over to the kitchen island, placing your clutch on the marble. The silence between you is deafening.
Itâs the kind of silence thatâs been building for months, a quiet accumulation of missed calls, time zone differences, and unspoken fears.
"Do you want a drink?" his voice breaks the quiet, sounding unusually raspy and small.
You nod, turning to face him. Heâs already walking to the wine fridge, his shoulders slightly hunched. He pulls out a bottle of white wine, his movements mechanical.
He pours two glasses, his hand slightly unsteady. He doesn't look at you as he hands you one across the counter.
"Tough weekend," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
Lando scoffs, a dry, humorless sound. He takes a long gulp of his wine before setting the glass down hard on the marble. "Tough weekend. Yeah. That's one way to put it."
He finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours. Thereâs a raw, vulnerable look in them that makes your chest ache. "I feel like I'm losing my mind, Y/N. Everything is moving so fast. The racing, the fans, the pressure... and then I come home, and I don't even know what's real anymore."
You walk around the counter, stepping into his space. The scent of himâa familiar mix of race fuel, expensive cologne, and sweatâwas your safe haven for so long.
Now, it just feels heavy. You place a gentle hand on his arm. "You're just overwhelmed, Lando. It's been a crazy few months."
He looks down at your hand, his jaw tightening. "It's not just the racing, Y/N. It's us."
The words hang in the air, cold and undeniable. You pull your hand back slightly, the cold glass of your wine suddenly feeling incredibly heavy in your fingers. "Us?"
Lando turns away from the counter, pacing a few steps toward the dark window, running both hands over his face. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at balancing everything. I feel like I'm dragging you down with me. You're constantly waiting for me. Waiting for a call, waiting for me to be present, waiting for a version of me that isn't completely consumed by this sport."
"I don't mind waiting, Lando," you counter, though the quiet conviction in your own voice is wavering. "I love you."
He stops pacing and turns back to you, a look of anguish crossing his features. "That's exactly it! You love me, and what do I give you in return? Half-assed conversations at 2 A.M., canceled plans, and a guy who can barely string two words together when he's exhausted."
He walks closer, his eyes searching yours desperately. "You deserve someone who can be here. Someone who can give you the time and attention you need. I'm not that person right now. I don't know when I will be."
A tear slips down your cheek, hot against your skin. You quickly wipe it away. "Are you saying you want to break up?"
Lando closes his eyes tightly, the silence answering your question more painfully than any words could. You stand in the quiet room, the ticking of the clock in the background marking the seconds of your unraveling life together.
"I don't want to," Lando whispers, his voice thick with emotion as he opens his eyes. "God, I don't want to. I love you more than I can even express. But I also know that keeping you here, tethered to this chaotic life of mine... it's not fair to you."
"Let me decide what's fair for me," you say, taking a step toward him. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a frantic, painful rhythm. "We can make it work, Lando. We just have to communicate better. We can find a way."
He shakes his head, stepping backward, putting distance between you. The physical rejection stings more than a slap. "We can't. It doesn't work like that. The racing... it always comes first. It has to. And I can't keep asking you to be second best. You're not a second-best option."
You look at him, the man youâve built a life with, the man who holds your heart in his hands. Seeing him standing there, looking so defeated and broken, makes you realize that he's already made his decision. He's already letting go.
"Is there someone else?" the question slips out before you can stop it, the insecurity thatâs been plaguing you for weeks finally bubbling to the surface.
Lando's eyes widen, and he looks at you with absolute shock and hurt. "What? No. God, no, Y/N. There's nobody else. How could you even think that?"
"Because you're pushing me away so easily," you reply, the tears now falling freely. "Because it feels like you're already halfway out the door."
"I'm not pushing you away because I don't care," he says, his voice breaking as he steps forward to grab your hands. His grip is firm, anchoring you to him.
"I'm pushing you away because I love you too much to watch you fade away while waiting for me to figure my life out. I'm staying in my own head, and I'm dragging you down with me. You deserve the world, Y/N. And the world is not this apartment, and it's not me coming home drained and distant every other week."
He lets go of one of your hands to gently cup your cheek, his thumb catching a stray tear. The touch is so tender, so painfully familiar, that it makes you sob. "I just want you to be happy," he whispers.
"You make me happy," you choke out, leaning slightly into his touch.
Lando gives you a sad, broken smile. "But I also make you cry. A lot. And I can't do that to you anymore."
He pulls his hand back, the warmth of his touch fading. You stand there in the dim light of the living room, the weight of the inevitable pressing down on you both. You know thereâs nothing left to say. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop, in the way he canât hold your gaze for too long. Heâs already mourning the end of you.
"I need you to stay," you whisper, the desperation in your voice echoing the title of the song playing in the back of your mind.
Lando looks at the floor, shaking his head. "I can't, Y/N. If I stay, we'll just keep doing this. We'll keep hurting each other. I need to go. I need to be alone."
The finality in his words cuts through you. You wrap your arms around your midriff, feeling incredibly cold and small in the middle of his sprawling apartment. The reality of the situation sets in. Heâs leaving. The man who was your home, your confidant, and your biggest supporter is walking out the door.
"So, this is it?" you ask, your voice trembling. "Just like that?"
Lando looks at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He takes one final step toward you, pulling you into a tight, desperate embrace.
You bury your face in his chest, breathing in his scent for the last time. His arms wrap around you tightly, holding you as if letting go will cause him to physically shatter.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into your hair, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm so, so sorry."
You pull back slightly, looking up at him through your tears. You memorize every detail of his faceâthe familiar furrow of his brow, the color of his eyes in the dim light.
He leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to your lips. Itâs not a kiss of passion, but a kiss of goodbye. Itâs slow, tender, and absolutely heartbreaking.
He pulls away and takes a step toward the bedroom, picking up his racing bag as he goes. "I'll get my things from the guest room tomorrow," he says quietly, not looking back at you. "Or I can have my manager..."
"Don't," you interrupt, the finality of the situation becoming too much to bear. "Just take them. Just take everything."
Lando stops at the doorway to the hallway, looking back at you one last time. The expression on his face is a mix of love, regret, and sorrow. He turns and walks out of the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft, final sound.
The silence that follows is absolute.
You stand in the middle of the living room, the city lights below continuing to twinkle, completely oblivious to your heartbreak. The glass of wine sits untouched on the marble island.
The reality of the empty apartment presses down on you, the realization that he is truly gone settling deep into your bones.
You slowly walk over to the sofa and sit down, pulling your knees to your chest.
You curl into a ball, the warmth of his embrace still lingering on your skin, and let yourself cry. You cry for the missed opportunities, the unfulfilled promises, and the man who loved you enough to let you go.
The Monaco night continues, quiet and still, as you sit in the darkness, learning how to be alone. . . .
As a black girl, I found my new favorite accountđ
Come Home
Summary: You and all of Oscar's sisters go on a night out and he hears all about it when he drives you two home
Song: Feel Good · Clara La San
Authorâs note: As a black girl too, I'm so happy that another black girl can find comfort in my stories! This one is dedicated to you! Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! đ€đ«¶
Word count: 1.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The first time you told Oscar you loved him, it wasnât in the champagne-soaked chaos of a podium celebration or the whispered intimacy of a hotel room at 3 AM.
It was in the middle of a grocery store aisle, your fingers sticky from a burst packet of powdered donuts, his laugh ringing louder than the tinny supermarket speakers.
Heâd just knocked over an entire display of cereal boxes trying to reach for the last bag of your favorite chips, and you thought, Christ, this is the man Iâm going to marry.
After the triple-header, you and Oscar decided to visit Nicole Piastri and Tim, the kind of unplanned detour that usually ended with someone crying into a bowl of pasta.
But when you pushed open the front doorâstill sticky from the donuts, still buzzing from the raceâthe house was already alive. Nicoleâs laughter tangled with Timâs deep voice, the clatter of plates echoing from the kitchen, and underneath it all, the steady hum of a family that had somehow become yours too.
Oscarâs hand brushed against yours, warm and sure, like heâd known this would happen all along.
Edie was the first to spot you, her grin sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion clinging to your bones. âTook you long enough,â she said, tossing a tea towel over her shoulder. âMumâs been pacing since quali.â
Behind her, Hattie was elbow-deep in flour, her hair dusted white, while Mae lounged on the countertop, swinging her legs like she owned the place. Oscar rolled his eyes, but you saw the way his shoulders relaxed, the way he leaned into the noise like it was something solid he could hold onto.
Nicole emerged from the hallway, her arms already outstretched, and you realized, with a sudden ache, that this was what home felt likeânot a place, but the way Oscarâs mother hugged you like you were hers, the way Tim ruffled his sonâs hair with the same rough affection heâd had since Oscar was sixteen and stubborn.
There was no ceremony, no fanfare, just the quiet certainty of belonging. You thought of the cereal boxes, the powdered sugar on your fingers, the way Oscar had looked at you like youâd hung the stars.
Later, when the plates were cleared and the stories had spun themselves into something wilder than truth, Mae would corner you by the sink, her eyes glittering with mischief.
âYouâre stuck with us now,â sheâd say, flicking water at your shirt. And youâd laugh, because it wasnât a threatâit was a promise, the kind that settled deep in your chest and stayed.
Oscar found you like that, still damp and grinning, and pressed his forehead against yours like he could read every thought humming under your skin.
âTold you theyâd love you,â he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. You didnât mention how your hands shook a little, how the weight of itâof thisâfelt like standing on the edge of something vast and unknown.
Tim clapped Oscar on the back, hard enough to make him stumble into you, and the moment shattered into laughter.
âStop hogging her,â he grumbled, though his eyes were soft. Nicole swatted at him with a dish towel, but you caught the way she watched you, like she was memorizing the way you fit into the chaos.
And when Edie shoved a glass of wine into your hand and Hattie dragged you into a debate about the worst F1 liveries of all time, you realized you werenât just with Oscar anymoreâyou were part of the rhythm, the mess, the unspoken shorthand of a family that had somehow decided you were theirs.
The donut powder was long gone, but the sweetness of it lingered, sticky and bright.
"You should join us for dinner," Hattie suggested later, elbow-deep in dishwater, her voice pitched low enough that Oscar wouldnât hear from where he was sprawled on the couch, Timâs arm slung around his shoulders.
"Just us fourâme, Mae, Edie, you. No boyfriends, no brothers, no dads who still think carbonara is just bacon and cream." You hesitated, glancing at Oscar, but Mae was already nodding, her grin sharp.
"Itâs a rite of passage," she said, flicking suds at you. "Weâll tell you all his embarrassing childhood stories. The ones even Mum doesnât know."
Nicole caught your eye from across the room, her smile knowing, and you felt it againâthat ache, that terrifying warmth. This wasnât just about loving Oscar; it was about letting his people love you too, letting them carve out a space for you in their history.
You nodded, and Hattie whooped, nearly upending the sink. "Saturday," she declared, like it was a binding contract.
Mae leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He used to sleepwalk," she said, and you snorted, imagining a teenage Oscar wandering the halls in his pajamas.
"One time he ended up in the garden with a potted plant, insisting it was his 'co-driver.'" Edie cackled, slamming a glass down on the counter hard enough to make Oscar jerk his head up from the couch. "Oi," he called, squinting at you all, "whatâre you plotting?"
The answer came in the form of Tim lobbing a bread roll at his head, and suddenly the room dissolved into chaosâNicole shrieking, Mae ducking behind you, Edie brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword.
Oscar lunged, catching you around the waist, and you yelped as he dragged you onto his lap, his laughter vibrating against your back.
"Traitor," he muttered into your hair, but his hands were gentle, his grip loose enough that you couldâve pulled away if you wanted. You didnât.
Later, when the last of the dishes were dried and the wine had settled into a pleasant buzz behind your ribs, youâd find yourself tucked against Oscarâs side on the porch, the night air cool against your skin.
He pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering like a question. You didnât answer, just tangled your fingers with his, listening to the distant sounds of his family still bickering inside.
The donut powder was gone, but the sweetness of itâthe rightnessâwas everywhere.
Back in your apartmentânot his childhood home, but the one youâd carved out together, with its mismatched mugs and the faint smell of burnt toast that never quite fadedâOscar would collapse onto the couch with a groan, dragging you down with him.
"Theyâre exhausting," heâd mutter, but youâd see the way his mouth curled at the corners, the way his thumb traced idle circles over your wrist.
Youâd laugh, nudging him with your knee. "You love it," youâd say, and he wouldnât deny it, just pull you closer until your breath mingled in the quiet dark.
The invitation from his sisters would arrive the next morning, a flurry of texts lighting up your phone while Oscar was still asleep beside you, his hair a mess against the pillow.
SATURDAY. 7PM. NO CANCELLING, Hattie had written, followed by a string of emojis that made precisely zero sense. Youâd bite your lip, staring at the screen, the weight of it settling somewhere between your ribsânot heavy, but there, undeniable.
Youâd never done this before. Not with your ex, not with anyone. Dinner with the sisters was uncharted territory, the kind of thing that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.
What did you even wear? Something casual enough to say Iâm not trying too hard but polished enough to whisper I respect you, please donât judge me? Youâd stand in front of your closet for twenty minutes, tossing shirts onto the bed like theyâd committed treason, until Oscar would finally roll over, squinting at the carnage.
âBabe,â heâd say, voice thick with sleep, âtheyâve seen you covered in champagne and jet lag. Just wear the green shirt.â Youâd glare at him, but heâd already be pulling you back down into the sheets, his laugh muffled against your shoulder.
The green shirt would end up on the floor by Saturday evening, replaced by something softer, something that felt more youâa blouse with sleeves that rolled up at the wrists, the one Oscar always said made your collarbones look like theyâd been designed by someone who knew what they were doing.
Youâd twist your rings around your fingers in the Uber, rehearsing answers to questions they might not even ask. No, I donât think Monaco is overrated. Yes, I know he snores. No, I wonât tell you about the time heâ The car would lurch to a stop, and youâd realize, with a jolt, that you were here.
Mae would be the one to open the door, her grin sharp as a scalpel. âTook you long enough,â sheâd say, dragging you inside before you could overthink it.
The smell of garlic and wine would hit you like a wall, and behind her, Edie would already be pouring a glass too full, Hattie waving you toward a chair like sheâd been waiting years.
Youâd catch your reflection in the hallway mirrorâflushed, a little wide-eyed, but there, unmistakably part of the sceneâand for the first time, it wouldnât feel like a costume.
âRight,â Mae would say, clapping her hands. âLetâs ruin his life.â
The stories would come fast and merciless: Oscar at twelve, crying over a ruined model car; Oscar at fifteen, attempting to bleach his hair and ending up with orange streaks for months.
Hattie would lean in, her voice dropping to a whisper. âHe used to write poetry,â sheâd confess, and youâd choke on your wine, imagining him hunched over a notebook, scowling at rhymes.
Edie would toss a bread roll at Maeâs head when she tried to embellish, and the argument that followed would be so familiar itâd acheâlike youâd been hearing it for years.
Halfway through dessert, Nicole would appear in the doorway, her arms crossed but her eyes soft. âDonât torment her,â sheâd say, though she wouldnât move to stop them.
Youâd catch the way she lingered, the way her gaze flicked between you and her daughters like she was slotting a puzzle piece into place. Mae would groan, throwing a grape at her mother.
âWeâre initiating her,â sheâd protest, and Nicole would just sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Later, when the plates were cleared and the wine was gone, youâd find yourself sandwiched between Hattie and Edie on the couch, Mae sprawled across your laps like a cat.
Your phone would buzzâOscar, texting are you alive??âand youâd grin, typing back no, your sisters killed me just to hear his groan through the wall.
Hattie would snatch the phone, adding a string of eggplant emojis before you could stop her, and the resulting chaosâMaeâs cackling, Edieâs threats, your half-hearted attempts to wrestle it backâwould feel like something youâd done a hundred times before. Like something youâd do a hundred times again.
Oscarâs next message would be simple: on my way to pick you up.
Hattie would read it aloud, her smirk widening as she elbowed you. âAw, heâs worried,â sheâd croon, dragging out the last word until Edie threw a cushion at her.
Mae would roll her eyes, but youâd catch the way she nudged your knee, her voice dropping to a whisper. âHeâs been texting me every ten minutes asking if youâre having fun.â
Youâd bite your lip, but the warmth in your chest would be impossible to hide.
The teasing would escalateâEdie miming Oscarâs race-day focus face, Hattie launching into an impression of him pacing the roomâuntil the front door swung open and he appeared, hair mussed from running his hands through it.
âAlright, alright,â heâd grumble, but youâd see the way his shoulders relaxed when he spotted you, the way his mouth twitched at the corners.
Mae would fake-gag, flopping onto Edieâs lap. âGross,â sheâd declare, but Oscar would just roll his eyes, reaching for your hand like it was the easiest thing in the world.
The wine hit you then, warm and syrupy in your veins, and before he could protest, youâd flung yourself at him, your arms looping around his neck with a force that nearly toppled you both.
Heâd staggered back, laughing into your hair, his hands steadying your hips. âSomeoneâs had a good night,â heâd murmur, and youâd bury your face in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his stupidly expensive cologne mixed with the faintest trace of motor oil.
Behind you, Hattie would wolf-whistle, but you wouldnât care, not when Oscarâs fingers were tracing idle circles against the small of your back, not when he was pressing a kiss to your temple like you were something precious.
âHow are you guys getting home?â you heard Oscar ask, pulling back just enough to glance at his sisters. Hattie rolled her eyes, waving her phone.
âTim is coming to pick us up,â she said, jerking her chin toward the driveway where headlights were already cutting through the dark. Mae groaned, flopping onto Edieâs shoulder.
âDadâs gonna lecture us about drinking on a school night again,â she muttered, and youâd snorted, because it was Wednesday and Mae hadnât seen the inside of a classroom in years.
Oscarâs thumb brushed against your wrist, his grip tightening just enough to make you glance up. âReady?â heâd asked, quiet, just for you, and youâd nodded, because the answer was always yes when it came to him.
Timâs car rumbled to a stop at the curb, the passenger window rolling down to reveal his raised eyebrows. âYou lot look like youâve been through a war,â he said, and Hattie cackled, tossing her bag into the backseat.
âWe have,â Edie declared, dragging Mae toward the car. âYour sonâs embarrassing childhood trauma nearly killed us.â Timâs gaze flicked to you, something unreadable in his expression, before he huffed a laugh.
âWelcome to the family,â he said, and the words settled in your chest like a promise.
You said bye to Hattieâs dramatic air kisses, to Edieâs lingering squeeze of your hand, to Maeâs whispered next time, weâll tell you about the time he got stuck in a tree.
Oscar groaned, dragging you away before they could elaborate, but you were still grinning.
Oscar tugged you toward his car, his fingers laced through yours, the night air cool against your flushed skin. You could still hear Hattieâs laughter, Timâs gruff admonishments, the distant clatter of the Piastris winding downâbut here, in the quiet dark of the parking lot, it was just you and him, the weight of the evening humming between you.
He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips warm against your skin. âTold you theyâd love you,â he murmured again, and this time, you believed him.
The drive home was quiet, the hum of the engine blending with the soft sound of Oscarâs breathing beside you. You traced idle patterns on his thigh, watching the streetlights flicker past the window like stars.
Heâd glance at you every so often, his expression soft in the dim glow of the dashboard, and youâd smile, because thisâthe quiet, the knowing, the way he always reached for youâwas the part you loved most.
Not the podiums, not the flashbulbs, just this: Oscarâs hand on your knee, the city sliding by outside, and the certainty that wherever he was, you were home.
You told him everythingâhow Mae had mimicked his teenage sulk with terrifying accuracy, how Hattie had sworn you to secrecy about the poetry, how Edie had threatened to dig out the photo of him in braces if he ever annoyed you.
Oscar groaned, tipping his head back against the seat, but you saw the way his mouth twitched, the way his fingers tightened around the wheel just slightly. âTheyâre menaces,â he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just the same fond exasperation that had settled into his voice whenever he talked about them.
You laughed, nudging his shoulder, and he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm like an apology. âYouâre one of them now,â he said, and you grinned, because it was true.
"You're acting like we're already married," you joked, flicking his knee, but the words hung in the air between you, heavier than youâd meant them to be. Oscar didnât laugh. Instead, his grip on the wheel tightened, his gaze fixed on the road ahead like it held the answers to something unspoken.
The silence stretched, taut and humming, until you almost regretted saying itâalmost. Then he exhaled, slow and deliberate, and glanced at you, his eyes dark in the dim light.
âYeah,â he said, simple as that, like it was the easiest truth in the world. Your breath caught.
The apartment was quiet when you got back, the only sound the distant hum of the city through the open window. Oscar kicked off his shoes by the door, his movements lazy with exhaustion, but when he turned to you, his expression was anything but tired.
He reached for you, his hands settling on your hips like they belonged there, and you let him pull you close, your forehead resting against his.
âYou good?â he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, and you nodded, because how could you not be? His family loved you. He loved you. It was enoughâmore than enough.
Later, tangled in the sheets with his heartbeat steady under your palm, youâd trace the lines of his face in the dark, memorizing the way his lashes fluttered against his cheeks, the way his mouth softened in sleep.
Heâd shift, pulling you closer, his arm slung heavy over your waist, and youâd think, This is it.
Not the podiums, not the champagne, just thisâOscarâs breath against your neck, the weight of his body beside yours, the quiet certainty that wherever he was, youâd follow.
Soft kisses pressed to the hollow of his throat, to the scar above his eyebrow from that karting accident at fourteen, to the pulse point at his wrist where his veins stood stark against his skin.
Heâd stir, his fingers twitching against your hip, and youâd press another to the corner of his mouth, savoring the way he sighed into it, half-asleep and wholly yours.
âMm,â heâd murmur, his voice rough with sleep, âsânice.â
Youâd grin, biting back a laugh, and heâd chase your lips with his own, clumsy and warm, like he couldnât bear to let you go even in the dark.
Outside, the city would humâcar horns, distant laughter, the occasional sirenâbut here, in the cocoon of your shared bed, it was just the two of you, the world reduced to the slide of his fingers through your hair, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek.
Youâd whisper something stupid, something like I love you or Your sisters are terrifying, and heâd chuckle, the sound vibrating through you like a second heartbeat.
âYeah,â heâd say, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and youâd kiss him again, just because you could.
Neither of you heard the buzz of your phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with Hattieâs textâi remember when oscar came home and told the whole family he found the âoneâđâfollowed by a string of crying-laughing emojis.
Mae would reply minutes later with a screenshot of Oscar at sixteen, gap-toothed and grinning, captioned proof heâs always been this embarrassing, but you wouldnât see that either, too busy tracing the curve of his collarbone with your tongue, savoring the way his breath hitched.
Somewhere in the tangled mess of sheets, Oscarâs hand found yours, his fingers slotting between yours like they were made to fit.
You could feel the callouses on his palmsâthe ones from years of gripping steering wheels, the ones youâd memorized by nowâbut tonight, they felt different, rougher somehow, like they carried the weight of every unspoken promise between you.
He squeezed once, a silent Iâm here, and you squeezed back, because what else was there to say?
Summary: You've been best friends with Arthur for all your life but his brother sees you in a different light after he wins at home
Song: Coming Down · The Weeknd
Authorâs note: The way I wouldn't know who to pick! I literally had Eeny, meeny, miny, moe to pick who wins out of the two of them. Don't worry, you guys will get an Arthur fic eventually....... Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 5.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The champagne spray glittered under the Monaco sun like liquid gold, and amidst the ecstatic crowd, Charles Leclercâs gaze locked onto yours for a fraction too longâlong enough to make your skin prickle under the heat of something far more combustible than celebration.
Youâd been standing beside Arthur, his arm slung casually over your shoulders, both of you screaming yourselves hoarse for his brother, but the way Charlesâs victorious smile sharpened into something predatory as he took you in had nothing to do with familial pride.
You and Arthur had been inseparable since you were six, when heâd moved into the apartment below yours in Monte Carlo and promptly challenged you to a race down the hallwayâyou won, but he never admitted it.
Years of shared secrets, scraped knees, and stolen pastries from his motherâs kitchen had forged a bond thicker than blood, and though Arthur had long since accepted that his older brother lived in a different universe of fame and adrenaline, youâd always been the one bridge between their worlds.
Charles tolerated youâbarelyâwhen you tagged along to karting sessions, his patience thinning every time Arthur shoved you into the passenger seat of his car with a laugh.
But then came the summer Charles won his first Formula 3 race, and something shifted. He started returning home less often, his smiles grew sharper, and the rare times he did acknowledge you, it was with a slow, appraising glance that made your stomach flip.
Once, when Arthur was out of earshot, Charles had cornered you by the pool, dripping wet from his laps, and asked, voice low, "You always follow him around like a lost puppy. Donât you ever get tired of being second best?"
The question lingered like gasoline fumes in the air between you, dangerous and intoxicating.
Then came the victories, the podiums, the way his name rolled off commentatorsâ tongues like a prayerâand with them, an unspoken shift in the way he treated you. No longer the nuisance clinging to Arthurâs shadow, you became a challenge he couldnât resist.
Heâd linger when you were alone, brushing past you just close enough for his cologne to cling to your clothes, or casually sliding into the seat beside you at family dinners, his knee pressing against yours beneath the table.
Once, after a particularly heated argument between the brothers, Charles caught your wrist in the hallway, his thumb tracing your pulse point as he murmured, "You deserve better than his leftovers."
There was no doubt that you had a little crush on Arthur while growing upâhow could you not, when he was the one who taught you how to ride a bike, who smuggled you into his fatherâs study to steal chocolates, who kissed you on the cheek after you won your first swimming race?
But Arthurâs affection was warm sunlight; Charlesâs was a lightning storm, unpredictable and electrifying.
You told yourself it was just admiration, the way your breath hitched when Charles leaned over you to grab his keys, the way your skin burned under his scrutiny.
Thursdayâs flight to Monaco was impulsive, fueled by half a bottle of wine and a text from Maman. The Leclercsâ villa loomed white and imposing against the cliffs, and when Arthur swung the door open, his grin faltered for a split second at the sight of you.
"Didnât think youâd actually show," he laughed, pulling you into a hug that smelled of salt and sunscreen.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Heâs always stuck in something." The way he said it made your stomach twistâthere was an edge there, something unspoken.
You pretended not to notice, letting Maman steer you toward the terrace where a pitcher of lemonade sweated in the afternoon heat.
Arthur slouched into the chair beside you, his knee jostling yours familiarly. "So," he drawled, "you here for me or the race?" The question was light, but his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his glass.
"Speak of the devil," he muttered, just as the front door slammed shut.
Charles strode onto the terrace like he owned the air around him, his tailored blazer slung over one shoulder, his sunglasses reflecting your startled face back at you.
"Well," he said, slow and deliberate as he pulled out the chair opposite yours, "look who decided to join the party." His smile was all teeth. Arthurâs grip on his glass turned white-knuckled. The lemonade suddenly tasted like gasoline.
You replied with something vague about missing Monaco, then greeted Maman as she reappeared with a plate of almond biscuitsâbut your pulse jumped when Charlesâs foot brushed yours beneath the table.
He was supposed to be at a press conference. Arthurâs voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Thought you had sponsor obligations." Charles didnât even glance at him, his gaze locked on you as he plucked a biscuit from the plate. "Changed my mind."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Maman, blissfully unaware, chattered about the race preparations while Arthur glared at his brother like he wanted to set him on fire.
Charles leaned forward, elbows on the table, his cufflinks glinting in the sun. "You should come to the paddock tomorrow," he said, low and conspiratorial, as if the two of you were the only ones there. "Iâll make sure you get the best view."
Arthurâs chair scraped violently against the stone as he stood. "Iâll show her around," he snapped. Charles finally looked at him, his smirk widening. "Oh? Since when do you have paddock access?"
The challenge hung in the air like the first spark before an explosion. You barely had time to inhale before Arthur stalked off, muttering something about checking tire data.
Charles watched him go, then turned back to you, his fingers drumming idly against the table. "So," he murmured, "where were we?"
Maman, sensing the storm brewing, clapped her hands together. "Enough racing talk! Charles, help me carry these inside." But Charles didnât move, his eyes darkening as he studied you over the rim of his sunglasses.
"In a minute," he said, his voice velvet-smooth. The moment Maman disappeared into the house, he reached across the table, his thumb tracing the condensation on your glass.
"You didnât answer Arthurâs question earlier," he said softly. "Did you come for him⊠or for me?"
The terrace felt suddenly too small, the air thick with the scent of citrus and something darker. You opened your mouthâto lie, to deflectâbut Charles cut you off with a low chuckle.
"Donât bother. I saw your face when I won last season." His fingers brushed yours, sending a jolt up your arm. "You looked at me the way people look at gods."
From inside the house, Arthurâs voice called your name, sharp with impatience. Charles leaned back, his smile turning predatory.
"Better go," he said, though his grip on your wrist tightened for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "But rememberâyouâve already tasted what itâs like to be second best." His breath ghosted over your ear as he stood. "Wouldnât you rather win?"
Friday arrived with the kind of Mediterranean heat that clung to your skin like a second layer. You stood in your apartmentâthe same one youâd shared a wall with Arthurâs family in for yearsâstaring at the mess of discarded outfits strewn across your bed.
Silk slipped through your fingers, cotton crumpled under your grip, leather too tight, linen too looseânothing felt right. You didnât know when the hatred had turned into teasing, when Charlesâs sharp jabs had started to feel like a game you were both playing.
The thought made your hands tremble as you finally settled on a dress the color of Monacoâs twilight, the fabric whispering against your thighs like a dare.
Arthur knocked twice before letting himself in, his usual ease replaced by a tension that crackled in the air between you. "Youâre late," he said, but his gaze snagged on the slit in your dress, the way it teased just enough skin to make his jaw clench.
You swallowed hard. "Traffic," you lied, grabbing your purse. Arthurâs fingers brushed yours as he took it from you, his touch lingering. "Since when do you dress like this?" he asked, voice low. The question hung between you, loaded and unanswerable.
"Since forever," you said, grabbing lip gloss and placing it into the bag. It wasnât a complete lieâyou had dressed feminine after getting your career in swimming, ever since PR started begging you to look "less like you stole your clothes from Arthurâs closet."
The memory burned now, under his scrutiny. He exhaled sharply, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he turned away. "Come on," he muttered. "Charles is already at the paddock."
The silence in Arthurâs Ferrari was thick enough to choke on, the tension coiled tight between you like a spring ready to snap. You fiddled with the air vents, desperate to break it.
"Remember when we stole your dadâs boat?" you blurted out, forcing a laugh. "You were so scared weâd capsize, you threw the anchor overboard before we even left the dock."
Arthurâs grip on the wheel loosened, just a fraction. "You screamed louder than me when that seagull stole your sandwich," he shot back, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
The conversation tumbled out from thereâhalf-remembered inside jokes, the summer you both got food poisoning from expired gelato, the time Arthur tried to teach you to parallel park and you took out a mailbox.
Laughter came easier now, the years of shared history like a balm against whatever poison Charles had dripped between you.
"But you missed my first podium in F2," Arthur said suddenly, fingers tapping the steering wheel. "You were in Sweden for that stupid swim meet." You wincedâyouâd watched the race on your phone in a hotel sauna, the screen fogging with steam as he stood there grinning, alone.
"And you missed my gold medal ceremony," you countered quietly. "You were in Bahrain." He didnât reply, just tightened his grip on the wheel.
The unspoken truth hung heavy: Charles had been at both events.
The Ferrari roared into the paddock, cutting through the sea of team personnel and reporters. Arthur parked with a jerk of the wheel, the engine growling to a stop.
Before you could unbuckle, he turned to you, his eyes dark with something raw. "You know heâs just playing with you, right?" His voice was low, urgent. "Charles always wants what he canât haveâespecially if itâs mine."
The door swung open before you could reply, revealing Charles leaning against the hood, his race suit unzipped to the waist, sunglasses reflecting your startled face.
"Took you long enough," he drawled, then smirked at Arthur. "What, no kiss for the birthday boy?" Arthurâs jaw clenchedâit wasnât his birthday.
Charles just laughed and reached for your hand, pulling you from the car with a tug that sent you stumbling into his chest. His fingers lingered at your waist, burning through the thin fabric of your dress.
"Come on," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Let me show you how a real winner celebrates."
Arthur lunged forward, wrenching you back with a snarl. "Back off," he gritted out, but Charles just raised an eyebrow, stepping closer until the three of you formed a taut triangle of tension. "Or what?" he challenged, voice dripping with amusement. "Youâll cry to Maman?"
The crowd around them had gone eerily quiet, cameras flashing like lightning in the periphery.
You could feel the weight of a hundred eyes on you, the gossip already spreading like wildfireâLeclerc brothers brawling over some girl.
Then Charles did the unthinkableâhe laughed, loud and bright, clapping Arthur on the shoulder like it was all a joke. "Relax, petit frĂšre," he said, but his grip on your wrist never loosened. "Weâre just having fun."
Arthur recoiled like heâd been slapped, his face twisting with something between betrayal and fury. You opened your mouth to defuse the situation, but Charles was already steering you toward the garage, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point.
"Donât look so guilty," he purred. "You knew exactly what you were walking into."
Charles was fortunately ushered by some staff and it was just Arthur and you again, standing in the shadow of the Ferrari garage, the scent of burning rubber and expensive cologne thick in the air.
Arthurâs hands trembled at his sides, his usually playful eyes dark with something youâd never seen beforeâpossession, maybe, or the raw edge of a wound left to fester.
Arthur didnât say anything but just swung your purse over his shoulder and took your arm, guiding you to Charlesâ garage with a grip that bordered on painful.
His fingers dug into your skin like he was afraid youâd vanish if he loosened his hold, and for the first time in your life, you didnât tease him for it.
The garage was a hive of activity, engineers shouting over the whine of machinery, but all you could focus on was the way Arthurâs breath hitched when Charles emerged from the crowd, his race suit clinging to every defined muscle like a second skin.
Then Arthur yanked you sideways, pulling you toward a cluster of people you vaguely recognizedâcelebrities, drivers, influencersâall milling around with champagne flutes in hand.
"This is Y/N," he announced, his voice too loud, too forced, as he introduced you to a famous tennis player and a Hollywood actor whose name you immediately forgot.
"You raced karts with the Leclercs?" the actor asked, leaning in with feigned interest. You nodded absently, your eyes flicking past his shoulder to where Charles was surrounded by cameras, his laughter carrying over the garage noise like a challenge.
"Yeah," you muttered, "Arthur always cheated at the start." The group chuckled politely, but your fingers tightened around your glass when Charlesâs gaze slid to you mid-interview, his smirk widening as he caught you staring.
"She was faster than both of us," he said, but his voice had an edge when he added, "Not that Charles would ever admit it." The tennis player snorted into her drink. "Sounds like sibling rivalry."
Then a voice cut through the hum of conversationâsmooth, British, unmistakably amused. "And what exactly do you do when you're not embarrassing professional drivers?"
You turned to find Lando Norris leaning against the catering table, picking at a croissant with a grin. His eyes flicked to Arthur's grip on your elbow before meeting yours with playful challenge.
"I'm a swimmer," you said, lifting your chin. Lando's eyebrows shot up. "Olympic?"
Arthur answered for you, pride cutting through his irritation. "National champion, two years running."
Lando whistled, stealing a strawberry from a passing tray. "Explains the shoulders," he said, nodding at your bare arms. "Bet you could outswim half this grid."
You replied with a smirkâ"Only half?"
Lando laughed, tossing the strawberry into his mouth. "Alright, champion," he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly, "how about a bet? Next time weâre poolside, you race me. Loser buys dinner."
You replied with a scoff, tilting your head. "Careful, Norris. I hear your backstrokeâs about as strong as your qualifying pace." The group erupted into laughter, Lando clutching his chest dramatically while Arthurâs grip on your arm loosened, just slightly.
"Ouch," Lando grinned, stealing another strawberry. "Guess Iâll have to settle for watching you destroy Charles instead."
His gaze flicked pointedly toward the garage, where Charles was now surrounded by a swarm of reporters, his smile sharp as he caught your eye over their heads.
The tinny crackle of the PA system cut through the laughterâ"All drivers to their garages for FP1, repeat, all drivers to their garages." Arthur exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching against your elbow before he reluctantly let go.
"I have to go," he muttered, but his eyes darted to Charles, then back to you, dark with unspoken warning. "Stay out of trouble."
You rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder. "Since when do I look for trouble?" Arthurâs lips twitched despite himself. "Since forever," he said.
The crowd swallowed him whole as he strode toward the garage, leaving you standing there with Lando still grinning beside you. "So," he drawled, popping another strawberry into his mouth, "you and the Leclerc brothers, huh?"
You stiffened, but Lando just laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "Relax, Iâm just messing with you. Though," he added, leaning in conspiratorially, "if you do plan on starting World War III between them, let me know. Iâll bring popcorn."
Before leaving too quicklyâbefore the words could sink in, before you could process the way your pulse spiked at the thoughtâyou excused yourself with a mumbled excuse about needing the bathroom.
The paddock blurred around you as you wove through the crowd, the scent of fuel and hot asphalt clinging to your skin like a second layer of sweat.
The bathroom was blessedly empty when you pushed through the door, and you locked yourself in the farthest stall with trembling fingers, pressing your forehead against the cool metal partition.
This rivalryâthis thing between the brothersâhad never happened before, not like this. You and Arthur had always been untouchable, a unit sealed tight against the world, even as Charles orbited your lives like a distant, indifferent planet.
But now? Now you were the gravity pulling them both into collision, and the thought made your stomach twist with something between guilt and exhilaration.
Outside, the roar of engines crescendoed as FP1 kicked off, the vibrations thrumming through the walls like a second heartbeat.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to drown out the memory of Charlesâs fingers tracing your wrist, Arthurâs grip tightening possessively on your arm. The stall suddenly felt too small, the air too thick.
You didnât like the attentionânot like this, not when it felt like a prize to be fought over rather than affection freely given. Between the two of them, Arthur had always been your constant, your safe harborâthe boy whoâd held your hair back when you puked after too much gelato, whoâd defended you when kids mocked your accent.
But Charles? Charles was the storm you couldnât resist stepping into, the thrill of lightning too close to your skin.
Calming yourself with a shaky breath, you slipped into Charlesâ garage, blending into the shadows as a cluster of celebritiesâsome driverâs girlfriend, a pop star, a footballerâleaned against the tool racks, champagne flutes dangling from manicured fingers.
"Arthurâs got the charm," the pop star was saying, flipping her hair over one shoulder, "but Charles? Mon dieu, have you seen him in that race suit? Itâs like God carved him from marble."
The footballer snorted. "Please, Arthurâs the better driverâsmoother, more technical. Charles just looks fast." A scoff from the girlfriend: "Are you blind? Charles has three wins this season. Arthurâs still fighting for his first podium."
The words settled like ash on your tongue, bitter and familiarâsecond best, always second best..
You walked past them, making them silent and picking up your headphones, the sudden hush louder than their gossip.
The headphones were a flimsy shield but you clutched them like a lifeline, pressing them tighter over your ears as you shouldered past.
The pop starâs gaze burned into your back, her whisper sharp enough to slice through the bass thumping in your skull: "Thatâs her. The one they were fighting over."
You tightened your grip on the headphones, pretending not to hear as you leaned against the garage wall, eyes fixed on the monitors flickering with telemetry data.
The screen blurred into streaks of neonâtire temps, throttle percentages, fuel loadsâuntil Charlesâ voice crackled through the radio feed, smooth as aged whiskey.
"Brake balance feels offâshift it rearward by two clicks." The engineers murmured assent, but you barely registered them; something about the way Charles said "rearward," low and deliberate, sent a shiver down your spine.
You focused the rest of the session on dissecting Charlesâ drivingâthe way he carried speed through the swimming pool section, the precision of his downshifts into Casino Squareâuntil the patterns became a language only you understood.
Arthurâs Ferrari streaked past in a blur of red, but your gaze stayed glued to Charlesâ onboard camera, watching his hands flex around the wheel as he wrestled the car through the chicane.
The pop starâs earlier words echoed in your skull: God carved him from marble. You hated that she was right.
Thenâa tap on your shoulder. The pop star stood there, her manicured nail glinting under the garage lights as she smirked down at you. "So," she purred, flipping her hair over one shoulder, "which brotherâs bed are you warming tonight?"
The question landed like a slap, her French accent dripping with faux sweetness. You stiffened, your fingers tightening around the headphones.
"Neither," you snapped, but your voice cracked on the lie.
The pop star laughedâa tinkling, condescending soundâand leaned in closer, her perfume cloying. "Darling, please. The way Charles looks at you?"
Her gaze flicked to the monitor where Charlesâ onboard feed showed him licking his lips after a hard corner.
"Thatâs not brotherly."
Behind her, the footballer muttered something crude, but you barely heard it over the sudden roar of engines.
Arthurâs Ferrari screamed past the garage, the sound vibrating through your ribs as he locked up into Turn 1âtoo aggressive, too raw.
On the screen, Charlesâ hands twitched on the wheel, his voice crackling through the radio: "Arthurâs pushing too hard. Heâs going toâ"
The sentence died in static as Arthurâs car snapped sideways, tires smoking.
The garage erupted into chaos, engineers scrambling for data as Arthurâs onboard feed showed him wrestling the wheel, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
Charlesâ voice cut through the noise, sharp as shattered carbon fiber: "Told you."
You barely registered the pop starâs gasp beside youâyour entire body was coiled tight, watching Arthurâs car fishtail toward the barriers.
Then the impactâa deafening crunch of metal meeting concrete, the sickening screech of carbon fiber shredding itself against the wall. The monitors flickered violently before cutting to static, plunging the garage into stunned silence.
Someone screamed Arthurâs name, but your throat had closed up entirely, your pulse hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
The radio crackled back to life with Charlesâ voice, stripped raw of its usual arrogance: "Arthurâtalk to me." Silence.
Then a groan, staticky and weak. "Je vais bien," Arthur muttered, but the way he hissed between words told you he was lying. Charlesâ response was razor-sharp: "You idiot."
Charles was the quickest to get there, his race boots pounding the tarmac before the medical car even left the pit lane. He reached Arthurâs crumpled Ferrari in seconds, wrenching the halo open with bare hands despite the marshals shouting at him to wait.
Through the smoke, you saw him cradle Arthurâs faceâjust for a heartbeat.
"Fuck," Arthur slurred, blood trickling from his temple as he blinked up at Charles. "Did Iâ?" Charles cut him off with a snarl, pressing Arthurâs helmet back against the headrest.
"Donât move, you reckless bastard." His voice cracked on the last word, fingers trembling against Arthurâs cheekbone.
The medics arrived in a swarm of fluorescent vests and urgency, their practiced hands dismantling the halo with mechanical efficiency. Arthur groaned as they hauled him free, his legs bucklingâuntil Charles caught him, slinging Arthurâs arm over his shoulders with a grip that turned his knuckles white.
"Idiot," Charles muttered again, softer now, as they stumbled toward the exit, Arthurâs weight sagging against him like a marionette with cut strings.
The crowd parted in stunned silence, cameras flashing like a strobe light frozen on the brothersâ tangled limbsâCharlesâ race suit streaked with Arthurâs blood, Arthurâs fingers clutching Charlesâ shoulder like a lifeline.
You stood rooted to the spot, your pulse screaming in your ears as you watched them disappear into the medical car, the scent of burning rubber and spilled coolant clinging to the air like a bad omen.
Back in the garage, the pop starâs earlier taunt echoed in the sudden void: Which brotherâs bed are you warming tonight?
The answer clawed at your throatâneither, not like this, not when Arthurâs blood was smeared across Charlesâ collarbone and the monitors still flickered with the ghost of his crash.
No one spoke for minutes until FP1 was officially stopped, the PA system crackling with the announcement that FP2 would start in three hours to clear debrisâthree hours that stretched like a lifeline, three hours for Arthur to be assessed, for Charles to scrub his hands raw in the hospital sink, for you to press your forehead against the cool metal of the garage wall and choke on the scent of scorched rubber still clinging to your clothes.
The pop starâs manicured fingers brushed your shoulderâpity or curiosity, you couldnât tellâbut you recoiled like sheâd burned you. "Heâll be fine," she murmured, as if Arthur was some interchangeable driver and not the boy whoâd taught you how to swim in the Leclercsâ pool, whoâd held your hand through your first broken bone.
You didnât answer, just shoved past her toward the exit, the paddock blurring into streaks of color as you broke into a run.
Charles wasnât there with Arthur when they finally let you into the medical centerâjust a harried-looking doctor and Arthur himself, sprawled on a gurney with his race suit peeled down to his waist, his torso a canvas of blooming bruises.
The sight punched the air from your lungs. "You look like shit," you managed, voice cracking. Arthurâs grin was lopsided, blood still smeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Still prettier than Charles," he rasped, then winced as he tried to sit up.
You caught his wrist, pressing him back down with more force than necessary. "Donât," you hissed, but your fingers trembled against his pulse point.
Arthurâs smile faded as he studied your face, his free hand rising to brush a tear you hadnât realized had escaped. "Hey," he murmured, thumb catching the moisture on your cheek. "Iâve crashed harder in karts."
You replied with a choked laugh, swatting his hand away even as your own lingered on his chestâright over the bruise darkening his ribs. "You were reckless," you accused, but the words lacked bite.
Arthurâs fingers tangled with yours, pressing your palm flat against his heartbeat. "Maybe I wanted your attention," he said, so quiet you almost missed it over the hum of medical equipment.
You replied with a scoff, pulling your hand backâbut he held tight, his grip weaker than usual but insistent. "You had it," you muttered, staring at the IV snaking into his arm instead of his face. "You always had it."
The door swung open before Arthur could respond, and a nurse bustled in with a clipboard, her gaze flicking between you and Arthurâs intertwined fingers.
"Monsieur Leclerc needs rest," she said briskly, nodding toward the door. "Family only for now." Arthurâs grip tightenedâpainfully, suddenlyâand he shot her a glare that couldâve melted steel.
"She is family," he growled, but the nurse didnât flinch, just arched a brow and pointedly tapped her watch.
You stood before Arthur could argue further, disentangling your hand from his with a final squeeze. "Iâll be outside," you murmured, but Arthur caught your wrist again, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.
"Donât go far," he muttered, his voice rough with something that wasnât just pain. The nurse cleared her throat, and you forced yourself to step back, the scent of antiseptic and Arthurâs blood clinging to your skin like a second layer.
The hallway outside the medical center was eerily quiet, the usual paddock chaos muffled by distance.
You ducked into the nearest bathroomâa cramped, fluorescent-lit space that smelled of industrial cleaner and stale perfumeâand braced your hands against the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror.
Your fingers were streaked with Arthurâs blood, dried brown under your nails like rust. You scrubbed furiously under scalding water, the soap foaming pink as it swirled down the drain, but no matter how hard you rubbed, the metallic scent clung to your skin, mingling with the memory of Arthurâs pulse thudding against your palm.
Her voice was sharp with worry, the familiar clatter of pots in the background anchoring you for a fleeting second. "Charles told me about Arthurâmon Dieu, is heâ?"
You cut her off before she could spiral, forcing steadiness into your voice. "Heâs fine. Just bruised." The lie tasted bitterâArthurâs labored breathing, the way heâd winced when the nurses adjusted his IV, none of it was fine. Maman exhaled shakily.
"Come home tonight," she said, and it wasnât a request. "Charles will drive you and Arthur after debrief. Iâve already made up your room."
You pressed your forehead against the cool mirror, the tiles digging into your elbows. Home.
The Leclerc houseâArthurâs childhood bedroom with its karting trophies gathering dust, Charlesâ old room down the hall with its locked drawers and racing posters.
The thought of being trapped between those walls tonight, with Arthurâs injuries and Charlesâ simmering tension, made your stomach twist.
"Maman, I donât thinkâ"
"Non," she interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. "You shouldnât be alone after this."
You replied with a noncommittal hum, scraping your nails against the sink. Arthurâs blood was gone, but the phantom weight of his grip lingered on your wrist.
"Fine," you muttered, though the word tasted like surrender. Mamanâs sigh crackled through the phone. "Charles said heâd find you after debrief."
Your fingers clenched around the sink edgeâCharles, whoâd watched Arthur crash with something too close to regret in his eyes. "Great," you lied.
You hung up and then went to the hospitality suite, the scent of champagne and expensive cologne clinging to the air like a taunt. The space was half-emptyâmost attendees had fled to analyze Arthurâs crash footageâbut Charlesâ PR manager loomed by the espresso machine, her stiletto tapping impatiently.
She glanced up as you entered, her gaze lingering on your torn cuticles before flicking away. "Heâs in the debrief room," she said, though you hadnât asked. The unspoken donât distract him hung between you like barbed wire.
You slumped into an armchair near the exit, the leather cool against your bare thighs. The suiteâs TV flickered with replays of Arthurâs crashâthe way his Ferrari had shuddered mid-corner, the violent snap of oversteer that sent him careening into the barriers.
Your stomach twisted as the commentators dissected the wreck with clinical detachment: "Leclerc junior pushed too hardâamateur mistake."
The screen cut to Charlesâ onboard footage, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel as Arthurâs car vanished from his mirrors.
Thenâthe sharp click of dress shoes on marble. Charles stood in the doorway, his race suit unzipped to reveal the sweat-damp shirt beneath, his sunglasses shoved haphazardly into his collar. He didnât speak, just studied you with a gaze that felt like a physical weight.
The PR manager cleared her throat. "Charles, the Sky Sports team is waitingâ"
He silenced her with a glance, then tilted his head toward the exit. "Come on," he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. "Arthurâs asking for you." The way he said itâlike it cost him somethingâmade your breath catch.
You followed him through the paddock, the silence between you thick with unspoken words. Charlesâ knuckles were bruised, the skin splitâfrom wrenching open Arthurâs halo, you realized.
He flexed his hand absently, wincing as the cuts stretched. "You shouldnât have done that," you said quietly, nodding at his injuries.
Charles scoffed, kicking a stray bolt out of his path. "And let him bleed out in the car?" His voice was sharp, but his pace slowed just enough for you to keep up.
The medical center loomed ahead, its sterile lights harsh against the gathering dusk. Charles stopped abruptly, his fingers brushing yours before he caught himself.
"Heâll be fine," he muttered, though it sounded more like a prayer than a reassurance. You swallowed hard, staring at the blood still crusted under his nails.
"Will you?" The question slipped out before you could stop it. Charlesâ jaw tightened.
For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually answerâthen Arthurâs voice echoed from inside, slurred but insistent: "Where is she?"
Charles stepped back, his mask sliding into place with practiced ease. "Go on," he said, nodding toward the door. But as you moved past him, his hand shot out, gripping your elbow just long enough for you to feel the tremor in his fingers.
"Donât tell him Iâ" He cut himself off, shaking his head. The unspoken cared hung between you, bitter as burnt rubber. You nodded once, and his grip loosened, leaving behind the ghost of his touch like a brand.
Inside, Arthur was propped up against the pillows, his face pale except for the angry cut above his brow. His grin wavered when he saw you.
"Thought youâd bailed," he rasped, but his fingers twitched toward yours like a compass finding north. You caught his handâcareful of the IV taped to his wristâand squeezed hard enough to make him wince.
"You wish," you muttered, thumb brushing the ridge of his knuckles. His pulse jumped under your touch.
The door clicked open behind youâCharles, lingering in the threshold with Arthurâs duffel slung over one shoulder. Arthurâs grip tightened around your fingers.
"What, no flowers?" he croaked, but his voice lacked its usual bite. Charles tossed the bag onto the bed with deliberate carelessness.
"Mamanâs making soup," he said, avoiding Arthurâs gaze. "She wants you home tonight." The silence that followed was thick enough to choke onâhome, with all its fractured history, its unhealed wounds.
Charles dropped Arthurâs duffel beside you, "Iâm going for FP2," he muttered, already turning toward the door. His fingers brushed yours as he passedâjust a ghost of contact, but it sent a jolt up your arm.
Arthurâs grip tightened painfully around your wrist. "Donât crash," he called after Charles, voice dripping with false levity.
Charles froze in the doorway, his shoulders rigid.
When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped raw: "You first." The door slammed shut behind him, rattling the IV stand.
You exhaled shakily, staring at the spot where Charles had stoodâhis scent still clinging to the air, something citrus and sharp beneath the antiseptic. Arthurâs thumb traced your pulse point, pulling your attention back to him.
"So," he murmured, lips quirking despite the pain, "still think Charles is the better driver?" The joke fell flat, his fingers trembling against yours.
You swallowed hard, pressing his hand to your cheek. "Shut up," you whispered, but your voice cracked.
His palm was warm against your skin, his racing gloves discarded somewhere in the wreckageâjust flesh and bone now, vulnerable in a way Arthur Leclerc never was.
Outside, engines roared to lifeâFP2 beginning without them, the world moving on while you sat there clutching Arthurâs hand like a lifeline. The monitor above his bed beeped steadily, his heartbeat a fragile rhythm against the hum of the paddock.
Somewhere out there, Charles was strapping into his car, his knuckles still split from saving Arthur. The thought made your chest ache.
âRemember that new padel court near Port Hercule?â Arthur rasped suddenly, his thumb tracing idle circles on your palm. âThe one with the neon lights?â
You blinkedâthe abrupt shift so typically Arthur it almost hurt. âThe one you swore youâd beat me at,â you replied, forcing a smirk. His grin was weak but genuine. âOnce Iâm cleared to move,â he murmured, fingers tightening around yours, âweâre going. Just us.â The unspoken no Charles lingered between you, heavy as the scent of antiseptic.
"Sure. I'll beat you again if that's what you want," you teased, flicking his IV line lightly. Arthurâs laugh turned into a wince, his free hand pressing against his ribs.
âYou wish,â he gasped, but his eyes burned with something fiercer than painâthe same competitive fire that had fueled your childhood races, your stolen bets, the time heâd jumped into the pool fully clothed just to prove he could outswim you.
You leaned closer, close enough to count the flecks of gold in his irises. âLoser buys gelato,â you whispered.
Arthur replied by catching your wrist, his grip weak but insistent. âOnly if you promise not to cry when I win,â he murmured, his thumb tracing the delicate bones beneath your skin. yours betrayed him.
You nodded and scruffed his hairâtousling it the way you used to when heâd lose at Mario Kart as kidsâbut your fingers lingered too long, catching in the strands at the nape of his neck.
His breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, the medical center faded away, leaving only the warmth of his scalp under your palm and the way his pulse thundered against your fingertips.
Then Arthur leaned into the touch, just slightly, and the moment shattered like a dropped champagne flute.
You talked about everything he could remember from the practice sessionâthe way his Ferrari had sung through the first sector, the snap of oversteer that felt wrong from the start, the half-second where heâd glanced at Charlesâ lap time on the dash and pushed too hard.
His voice was raw with frustration, but his fingers never left yours, tracing idle patterns on your palm like he was mapping a route to somewhere safer.
âStupid,â he muttered, more to himself than you. âShouldâve backed off.â You squeezed his hand hard enough to make him look up.
âSince when do you back off?â you challenged, and the ghost of his old smirk flickered across his face.
FP2 finished with Charles topping the timesheets, his name flashing across every screen in the paddock like a taunt. The TV above Arthurâs bed replayed his final lapâthe ruthless precision of his lines, the way his car barely kissed the barriers through the swimming pool sectionâand Arthurâs grip on your hand turned vice-tight.
âHe looks good,â he admitted through gritted teeth, as if the words were being dragged out of him.
You didnât reply, just pressed your thumb against his racing pulse point, the monitor beside you beeping a fraction faster. On screen, Charles pulled into his garage, ripping off his gloves to reveal the same bruised knuckles that had brushed yours an hour ago.
The door swung open without warning, and Charles strode in smelling of sweat and high-octane fuel, his race suit unzipped to the waist. He tossed Arthur a water bottle with deliberate carelessnessâit landed on the bed with a thudâbefore leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
âCarâs balanced now,â he said, too casual. âFixed the rear instability.â
Arthurâs jaw clenched. âGreat,â he bit out. Charlesâ gaze flicked to your intertwined hands, then away just as quickly.
âMaman wants us home by eight,â he added, voice flat. The unspoken donât make me drag you hung between them like the scent of antiseptic and burning rubber.
You stood abruptly, disentangling your fingers from Arthurâs with a final squeeze. âIâll get your things,â you murmured, but Arthur caught your wrist againâweaker now, his grip slipping.
âHurry back,â he muttered, eyes darting to Charles like he expected him to vanish you into thin air.
Charlesâ smirk was razor-thin as you brushed past him toward the lockers, his fingers grazing your hipboneâtoo fleeting to be accidental, too deliberate to ignore.
The scent of his sweat and burnt carbon clung to your clothes as you wove through the medical staff, your pulse hammering in time with the distant roar of engines still circling the track.
Arthurâs duffel sat slumped in his locker like a discarded second skin, his gloves still curled inside as if frozen mid-gesture. You traced the worn leatherâthe same pair heâd shoved into your hands after your first karting lesson, laughing as you fumbled with the straps.
The memory burned now, sticky-sweet as the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.
When you turned, Charles was leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette haloed by the fluorescent lights. âYou forgot this,â he said, tossing Arthurâs watch at youâthe vintage one youâd given him for his eighteenth birthday. It landed heavy in your palm, the glass cracked like the fragile truce between them.
Charlesâ smile didnât reach his eyes. âBetter not let him lose that too.â
You nodded silently walking past him, the watch burning a hole in your pocket. The walk back to Arthurâs room felt endless, each step measured against the phantom pressure of Charlesâ grip.
When you pushed open the door, Arthur was struggling to sit up, wincing as the IV tugged at his wrist.
âTook you long enough,â he grumbled, but his voice softened when he saw the watch in your hand. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, lingering just long enough for you to feel the tremor in them.
âThought Iâd lost this,â he admitted, quieter than youâd ever heard him.
You two helped Arthur to the back door and into a tinted car, his weight leaning heavily against you as he hobbled forward, each step punctuated by a hissed curse. Charles walked ahead, his shoulders tense beneath his jacket, one hand gripping the car door like he wanted to rip it off its hinges.
The scent of Arthurâs antiseptic-soaked bandages mixed with the leather seats as you eased him onto the backseat, his breath hitching when his ribs brushed the console.
Charles slid into the driverâs seat without a word, his fingers drumming onceâhardâagainst the steering wheel before he twisted the key. The engine roared to life, a growl that vibrated through your bones as Arthur slumped against the window, his reflection fractured by the condensation on the glass.
You caught Charlesâ gaze in the rearview mirror, his eyes dark with something unreadable before he looked away, accelerating onto the Monaco streets with a jerk that made Arthur groan.
The silence in the car was suffocating, broken only by the occasional rustle of Arthur shifting against the leather or the sharp tap of Charlesâ ring against the gearshift.
You stared out at the blur of harbor lights, the yachts bobbing like discarded toys in the distance, until Arthurâs voiceâraw and quietâcut through the tension: âYou didnât have to come get me.â Charlesâ grip on the wheel tightened.
âYes,â he said, too low for anyone but you to hear, âI did.â
The villa gates loomed ahead, iron and imposing, and as they swung open, Arthurâs fingers brushed yours in the darkâjust once, fleeting as a heartbeat.
Charles parked with unnecessary force, the tires screeching against the cobblestones, and when he turned off the engine, the sudden quiet was deafening.
None of you moved.
Somewhere inside, Mamanâs shadow passed by a lit window, her silhouette blurred by the curtains. The three of you sat there, suspended in the aftermath, the unspoken words between you heavier than the weight of Arthurâs injuries.
Maman came out onto the terrace the moment Charles killed the engine, her flour-dusted apron fluttering in the sea breeze as she hurried down the steps.
âMon Dieu,â she gasped, taking in Arthurâs bandaged brow and Charlesâ bruised knucklesâbut her hands, when they reached for them both, were steady. S
he cradled Arthurâs face first, murmuring something in rapid French that made him wince and nod, then turned to Charles, her palm lingering on his cheek a fraction too long.
âInside,â she ordered, voice thick with something beyond reproachârelief, maybe, or the quiet devastation of a mother who knows too much.
You lingered by the car, suddenly an intruder in this intimate tableau, until Mamanâs gaze found yours over Charlesâ shoulder. Her eyesâthe same shade as Arthurâs, as Charlesââsoftened.
Maman steered you all toward the kitchen like a shepherd herding stubborn lambs, her touch firm but gentle. The table was already set, steaming bowls of soup waiting, and for a surreal moment, it could have been any other nightâArthur elbowing you for the bread basket, Charles rolling his eyes at their antics, Maman scolding them both in fond exasperation.
But then Arthurâs bandage caught the light, Charlesâ knuckles whitened around his spoon, and the illusion shattered. Maman sighed, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads in turn before turning to you. Her fingers, when they brushed your cheek, were trembling.
âEat,â she murmured, but her gaze flickered between her sons like she was trying to solve an equation that kept changing variables.
Maman came out onto the terrace with a bottle of wine and three glasses clutched in her hands, her face carefully neutral. âYouâll explain this to me later,â she said quietly, setting them down with deliberate precision.
Her eyesâusually so warmâwere sharp as flint as they darted between Arthurâs split lip and Charlesâ bruised hands. Neither brother spoke, their silence louder than any confession.
Maman poured the wine slowly, the liquid glinting like blood in the moonlight, then pushed a glass toward each of you. âTo family,â she said dryly, raising hers in a toast that felt more like a warning.
Charles was the first to look away, his jaw working as he stared out at the harbor lights. Arthur traced the rim of his glass with a fingertip, his usual bravado replaced by something hollow.
You reached for your own glass just to have something to hold, the crystal cool against your palm. Maman watched you all for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line, before standing abruptly.
âFinish your wine,â she said, her voice softer now. âThen come inside. The bed in the guest room is made.â The unspoken for you lingered in the air as she disappeared into the house, her footsteps echoing like a countdown. . . .
Summary: You swapped shifts with your sister but you didn't expect to see Lando Norris waiting for you on the bed
Song: Streets · Doja Cat
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 3.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The knife slipsâjust barelyâwhen your sisterâs voice cracks through the apartment like a snapped rubber band. âYouâre taking my shift,â she announces, not asks, her heel already tapping against the linoleum like sheâs counting down the seconds until you argue.
The avocado pit youâd been wrestling with rolls into the sink, and you donât bother to hide your glare. âThe fuck I am,â you mutter, but sheâs already tossing a crumpled slip of paper at your chest.
Itâs the address, of course, scrawled in her loopy handwriting, along with a name you donât recognizeâsome generic, forgettable alias. âHe paid upfront,â she adds, flicking her hair over one shoulder like that settles it.
The smug tilt of her chin tells you she knows exactly how much you hate last-minute clients, the ones who think cash buys spontaneity.
But the number scribbled at the bottom of the page makes your throat go dry. Enough to cover rent. Enough to make your pulse skip.
You agreed. Because you always do. Because the apartmentâs too quiet without her laughter rattling the windows, and the knife in your hand suddenly feels too light.
The fur coat smells like mothballs and someone elseâs perfume when you shrug it onâborrowed, probably, or bought from the thrift store two blocks over.
Beneath it, the orange lingerie clings like a second skin, the straps digging into your shoulders, the lace scratching at your ribs with every breath.
The color is garish, too bright against your thighs, like a warning. You wonder why he picked it.
The elevator ride up is silent except for the hum of machinery, your reflection warped in the polished brass doorsâa stranger in your sisterâs lipstick, her too-tight shoes pinching your toes.
The keycard she gave you is still warm from her pocket when you swipe it, the light blinking green with a soft, almost mocking chime.
Inside, the penthouse is all sharp angles and cold light, the windows stretching floor-to-ceiling, the city sprawled beneath you like a glittering, indifferent beast.
The air smells like expensive cologne and something faintly metallicâfear, maybe, or anticipation. Your pulse thrums in your wrists, your throat, the hollow behind your knees.
You knock on the bedroom door, the sound too loud in the sterile silence. "Come in," comes the reply, and the voiceâlow, rough, familiarâcatches like a fishhook in your ribs.
You know it.
You know it before you push the door open, before the hinges sigh, before the dim light spills over the man sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers laced together, his smile slow and knowing.
Your breath stops.
The man lounging on the edge of the bed isnât just any clientâitâs Lando fucking Norris, his grin lazy and self-assured, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against his thigh.
The air-conditioning kicks on, sending goosebumps skittering down your arms, but the heat pooling low in your stomach has nothing to do with the temperature.
His gaze drags over you like a physical weightâthe fur coat slipping off one shoulder, the tacky orange lace beneathâand you feel absurdly, violently aware of every inch of skin.
Youâre frozen, your pulse hammering against your ribs, your mouth dry as bone.
Your sisterâs obsession with him floods back in a rushâthe posters taped crookedly above her bed, the way sheâd sigh over his races, the way sheâd bite her lip when his name cropped up in conversation.
The irony tastes bitter on your tongue. Of course. Of fucking course.
âAre you just going to stand there?â Lando asks, tilting his head, his grin sharpening. His accent curls around the words like smoke, lazy and deliberate.
The coat slips further, the strap of the lingerie snapping against your skin with a sting that makes you flinch.
You donât answer. You canât. His gaze drops to your thighs, to the way the orange lace strains against your hips, and something dark flickers in his eyes.
He unfolds from the bed with the fluid grace of a predator whoâs never had to hurry, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal the taut line of his stomach.
Youâd expected him to be softâTV Lando, with his boyish charm and nervous laughterâbut this version of him moves like he knows exactly how much space his body takes up.
The realization hits you like a slap: youâre staring. You snap your gaze up, but itâs too lateâhis grin widens, smug, as he steps closer. The scent of his cologne wraps around you, something expensive and faintly citrus, undercut by the musk of sweat.
Your sisterâs voice hisses in your earâyouâre here for a service, not to gawk like some starstruck fanâbut the thought dissolves when his fingers brush the fur coat.
"Let me," he murmurs, peeling it off your shoulders with a slowness that borders on cruel.
The air-conditioning licks at your exposed skin, raising goosebumps, but his touch burns. His knuckles graze the dip of your collarbone, deliberate, and your breath hitches. You can feel the weight of his gaze tracing the ridiculous orange lace, the way it strains against your ribs.
You exhale sharply through your nose. "I see why you picked it," you mutter.
His team, his lifeâthe way he moves through the world like he owns it, like everyone else is just scenery. The orange is garish, but itâs his color. His branding. The thought twists something ugly inside you.
His chuckle vibrates through your skin as he leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Good. Then you already know how this ends."
His fingers hook into the waistband of the lingerie, tugging just enough to make your pulse stutter. The lace bites into your hips, and for a wild second, you wonder if heâll tear it.
You donât expect the shiftâhis grip loosens, his palm flattening against the small of your back instead, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body sears through the cheap fabric, his thigh slotting between yours with practiced ease.
You can feel him, hard against your hip, and the realization coils tight in your gut.
His other hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back. The kiss isnât gentle. Itâs teeth and tongue and the salt of his sweat, the kind of claiming that leaves your lips throbbing.
You arch into him instinctively, your nails digging into his shoulders through the thin cotton of his shirt. He groans against your mouth, the sound raw, and you taste victoryâbrief, fleetingâbefore he breaks away.
âYouâre not what I expected,â he breathes, thumb swiping over your lower lip, smearing your sisterâs lipstick. His gaze is molten, tracking the mess heâs made.
The admission hangs between you, charged. You know what he expectedâsomeone giggly, starstruck, eager to please. Someone like your sister. Instead, you bite his thumb, just hard enough to sting.
His chuckle is low, dangerous. âCat caught your tongue?â he teases, fingers tightening in your hair, pulling just shy of painful.
The sting radiates down your spine, pooling heat between your thighs. You could lie. You could play coy.
Instead, you let your teeth flash in the dim light. âNo,â you reply, voice rough. âJust deciding if youâre worth the effort.â
His fingers pause in your hairâjust for a heartbeatâbefore his grin sharpens, feral. âCareful,â he murmurs, dragging his thumb along your lower lip again, smearing the lipstick further. âI like a challenge.â
His other hand slips beneath the waistband of the lingerie, fingertips skating over the crest of your hipbone, and you shiver despite yourself. The contrast is dizzyingâthe cool air against your flushed skin, the heat of his touch branding you.
You arch into him, not away, and the noise he makes is almost a growl. His teeth find your earlobe, sharp, and the sting blooms into warmth that pools low in your stomach.
âStill deciding?â he breathes against your skin, his voice thick with amusement and something darker. His palm slides lower, cupping you through the damp lace, and your knees nearly buckle.
The fabric rasps against sensitive flesh, the friction almost cruel.
Your sister would scream if she knewânot just because itâs Lando, but because youâre letting him unravel you like this, your breath coming in ragged bursts against his neck.
Sheâd claw at your hair, hiss about professionalism, but the thought only makes you dig your nails harder into his shoulders. Sheâs the one who handed you the keycard, who shoved you into this room.
His thumb circles lazily over the lace, pressing just enough to make you gasp.
âAnswer me,â he demands, but itâs ruined by the way his hips jerk against yours, the hard line of him grinding into your thigh.
You could laughâheâs as far from composed as you are, his breath hitching when you rock against his hand.
The realization hits like a spark: heâs not as in control as he wants you to think.
You twist in his grip, catching his wrist before he can push further. His pupils are blown wide, his lips partedâvulnerable, for a heartbeat.
âMake me,â you whisper, and the sound he makes is half curse, half surrender.
His knee nudges yours apart, pressing you back against the vanity. The edge digs into your thighs, cold marble biting through the lace. His fingers tighten on your waist, possessive, as he drags his mouth down your neckânot kissing, just breathing you in, hot and unsteady.
The scent of his cologne is ruined now, replaced by sweat and something darker, primal. Your hips jerk against his, the friction raw, and the way he groans against your skin is almost pained.
Your fingers twist in his curlsâtoo tight, tuggingâand the sound he makes is startled, filthy. His teeth scrape your collarbone, biting down hard enough to bruise, and you taste copper on your tongue from where youâve bitten your own lip.
The lingerieâs strap snaps under his fingers, elastic recoiling against your ribs with a sting that makes you gasp.
The mirror behind you rattles when he pins you harder against it, your reflection fracturedâhis hand splayed across your stomach, your mouth open around a silent curse. His other hand slides lower, past the ruined lace, fingers slick with your own wetness as they circle your clit with lazy precision.
âStill deciding?â he rasps, but his voice cracks halfway through.
You arch into his touch, thighs trembling, and his breath hitches when you drag his bottom lip between your teeth. âShut up,â you mutter, and the laugh he lets out is breathless, wrecked.
The vanity digs into your spine when he spins you around, his palm hot between your shoulder blades as he presses you against the mirror.
Your breath fogs the glass, obscuring your reflection, but you feel himâthe rough drag of his jeans against the backs of your thighs, the wet heat of his mouth tracing your spine.
His fingers hook into the waistband of the ruined lingerie, peeling it down just enough to expose the curve of your ass, and the groan he lets out is filthy, unfiltered.
You brace your palms against the mirror, fingers splayed, as his tongue licks a slow, torturous path up your thigh. The air-conditioning raises goosebumps on your skin, but his breath is scorching, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh just behind your knee.
âFuck,â he breathes, and the reverence in his voice makes your stomach twist. You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his pupils swallow the hazel of his eyesâdark, desperateâbefore he drags you back against him.
His fingers dig into your hips, his cock straining against his jeans as he grinds against you, the denim rough against your bare skin. âTell me,â he demands, but his voice is raw, stripped bare.
You tilt your head back, catching his lips in a messy, biting kiss, and when you pull away, his grip tightens. âYou first,â you challenge, and the sound he makes is half growl, half surrender.
The lingerie rips when he tears it the rest of the way off, the fabric catching on your hipbone before fluttering to the floor. His palm presses flat against your stomach, fingers splayed as if measuring the way your muscles tense under his touch.
His breath ghosts over the nape of your neck, uneven and hot, and you arch into him instinctively, pressing back against the hard line of him. The mirror is cold against your nipples, the contrast sharp enough to make you gasp.
His knee nudges yours wider, forcing you to brace yourself against the vanity as his fingers slide lower, tracing the crease of your thigh with deliberate slowness.
You can feel his pulse hammering where his chest presses against your back, erratic and uncontrolled, betraying the carefully cultivated arrogance of his earlier smirk. His teeth find the curve of your shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise, and the sting radiates down your spine, settling low in your belly.
"You talk too much," you mutter, breathless, and his laugh is ragged against your skin. His fingers curl inside you, sudden and unforgiving, and the noise you make is swallowed by his palm as he clamps it over your mouth.
The stretch burnsâjust for a secondâbefore pleasure overtakes it, sharp and electric. His thumb circles your clit in rough, uneven strokes, out of rhythm with the relentless thrust of his fingers, and your knees nearly buckle.
The vanity rattles when you twist in his grip, knocking over a bottle of cologne that spills amber liquid across the marble. The scentâcitrus and spiceâfills the air, mingling with sweat and the salt of his skin as you drag him down into another kiss.
His lips are chapped, his breathing ragged, and when you bite down on his lower lip hard enough to taste blood, he groans like heâs been gutted.
His fingers leave bruises on your hips as he lifts you onto the vanity, the cold marble searing against your bare thighs. The mirror behind you cracks slightly from the impact, spiderwebbing in the corner, and your reflection splinters into fragmentsâhis hands gripping your waist, your legs wrapped around him, the way his pupils swallow the color in his eyes.
He doesnât bother undressing, just unzips his jeans with rough impatience, the denim scraping against your inner thighs as he pushes into you.
The stretch is sharp, almost too much, and your breath comes in short, jagged bursts against his collarbone. He doesnât move at first, just holds you there, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath uneven.
The moment stretches, suspended, until you shiftâjust slightlyâand his control snaps. His hips jerk forward, driving you back against the mirror, the glass cold and unyielding against your spine.
You gasp, nails raking down his back, and he curses, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His thrusts are uneven, frantic, as if heâs chasing something just out of reach.
The sound of skin against skin, the creak of the vanity beneath you, the occasional groan he canât suppressâitâs raw, messy, and nothing like the polished performance you expected from him.
When his fingers dig into your thigh, dragging you closer, you realize with a sharp thrill that heâs just as wrecked as you are.
His teeth graze your pulse point, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your damp skin. The mirror rattles with each movement, the fractured reflection catching the way your lips part around a silent moan.
The friction is almost unbearableâevery drag of him inside you sparking a fresh wave of heatâbut when you clench around him, his hips stutter, his rhythm faltering. He mutters something against your collarbone, muffled and rough, and you donât need to hear it to know itâs surrender.
The scent of spilled cologne clings to your skin, mingling with sweat and the metallic tang of blood where youâve bitten your lip too hard. His hands tremble slightly as they grip your hips, the illusion of control slippingâjust for a secondâbefore he catches himself.
But you feel it: the hitch in his breath, the way his fingers flex against your skin like heâs trying to anchor himself. Itâs fleeting, but enough to make your stomach tighten with something dangerously close to satisfaction.
His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and unsteady. "Look at me," he demands, voice ragged. But when your eyes meet his, the challenge faltersâhis gaze is dark, pupils blown wide, his usual smirk nowhere to be found.
Thereâs no pretense here, no practiced charm, just the sharp, desperate edge of want. You could laughâshould laughâbut the sound dies in your throat when he thrusts deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair.
The vanity groans beneath you, and for a wild moment, you wonder if itâll give way entirely.
The cologne bottle rolls off the edge, shattering against the floor with a sharp crack, the scent of citrus and spice blooming thick in the air. His lips brush yoursânot kissing, just breathing you inâand the intimacy of it is more unsettling than anything thatâs come before.
Your hips jerk against his, seeking friction, and the noise he makes is raw, almost pained. His fingers trace the curve of your spine, featherlight, as if memorizing the way your muscles tense beneath his touch.
The mirror digs into your back, cold and unforgiving, but the heat pooling low in your stomach drowns out everything else. His thumb brushes your lower lip, smearing your sisterâs lipstick further, and when you lick it offâslow, deliberateâhis breath catches.
The reaction is small, almost imperceptible, but you feel it in the way his hips stutter against yours, in the way his grip tightens just shy of bruising.
Youâre both unraveling nowâtoo fast, too messyâbut neither of you cares. The air between you is thick with the scent of sweat and spilled cologne, the only sound the ragged hitch of his breath and the soft, wet slide of skin against skin.
His teeth graze your earlobe, biting down hard enough to make you gasp, and when you arch into him, the vanity shifts dangerously beneath you.
His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling just enough to stingâjust enough to make your pulse flutterâbefore he murmurs against your lips, âSay it.â His voice is rough, stripped of its usual lazy confidence, and the vulnerability in it makes your stomach twist.
You could tease him, could drag this out until he breaks, but the desperate press of his hips against yours betrays him. So you do. You whisper itâfilthy, brokenâand the way he shudders against you is its own kind of victory.
He doesnât last long after that. His thrusts grow uneven, his rhythm faltering, and when he finally spills inside you with a groan that sounds more like surrender than triumph, his forehead drops to your shoulder.
The heat of it coils low in your stomach, unexpected and intimate, and for a moment, neither of you movesâjust breathes, just exists in the wreckage of whatever this is.
Then his hands slide down your thighs, gripping just above your knees, and he lifts you off the vanity like you weigh nothing.
The sudden shift makes you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the few steps to the bed. The sheets are cool against your bare skin, the silk slipping beneath you like water, and you sink into them with a shudder. The contrastâhis heat, the bedâs chillâmakes your skin prickle.
He follows you down, his weight pinning you in place, his fingers threading through yours as he presses your hands into the mattress.
His breath is still ragged against your collarbone, his chest rising and falling against yours, but thereâs a new tension in his shouldersâlike heâs bracing for something. You tilt your head, catching the way his throat works as he swallows, the sheen of sweat along his jawline catching the dim light.
His thumb brushes your lower lip again, smearing whatâs left of your sisterâs lipstick, and the gesture is oddly tenderâout of place amidst the wreckage of the vanity, the torn lingerie, the scent of sex and spilled cologne clinging to your skin.
The silence stretches, thick and uneasy, until he exhales sharply through his noseâalmost a laugh, but not quite. âYouâre fucking trouble,â he mutters, but thereâs no bite to it, just a rough sort of wonder.
His fingers tighten around yours, just for a heartbeat, before he pulls away, rolling onto his back beside you with a groan thatâs half exhaustion, half surrender.
The bed dips under his weight, the silk sheets whispering against your skin as you turn your head to study himâthe way his lashes flutter against his cheekbones, the faint tremor in his fingers where they rest against his stomach.
Youâd expected arrogance, maybe, or smug satisfaction. Instead, he looksâunsettled. Like heâs not quite sure what to do with the fact that youâre still here, that neither of you has bolted for the door yet.
You lean in, close enough to taste the salt on his skin, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. âProblem, Norris?â you murmur, and the way his jaw clenches is its own kind of answer.
His hand finds your wrist, fingers circling the delicate bones there, but he doesnât push you awayâjust holds on, like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go.
The silence stretches, taut and fragile, until he turns his head to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils still blown wide, and the look he gives you is raw, unguardedâsomething like hunger, something like fear. You donât look away. Neither does he.
Then, just as you lean in to bite the pulse jumping in his throat, his fingers tighten around your wrist. âI thought you were unavailable for today,â he murmurs, voice rough, thumb brushing the delicate bones of your wrist in slow circles.
His breath fans across your lipsâclose, too closeâand the admission lingers between you like a confession. You freeze, the implication sinking in: heâd asked for you.
Your sisterâs perfume clings to your skin, sharp and floral beneath the musk of sweat and spilled cologne, and for a wild moment, you wonder if he can taste her on your tongue.
His lashes flutter when you exhaleâsharp, unsteadyâand his grip tightens, as if he can feel the way your pulse stutters against his fingertips. The sheets rustle beneath you, silk whispering against bare skin, and the silence stretches taut.
âNeeded a day off,â you murmur against his jaw, teeth grazing the stubble there. âLucky me.â
The words taste bitter, the truth sour on your tongue, but his breath hitches anyway, his hips jerking up into yours with a roughness that steals your next breath.
His laugh is ragged, breathless, as he rolls you beneath him in one fluid motion. âLucky you,â he echoes, but the way his hands tremble against your hips betrays him.
The sheets tangle around your legs, the silk clinging to damp skin, and when his mouth crashes into yours, itâs not victoryâitâs surrender.
You taste the split in his lip where you bit him earlier, the metallic tang sharp against your tongue. His fingers dig into your thighs, dragging them wider, and the groan he lets out vibrates through your chest when you arch up against him.
His shirt clings to his shoulders with sweat, the fabric damp and translucent where your nails have raked through it. You hadnât bothered to undress him fullyâtoo impatient, too eagerâbut now the half-dressed state feels obscene.
Your sisterâs lipstick smears across his collarbone when he pins you down, the color garish against his tanned skin. His breath hitches when you drag your nails down his back, the fabric of his shirt catching on your fingertips, and the sound he makes is ragged, unguarded.
âOff,â you mutter against his mouth, fingers twisting in the damp cotton.
He pulls back just enough to let you yank it over his head, the fabric catching on his curls before it lands somewhere near the shattered cologne bottle.
The scent of his sweat hits youâsharp, musky, nothing like the polished citrus of his cologneâand you bite back a groan when his bare chest presses against yours, skin to skin.
His palm slides down your ribs, calloused fingers mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, the stretch marks along your thigh like heâs memorizing them.
The touch is unexpectedly reverent, at odds with the bruising grip heâd had on you moments ago. You stiffenâtoo used to clients who treat your body like a transactionâbut his thumb brushes the inside of your knee, slow and deliberate, and something in your chest cracks open.
The sheets rustle when he shifts, his knee nudging yours wider. His breath is hot against your stomach as he trails kisses down your torso, pausing to nip at the jut of your hipbone.
The sting blooms into warmth, pooling low in your belly, and when his tongue flicks over the sensitive skin just above your waistband, your hips jerk off the mattress. He chucklesâthe sound dark, satisfiedâand pins you down with a hand splayed across your abdomen.
You gasp when his teeth graze your inner thigh, the sharp bite tempered by the slow drag of his tongue over the mark. His gaze flicks up to yours, hazel eyes darkened to near-black, and the smirk he gives you is filthy.
âStay,â he murmurs against your skin, and the commandâhalf plea, half threatâsends a shudder through you. You fist your hands in the sheets instead of his hair, just to spite him, but the way his lips curve against your thigh tells you he knows exactly how badly you want to.
His breath ghosts over you, hot and uneven, before he finallyâfinallyâpresses his mouth to you.
The groan that tears from your throat is ragged, unbidden, and his fingers dig into your hips in response, holding you still as he licks into you with slow, deliberate strokes. The pleasure coils tight in your stomach, sharp and molten, and when his thumb brushes your clit in lazy circles, your back arches off the bed.
The sheets twist beneath you, silk clinging to sweat-slick skin, and his free hand slides up your torso, fingers splaying over your ribs as if measuring the way your breath hitches.
He hums against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly, and when you twist your fingers in his curlsâtoo tight, tuggingâhe groans like heâs the one unraveling.
The bedframe creaks when he shifts, his knee pressing yours wider, and the sudden scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh makes you jolt. He laughsâlow, roughâand the sound is muffled against your skin as he drags his tongue over you again, slower this time, savoring.
Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, muscles taut, and the way his fingers flex against your hips tells you heâs holding back just as much as you are.
His thumb circles your clit with agonizing precision, the pressure just shy of too much, and when you gasp his name, he bites down on your thigh in responseâa warning, a reward. The sharp sting radiates up your spine, mingling with the heat coiling tighter in your belly, and your fingers fist in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.
The vibration against your skin sends a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, and for a wild second, you consider pushing him awayâjust to see how far heâll chase you.
He doesnât let up, doesnât give you a second to catch your breath, just licks into you like heâs starving, his grip on your hips bruising now. The pleasure builds too fast, too sharp, and when his thumb presses down just right, your back bows off the mattress, your toes curling into the sheets.
His name spills from your lips, ragged and broken, and the way he groans against youâlike heâs won something, like heâs lost somethingâis the last thing you hear before you shatter.
The orgasm rolls through you in waves, electric and unrelenting, your thighs clamping around his shoulders as you ride it out. His mouth doesnât leave you, just slows to lazy, open-mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging through the aftershocks until youâre squirming, oversensitive and wrung out.
He finally pulls back, lips glistening, chin damp, and the look he gives you is feral, satisfied. âThere you go,â he murmurs, voice wrecked, thumb brushing your hipbone like heâs soothing a wild thing.
Youâre still trembling when he crawls up your body, the sheets whispering beneath him, his skin hot against yours. You barely register itânot when his mouth finds yours, tasting yourself on his tongue, bitter and sweet.
He kisses you like heâs trying to memorize the shape of your lips, his hands framing your face, fingers tangled in your hair. The tenderness is disarming, unexpected, and you arch into it instinctively, your nails scraping down his spine.
His breath hitches when you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. You can feel him, hard against your stomach, and the groan he lets out is ragged, desperate.
âFuck,â he mutters against your mouth, hips jerking forward involuntarily, and you bite back a smirk.
The control heâs so carefully cultivated is fraying at the edges, his movements jerky, uncoordinated, like he canât decide whether to devour you or worship you.
The exhaustion hits you suddenlyâa wave of dizziness that makes your vision blur at the edges. You blink it away, but your limbs feel heavy, your thoughts sluggish.
The adrenaline must be wearing off, the sleepless nights catching up with you. You hadnât realized how tired you were until now, your body protesting the relentless pace, the lack of rest.
His fingers tighten around your wrists when you sag against him, your head lolling onto his shoulder. âHey,â he murmurs, voice rough with concern, his thumb brushing the delicate skin of your inner wrist.
The gentleness is jarring, out of place amidst the wreckage of the sheets, the scent of sex and sweat clinging to your skin. You want to pull away, to snap at him, but your body betrays you, melting into his touch like itâs the only thing keeping you upright.
The bed dips when he rolls you onto your side, his arm sliding beneath your neck, his other hand tracing idle patterns along your ribs. The silence stretches, thick and uneasy, until he exhales sharplyâalmost a laugh, but not quite.
âYouâre trouble,â he mutters, but thereâs no bite to it, just a rough sort of wonder. His fingers tighten around yours, just for a heartbeat, before he pulls away, rolling onto his back beside you with a groan thatâs half exhaustion, half surrender.
You blink up at the ceiling, the afterglow fading into something duller, heavier. His breath evens out beside you, slow and measured, but you canât shake the gnawing unease coiling in your gut. The sheets smell like himâsalt and citrus and something darkerâbut beneath it, lingering on your skin like a ghost, is your perfume.
You close your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose. âYou shouldâve picked my sister,â you murmur, the words thick with exhaustion, barely audible.
Lando stills beside you. The silence stretches, taut and suffocating, until his fingers brush your wristâlight, questioning. âI wanted to pick you,â he admits, voice rough with something you canât name. His thumb traces the delicate bones of your hand, slow and deliberate. âBut they said you were unavailable.â
The confession hangs between you, fragile as spun glass. You turn your head to look at him, the dim light catching the furrow between his brows, the way his jaw tenses like heâs bracing for a blow.
His fingers tighten around yours when you shift away, the sheets whispering against your skin. The air-conditioning hums, sending a chill down your spine, but the warmth of his palm against your hip is a brand.
âSo I had to pick the second best,â he adds, quieter now, almost rueful. The words settle like a weight on your chest, heavy and unavoidable.
You stare at him, the admission sinking inâyour sister was the backup, the stand-in. The thought twists something ugly inside you.
His gaze flickers over your face, searching, before he exhales sharply through his nose. âDidnât realize,â he mutters, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist, âhow much of a mistake that could have been.â
The roughness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, unexpected and electric. You swallow hard, your pulse thudding against his fingertips, and for a wild moment, you consider letting him unravel you all over again.
But exhaustion drags at your limbs, heavy as lead, and you slump back against the pillows with a sigh. His fingers tighten around yoursâjust for a heartbeatâbefore loosening, his palm settling warm against your ribs.
You nod, eyelids fluttering, the weight of the night pressing down on you like a physical thing. âGo to sleep,â Lando murmurs, his breath ghosting over your temple, rough and uneven.
The words curl around you like smoke, lazy and deliberate, and you let yourself sink into them. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, steady now, the frantic rhythm of before long gone.
The sheets rustle as he shifts, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer.
You should push him awayâshould remind yourself this is just a transaction, just another jobâbut his heartbeat beneath your ear is too steady, too real.
The city hums outside the window, indifferent and glittering, but here, in the dim light, his fingers trace idle patterns along your spineâslow, reverent, like heâs committing you to memory.
You close your eyes, the scent of himâsalt and sweat and something inexplicably himâwrapping around you like a promise. Or maybe a warning.
Lando wakes to the hollow press of cold sheets where your body should be. The scent of youâsalt and something floral, sharp beneath the musk of sexâlingers on the pillowcase when he turns his head, chasing the ghost of your warmth.
His arm is still outstretched, fingertips brushing empty space, and the ache in his chest is stupid, irrational. The hotel room hums with silence, the cityâs glow bleeding through the blinds in slatted gold, and for a wild second, he considers calling you.
His phone sits facedown on the nightstand, untouched, and he knows without looking that there wonât be a message.
The shower isnât running. The bathroom door hangs open, the tile floor dry. His shirtâthe one youâd told him to take off last nightâlies discarded near the foot of the bed, the fabric still damp with sweat.
He sits up too fast, the sheets pooling around his waist, and the motion sends a sharp twinge through his shoulder where your nails had bitten in deep.
The sting is a welcome distraction, a grounding pulse of pain amidst the gnawing emptiness. He drags a hand down his face, fingertips catching on the scratch marks along his jaw, and exhales sharply through his nose.
The envelope is still thereâthick with cash, untouched on the dresser where heâd left it before you arrived. The sight of it twists something ugly in his gut.
Heâd expected you to take it. Expected you to slip out with it while he slept, the way they always did, the way they were supposed to.
But the money sits pristine, the crisp edges catching the morning light like a taunt. He swallows hard, throat dry, and for a wild second, he considers tearing it up.
Instead, he pockets it with stiff fingers, the weight of it suddenly unbearable.
The sheets still smell like you. Like salt and something faintly floralâyour perfume, clinging stubbornly to your skin even after everything. He presses his face into the pillow, inhaling deeply, and the ache in his chest sharpens.
The scent is already fading, blending with the stale hotel air, and the thought sends a jolt of panic through him. He fists his hands in the fabric, as if he could trap it there, preserve it, but the futility of the gesture only makes his jaw tighten.
The keycard is gone. He checks the nightstand, the floor, even under the bedâbut itâs nowhere. The realization settles like a stone in his throat.
You hadnât just left. Youâd taken the key. The implication coils tight in his stomach, hot and insistent. He could call the front desk, report it missing, have them deactivate it.
But he doesnât.
He stares at the empty spot where it should be, his pulse thudding in his ears, and wonders if youâll use it.
The thought twists something in his chest, sharp and unexpected. Heâd fucked countless womenâpaid for them, evenâbut none had ever left him feeling like this: hollowed out, scraped raw, like youâd taken something vital with you when you walked out.
His fingers twitch toward his phone before he catches himselfâwhat would he even say? Come back? Why did you leave the money? The questions taste bitter on his tongue, too desperate, too revealing.
He drags his palms down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose, and the scent of you lingers on his skinâorange blossom and sweat, fading fast.
The city buzzes beyond the window, indifferent to the wreckage of the bed, the ache in his ribs where your teeth had left marks. He stands too quickly, the sheets clinging to his thighs, and the cool air raises goosebumps where your hands had been just hours ago.
The emptiness is physical, a weight pressing against his sternum, and he hates itâhates how your absence feels like a wound.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand, a teammateâs name flashing across the screen, but he ignores it. Instead, his fingers trace the edge of the dresser where youâd braced yourself, the wood still faintly warm from your grip.
The lingerie strapâthe one heâd snappedâlies coiled on the floor like a shed skin, the orange lace garish in the morning light.
He picks it up, the fabric slipping between his fingers, and for a wild second, he considers pocketing it like some pathetic keepsake. . . .
The champagne cork hits the ceiling with a dull thud, bouncing off the plaster before landing in your lap. You stare at it stupidly, fingers tracing the damp ridges while muffled cheers erupt from the TV screen where Carlos stands drenched in celebratory spray.
His grin fills the entire 65-inch display, but his eyesâthose damn dark eyesâkeep flickering toward the camera with deliberate intensity, like he's aiming his victory straight at you.
Three years of empty hotel rooms and hurried airport goodbyes have turned your apartment into a museum of unfinished conversations. The fridge still holds his favorite German beer from last summer, gathering dust next to expired milk.
Your thumb hovers over his contact photoâthe one where he's kissing your temple after Monacoâbut the notification pings first.
A single word lights up the screen: "Door."
Rain streaks the peephole when you press against it, distorting the figure on your welcome mat into a watercolor impression. The Ferrari jacket gives him away before he lifts his head, droplets clinging to his stubble like he raced here straight from the podium. His knuckles are bleeding against your doorframe.
You don't remember turning the deadbolt. The wood splinters somewhere between his shoulder slamming forward and your gasp catching in your throat.
Carlos smells like burnt rubber and expensive cologne when he crushes you against the wall, his mouth claiming yours with the same reckless precision he uses to overtake on turn three. The trophy clatters to the floor between your feet.
"Missed you," he growls into your collarbone, teeth scraping skin as his hands map your waist like he's memorizing new track coordinates.
Outside, a car alarm wails in the storm. His phone buzzes incessantly from his pocketâteam PR probably losing their mindsâbut he just kicks the door shut with his heel. The broken lock swings uselessly on its hinges.
You taste champagne and adrenaline when he kisses you again, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. It's not gentle.
It's Singapore '23 all over againâthat night he pushed you into the hotel shower still wearing his firesuit, water beading on his championship bracelet as it slid up your thigh. The trophy rolls under the coffee table, forgotten.
Carlos bites your lip as he lifts you onto the counter, sending a stack of unopened bills fluttering to the floor. The cold marble seeps through your thin sleep shorts, but his palms are furnace-hot where they grip your hips.
"Drove here straight after debriefing," he murmurs against your jaw, and you can feel the tremble in his armsâthat post-race crash of endorphins and exhaustion.
His knee nudges yours apart with practiced ease, but then he freezes. Pulls back just enough to study your face. There's something raw in his expression you've only seen after brutal qualis, when the engineers tell him to abort lap.
"Say it," he demands, thumb brushing your cheekbone. The unspoken question hangs between you: three years of silence, of flight itineraries left unbooked.
You arch against him, nails scraping the Ferrari logo on his chest. "Say what? That I kept your toothbrush?"
His laugh is half-groan as you bite his earlobe. The trophy under the table rattles when he kicks it accidentally, sending a champagne-soaked receipt from Silverstone '21 fluttering out. His grip tightensâright where your hip still bears faint bruises from Melbourne paddock.
Outside, lightning forks across the sky. The power blinks once, twice, plunging you into darkness save for the glow of his Apple Watch reflecting off sweat-slick skin.
Somewhere downstairs, a neighbor's dog starts barking. Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, the way he does before a risky overtake. "Say you stillâ"
The sentence fractures when you hook two fingers into his belt loop and yank. His Rolex digs into your thigh as he catches himself against the microwave, sending a decade's worth of race badges clattering to the tile. The storm drowns out whatever he was going to ask.
His teeth find your shoulder through damp cotton, tongue swiping over the fabric until it sticks to your skin. You can feel the shape of his frustrationâthe way his hands keep flexing like he wants to pin you down and shake answers out of your ribs.
The trophy rolls farther under the table when he jerks you forward, your knees hitting cabinet doors still sticky with last year's pasta sauce.
Rain lashes the fire escape in sheets now, wind howling through the broken door lock. His phone lights up again, illuminating the angry red mark your teeth left on his collarbone.
You watch realization flicker across his faceâthat you've memorized his tells just as well as he knows yours.
The fridge hums to life as power returns, casting the kitchen in fluorescent yellow. Carlos exhales sharply through his nose when you trace the fresh scar above his eyebrowâBaku's souvenir. His grip on your hips loosens just enough for you to feel him shaking. Not from the cold.
Outside, a taxi honks at the flooded intersection. Carlos' abandoned rental sits double-parked with the hazards blinking red onto wet asphalt.
You can almost hear his engineer screaming through the still-buzzing phone, but then he tears the Ferrari jacket off with one brutal shrug, the ripping fabric sound drowning out everything else.
His palms slide up your ribs, calluses catching on thin cotton. You arch instinctively, and he makes this noiseâhalf growl, half surrenderâbefore biting down on the strap of your tank top.
The trophy clatters again as he knees the cabinet shut, sending a dried-out race wristband fluttering to the floor. "Singapore '23. You'd kept that?"
Lightning flashes again, illuminating the way his pupils swallow the brown of his eyes when you fist a hand in his sweat-damp hair. Somewhere beneath the adrenaline and rain, you catch the faintest whiff of hospital-grade soap.
Your back meets the fridge door with a thud that rattles the forgotten beer bottles inside. Carlos hisses when your teeth sink into his lower lipânot gentlyâhis hips jerking forward instinctively.
The Rolex catches on your waistband, metal burning cold against overheated skin as he finally tears your shirt up over your head. His breath hitches at the sight of the old Ferrari keycard still tucked in your bra strap.
"You kept this?" His thumb rubs over the faded logo, voice cracking like he's seeing a ghost. The card's edges are softened from being washed three times after Spa, when you'd forgotten it in your pocket before laundry.
His mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath your ear that makes your knees buckle, murmuring something in rapid Spanish that ends with "âlocura."
The microwave clock blinks 00:00 when he lifts you onto the counter again, sending a cascade of loose tea packets scattering. His handsâalways so precise with gear shiftsâfumble with your shorts button until you bite his wrist in mock frustration.
The growl it pulls from his chest vibrates through your ribs as he finally yanks the fabric down, his wedding ring (the one you bought him as a joke in Vegas) catching the light when he palms your bare thigh.
You taste copper when his mouth crashes into yours againâhe must have bitten his tongue during the raceâand the metallic tang mixes with the salt of his sweat as he licks into you.
The trophy rolls completely out of sight when you wrap your legs around his waist-torn race suit, your heels digging into the small of his back hard enough to leave crescent moons in the fabric.
Carlos exhales sharply through his noseâthat telltale sign he's calculating risk versus rewardâbefore his fingers slide down your spine with deliberate slowness. He pauses at the waistband of your shorts, thumb hooking under the elastic with the same precision he uses to judge tire degradation.
"AquĂ?" His voice is rough with want, but there's hesitation in the way his fingertips tremble against your skinâlike he's afraid you'll dissolve if he presses too hard.
Lightning forks outside again, illuminating the half-healed blisters on his palms from Monaco's grueling steering work as he reaches for the nightstand drawer.
The lube bottle is dusty but still half-fullâthe same one you'd tossed in there after Brazil '22, when he'd fucked you slow and deep against the pit wall under a rain-soaked tarp. His breath hitches when your nails rake down his stomach, catching on the fresh stitch marks from Baku's crash.
The first press of his finger is tentative, a question rather than a demand, and you arch into it with a gasp that gets swallowed by the thunder. Carlos murmurs something about "mĂĄs despacio" against your thigh, but his resolve shatters when you clench around himâhis free hand flies to your hip, pinning you to the counter as his teeth find your shoulder.
The Ferrari jacket pools on the floor beside his discarded gloves, the embroidered prancing horse staring blankly at the ceiling as rain lashes the broken door.
He works you open with the same methodical patience he reserves for tire warm-up laps, calloused fingertips coaxing and retreating until your nails leave half-moons in his biceps.
You taste the ozone on his tongue when he kisses you again, the static charge between your bodies making every inch of skin hypersensitive. His wedding ring catches the light when he adds a second finger, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat building low in your stomach.
The storm drowns out your moan when his thumb brushes that spot just inside, the one he discovered during that monsoon-delayed race in Malaysia.
Carlos exhales sharply through his noseâhis tell before an aggressive overtakeâbefore twisting his wrist in that way that makes you see stars. The fridge hums louder as if in protest when you rock against his hand, sending condensation dripping down the forgotten beer bottles inside.
His Rolex digs into your thigh when he finally lines up, the face glowing faintly with lap-time precision as he pushes in slow. The stretch burns in the best way, like the ache of muscles after qualifying laps, and Carlos freezes when you whimperânot in pain, but in that breathless way that always makes him lose composure.
His curse is muffled against your neck as he bottoms out, hands trembling where they grip your hips like he's afraid you'll spin out if he lets go. Outside, the wind howls through the broken door lock, but all you hear is the ragged hitch of his breath when you clench around him.
When he starts moving, his rhythm uneven like a rookie's first practice sessionâall urgency and no finesse. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle your moan, tasting salt and rain and the faint chemical tang of fireproof suit liner.
His wedding ring scrapes your inner thigh when he adjusts his grip, the metal warmed by skin now, and the contrast makes you arch violently enough to send a spice jar clattering to the floor.
Carlos growls something about "cojones" when you tighten around him, his pace fracturing into something desperate.
Lightning forks outside again, throwing shadows of your tangled bodies against the fridge where condensation drips onto abandoned takeout menus. His teeth catch your nipple through damp fabric, the drag of cotton almost painful as he fucks up into you with the same controlled aggression he uses to defend pole position.
You can feel the moment he forgets to breatheâthat telltale stutter in his hipsâright before his hand slides between you to thumb circles that are decidedly not FIA-approved.
The storm drowns out your cry when you come, your back bowing off the counter hard enough to send a champagne flute shattering somewhere to the left. Carlos follows with a choked "joder" that sounds more like prayer than profanity, his forehead pressed to your sternum as he pulses inside you.
His phone buzzes again from the jacket crumpled on the floor, the screen illuminating the discarded wristband from Singapore '23 where it lies tangled with your shorts.
His breath scalds your collarbone when he finally lifts his headâthat dazed, post-debrief look he gets after podium finishesâand you can taste the adrenaline still humming between his teeth when he kisses you.
Slow now. Different.
Rainwater drips from his hair onto your breasts when he lifts you again, his grip almost bruising as he carries you toward the bedroomâpast the still-buzzing phone, over the shattered crystal, through the puddle of his abandoned racing boots.
His mouth finds yours in the dark hallway with the same inevitability of a car snapping into its slipstream, teeth and tongues and three years of unsent text messages pouring out in gasps against damp skin.
The bedroom door creaks when he kicks it open, but neither of you hear it over the thunder or the way your name fractures in his throat when you bite down.
His hands shake as he lays you on the mattressânot from exhaustion, but from the effort of holding back whateverâs been building since Barcelona qualifyingâand when his fingers trace the fresh sunburn along your shoulders, you realize heâs mapping every change, every millimeter of skin he missed.
The storm flashes through broken blinds, illuminating the way his pupils swallow the brown of his eyes when you drag your nails down his chest, catching on the healing burns from brake fluid spills.
He exhales sharplyâthat sound he makes when the engineers tell him to push beyond redlineâbefore sinking his teeth into your thigh hard enough to leave marks thatâll last through Monaco.
The mattress groans when he pins your wrists above your head, his sweat-slick chest pressing you deeper into sheets that still smell like last summerâs detergent.
You arch against him, tasting copper and rain where his collarbone meets your mouth, and when he finally enters you again, itâs with a slow, deliberate drag that makes your vision white outânot the frantic pace from the kitchen, but something deeper, like heâs trying to memorize the way your body fits around his.
His Rolex ticks against the headboard, the sound syncopating with your racing pulse as he murmurs something in Spanish against your sternumâhalf prayer, half apologyâbefore setting a rhythm that feels like coming home after rain-delayed qualis.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating the fresh scratches down his backâparallel to older silvered scars from Bahrain â22âand you watch his face fracture when you clench around him, his pupils swallowing the brown of his eyes whole.
His teeth catch your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic tang mixing with the salt of his sweat as he licks into your mouth with the same desperate focus he uses to chase milliseconds in sector three.
Outside, wind rattles the fire escape, but all you hear is the hitch in his breath when you drag your nails down his ribsâright over the tattoo of your initials he got after Monza, hidden where only his race suit touches.
The storm drowns out your moan when his thumb finds that spot just below your navelâthe one he discovered during that monsoon-soaked race in Sepangâcircling with the same precision he uses to warm tires on formation laps.
His hips stutter when you bite down on his earlobe, the gold hoop there cold against your teeth, and for a heartbeat, he stills completely, forehead pressed to yours as his breath comes in ragged bursts.
You can feel the exact moment his control snapsâthe way his fingers dig into your hips like heâs bracing for impactâbefore heâs driving into you with a broken noise that sounds more like surrender than victory.
Rainwater drips from his hair onto your cheeks when he finally comes, his mouth slack against your throat as his body trembles through the aftershocksânot the polished celebration from the podium, but something raw and unguarded, the way he looks in the garage when the engineers think no oneâs watching.
His wedding ring catches the light when he reaches between you, fingers slick and shaking as he coaxes you over the edge with the same relentless focus he uses to chase checkered flags, and when you finally shatter, itâs with his name burning your tongue like spilled champagne on an open wound.
"You still taste the same," he rasps against your collarbone, tongue dragging over the salt-damp skin where your pulse throbs.
The admission feels heavier than the trophies weighing down his suitcase by the door, and you bite back the obvious replyâthat you still keep his side of the closet empty, still flinch when the doorbell rings at 3 AM, still wake up reaching for someone whoâs always halfway across the world.
His phone buzzes again from the kitchen, the screen illuminating the broken lock still swinging on its hinges. Carlos exhales sharply through his noseâthat tell heâs calculating fuel loads and pit stopsâbefore rolling you both onto your sides, his thigh slotting between yours with the same effortless precision as a perfect lap.
"Say it," he murmurs, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw where his teeth left marks earlier. The command is softer now, frayed at the edges like his racing gloves after a double stint.
Outside, the storm howls through the broken door, but all you hear is the hitch in his breath when you finally answer, your lips brushing the fresh bite mark on his shoulder: "Took you long enough."
His laugh is half-groan as he pins you beneath him again, his mouth finding yours with the same inevitability as rain on a Spa weekend. . . .
Summary: For his birthday, you secretly painted him his favourite picture
Song: Limi zandros · Obsessed
Authorâs note: As a starting artist, I would love to do it for my partner! Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 1.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The smell of turpentine and linseed oil had become the permanent perfume of your studioâa small, sun-drenched room in the corner of your Monaco apartment that Max jokingly called "the forbidden zone."
For the past three months, it had been exactly that.
You and Max had been together for six years. You had seen him go from the promising young driver with a lightning-fast temper to the multi-time World Champion who carried the weight of the sport on his shoulders with a stoic, albeit occasionally weary, grace.
You knew the way his jaw tightened when he was frustrated, the specific, rare way his eyes crinkled when he truly laughed, and the way he looked when he was finally able to drop the "Max Verstappen" persona the moment the front door clicked shut.
His birthday was three days away. Most people bought him carbon-fiber watches, high-end gadgets, or invited him to curated parties heâd rather skip.
You knew better. You knew that beneath the metallic, high-octane exterior, there was a man who craved the stillness of a world that didnât demand his lap times.
You stood before the large canvas, your hands wiped clean of cerulean blue. It was a painting of a memoryâa photograph youâd taken during a quiet weekend in the Austrian mountains a year ago.
It was just Max, standing on the edge of a jagged alpine ridge at dawn, looking out over the valley where the mist hung like a ghost. He wasn't wearing his team kit.
He was just in a wool sweater, his hair windswept, his expression unguarded, soft, and profoundly at peace.
You had spent weeks capturing the exact play of lightâthe way the sun brushed the gold of the peaks, the melancholy blue of the shadows, and the quiet, human vulnerability in the arch of his back.
It was his favorite place on earth, and for the first time, you felt like you had finally captured the man he was when no one was watching.
The morning of his birthday, the apartment was quiet. Max had already been up for an hour, likely going through data on his tablet or finishing a workout.
You stepped out of the studio, turning the key in the lock twiceâa habit that made him roll his eyes, though he never pressed you on it.
He was in the kitchen, staring intently at the espresso machine as if it were a complex engine component. He looked up when he heard you, his face softening instantly.
"Happy birthday, Max," you said, crossing the room to wrap your arms around his waist.
He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "Don't tell me you got me another watch. You know Iâm running out of wrist space."
You laughed, stepping back to press a kiss to his forehead. "No watches. Just breakfast, and⊠something else. Later."
He narrowed his eyes playfully. "Youâve been hiding in that room for weeks. Iâm starting to think youâre training to become a professional hermit."
"Maybe I am. Itâs better than listening to you complain about the simulator calibration."
He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated against your chest. "Fair point."
The day was designed to be low-keyâa request he had made weeks ago. You spent the afternoon on the terrace, the Mediterranean breeze tugging at the umbrella.
You read books, played a few rounds of chess where he ruthlessly dismantled your defense, and simply existed in the bubble of your shared history.
As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and apricot, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach.
This wasn't just a gift; it was an admission. In a life defined by speed, you were giving him something that demanded he stop.
"Max?"
He looked up from his tablet, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Come with me."
He raised an eyebrow but stood up, offering you his hand. You led him through the living room, toward the door of the studio. His demeanor shifted from casual to curious as he felt the slight tremor in your hand.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Youâll see."
You unlocked the door and swung it open. The room smelled of paint and dried brushes. The canvas was still covered by a heavy velvet cloth. You led him to the center of the room, standing him in front of the easel.
"I know you get everything you want," you said, your voice steadying as you looked up at him. "But I wanted to give you something that you couldn't buy, and something that no one else could possibly give you."
Max stood very still. The air in the room seemed to thicken. You reached out and grabbed the edge of the velvet cloth.
"Happy birthday," you whispered, and pulled it away.
For a long time, there was silence.
The painting caught the fading light from the window, making the paint seem to glow. It wasn't just a likeness of his face; it was a snapshot of a soul.
You had painted the exhaustion, the quiet strength, and the profound, aching beauty of a man who carried the weight of a nation on his shoulders but, in that moment, had chosen to simply be.
Max didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stared, his eyes tracking the brushwork, the depth of the valley, the way you had captured the tension in his shoulders and then allowed it to melt into the landscape.
You felt a spike of anxiety. "Max? Do you⊠do you hate it?"
He finally turned to looked at you. His eyes were glassy, reflecting the light of the painting. He didn't look like the World Champion; he looked like the boy you had met years ago, before the podiums and the press conferences.
He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the surface of the canvas, afraid to touch the wet paint.
"You did this?" he asked, his voice rough.
"I did."
He turned fully toward you, and the look in his eyes made your breath hitch. It was raw, unadulterated adoration.
"Iâve spent my whole life looking at things in fragments," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "The track, the car, the telemetry. I don't think I've ever⊠I don't think I've ever looked at myself the way you look at me."
He stepped closer, closing the gap between you until his forehead rested against yours. His hands came up to frame your face, his touch reverent.
"Itâs not just the painting," he said, his thumb traced your cheekbone. "Itâs that you saw this. You saw me when I thought I was just passing through. You saw the part of me that doesn't want to go fast. You saw the part of me that just wants to stay right here, with you."
"I see all of you, Max," you whispered. "Always."
He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that tasted of quiet gratitude and a love that felt far older than the years youâd been together.
It wasn't a performance; there were no cameras, no sponsors, no fans. It was just two people in a small room, anchored by a piece of art that told the story of a love that didn't need to win to be the most important thing in the world.
"This is the best thing anyone has ever given me," he murmured against your mouth. "It's the only thing I've ever wanted to keep."
He pulled away slightly, looking back at the painting, then back at you, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. "You know, we should probably never let the team see this. Theyâd think Iâve gone soft."
You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Maybe you have."
"Yeah," he admitted, pulling you into his side, his arm tight around your waist. "Maybe I have. And I think Iâm okay with that."
Outside, the Monaco night descended, the lights of the harbor beginning to twinkle like fallen stars. But inside the studio, the only light that mattered was the one in his eyes as he looked at the painting, and then, with a look of absolute, grounded certainty, down at you.
It was a gift that would last a lifetime, a reminder that even when the world moved at three hundred kilometers per hour, he had a place to land. And you were that place.
As you stood there, wrapped in his arms, you knew that this was the real raceâthe one that wasn't for trophies or titles, but for the quiet, hidden moments that made the rest of the world fade into nothing.
And as he kissed you again, slow and deep, you knew you had already won. . . .
Summary: Yours and Oscar's partner broke up with you two so Lando decides to hook you two up
Song: Daddy Issues · The Neighbourhood
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! đ€đ«¶
Word count: 3.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
"Stop staring at your phone like it's going to resurrect your ex," Lando said, plucking the device from your hands mid-swipe through yet another doomed conversation thread.
The garage hummed around youâhydraulics hissing, engineers murmuringâbut his grin was the loudest thing in the room.
"Iâve got a better distraction." He jerked his chin toward the far end of the paddock, where Oscar stood silhouetted against the floodlights, his race suit peeled down to the waist, the fabric clinging to the sweat-slicked dip of his spine as he stretched.
You didnât mean to lick your lips. Didnât mean to notice how his shoulders flexed when he reached back to knot his hair, how the dark ink curling over his ribs shifted with each breath.
But Lando caught you looking anyway, his elbow nudging your ribs. "Told you," he sing-songed, low enough that the mechanics wouldnât hear. "Bet he bites, though. You into that?"
Heat prickled up your neckânot just from embarrassment, but from the way Oscarâs gaze flicked over like heâd sensed the weight of yours.
His eyes werenât kind, werenât gentle; they were the sharp, assessing stare of a man who knew exactly how much trouble he could cause. And when his mouth quirked, slow and knowing, your stomach did something stupid and syrupy, like it had forgotten how to be sad.
"Youâre staring," Lando murmured, gleeful, but you barely heard him over the rush of blood in your ears. Oscar peeled off his gloves one finger at a time, the motion deliberate, almost obscene, and you hated how your pulse kicked against your ribs.
He shouldnât be allowed to look like thatâall coiled tension and salt-stung skin, like heâd just stepped out of someoneâs very specific fantasy.
You forced your gaze away, back to the telemetry screens flashing with cold, clinical data. Numbers didnât smirk. Numbers didnât make your throat dry.
But the ghost of his attention still prickled across your skin, lingering like the scent of gasoline and hot asphaltâinescapable, intoxicating.
Landoâs grin widened. "Heâs not even your type," he lied, because everyone knew Oscar was exactly your type, which was the whole problem. Too sharp, too reckless, too good at making you forget why you were supposed to hate him.
You crossed your arms. "Heâs an arrogant prick who thinks heâs Godâs gift to racing," you muttered, conveniently ignoring how his arrogance was backed up by lap times that made engineers weep.
Lando snorted. "Yeah, and youâre a saint." He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Admit it. Youâd let him ruin your life for five minutes in a Monaco hotel bathroom."
Your nails dug into your palms. That was the worst partâOscar wasnât even pretending to look at you anymore, his attention already snapped back to his engineer, his posture all business.
Like you were just another variable in his race strategy, something to be optimized and discarded.
Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard enough to sting. Focus. The car needed adjustments before qualifying. The data didnât care about the way his sweat-damp hair curled against his neck, or how his handsâbroad, deftâcould dismantle an engine faster than most people could order coffee.
The car was real. The car wouldnât look at you like you were a problem he hadnât solved yet.
Then he ruined it by walking past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm. Static prickled up your skin like tiny needles, and you caught the scent of himâsalt, motor oil, something citrus-bitter that shouldnât have been appealing. You clenched your jaw. He didnât even glance your way. Asshole.
âYouâre scowling at the tire pressure readings,â Lando said, leaning against the workstation. âUnless Pirelli personally betrayed you, I think we both know whatâor whoâyouâre actually pissed at.â
You stabbed at the tablet screen harder than necessary. âLando. Can you stop. I donât want a boyfriend right now,â you hissed, but your traitorous eyes flicked to where Oscar was shrugging off his race suit, the fabric catching on his biceps before sliding down his torso.
The strip of skin exposed between his waistband and the hem of his undershirt was unfairly defined, glistening with sweat that caught the garage lights like a dare.
Lando followed your gaze and smirked. âLiar.â He flicked your earlobe, making you flinch. âYou donât want a boyfriendâyou just want him to pin you against the nearest flat surface andââ
A wrench clattered to the ground behind you, loud enough to cut him off. Oscar didnât turn around, but his shoulders tensed, the muscles along his spine flexing like heâd heard every word.
The air between you thickened, charged with something hotter than the asphalt outside. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in places that had no business reacting to the way his hands gripped the workbench, knuckles whitening like he was holding back.
Lando exhaled, slow and delighted. âOh,â he murmured. âSo thatâs how it is.â
You stood up and leftâtoo fast, too sharp, the metal stool screeching against concrete like a protest. The garage air tasted of burnt rubber and something acrid, your throat tight as you shoved through the side door into the humid Monaco evening.
The sea breeze slapped your cheeks, salt and exhaust fumes tangling in your lungs, but it didnât erase the phantom pressure of Oscarâs sleeve brushing your arm, the way your skin still prickled with the memory of his heat.
Oscar watched you go, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He waited until the door swung shut behind you before turning toward Lando, his grip rough as he hauled his teammate into the shadow of a spare tire rack.
"Cut the shit," he growled, his thumb digging into Landoâs collarboneânot enough to hurt, but enough to make him listen. "You think this is funny? Pushing her like that?"
The words came out jagged, his pulse hammering under his skin like a misfiring engine.
Lando grinned, unfazed, his fingers tapping against Oscarâs wrist. "Youâre the one who keeps looking at her like you want to eat her alive," he whispered, slow and deliberate. "And sheâs looking back, mate. So either stop pretending you donât care, orâ"
His knee nudged Oscarâs thigh, suggestive. "âlet me lock you two in a storage closet already."
Oscarâs fingers twitched, his breath hitching at the mental imageâyour back against cold metal shelves, your nails scraping down his spine as he crowded you into the dark. The fantasy hit him like a G-force, sudden and visceral, the kind of reckless impulse he usually throttled before it could take root.
But the memory of your bitten lip, the way your throat moved when you swallowedâit lingered, sticky-sweet and dangerous, like fuel fumes in an enclosed space. He shoved Lando away with a curse, the taste of want sharp on his tongue.
Lando wiped imaginary dust off his shoulder, still grinning. "Youâre so fucked," he murmured, watching Oscarâs fingers flex like he was throttling an invisible steering wheel.
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, the scent of hot metal and Landoâs cologne thick in his throat. His pulse thundered in his fingertipsânot from anger, but from the way your hips had swayed when you stormed out, the way your hair caught the garage lights like a challenge.
He could still taste the salt of your bitten-off frustration in the air, metallic and electric.
Landoâs grin softened into something almost sympathetic. "Sheâs gonna hate herself for wanting you," he said, quieter now. "But not as much as you hate yourself for wanting her back." His knuckles brushed Oscarâs ribs, feather-light. "Go fix it before you both combust."
Oscar didnât moveâcouldnâtâhis pulse hammering like a misfiring engine, the phantom weight of your gaze still pressed against his skin. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting sparks to fly from his clenched fists.
"I donât want her," he muttered, turning sharply toward the paddock exitâthe opposite direction youâd stormed off inâas if distance could erase the memory of your bitten lip, the way your pulse had fluttered under his sleeveâs accidental brush like a trapped bird.
The Monaco night swallowed him whole, the neon-lit streets pressing in too close, the scent of salt and spilled champagne clinging to his throat. He strode faster, as though speed could outrun the ache in his teethâthat primal, possessive urge to turn around, toâ
A burst of laughter from an open-air bar snapped him back. He blinked. Stared at his own reflection in a rain-slicked shop window: hair wild, mouth set in a grimace, shoulders taut as suspension cables.
His hands shook. Christ. He raked them through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose. The air smelled of damp pavement and your phantom perfumeâsomething floral and sharp, like orange blossoms dipped in gasoline.
Lando was right. He was fucked.
Oscar had spent the past three days calculating fuel loads and gear ratios with mechanical precision, but his brain kept short-circuitingâevery time you leaned over a telemetry screen, the loose neckline of your team shirt gaping just enough to reveal the delicate dip of your collarbone, his fingers twitched around his stylus.
Every time you laughed at one of Landoâs stupid jokes, the sound bright and throaty, his stomach dropped like heâd missed an apex.
And every time he caught you staring at himâjust for a second, just long enough for his pulse to spikeâyouâd immediately pivot toward the nearest colleague, your voice too cheerful, your smile too tight.
It was driving him insane.
The worst part was the way youâd started touching everyone except himâa hand on Carlosâs shoulder as you explained tire degradation, your knee bumping against Landoâs under the strategy table, even that time youâd tucked a loose strand of hair behind Rebeccaâs ear like it was nothing.
But when Oscar "accidentally" brushed past you in the garage, his knuckles grazing your waist, youâd flinched like heâd burned you, your breath hitching in a way that made his jeans suddenly too tight.
Now, as he watched you from across the hospitality suiteâyour fingers drumming against your champagne flute, your hips swaying slightly to the muffled bass of the club downstairsâhe realized with dawning horror that he wanted to ruin you.
Not in the way Lando had joked about, not some quick, dirty fuck against a storage locker, but properly: the way your pupils would dilate when he finally got his hands on you, the way your breath would catch when he dragged his teeth over that spot under your ear, the way youâd whimper when heâ
"Mate." Landoâs voice cut through the fantasy, low and knowing. "If you keep looking at her like that, someoneâs gonna call the police."
Oscar drained his drink, the champagne sour on his tongue. "Fuck off."
Lando just grinned, nodding toward where you were now laughing at something Charles had said, your head thrown back, the line of your throat exposed.
"Sheâs doing it on purpose, you know. Wind you up." His knee nudged Oscarâs under the table. "And itâs working."
Oscarâs fingers clenched around his empty glass. He knew you were playing him. Knew it the way he knew the exact RPM his engine could handle before redliningâinstinctual, visceral.
But knowledge didnât stop the heat pooling low in his gut, didnât stop the possessive snarl building in his chest every time another driver leaned into your space.
Across the room, your gaze flicked to hisâjust for a secondâand the corner of your mouth curled, slow and deliberate, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
His pulse roared in his ears.
Game on.
The champagne bottle popped like a gunshot, spraying golden foam across the McLaren garage in reckless arcs. Someone had slapped a paper crown on Oscarâs headâcrooked, ridiculousâand he was laughing, actually laughing, his teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights as Lando poured another shot down his throat.
You watched from the periphery, the plastic cup in your hand sweating as much as your palms. Celebration buzzed through the air like static, thick with sweat and triumph, but all you could focus on was the way Oscarâs throat worked when he swallowed, the way his pulse jumped under the damp collar of his team shirt.
Then he caught you looking. His grin faded, replaced by something darker, hungrierâthe same expression he wore mid-overtake, right before he devoured the competition.
Your breath hitched. The room tilted. And suddenly, he was striding toward you, his steps deliberate, his fingers closing around your wrist before you could bolt.
âYouâre avoiding me,â he murmured, his thumb skating over your racing pulse. The scent of himâchampagne and burnt rubberâclogged your throat. âWhy?â
Your brain short-circuited. His grip tightened, just shy of painful, and you realized with dizzying clarity that you wanted him to push. Wanted him to crowd you against the nearest flat surface, wanted him toâ
âIâm not,â you lied, your voice cracking. The garage noise faded to white static, drowned out by the roar of blood in your ears.
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his free hand rising to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the shell of your ear with deliberate slowness, and you shuddered.
âLiar,â he whispered, his breath hot against your temple. Then, lower: âYou taste like trouble.â
You barely had time to process the words before he was gone, disappearing into the crowd like a hallucination. Your knees trembled. Your lips tingled. And when you finally lifted your cup to your mouth, the champagne tasted like gasolineâsweet, flammable, and dangerous.
Lando materialized beside you, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Told you," he murmured, pressing a fresh drink into your shaking hands.
You didnât answer. Couldnât. Not when Oscar was now leaning against the pit wall, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension, his gaze locked on you like you were the only variable he hadnât calculated.
The way his fingers flexed around his own glassâslow, deliberateâsent a jolt of heat straight to your core.
The crowd surged around you, voices rising in a drunken chorus, but the noise faded to a distant hum. All you could hear was the hitch of your own breath, the phantom drag of Oscarâs thumb across your pulse point. Your skin burned where heâd touched you, the sensation lingering like a brand.
Lando shoved another drink into your handsâsomething neon and sticky-sweetâand you tossed it back without tasting it.
The alcohol hit your bloodstream like spilled fuel, igniting a reckless heat that had nothing to do with the humid Monaco night and everything to do with the way Oscar was still watching youâdark-eyed, predatoryâfrom across the garage.
His lips were wet with champagne, his collar rumpled where someone had tugged it loose.
You shouldâve looked away. Shouldâve walked off, found a quiet corner to sober up. Instead, your fingers tightened around the empty cup, crushing it until the plastic bit into your palm. The sting grounded youâbarelyâas you grabbed another drink from a passing tray.
The vodka burned going down, sharp and medicinal, but it couldnât drown out the memory of his breath against your temple, the way his voice had dropped to a rough whisper: You taste like trouble.
Landoâs grin widened as he leaned in, his words slurring against your ear. âKeep drinking like that, love, and youâre gonna do something stupid.â His thumb brushed your cheek, sticky with spilled liquor. âOr someone.â
You shoved him away, stumbling toward the bathroomâsomewhere quiet, somewhere coldâbut the corridor tilted under your feet, the walls breathing like they were alive.
The phone in your pocket buzzed, insistent, and you fumbled for it, thumb smearing across the screen. Your exâs name flashed up, a relic from another life: Miss you. Letâs talk.
Your stomach lurched. A month ago, youâd have crumpled. A week ago, youâd have replied. But now? Now all you could think about was Oscarâs grip on your wrist, the way his pulse had hammered under your fingertips like a rev limiter.
You deleted the message without reading the rest, your fingers tremblingânot from sadness, but from the phantom pressure of Oscarâs breath against your neck, the way heâd looked at you like you were a corner he couldnât wait to cut.
The hallway air smelled of spilled gin and sweat. You leaned against the wall, the plaster cool against your flushed cheek, and tried to steady your breathing. It didnât work.
The memory of Oscarâs thumb tracing your pulse point lingered, sticky as the humidity clinging to your skin. You pushed off the wallâtoo fast, too sharpâand the floor tilted again.
Then the celebration room door slammed open. Oscar stumbled out, his hair disheveled, his shirt half-untucked. His gaze locked onto you instantlyâwild, unfilteredâand your stomach dropped like a missed gear shift. He looked wrecked, his lips bitten red, his pupils blown wide with something darker than champagne.
"Y/N," he rasped, your name cracking like gravel under race tires. His fingers dug into the doorframe, knuckles white, as if he was physically restraining himself from crossing the distance between you. The raw hunger in his stare scorched your skin, hotter than any Monaco afternoon sun.
You shouldn't have done itâshouldn't have stepped forward, shouldn't have fisted his damp shirt and crushed your mouth to hisâbut the taste of him exploded across your tongue, champagne and salt and something darker, smokier.
His whole body jerked like he'd been electrocuted, hands hovering inches from your waist, trembling with restraint. "Fuck," he gasped against your lips, the word vibrating through your chest like a misfiring engine.
You expected arrogance, dominationâbut his kiss was all sharp inhales and barely-contained desperation, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to sting.
When you moaned, he made a broken sound in his throat and finallyâfinallyâhauled you flush against him, his grip bruising as he backed you into the wall. Every ridge of his body burned through your clothes, his racing heartbeat wild against your sternum.
Lando's distant laughter echoed down the hall, and Oscar froze, his breath ragged against your neck. "Christ," he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, every muscle coiled tight.
His thumb brushed your swollen lipâonce, twiceâbefore he shoved himself away with a curse, leaving you both panting in the neon-lit hallway, the air thick with the scent of spilled alcohol and reckless choices.
The space between you crackled like overheated asphalt, his restraint palpable in the way his fingers flexed at his sides instead of reaching for you again.
You could taste the war in his kissâthe way his mouth had yielded even as his hands hesitated, like he couldn't decide whether to devour you or let you walk away.
His jaw worked, a vein pulsing at his temple. "We shouldn'tâ" The words came out strangled, his pupils blown wide. The hallway lights caught the sweat beading along his collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his restraint fraying visibly with each uneven breath.
Your fingers twitched at your sides, still humming with the memory of his gripâthe way his calluses had caught on your skin like friction burns. The champagne haze made everything hyperreal: the salt-sting of his sweat when you'd licked into his mouth, the way his hips had jerked against yours like he'd forgotten how to brake.
You lifted your hand, slow, deliberate, and pressed your palm flat against his sternum. His heartbeat hammered against your touch, erratic as a blown engine.
"Christ," he hissed, his hands finallyâfinallyâclamping around your waist. His thumbs dug into the dip above your hips, possessive, as he dragged you closer. The scent of himâalcohol and adrenalineâflooded your senses, thick as the Monaco humidity.
His nose bumped yours, clumsy with intoxication, and you felt the exact moment his control snappedâhis mouth slanted over yours with a groan that vibrated through your ribs.
Somewhere distant, glass shattered. The party roared on. But all you knew was the slick heat of his tongue, the way his fingers flexed against your spine like he was memorizing the shape of you.
When you nipped at his lower lip, he made a sound so raw it curled your toes, his hips pinning you to the wall with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.
"Fuck," he panted against your cheek, his voice wrecked. "We're both so fucking drunk."
His words slurred, but his hands didn'tâthey mapped your ribs with terrifying precision, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your shirt. You arched into the touch, gasping when his teeth grazed your earlobe.
The hallway tilted, or maybe that was just your head spinning, but Oscar's grip tightened, anchoring you as his mouth found yours againâhotter this time, hungrier, like he was trying to drown in you.
Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open, spilling laughter and cigarette smoke into the corridor. Oscar didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers dug into your hips, lifting you effortlessly onto the narrow ledge of a fire extinguisher cabinet.
The metal groaned under your weight, but his body between your thighs was solid, realâthe hard line of his erection pressing against you through layers of fabric made your breath hitch. His palm slid up your thigh, rough with calluses from gripping steering wheels, and you shuddered, biting back a moan against his collarbone.
The air between you smelled like spilled champagne and sweat, his pulse jumping under your lips as you traced the vein in his neck with your tongue. He made a sound low in his throatâhalf growl, half pleaâand his fingers twisted in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.
His breath was ragged against your skin, his lips brushing your racing pulse like he was counting each beat. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice thick with want. "You're gonna ruin me."
His mouth found yours again, slow and deliberate this time, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips. His tongue slid against yours, hot and slick, the taste of him intoxicatingâsharp with alcohol, sweet with something darker.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting through the damp fabric of his shirt, and he groaned, his hips pressing yours harder against the wall. The metal ledge bit into your thighs, the pain a distant echo compared to the electric current of his touch.
The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting erratic shadows across the way his Adamâs apple bobbed when you dragged your nails down his neck.
He shuddered, his grip on your thighs tighteningâcalluses catching on bare skin where your dress had ridden upâand you realized with dizzying clarity that you couldnât remember your exâs face, only the salt-sting of Oscarâs sweat as you licked into the hollow of his throat. . . .
Summary: You're not used to having a boyfriend that is into PDA
Song: STAY · Justin Bieber
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 4.0k
MASTERLIST - F1
The paddock air always smelled the sameâa sharp, metallic cocktail of high-octane fuel, expensive espresso, and the frantic, buzzing energy of three hundred people trying to move in a space designed for fifty.
It was a sensory overload you had grown accustomed to over the last four years, but even with the familiarity, the weight of the cameras and the prying eyes of the media never quite ceased to feel like a spotlight burning against your skin.
You walked beside Lando, your hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your team hoodie.
You were doing your best to keep up with his quick, rhythmic stride, his McLaren team kit a bright papaya blur against the charcoal gray background of the hospitality units.
"You're quiet," Lando said, not breaking his pace. He didn't look at you, his eyes scanning the horizon of the Silverstone paddock, but you felt the subtle shift in his demeanor.
It was the Lando-radarâhe always knew when your mood dipped, even if you were masking it with the practiced cool of a driverâs partner.
"Just tired," you lied. It wasnât a lie, exactly. You were exhausted, but it was the kind of exhaustion that came from being âonâ for seventy-two hours straight.
Without warning, Lando stopped. He didnât just slow down; he pivoted on his heel, effectively blocking your path. Before you could react, his arm was around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
It was a casual, possessive movement, the kind that reminded everyone watchingâand there were always people watchingâthat you were his.
You stiffened, your hands instinctively coming up to push against his chest. "Lando," you hissed, your voice low. "People are taking photos. Right there."
You gestured vaguely toward a group of fans pressed against the metal fencing, phones already held high like digital offerings. Lando didnât even glance at them. Instead, he ducked his head, his nose brushing against your temple, his breath warm against your ear.
"Let them," he murmured, his voice laced with that mischievous, boyish charm that had stolen your heart in the first place. He squeezed your waist, his grip firm and grounding. "I haven't seen you all morning. Youâve been busy with PR, Iâve been in the sim. Iâm allowed to say hello."
"You said hello at breakfast," you countered, though your heart was performing a treacherous little somersault in your chest.
"That was two hours ago," he insisted, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His hazel eyes were bright, lit with a spark of genuine affection that softened the sharp lines of his face. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "I missed you."
You didn't know how to handle it. After four years, you still didn't. You were a person of quiet gesturesânotes left on bathroom mirrors, shared silences while watching movies, holding hands when the lights were out.
You weren't a âpublic displayâ person. The vulnerability of being seen in private, intimate momentsâeven something as simple as a touchâfelt like undressing in a crowded room.
Lando, however, had spent his entire adult life under a microscope. He had learned that if youâre going to be watched anyway, you might as well control the narrative. If he wanted to hold your hand, he held it. If he wanted to pull you close, he did it without hesitation, regardless of the cameras.
"Come on," he said, shifting his grip from your waist to your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. He started walking again, pulling you along with him, his pace unbothered by the stares.
The rest of the morning was a blur of briefings and team meetings. You found yourself retreating to the back of the McLaren garage, watching the mechanics work on the MCL38.
It was a beautiful, terrifying machine, and you often felt like you were just a spectator to a life you were only partially living.
When the session ended and the drivers began to filter out, you saw Lando heading your way. He looked winded, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair a chaotic mess beneath his cap.
When he spotted you, his entire face transformed. The intense, focused âracerâ expression melted into a wide, effortless grin.
He didn't head for the engineers or the debriefing area. He walked straight to you, ignoring the team principal standing five feet away, and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"God," he groaned, his voice muffled by your hoodie. "I need a coffee before I throw a headset through a wall."
"That sounds like a productive way to spend the afternoon," you teased, though you reached up, patting his back awkwardly. Your eyes darted around the garage. Several mechanics were snickering, and the telemetrics lead was pointedly looking at his tablet.
Lando pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders now. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing the skin of your neck. "Come to the hospitality with me? Please? I need a witness so I don't punch something."
"I have emails to catch up on," you started, but he was already shaking his head before you finished.
"Emails can wait. Youâre coming with me." He didnât bother asking twice. He took your hand again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rhythmic, comforting pattern.
As you walked through the paddock, he kept his hand firmly clutched in yours, occasionally swinging them between you like a couple of teenagers.
It was almost nauseatingly domestic, and it made your skin crawl in a way that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the spectators.
"Lando," you said, once you reached the relative privacy of the McLaren hospitality tent. You ducked into a quiet corner near the coffee machine. "Could you⊠maybe not?"
He paused, a cup of black coffee halfway to his mouth. He looked at you, genuinely confused. "Not what?"
"The⊠the touching. The holding hands in the paddock. The leaning on me when there are twenty cameras pointed at us."
He tilted his head, his expression earnest. "Why? Does it bother you?"
"Itâs not that it bothers me," you said, choosing your words carefully. You didn't want to hurt him, but you needed him to understand. "Itâs⊠itâs just that Iâm not used to it. Private things should stay private. I feel like weâre performing when we do that."
Lando set the cup down. He moved into your space, his presence filling the corner. He didn't touch you this time, which felt strangely more intimate than the public displays. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours.
"Iâm not performing," he said softly. "Iâm just⊠Iâm proud. Youâre my person. Youâve been my person for four years. Through the podiums, the crashes, the bad races, the move to Monaco. Youâre the only thing that makes any of this feel real."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I donât want to hide you. I don't want to act like you're some secret Iâm keeping in a drawer. If I want to hold your hand, I want to hold your hand because I like the way your skin feels against mine. I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about the fans. I care about how I feel when Iâm with you."
"Thatâs very sweet," you said, your throat tight. "But you know how people talk. They dissect everything. They look for meaning in where you put your hand or how you look at me. Itâs exhausting."
"Let them talk," Lando countered, a glint of defiance in his eyes. "Let them dissect. They don't know us. They don't know the late nights, or the way you make tea, or the way you handle me when Iâm losing my mind after a DNF. Theyâre just observers. Weâre the ones living it."
He reached out, tentatively this time, covering your hand with his. "Iâm not asking you to change who you are. Iâm just telling you why I am the way I am. For me, the PDA⊠itâs a way of tethering myself to you. In a world thatâs always moving, youâre the only thing that stands still. I just want to make sure Iâm always touching that anchor."
You looked at himâreally looked at him. You saw the layers of the man the world saw as a race driver, but you also saw the man beneath. The one who was lonely at the top, the one who navigated the pressures of fame by clinging to the few things that were genuine.
"Iâm an anchor?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.
He grinned, the tension breaking. "Youâre the best anchor. A little bit stubborn, maybe, and you complain about the cameras too much, but youâre definitely the anchor."
He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours. It was a soft, gentle moment, a stark contrast to the chaos just outside the tent.
"Iâll try," you whispered. "To be⊠less bothered by it."
"You don't have to change," he insisted, pulling back to look at you. "Just know that when I do it, it isn't for the cameras. Itâs for me. And hopefully, itâs for you, too."
The rest of the weekend was a learning curve.
When you walked through the paddock on Saturday morning, Landoâs arm was around your waist again. The inevitable cameras clicked, but this time, you didn't stiffen. You didn't try to pull away.
You looked up at him, and he smiled down at you, and for a fleeting second, the cameras didn't exist. There was just the two of you, moving through a crowded space, anchored to each other.
You realized that perhaps you had been looking at it wrong the whole time. You had viewed the PDA as a performance for the world, but Lando viewed it as a statement to himself. It was a way of claiming his own reality in an environment that was designed to be artificial.
By Sunday, the atmosphere was thick with the tension of the race. The drivers were in âthe zone,â quiet and focused. You spent most of the morning in the motorhome, catching up on those emails youâd ignored.
A few hours before the race, there was a knock on your door.
Lando stood there, his race suit unzipped to his waist, his hair slicked back with sweat from his warm-up. He looked pale and intense, the adrenaline already beginning to surge through his system.
"Hey," he said, his voice quiet.
"Hey. You okay?"
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He didnât go to the sofa. He didnât pace. He walked straight to you, pulled you into a crushing embrace, and just held you. He didn't speak. He just rested his chin on the top of your head, his breathing deep and rhythmic.
This was the PDA that no one saw. This was the vulnerable, quiet reality.
"Iâm nervous," he admitted finally, his voice barely a murmur.
"Youâre always nervous before the start," you reminded him, rubbing circles into his back.
"I know. But today feels⊠different. I just wanted to see you one last time before I have to go be 'Lando Norris' for three hours."
He pulled back, searching your face. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lipsâa lingering, soft touch that tasted of nervous energy and deep, abiding love. When he pulled away, he kept his hands on your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline.
"See you after?" he asked.
"Always," you promised.
He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He turned to leave, walking with a renewed sense of purpose, his shoulders squared, his head held high.
As he walked out, you realized you hadn't even thought about who was watching. You hadn't felt the need to hide, or to be âproper,â or to worry about how the world perceived your love.
You watched him go, feeling the quiet hum of his presence still lingering in the room. You realized that Lando was right. The world could look, they could stare, they could dissect every interaction until there was nothing left.
But they would never understand the alchemy of itâthe way you held each other together, the way his hand in yours wasn't about the show, but about the connection.
When you walked out of the motorhome to head to the garage, you saw him ahead of you, walking with his team. He stopped at the entrance, turned around, and scanned the crowd until his eyes locked onto yours.
He didn't wave. He didn't seek attention. He just gave you a small, almost imperceptible nodâa silent acknowledgment, a secret language that only the two of you spoke.
You nodded back, a smile playing on your lips.
The cameras were still there, the paddock was still screaming with noise, and the pressure was still building.
But as you made your way through the crowd, you didn't feel the need to hide. You kept your head high, your pace steady.
When you reached the garage, Lando was already in the cockpit. You stood by the wall, watching the mechanics scramble. You felt someone standing next to youâanother driver's partner, someone youâd spoken to a few times.
"He looks focused today," she said, nodding toward the car.
You watched his helmeted head, the way he was checking the steering wheel settings, his movements precise and calm.
"He is," you said, a sense of pride swelling in your chest.
As the cars began to move, the noise became deafening. You reached out, gripping the safety rail. A hand covered yours. You looked downâit was Landoâs trainer, a man youâd known for years, offering a silent gesture of support.
You squeezed his hand. You weren't holding Landoâs hand, but you felt the connection, the web of people who loved him, who supported him, who were tethered to him.
The race went well. It was a grueling, tactical battle, but you watched every lap, every overtake, every moment of brilliance. When he crossed the finish lineâa solid P3, a hard-fought battleâyou felt a surge of relief that hit you like a physical wave.
When he finally made his way back to the pit lane, the adrenaline was high, the fans were screaming, and the cameras were desperate to capture his reaction.
You were in the âcool downâ room, waiting. When he burst in, tossing his helmet onto the table, he looked ecstatic. He was drenched in sweat, his lungs laboring for air, his face glowing with raw, unadulterated joy.
He spotted you immediately.
He didn't run to his team, he didn't check his phone, he didn't wait for the cameras. He bypassed everything and everyone, closed the distance between you, and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off your feet.
You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the small room. He spun you around, his face pressed into your shoulder, his heart hammering against your own.
"We did it," he breathed, his voice ragged with exertion.
He didn't care about the producers behind the glass, didn't care about the microphones picking up his breathing, didn't care about the optics of a driver being âsoftâ after a podium. He just held you, his hands tight against your back, his head resting on your shoulder.
"You did it," you whispered back, holding him just as tightly.
He pulled back, his face inches from yours. He was glowing, his hazel eyes wide and bright. He didn't let go of your waist. He didn't try to pull away to talk to the team. He just stood there, his forehead resting against yours, taking a moment to breathe you in.
"That was for you," he whispered, a smirk touching his lips.
"The race?" you teased.
"Everything," he said. "The race, the fight, the waiting. Everything is for you."
You smiled, the last of your resistance melting away. You realized then that the PDA wasn't about him being dramatic or needy; it was his way of saying, âthis is my center.â It was his way of remaining human in a world designed to strip humanity away.
You reached up, brushing the damp hair from his forehead, your touch lingering on his skin. You didn't care about the cameras anymore. You didn't care about the optics.
"You're a menace," you whispered.
"I know," he said, his grin widening. "But I'm your menace."
He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, fleeting kiss before pulling back to see the effect it had on you. You didn't shy away. You held his gaze, your hand moving to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong rhythm of his heart beneath the papaya suit.
"We have to go out there," he said, nodding toward the door where the interviews were waiting.
"I know," you replied.
"Stay close?" he asked, his hand finding yours, his fingers interlacing with yours in that familiar, grounding way.
"Always," you said.
He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and turned toward the door. As he walked out, he didn't let go. He didn't try to look composed for the cameras.
He just walked out, dragging you along with him, his hand in yours, his heart laid open for the world to see, and you didn't pull away.
For the first time in four years, you didn't feel like you were performing. You felt like you were exactly where you were meant to beâright by his side, anchored in the eye of the storm, holding onto the one thing that made all the chaos worth it.
The lights of the paddock hit you as you walked out, the noise rising to a crescendo, but you barely heard it.
You were focused on the steady, rhythmic pulse of his hand in yours, the physical tether that connected you to him, through every race, every win, every defeat, and every quiet moment in between.
As Lando greeted the reporters, he didn't pull his hand away. He kept it firmly in yours, a silent, defiant, and beautiful declaration. You stood beside him, watching him speak, realizing that for all the years youâd spent worried about the world, you had missed the most important lesson of all: that when youâre with the right person, the world doesn't matter.
Only the anchor does.
The weeks that followed brought a series of races, each one a different challenge, but the dynamic between you had shifted, subtly but fundamentally.
You were in Singapore, the humidity so thick it felt like a heavy, wet blanket pressing against your skin. The heat in the paddock was stifling, the noise of the city reflected off the glass buildings, echoing in the narrow walkways.
Lando was exhausted. The jet lag, the heat, the relentless scheduleâit was wearing him down. You found him late on Saturday night, sitting on the steps of the motorhome, his head in his hands. He looked defeated.
You didn't say anything. You just sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. He didn't look up, but his hand found yours, his grip tight, almost desperate.
"Itâs just⊠itâs been a lot lately, hasn't it?" he said, his voice quiet, barely audible over the hum of the cooling units.
"It has," you agreed, leaning into him.
He leaned his weight against you, a silent plea for support. You sat there for a long time, the only movement the shifting of your hands as you rubbed his palm, his breathing slowly steadying as he leaned into your presence.
A group of team members walked past, casting curious glances in your direction. A few weeks ago, you would have pulled away. You would have felt the heat of the embarrassment rising in your cheeks.
But tonight, you didn't. You kept your hand in his, your body pressed against his side, a silent, unified front.
Lando shifted, turning toward you and resting his head on your shoulder. He sighed, a long, shaky sound. "I don't know what I'd do without you here."
"Youâd do just fine," you said, your voice soft. "Youâre Lando Norris. You thrive on this."
"I thrive on the racing," he corrected, looking up at you with tired, genuine eyes. "The rest of it⊠the travel, the lights, the expectations⊠thatâs just noise. Youâre the only thing that isn't noise."
He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch tender and vulnerable.
"I know Iâm a lot," he said, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. "I know Iâm clingy. I know the PDA is probably annoying for you."
"Itâs not annoying," you admitted, the words feeling true for the first time. "Itâs⊠itâs a lot to get used to. Especially with everyone watching."
"I know," he said, his thumb brushing your temple. "I don't mean to put pressure on you. I just⊠I need to know youâre still there. I need to feel like Iâm anchored to something real, even when everything around me is drifting."
You looked at him, feeling the weight of the last four yearsâthe highs, the lows, the moments of profound isolation, and the moments of intense, shared joy.
You realized that you and Lando weren't just a couple; you were a unit, a team of two navigating a life that few people could ever truly understand.
"Youâre always anchored to me," you said, your voice steady. "Iâm not going anywhere."
He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, the heat of the night forgotten.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He closed his eyes, a sense of peace finally settling over him. He didn't move away, and you didn't pull back. You just sat there, two people against the world, holding onto each other in the quiet, humid dark.
The final race of the season was in Abu Dhabi. The air was cool, the track lights shining brightly against the darkening sky. The energy was electric, a mix of anticipation and the bittersweet end of a long, grueling year.
You stood in the garage, watching the final preparations. Lando was calm, focused, a version of himself youâd come to cherishâthe man who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much he was loved.
When he finally pulled his helmet off after the post-race debrief, he caught your eye across the garage.
He didn't wait. He walked straight to you, ignoring the cameras, the reporters, and the team members. He pulled you into a hug that felt like coming home.
"We made it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"We made it," you echoed.
He pulled back, his hands resting on your waist, his eyes bright with that familiar, boyish spark. "So, what are we doing for the off-season?"
You laughed, the sound light and free. "Iâm taking you somewhere quiet. Somewhere with no cameras, no paddock, and absolutely zero motor racing."
He grinned, the expression wide and genuine. "Sounds perfect."
He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was both a celebration and a promiseâa promise of more to come, of more years spent side-by-side, navigating the noise, the pressure, and the chaos, together.
As you walked out into the paddock, the lights overhead shimmering like stars, he didn't let go of your hand. He held it firmly, his fingers interlaced with yours, his presence a constant, grounding rhythm against your own.
You looked up at him, the man youâd chosen, the man who had chosen you. You realized you didn't care about the cameras, the fans, or the prying eyes. You didn't care about the performance of it all.
You only cared about the person holding your hand, the person who made all the noise feel like silence, and the person who made you feel, for the first time in four years, like you were finally exactly where you were supposed to be.
"I love you," you whispered, the words coming easily, naturally, a truth that didn't need to be spoken to be felt.
Lando smiled, a soft, radiant look that belonged only to you. He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and pulled you a little tighter against his side.
"I love you too," he said, his voice low and steady. "Now, letâs go start that vacation."
And as you walked away, deeper into the night, you didn't look back.
You just walked forward, hand in hand, anchored to each other, ready for whatever the next seasonâand the rest of your livesâwould bring. . . .
Summary: Your friends flirt with your boyfriend because they think they have a chance so Charles decides to show he only picks you
Song: Her Way · PARTYNEXTDOOR
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 5.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The air in the private villa in Monaco is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sea salt, and the underlying, sharp hum of tension. Outside, the Mediterranean laps lazily against the rocks, but inside, the atmosphere is anything but calm.
You are hosting a dinnerâa small, intimate gathering of your closest friends back from your university daysâand Charles is there, draped across the velvet sofa like he belongs to the furniture, his eyes following your every move.
Youâve been with Charles Leclerc for five years. Five years of secret airport departures, of holding his hand under the table at gala dinners, of nights spent listening to him deconstruct a race strategy while he traces patterns on your shoulder.
To the world, he is the Golden Boy of Ferrari, the man with the ice-water veins and the heavy crown of expectation. To you, he is simply the man who knows exactly how you take your coffee and the only person who can make you laugh until your ribs ache in the middle of a stressful race weekend.
But your friendsâspecifically Chloe and Sarahâhavenât quite grasped the gravity of your tenure. They see the media persona. They see the Instagram edits. They see a "trophy" that they think, with enough wine and enough audacity, they might be able to snatch.
The night is halfway through when the cracks begin to show. Youâre in the kitchen, pouring a fresh bottle of vintage red, when Sarah corners you, her voice a little too loud, a little too slurred.
"Heâs so intense, isn't he?" she says, eyeing Charles through the doorway. Heâs currently talking to a few of the other guys, his face animated as he describes a corner at Spa. "I mean, it must be exhausting dating someone so⊠public. Donât you ever feel like youâre just a placeholder? Like heâs waiting for something⊠more glamorous?"
You feel a flare of heat in your chest, but you force a smile. "I think heâs perfectly happy with me, Sarah."
She laughs, a sharp, brittle sound. "Oh, honey. Everyone needs a little variety. Besides, itâs not like heâs actually committed to just one thing. He lives on the edge, doesn't he?"
You don't answer, mostly because you don't trust yourself to speak without saying something cruel. You walk back into the living room, the wine bottle heavy in your hand. As you enter, you see itâthe tableau that has been forming all night.
Chloe is perched on the arm of the sofa, her hand lingering just a second too long on Charlesâs shoulder as she bends down to whisper something in his ear that makes the room go quiet.
Charles looks up. His eyes, a piercing, crystalline green, find yours instantly. He doesn't look charmed. He looks bored, his brow slightly furrowed in that way that signals your internal alarm bellsâthe one that means heâs about to lose his temper, or worse, his patience.
"The wine, darling," you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.
Charles stands up, his movement fluid and feline. He doesn't look at Chloe. He doesn't even acknowledge the space sheâs occupying. He walks straight to you, ignoring the roomâs sudden shift in focus.
He takes the bottle from your hand, setting it down on a side table with a decisive thud that silences the music.
"You look tired," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carries across the silence. He reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is grounding, firm, and possessive. "Why are we hosting this again?"
"Itâs good to see friends, Charles," you murmur, though you realize how thin the excuse sounds.
"Is it?" he asks, his gaze flicking briefly, dismissively, to where Chloe is standing. Sheâs trying to regain her composure, her smile fixed and brittle. "Because I feel like Iâm at a press conference where the questions are particularly dull."
The room freezes. You can feel the eyes of your friendsâthe judgment, the jealousy, the utter shock. Sarah looks like sheâs been slapped.
Charles doesn't stop there. He turns, his body angling toward the room, but his hand never leaves the small of your back. His grip is firm, a silent declaration that you are his anchor, his territory, his home.
"Iâve spent the better part of my life being analyzed, dissected, and auditioned for," Charles says, his tone cool, professional, and terrifyingly calm.
He looks at Chloe, then at Sarah, his expression devoid of the warmth he usually reserves for the fans. "I think thereâs a misunderstanding about who I am. You see the suit, the car, the headlines. You think thatâs a game to be played."
"Charles, don'tâ" you start, but he cuts you off with a soft squeeze of your waist.
"No," he says softly. "Letâs be clear. I have very little time in this world. My life is split into milliseconds. I don't waste them." He looks down at you, and the shift in his expression is instantaneous. The frost melts, replaced by a raw, naked devotion that makes your breath hitch.
"Every decision I makeâevery lap I take, every risk I weighâis calculated to get me to the finish line. And you?" He tilts your chin up, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "You are the only thing in my life that isn't a calculation. You are the only person who sees the man, not the driver. And I donât share that. I don't entertain the idea of 'variety' when Iâve already found the only person who makes the chaos make sense."
He turns back to the room, his eyes turning back into steel. "I think the party is over now. Goodnight."
It is a dismissal so absolute, so devastatingly royal, that no one dares to argue. Within ten minutes, the villa is empty. The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated only by the sound of the waves.
You walk to the balcony, the night air cooling your flushed skin. You feel the presence of him behind you before you hear him. He wraps his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder, his weight pressing into your back.
"You didn't have to do that," you whisper, though you feel a strange, fluttering joy in your chest.
"I did," he murmurs against your neck. "Iâm tired of people thinking they have a seat at my table. I only have one chair, and itâs occupied by you."
You turn in his arms, looking up into those eyes that have seen the world at two hundred miles per hour and yet look at you like youâre the only thing worth seeing. He pulls you tight, his forehead resting against yours.
"I don't need the world," he says, his voice barely a breath. "I just need you to know. Always."
In the quiet of the Monaco night, with the moonlight painting the water silver, you realize that for all the fame, the speed, and the noise of his life, this is the only thing that matters: the way he holds you, not as a prize to be displayed, but as the part of himself he will never let go.
And as he kisses you, slow and deep, you know that the rumors of his availability were always just noiseâand he has finally, once and for all, silenced the crowd. . . . .
Summary: You originally didn't take Carlos for a simp but you love it regardless
Song: Candy â Doja Cat
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! đ€đ«¶
Word count: 1.6k
MASTERLIST - F1
The humidity of the Singapore paddock always hits like a physical weight, but as you step out of the Ferrari hospitality unit, the heat is the last thing on your mind.
Youâre scanning the crowded corridor, your eyes searching for a specific silhouetteâa specific sharp jawline and the messy, wind-swept hair that usually belongs to the man who has held your heart for the better part of five years.
You find him near the back of the garage, huddled in a corner away from the prying lenses of the media cameras. Carlos Sainz, the man known for his tactical brilliance, his intense focus, and his "Smooth Operator" persona, looks completely different right now.
Heâs hunched over his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen, a soft, dopey smile ghosting his lips.
When he spots you, that smile doesn't just widen; it lights up his entire face, erasing the stress lines from the morningâs practice sessions. He tosses his phone asideâentirely disregarding the fact that he was likely in the middle of a debriefâand strides toward you.
He doesn't even care that his teammates, the mechanics, and half the F1 community are watching. He reaches you in three long strides, his hands immediately coming up to frame your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a tenderness that still, after all these years, makes your knees feel like water.
"Youâre late," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that travels straight through your chest. "I was starting to think you got lost, and I was about to send out a search party. Or at least have Charles do it."
You laugh, leaning into his touch. "Carlos, I was in the restroom for five minutes. And you're currently in the middle of a race weekend. You shouldn't be worrying about me."
"Iâm always worrying about you," he replies, his tone dead serious, though his eyes are dancing. He leans down, pressing a lingering, unashamed kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.
Itâs a possessive, grounding gestureâone that says you are mine, and I am yours.
You remember the early days of your relationship, back when he was at McLaren. You had expected the "tough guy" athlete act.
You had expected a man who prioritized the car above all else, someone who would be stoic and perhaps a bit distant during the high-pressure weekends.
You didn't expect the man who would text you at 3:00 AM just to tell you he saw a dog that reminded him of you, or the man who would spend his entire dinner break on a video call just to watch you read a book.
You didn't take Carlos Sainz for a simp. But God, you love it.
The teasing starts later that evening at the team dinner. The mood is lighter, the stifling heat of the day replaced by the cool, artificial breeze of the restaurant. Youâre seated at the head of the table, Carlos glued to your side as if his very existence depends on the proximity.
Lando Norris, sitting across from you, is the first to strike. He leans back, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches Carlos meticulously cut your steak for you because youâre busy talking to Charles Leclerc.
"You know, Carlos," Lando says, his voice dripping with faux-innocence, "I saw your phone background earlier. Is that a photo of her sleeping on the flight over?"
Charles snorts, nearly choking on his wine. "No, no, thatâs actually the lock screen. The home screen is a collage of her at the grocery store. I think he paid a paparazzi to follow her for a weekend."
Carlos doesn't even flinch. He doesn't get defensive; he doesn't try to play it cool. He simply sets the knife down, takes a sip of his water, and looks at Lando with a calm, unimpressed gaze. "Itâs called appreciation, Lando. Maybe try it sometime instead of spending your life playing video games."
"Appreciation?" Pierre Gasly chimes in from the far end of the table, laughing. "Mate, you were literally pacing in the paddock today because she didn't text you back within thirty seconds when she went to get a coffee. You looked like you were about to call the FIA to report a missing person."
"I was concerned," Carlos defends, sliding a piece of meat onto your fork. "It was crowded. Anything could have happened."
You watch the exchange, feeling the warmth of a blush creeping up your neck. You reach under the table, finding Carlosâs hand and giving it a squeeze. He immediately turns his attention to you, his entire demeanor softening.
The "simp" accusations roll off his back like water off a duckâs back because, quite frankly, he doesn't care what they think. He knows who he is, and he knows how he feels about you.
"Ignore them," he whispers, leaning close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "Theyâre just jealous because they don't have anyone waiting for them at the finish line with a cold bottle of water."
"You did, however, get his name tattooed on your heart, didn't you?" Charles teases, his eyes twinkling.
"Iâd get her name tattooed on my forehead if she asked," Carlos says, and the scariest part is that he sounds like heâs not even joking.
The next day is the actual race. The atmosphere is electric, charged with the scent of burning rubber and high-octane fuel. Youâre in the Ferrari garage, wearing his team shirt, your heart hammering against your ribs. The noise is deafening, but you find it easy to focus on Carlos.
Heâs in his cockpit, his helmet on, the visor downâthe mask of the professional racer. But as heâs about to head out to the grid, he stops. He signals to one of the mechanics, hops out of the car, and trots over to where youâre standing near the pit wall.
The entire garage goes silent. Youâre sure someone is whispering, someone is filming, someone is definitely going to post this on a fan account within the hour.
Carlos doesn't care. He pulls his gloves off, grabs your hand, and pulls you into a desperate, intense kiss in front of three hundred people.
"Be safe," you whisper into his ear, your hands shaking slightly as you smooth down his race suit.
"Iâm always safe," he promises, his thumb stroking your temple. "Win or lose, Iâm coming straight to you. You wait for me?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
He grinsâthat signature, charming, slightly arrogant grin that makes you feel like the only person in the worldâand jogs back to his car.
As the race unfolds, you watch him on the monitors. Heâs aggressive, tactical, and brilliant. You see him navigating the Singapore streets, weaving through traffic, fighting for every tenth of a second.
But every time the team radio crackles, you hear the calm, collected voice of a man who knows exactly what heâs doing.
When he crosses the finish lineâa podium finish, P3âthe celebration is loud and frantic. But as he steps out of the car, his helmet discarded, you see him scanning the crowd.
He isn't looking for the cameras. He isn't looking for the team principal. Heâs looking for you.
When his eyes land on you, he ignores the photographers shoving long lenses in his face. He hurdles the pit wall, ignoring the marshals calling out to him, and practically sprints toward the garage door.
"I told you," he says as he reaches you, his suit drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. He doesn't wait for a clean space; he just pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. The smell of himâsweat, adrenaline, and that expensive cologne he wearsâis overwhelming.
"You were incredible," you tell him, pulling back to look at his flushed, happy face.
"I was thinking about you the whole time," he admits, his voice raw. "Every corner. Every turn. Just thinking about how I wanted to get back to you."
Behind him, you see Charles and Lando walking toward the podium area. Lando catches your eye and rolls his eyes dramatically, pantomiming a "gagging" motion with his hand, while Charles just shakes his head, a fond, resigned smile on his face.
Carlos notices the movement, but he doesn't even turn his head. He just tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
"Let them talk," he says into your hair, his voice filled with that quiet, unshakable confidence of a man who knows heâs won the only race that actually matters. "They don't know what itâs like. They don't know what we have."
You rest your head on his shoulder, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. You think about the years behind you and the years ahead.
You realize that you didn't need a man who was cool, or detached, or mysterious. You needed this. You needed the obsession, the adoration, and the unashamed, relentless love of a man who turned being a "simp" into an art form.
"You're a nightmare, Carlos Sainz," you whisper, smiling as you feel his heart beating against your own chest.
He presses a kiss to your temple, his grip never faltering. "And you're all mine," he replies, and for the first time in your life, you know exactly where you belong.
The podium ceremony is about to start, and you know he has to go. You know the cameras are waiting, and the fans are cheering, and the team needs their driver to celebrate.
But as he lets go of your hand, just for a moment, he turns back, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes searching yours with such profound, naked sincerity that it makes your breath hitch.
"I love you," he says, loud enough for perhaps the entire garage to hear.
You just smile, watching him walk away, knowing that in twenty minutes, heâll be back, and heâll hold you like heâs never going to let you go again.
"I love you too," you whisper to the empty air, waiting for the "Smooth Operator" to come back home. . . .
The first time Max Verstappen ever looked at you like you were something to be handledânot coddled, not appeasedâwas the moment you realized youâd finally met your match.
It wasnât the way his fingers tightened around your wrist when you tried to swipe his phone, or the way his voice dropped to that low, Dutch-inflected warning when you rolled your eyes at him.
No, it was the way he didnât react at all when you deliberately knocked his water bottle off the table, just stared at you with those icy blue eyes, letting the silence stretch until your skin prickled with something between defiance and dread.
You shouldâve known better than to push himânot when heâd just come off a grueling race weekend, his muscles still coiled tight with adrenaline, his patience thinner than usual.
But youâd been trying to provoke him, hadnât you?
Dragging your nails down his forearm when he ignored your teasing, biting your lip just to watch his jaw clench. The air between you thickened, charged like the seconds before a storm breaks, and when he finally moved, it wasnât to scold you.
It was to grip your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his, his thumb pressing just hard enough against your bottom lip to sting.
"Always testing," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek, and you shivered despite yourself.
There was no teasing in his voice now, just that quiet, dangerous edge that made your pulse flutter. You tried to twist away, but his other hand caught your hip, fingers digging in with deliberate pressureânot enough to bruise, but enough to remind you who was in control.
The resistance bubbled up in your throat, half-hearted insults already forming, but then he leaned in, his mouth hovering just above yours, and the words died unspoken.
You could feel the heat of him, the way his body caged yours against the edge of the counter, and for the first time in years, you hesitated. Maybe it was the way his chest rose and fell just a fraction too fast, or the way his pupils swallowed the blue of his irises, dark with something you couldnât quite name.
Or maybe it was the way your own traitorous body arched into his touch, your breath catching when his hand slid up your side, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping every inch of you just to prove he could.
His lips brushed yours, feather-light, a mockery of a kissâthen pulled away just as you leaned in, leaving you chasing nothing but air.
A laugh, low and rough, rumbled in his chest as you scowled, and you hated how your skin burned under his scrutiny, how your pulse hammered against your ribs like a caged thing.
"Patience," he chided, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, down the column of your throat, stopping just above the first button of your blouse.
You swallowed hard, the weight of his touch unbearable, the silence stretching until it was all you could do not to beg.
Then his knuckles grazed the swell of your breast, and you gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet between you. His smile was slow, predatory, as he watched the way your lips parted, the way your fingers clenched uselessly at your sides.
"You always make it so easy," he murmured, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric, the friction just shy of painful. "All that fire, and yetâ" His grip tightened, wrenching a whimper from your throat. "One touch, and youâre already falling apart."
You hated him. You hated the way your thighs pressed together, the slick heat between them impossible to ignore, the way your body betrayed you with every ragged breath.
But most of all, you hated how much you loved itâhow his dominance felt less like a punishment and more like a revelation, like he was the only one whoâd ever truly seen you.
His lips found your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and you shuddered, your resolve crumbling. "Still fighting?" he breathed, and you knew, with terrifying certainty, that youâd already lost.
Your fingers trembled as they gripped the counterâs edgeâwhite-knuckled, desperateâbut he didnât let you hold on for long. One hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling it away effortlessly, pinning it to your lower back.
The other traced the curve of your spine through your blouse, slow and deliberate, the fabric whispering against your skin like a promise.
You arched into him, a silent plea, but he only chuckled, his breath hot against your neck.
"Not yet," he murmured, his fingers sliding beneath the hem of your blouse, skimming the dip of your waist. The touch was maddeningly light, just enough to make your breath hitch, your stomach tightenâbut never enough to satisfy.
His palm flattened against your abdomen, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp, and he hummed, pleased, as your hips jerked forward against his thigh. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with something dark and possessive. "Already wet for me."
You hated the truth of it, the way your body responded before he even touched you there, before he dragged his fingers through the slick heat between your thighsâbefore he made you cry out, finally, at the first sharp press of his fingertips.
You tried to twist away, defiance flaring despite the tremble in your legs, but he caught your chin, forcing your gaze up. "Apologize," he demanded, his thumb swiping roughly over your bottom lip.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, but there was no softness in themâonly expectation. You hesitated, pride knotting in your chest, until his grip tightened, until the sting of his fingers made your breath hitch.
The moment your whispered "sorry" slipped free, his mouth crashed onto yours, brutal and claiming, swallowing the rest of your resistance.
You gasped into the kiss, his tongue hot and insistent, mapping every corner of your mouth like he was memorizing the taste of your surrender. When he pulled back, your lips throbbed, swollen and tender, and you hated the way your body sagged against him, pliant and eager.
His hand slid down your back, pausing at the curve of your ass before delivering a sharp, stinging smack that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.
You cried out, more from shock than pain, but he didnât relentâjust pressed his palm flat against the ache, fingers kneading the tender flesh as if soothing and punishing all at once.
"Again," he murmured, his voice rough, and this time, your apology came faster, breathless and broken.
His laugh was dark, triumphant, as he tugged your hips flush against his, the hard line of his cock pressing into your stomach.
"Good girl," he murmured, biting down on your earlobe just hard enough to make you whimperâthen harder when you tried to shove him away.
The sharp sting radiated through you, mingling with the throbbing heat between your thighs, and you hated how your body arched into the pain, how your fingers scrabbled uselessly against his chest before curling into his shirt.
He released your earlobe with a wet pop, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Still fighting me?" he taunted, one hand sliding between your legs, fingers dipping beneath the lace of your panties to find you dripping.
You gasped, knees buckling, but he held you up effortlessly, his other arm locking around your waist like a steel band. "Tell me," he growled, circling your clit with torturous precision, "do you want me to stop?"
Your denial was instant, ragged, torn from your throat before you could stop itâand his smirk was fucking insufferable. "Didnât think so," he murmured, dragging his fingers through your slick folds before pressing two inside without warning.
The stretch burned, delicious and cruel, and your moan shattered into a cry when his thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight, relentless circles.
You writhed, torn between chasing the pleasure and resisting the humiliation of how easily he unraveled you, but his grip only tightened, his pace unrelenting. "Look at you," he breathed, watching the way your lashes fluttered, the way your lips parted around silent pleas. "So fucking pretty when you break."
His fingers curled, pressing against that spot inside you, and the world blurred at the edges as your back bowed, your thighs trembling around his hand. You were closeâso closeâbut he stilled abruptly, withdrawing his touch just as your hips jerked forward, desperate and empty.
"Max," you choked out, voice raw, but he only shook his head, pressing a single,
mocking kiss to your temple. "Not yet," he whispered, dragging his wet fingers down your throat, smearing your own arousal across your skin like a brand. "You donât get to come until I say so."
His free hand slid beneath your blouse again, this time bypassing any teasingâjust rough, impatient tugs at the buttons until they gave way, fabric parting to expose your heaving chest. The cold air bit at your flushed skin, but his mouth was hotter, teeth scraping over your collarbone before his tongue laved over the sting. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, but he caught your wrist again, pinning it behind you with a warning squeeze.
The counterâs edge dug into your thighs as he pressed closer, the hard ridge of his cock grinding against your hip through his jeansâmaddening, deliberate. You arched into him instinctively, but he pulled back just enough to keep the friction teasing, his breath uneven against your ear. "You want it?" he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. "Then beg properly."
A shudder ran through you at the command, humiliation prickling under your skinâbut the ache between your legs was sharper, unbearable. His thumb traced your lower lip again, pressing down until your teeth grazed the pad, and you tasted salt, slickness, the faintest hint of yourself. Your resistance crumpled. "Please," you breathed, the word ragged, barely audibleâbut his grin was feral, triumphant, as he finally, finally unfastened his belt.
The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room, the rustle of fabric as he pushed his jeans down just enough to free himself. His cock brushed your inner thighâhot, heavy, already leakingâand your stomach clenched at the thought of how he'd stretch you, how he'd make you take every inch with that same ruthless patience. His palm smoothed up your trembling leg, fingers hooking into the lace of your panties, and the fabric tore with a sharp, careless rip that sent a jolt straight to your core. You gasped, but his hand was already between your legs again, two fingers pushing into you without warning, crooking hard against that spot that made your vision whiten.
"You're so fucking tight," he growled, his breath ragged against your neck as he worked his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with each thrust. The stretch burnedânot enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how empty you'd been without himâand your hips jerked helplessly against his hand, chasing the friction. He let you, for a moment, before pulling away, leaving you clenching around nothing, your whimper echoing in the stillness.
Then his grip was on your hips, spinning you roughly to face the counter, your palms slapping against the cold marble as he kicked your legs wider. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance, teasing, maddening, and you bit your lip hard to keep from begging again. He laughedâlow, darkâbefore driving into you in one brutal stroke, your back arching as he bottomed out, the stretch so intense you sobbed. "Fuck," he hissed, his hands tightening on your waist, hips flush against your ass as he let you adjustâor tried to. You were already rocking back against him, desperate, and his groan vibrated through you like thunder.
"Greedy," he muttered, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in, the force knocking a cry from your throat. His pace was relentless from the start, each thrust punctuated by the sharp slap of skin, the counter digging into your hips with every snap of his hips. You could feel him everywhereâthe sweat-slick press of his chest against your back, the bite of his teeth on your shoulder, the way his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking just hard enough to make your eyes water. "Mine," he breathed against your skin, and the possessiveness in his voiceâraw, unfilteredâsent you spiraling closer to the edge than any touch ever could.
You tried to muffle your moans against your arm, pride still clinging to the tattered edges of your defiance, but he dragged you upright by your hair, his other hand splaying across your stomach to pull you flush against him. "No," he growled, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers dipped lower, circling your clit with brutal precision. "I want to hear you." The dual sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you was too muchâyour legs shook, your nails scraping uselessly at the counter as you came with a broken sob, his name a prayer on your lips.
He didn't let you catch your breath, just tightened his grip on your hip and fucked you through it, his rhythm never faltering even as you writhed against him, oversensitive and trembling. "Not done with you yet," he promised darkly, his free hand trailing up your spine to press between your shoulder blades, bending you over the counter again. The angle was deeper now, his thrusts harder, and you could feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, the stretch bordering on painful. You whimpered, but your hips rocked back to meet him instinctively, your body betraying you even as your pride fought to surface.
Your legs gave out entirely when his fingers found your clit again, rubbing tight, relentless circles that sent sparks shooting up your spine. He caught you before you could collapse, one arm hooking under your thigh to hike your leg up around his waist, pressing you even closer, impossibly deeper. The new angle stole the air from your lungsâevery thrust hit that spot inside you with brutal precision, and your nails dug into his forearm, your other leg trembling where it barely touched the floor. "FuckâMax," you gasped, your voice raw, and his answering groan vibrated through you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
He was closeâyou could feel it in the way his rhythm stuttered, the way his fingers dug bruises into your thigh, the way his breath came ragged against your skin. "Come for me again," he demanded, his voice rough with restraint, and your body obeyed before you could think, pleasure cresting so sharply it bordered on pain. He cursed in Dutch, his hips snapping forward once, twice, before he buried himself to the hilt with a groan, his release spilling hot inside you.
For a moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, the soft drip of sweat from his temple onto your shoulder. Then his lips brushed the nape of your neck, tender in stark contrast to the way heâd just wrecked youâmouth moving over your damp skin like a whispered confession, a counterpoint to the possessive grip still anchoring your thigh around his waist. His exhale shuddered against you, his cock twitching inside you as he softened, and you hated how intimate it felt, how vulnerableâlike heâd carved out space inside you and refused to leave.
You expected him to pull away, to let you crumple onto the counter in a boneless heap, but his fingers traced your hipbone instead, slow and deliberate, mapping the rise and fall of your breath. "Still so tense," he murmured, and you stiffenedâbecause of course he noticed, because he always fucking noticedâthe way your muscles coiled tight even now, defiance simmering beneath the aftershocks. His chuckle was low, knowing, as his teeth grazed your earlobe. "Even when you lose, you can't stop fighting, can you?"
His hand slid up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your chest met the cold marble, your spent body pinned beneath his. You hissed at the sudden stretch, the sting of overused musclesâbut then his palm came down on your ass with a sharp crack, the pain radiating through you like a lit fuse. "Still clenching," he observed, fingers kneading the sore flesh as you bit back a whimper. "As if you could keep me out."
You turned your head just enough to glare over your shoulder, lips parted for some half-formed retort, but he shoved two fingers into your mouth before you could speak. The taste of your own arousal flooded your tongue, salt and musk, and your cheeks burned as his thumb pressed down on your tongue, holding you open. "Quiet," he murmured, his other hand trailing down the curve of your back, fingertips skating over the dip of your waist like he was counting your ribs. "Youâve had enough chances to be clever tonight."
The stretch of his fingers in your mouth made your jaw ache, your breath coming sharp and shallow through your noseâbut worse was the way your hips rocked back instinctively, seeking friction even now. He laughed, the sound dark and pleased, as his free hand cupped your soaked cunt from behind, fingers sliding through the mess heâd made of you.
"Still dripping," he murmured, pressing his thumb against your swollen clit in slow, deliberate circles. "Even after Iâve fucked you senseless." You whimpered around his fingers, humiliation flooding your chestâbut your thighs trembled, slickness pooling anew beneath his touch. His breath hitched, grip tightening in your hair as he watched you unravel. "Christ, youâre shameless."
You hated the way your body arched into his hand, how your moans vibrated around his fingers, how your toes curled against the tile. Hated, most of all, the way his gaze burned into youâlike heâd won, like heâd always known he would. His thumb pressed harder, the pressure bordering on painful, and your vision whited out as another orgasm ripped through you, silent and devastating.
He held you through it, fingers tangled in your hair, his other hand working you ruthlessly until you sagged against the counter, boneless and spent. Only then did he withdraw, his thumb swiping lazily over your bottom lip as he studied your dazed expression. "Next time," he mused, voice rough with satisfaction, "maybe youâll think twice before testing me." But the smirk tugging at his mouth told you he knew better.
Your thighs trembled where they pressed against the counter, the marble cold against your flushed skin. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, mapping every shiver as they traveled upwardâpausing just below your nape, where his palm settled heavy and warm. "Stand up," he murmured, but it wasnât a request, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up, knees wobbling as you turned to face him.
The sight of himâhair mussed, lips swollen from your teeth, the sharp lines of his chest still heavingâsent a fresh pulse of heat between your legs. He caught your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the rawness in his eyes made your breath hitch. "Look at you," he murmured, thumb brushing the dampness beneath your lashes. "Still fucking perfect."
His mouth crashed into yours then, possessive and hungry, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that mirrored the way heâd just fucked youârelentless, claiming. You moaned into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as he pulled you flush against him. The taste of himâsalt and sweat and something indefinably hisâflooded your senses, and you hated how easily you melted into it, how your body arched into his like it belonged there.
Then he broke away abruptly, leaving you gasping, lips parted around nothing but air. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, smearing the wetness there, his gaze dark with something that made your stomach clench. "Still so greedy," he murmured, voice rough with amusement, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your fingers clutched at his shoulders like you might fall without him.
You opened your mouth to retort, but his hand slid between your legs again, fingers pressing against your oversensitive clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle. "Quiet," he ordered, his breath hot against your ear as he circled your swollen flesh, slow and deliberate, watching the way your eyelids fluttered. "Youâve had your fun."
The protest died in your throat as his teeth grazed your earlobe, the sharp sting mingling with the relentless press of his fingers. You hated how your hips rocked into his touch, how your breath came in ragged gaspsâhow utterly, shamelessly you surrendered.
Then he pulled away, leaving you shuddering and empty, your thighs slick with want. His lips curved into that infuriating smirk as he wiped his fingers on your bare stomach, the smear of your arousal glistening under the dim light. "Pathetic," he murmured, but his voice cracked on the word, betraying the same desperate hunger coiled in your gut.
The sound of his belt buckle clinking back into place was obscenely loud in the silence, a cruel punctuation to your unraveling. You sagged against the counter, your trembling arms barely holding you up, the marble biting into your overheated skin. He stepped back, adjusting his shirt with infuriating calm, while you remained sprawled and ruined, your body still pulsing with the aftershocks of his touch.
"Youâll remember this next time," he said, his voice low and rough, fingers brushing your tangled hair away from your faceâa gesture so tender it burned worse than any mark heâd left. Then he turned, walking away without another glance, his footsteps echoing down the hallway like a verdict.
The front door clicked shut, and only then did you let yourself collapse, your forehead pressed to the cold counter as your breath finally, violently, returned. The space between your legs throbbed, aching and empty, and you hated how much you already missed the weight of him. Hated, most of all, how his absence felt like its own kind of punishment.
Your fingers trembled as you reached for your discarded blouse, the fabric damp with sweat and smeared with the evidence of your surrender. You swallowed hardâcould still taste him, salt and arrogance, clinging to the back of your throat. The mirror across the room caught your reflection, and you barely recognized the girl staring back: lips swollen, hair wild, eyes dark with something between fury and hunger. You looked ruined. You felt alive.
The sound of the shower running snapped your attention to the hallway, steam already curling under the bathroom door. Of course heâd stay. Of course heâd wash you off his skin like yesterdayâs race grit. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, the sting a welcome distraction from the throbbing between your thighsâuntil the water cut off abruptly, and the silence that followed was worse.
You expected the front door to slam. Expected him to leave you coiled tight and furious in the wreckage. But then his footsteps padded back down the hall, slow and deliberate, and you froze when a towel dropped onto the counter beside you, still warm from his body. "Clean yourself up," he said, his voice rough but devoid of its earlier bite. You didnât turn. Couldnât. Not when his fingers lingered for a heartbeat against the nape of your neck, calloused and tender, before withdrawing.
The front door clicked shut, softer this time, and you finally let out the breath youâd been holding. The towel smelled like himâcitrus and something deeper, something you couldnât name but would dream about later, tangled in sheets that still carried his scent. Your fingers clenched around the fabric, torn between hurling it across the room and pressing it to your face like a goddamn lovesick fool. The choice, like everything else tonight, was stolen from you when your phone buzzed against the marble.
A single message lit up the screen: "Next time, you wonât make it to the counter."
Summary: When Oscar keeps getting bad results, he closes himself off from the best thing in his life, you
Song: Softcore · The Neighbourhood
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! đ€đ«¶
Word count: 1.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The silence in the apartment didnât feel peaceful. It felt heavy, a thick, suffocating blanket that had been settling over the space for the last three weeks.
You stood in the kitchen, the soft hum of the dishwasher the only sound competing with your own shallow breathing.
Across the room, the door to the secondary bedroomâthe one Oscar had converted into a simulator room and a place to decompressâremained firmly shut. It had been shut for six hours.
Youâd been dating Oscar Piastri for five years. You knew him better than he knew himself. You knew the specific way his left eyebrow arched when he was calculating a corner entry, the way he hummed off-key when he was nervous, and exactly how he took his coffee when he was exhausted.
But over the last month, as the F1 season turned into a grueling gauntlet of poor tire degradation, strategic missteps, and a string of results that didnât reflect his talent, the man you knew had begun to vanish.
He wasnât just frustrated. He was retreating.
You picked up his favorite ceramic mugâthe one with the chipped rim he refused to throw awayâand poured steaming chamomile tea into it. You walked to the door, your hand hovering over the wood. You didn't knock; you never had to. You just pushed it open a few inches.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the blue light of three monitors showing telemetry data that looked like a jagged heartbeat.
Oscar was hunched over his desk, his chair pushed back, his head buried in his hands. He was still in his team-issued polo, his hair messier than usual, his posture radiating a singular, soul-crushing defeat.
"Oscar?" you said softly.
He didnât turn. His shoulders, usually so relaxed, were bunched tight against his neck. "Iâm not hungry," he said, his voice raspy, devoid of its usual melodic, dry wit.
"I didn't bring food. Just tea." You stepped into the room, setting the mug down on the edge of the desk, carefully avoiding his tangle of wires. "Youâve been staring at the same sector times for three hours, Osc. The data isn't going to change."
He finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles underneath them more pronounced. He looked at you, but the look felt distant, as if he were viewing you through the wrong end of a telescope. "Itâs not just the data," he muttered, turning back to the screens. "Itâs the lack of pace. It's the setup. Itâs⊠everything."
"Itâs not everything," you countered gently, moving to stand behind him. You reached out to place your hands on his shoulders, intending to knead the tension from his muscles, but as your fingers made contact, he flinched.
It was a small movement, almost imperceptible, but it hit you like an ice bucket. He pulled away slightly, shifting his weight.
"I just need to figure this out," he said, his tone clipped. "I need to go over the laps again."
"Oscar, itâs 1:00 AM. Youâre exhausted. Youâre letting the car dictate your worth, and youâre letting it pull you away from me."
He spun the chair around, and for the first time, his expression wasn't just tiredâit was pained. "I don't need you to fix this, and I don't need to talk about my feelings, okay? I need to be fast. If I'm not fast, what am I doing here? Iâm here to drive, and right now, Iâm failing at the only thing that matters."
"The only thing that matters?" You felt a flash of hurt, but you pushed it down. You knew him. You knew this was the defense mechanism he used when he felt like he was losing control.
"Iâve been with you through the junior series, through the reserve year, through the highs of podiums and the lows of retirements. I thought we mattered."
"We do," he said, but it sounded like a lie. "But right now, I have nothing to give to you. Iâm empty, and Iâm frustrated, and I donât want to take this out on you. So, please. Just⊠leave me be."
He turned back to the screens, effectively dismissing you.
You stood there for a moment, the silence rushing back in, louder than before. You wanted to argue, to shake him, to remind him that he was Oscar Piastriâa brilliant, kind, funny man who was so much more than a finishing position.
But he had built a wall, fortified with self-doubt and rigid perfectionism, and you knew that banging on it would only make him retreat further into the dark.
"Okay," you whispered.
You walked out, closing the door behind you. You didn't sleep that night.
You lay in the center of the king-sized bed, listening to the muffled clicks of his steering wheel controller, wondering when the man you loved had decided that he had to suffer alone to be worthy of his seat.
The next few days were a blur of cold coffee and silence. Oscar was a ghost in his own home. He navigated the apartment like a stranger, avoiding eye contact, his time spent either at the factory or in that room.
He was physically present, but the version of him that laughed at your bad jokes and held your hand while watching terrible reality TV was gone.
You missed him. It was a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that grew wider with every passing day.
You were a team, you and Oscar. That was the deal. But you couldn't be a team if he refused to step onto the pitch.
You decided to take a different approach. You stopped asking him how he was. You stopped asking him to come to bed. Instead, you started leaving small thingsâhis favorite chocolate on his desk, a clean shirt for the morning, a glass of water replaced before it hit empty.
You became a shadow of support, hoping heâd eventually see that being "fast" wasn't a prerequisite for being loved.
On Thursday, the day before they were due to fly out for the next race, he finally snappedânot at you, but at the situation.
You were in the living room, reading a book, when you heard a crash followed by a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.
It was an uncharacteristically loud outburst for Oscar. You dropped your book and sprinted toward the room.
The door was wide open. Oscar was standing in the center of the room, his monitor display blank, his chair tipped over. He looked like he was vibrating with rage.
"I can't!" he shouted at the empty air, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "I just can't get the line right! Itâs all sliding away!"
He kicked his desk, the impact resulting in a dull thud and a sharp intake of breath. He doubled over, clutching his foot.
"Oscar!" You rushed to him, ignoring his previous protests, and grabbed his shoulders. "Stop it. Stop right now."
He tried to shrug you off, his eyes wild and shimmering with frustrated tears, but you held firm. You pulled him back until he stumbled, and you guided him down to the floor, sitting right in front of him.
"Look at me," you commanded, your voice steady despite your own racing heart.
He tried to turn away, but you cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. The anger was there, but beneath it, the raw, ugly truth of his insecurity was naked.
"Iâm losing it," he whispered, his voice splintering. "Everything I worked for, everything I gave up to be here⊠it feels like itâs slipping through my fingers because Iâm not good enough. And if Iâm not good enough, then what am I to you? Just someone whoâs constantly miserable, dragging you down with me."
"Is that what you think?" You felt a tear slip down your own cheek. "Do you honestly think Iâm here for the podiums? Do you think I wake up every day and stay with you because of the trophies?"
"I don't know anymore," he said, his voice barely audible. "I feel like a disappointment."
"You are not a disappointment," you said, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "You are just a human being who is going through a rough patch at his job. And I know youâI know that when you're overwhelmed, you try to solve it like you solve a corner entry: by braking later and pushing harder. You think if you just punish yourself enough, youâll find the grip again."
He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping. "I don't know how to turn it off."
"You don't have to turn it off," you said, leaning your forehead against his. "You just have to let me in. You don't have to be the 'Ice Man' with me. You can just be Oscar. The guy who is tired, and scared, and frustrated. You don't have to win anything for me to want to be here."
He let out a sob, a jagged, broken sound that seemed to pull all the tension out of the room. He collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him as close as you possibly could, feeling the tremor in his body as he finally let go of the dam heâd built.
He held onto you like a lifeline, his hands gripping the back of your sweater until his knuckles turned white. You sat there on the simulator room floor, surrounded by the remnants of his obsession, just rocking back and forth.
You weren't fixing the telemetry. You weren't fixing the carâs setup. But for the first time in weeks, you were fixing the distance between you.
"Iâve missed you," he whispered into your skin, his voice muffled and thick with tears he was too proud to let fall in front of anyone but you.
"Iâm right here, Osc. Iâve been right here the whole time."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed and devastatingly soft. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I was so scared that if I stopped for even a second, Iâd lose the momentum. I thought if I shared the load, it would make me weak."
"Being vulnerable isn't weak," you said, smoothing back his sweat-dampened hair. "Itâs the bravest thing youâve ever done. And itâs the only way we survive this."
He took a deep, shuddering breath, his gaze drifting over your face as if he were trying to memorize it, to ground himself. "I don't know if the pace is going to come back tomorrow," he admitted.
"Maybe it will, maybe it won't," you replied, smiling gently. "But whatever happens on that track, you come home to me. And when you come home, you aren't a racing driver. Youâre just mine. Does that sound like a deal?"
A ghost of a smile, the first one youâd seen in weeks, touched the corners of his mouth. "That sounds like the only thing that makes sense."
He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It wasn't hungry or hurried; it was a promise. It was an apology and a bridge being rebuilt, plank by painstaking plank.
He didn't stand up immediately. He stayed there, sitting on the floor, his head resting against your shoulder as the blue light from the monitors cast long, dancing shadows across the room.
He reached over with his free hand and hit the power button on the primary computer. The screens went black, the hum of the fans dying down until the room was truly, finally silent.
"What now?" he murmured.
"Now," you said, standing up and reaching out to pull him to his feet, "we go to the bedroom. We order terrible takeout. We turn off our phones. And we sleep for ten hours. Tomorrow, weâll figure out the rest."
Oscar stood, his hand still firmly locked in yours. As you walked toward the door, he paused, looking at the dark sim rig one last time. He didn't look angry anymore. He just looked tiredâa healthy, human kind of tired.
He shut the door, not with a slam, but with a quiet, decisive click.
The race weekend was, predictably, a struggle.
Oscar didn't suddenly find a miracle second per lap the moment he walked into the garage. He still fought the car, he still dealt with the engineers, and he still felt the crushing weight of the pressure.
But the difference was in the way he looked at you across the team hospitality suite, or the way his hand found the small of your back when he walked through the busy paddock.
When he finished seventh after an exhausting, gritty race, he didnât retreat to the motorhome to stare at the walls. He walked straight to where you were waiting, his helmet tucked under his arm, his face streaked with sweat and salt.
He didn't look like a winner. He didn't look like a hero. But as he reached you and pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your hair, he looked like a man who was home.
"Tough one?" you whispered.
He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. The frustration was still there, flickering in the back of his mind, but the wall was gone. He leaned his forehead against yours, ignoring the cameras, the fans, and the noise of the grid.
"Yeah. It was," he said, his voice steady. "But Iâm done for the day."
"Ready to go home?"
He squeezed your hand, his grip firm and sure. "Yeah. Let's go home."
As you walked together toward the team car, he wasn't thinking about sector times or tire wear or the championship standings.
He was thinking about the fact that he had survived the darkest part of the season, and he had done it not by working harder, but by letting the one person who mattered into the chaos.
He had learned that he didn't have to be perfect to be loved. He just had to be himself. And for Oscar Piastri, that was the greatest victory of all. . . .
Summary: When Lando introduced you to his stream, they loved you more than him
Song: Company · Justin Bieber
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 1.6k
MASTERLIST - F1
The hum of the high-end gaming PC was the only sound in the room, save for the rhythmic clicking of Landoâs mechanical keyboard and the occasional distant rumble of a passing car outside his Monaco apartment.
You were curled up in the oversized, ergonomic chair behind him, your chin resting on his shoulder, watching the dual monitors flicker with the glow of a live Twitch setup.
"You ready for this?" Lando asked, his eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and nerves. He turned his head, his cheek brushing against yours. "The chat has been asking where youâve been for three weeks. If I don't bring you on, theyâre going to riot."
You laughed, a soft sound that he seemed to cherish more than the roar of his McLaren MCL60. "They donât want to see me, Lando. They want to see the driver who almost took P1 in Suzuka."
"No," he corrected, turning his chair slightly so you were forced to look at him. "They want to see the person who makes me actually smile when Iâm not in a car. Come on. Don't be shy."
He reached out, his hand guiding yours toward the webcam. With a deep breath, you leaned into the frame. The 'Live' light flickered. Three thousand viewers jumped to five thousand, then ten, then twenty. The chat started moving so quickly it was a blur of neon text and frantic emotes.
âIS THAT HER?!â
âLANDO! YOU ACTUALLY DID IT!â
âWait, sheâs literally glowing. How is she this pretty?â
âMove over, Lando, we want her to stream!â
Lando chuckled, leaning back and crossing his arms, looking at the screen with a smug grin. "See? I told you."
He hadn't realized, however, the monster he was about to unleash.
The first month of your "stream appearances" was meant to be a gimmickâa way for Lando to humanize himself, to show the fans that he wasn't just a pilot of a multi-million dollar machine, but a guy with a normal, functioning relationship. But it turned into something else entirely.
You were naturally funnyâdry, sarcastic, and completely unfazed by the professional motorsport world. You didn't fawn over his trophies or treat him like a god; you treated him like the guy who left his socks in the kitchen and forgot to buy milk.
One evening in October, during a rain-delayed weekend at COTA, Lando was struggling with a particularly difficult segment in a simulator race.
He was frustrated, his voice pitching higher as he missed a braking point for the third time.
"Itâs the steering rack, I swear!" he shouted, throwing his hands up.
"Itâs not the steering rack, Lando," you said, walking into the frame with a bowl of popcorn. You didn't even look at the screen as you pulled up a guest stool. "Youâre just not trail-braking enough into turn twelve. Youâre being too aggressive with the release."
The chat went silent for a microsecond before exploding.
âSHEâS LITERALLY COACHING HIM.â
âLando, she looks bored. Sheâs better than you.â
âMarry her already so we can keep her.â
âPetition to make her the main driver.â
Lando stared at the chat, his mouth slightly agape. He looked at you, then back at the screen. "Youâre not serious. Youâve never driven a real car on a track in your life."
"Doesn't mean I don't know how the physics work, darling," you replied, picking a piece of popcorn from the bowl and popping it into your mouth. "Try it again. Less throttle, more patience."
He did. He nailed the corner. The chat went wild, and for the next three hours, Lando became a side character in his own stream.
As the weeks turned into months, the shift in dynamic became impossible to ignore. Whenever you walked into the room, the view count climbed.
Whenever Lando tried to talk about race strategy, the chat begged him to ask his opinion on a book you were reading or what you thought about hisâoften questionableâfashion choices.
"They're turning on me," Lando complained one night, though his eyes were crinkled at the corners, betraying his amusement. He was lying on the sofa in the living room, his head resting on your lap while you scrolled through your phone.
"They aren't turning on you, Lando," you said, running your fingers through his hair. "They just realized that youâre a gremlin and Iâm a breath of fresh air."
"I am not a gremlin," he feigned indignation.
"You literally ate cereal with a fork today because you couldn't find a spoon."
He laughed, the sound muffled against your jeans. "I was tired! And youâre the one who keeps misplacing the cutlery."
"I don't misplace it. You ignore it."
He sat up, looking at you with a seriousness that made your breath catch. The soft overhead light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the exhaustion he tried so hard to hide from the world.
"I love that they love you," he whispered. "I was worried, you know. About the fans. They can be⊠intense."
"They're fine," you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. "They just want you to be happy. And I think theyâve figured out that youâre happiest when Iâm around, even if itâs just to roast you for your lack of basic culinary skills."
"They don't just love me, though," he teased, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Half the comments on my last post were: 'Tell her to drop the driver, weâll start our own team for her.'"
"Maybe I will," you joked. "Youâre getting a bit slow in your old age anyway."
He pulled you into a kiss, soft and grounding, the kind that reminded you that no matter how many thousands of people were watching, or how many sponsors were waiting for his attention, in this room, it was just the two of you.
The breaking pointâor rather, the turning pointâhappened during the winter break. Lando had decided to do a charity stream. Heâd invited a few fellow drivers, but most of them had dropped out due to travel conflicts.
It was essentially a "Lando and his girlfriend" event.
Within the first hour, the chat was relentless.
âLando, move over, we want a better view of her sweater.â
âCan she tell us the story about the time Lando tried to make pasta?â
âLando, just give her the mouse and keyboard and go make us some tea.â
Lando finally pushed his chair back, standing up and holding his hands up in surrender. "Okay, thatâs it. You all have replaced me. I am officially the assistant. She is the streamer now."
He walked away from the camera, leaving you sitting in his chair. You stared at the lens, momentarily stunned. "Lando? Don't leave me here, what do I even do?"
He just poked his head back in, blowing a kiss at you before disappearing into the kitchen.
You were left alone with the digital audience. You looked at the chat, reading the names of people who had been following since the very beginning of his career.
You started talking, not about racing, but about the things that actually occupied your timeâthe books you were reading, the music you were obsessing over, the little anecdotes about the chaos of life in Monaco.
You were magnetic. You were funny, you were composed, and you lacked the guarded, PR-trained polish of a modern athlete. You were real.
When Lando eventually returned with two cups of tea, he stopped in the doorway. He didn't interrupt. He watched you for five minutes, listening to you handle the chat with a grace he had spent years trying to cultivate but rarely achieved.
He saw the way you joked with the moderators, the way you handled the inevitable trolls with a sharp wit that left them speechless, and the way the entire atmosphere of the room seemed to lift because you were there.
He felt a surge of pride so intense it actually made his chest ache. He wasn't threatened; he felt lucky. He realized then that he hadn't just introduced his fans to his girlfriend; he had allowed them to catch a glimpse of the version of himself that he only ever showed when he was with you.
He walked over and set the tea down, leaning over your shoulder to read the screen.
"They like me better than you, don't they?" he whispered into your ear, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans.
You looked up at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Oh, definitely. Sorry, darling. Looks like youâre just the guy who brings me tea now."
âSHEâS RIGHT!â the chat scrolled, moving faster than ever. âALL HAIL THE QUEEN OF MONACO!â
Lando laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that reached his eyes. He leaned down and kissed the top of your head, settling into the smaller stool beside you, content to let you lead.
"You know," he murmured, watching the screen as your names scrolled by in tandem, "as long as I get to be the one who goes to sleep next to you, they can have the stream."
You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his under the desk, out of sight of the camera, but right where it mattered. "Deal."
In the digital world, the numbers continued to climb. Thousands of people watched, not for the racing, not for the speed, but for the quiet, beautiful reality of two people who had found a small, perfect corner of the world amidst the roar of engines and the flash of cameras.
And for the first time, Lando Norris didn't mind being the second most interesting person in the room. In fact, he had never been happier. . . .
Summary: Charles went to vacation in Sicily and found a rare beauty.
Song: Dreamin · PARTYNEXTDOOR
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 5.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The bathroom mirror still fogged with steam when Charles pressed both palms against it, squinting at his reflection through the streaks.
His eyelashes were clumped together from seawater, the bronze of his shoulders already deepening after just two days under the Sicilian sun. Behind him, the shower dripped a lazy rhythm onto the tiles.
"You look ridiculous," he told his reflection, then grinned when it grinned back.
Packing had been impulsiveâa single duffel thrown together after the Monaco Grand Prix, his teamâs protests dissolving into shrugs once heâd texted them a blurry photo of a lemon grove from the plane.
No entourage, no schedule. Just the rental carâs keys left casually on the nightstand of a villa that smelled like rosemary and salt.
The wooden shutters of the bathroom window rattled when he pushed them open. Below, the cliffside path wound down to a cove where the water shifted between turquoise and something deeper, almost violet in the shadows.
A trio of kids shrieked as they cannonballed off the rocks, their voices carrying up like scattered bells.
The rental car's engine ticked softly in the driveway as Charles leaned against the hood, letting the late afternoon sun warm his bare arms.
He'd deliberately left his phone inside the villaâno notifications buzzing in his pocket, no team manager's voice crackling through the speaker. Just the distant chime of goat bells from the hills and the occasional shout from the village square below.
A woman with a basket of figs balanced on her hip called out to him in rapid Sicilian as she passed. He caught only every third word, but her gesture toward the harbor was unmistakable.
"Grazie," he called back, already turning toward the cobbled path that spiraled down to the water.
The marina smelled of diesel and frying seafood, boats bobbing like drowsy ducks in the golden light. Charles trailed his fingers along the rusted railing, pausing when a handwritten sign caught his eye: Escursioni in barcaâno prenotazione necessaria. No reservations needed. Perfect.
A weathered man with salt-crusted eyebrows waved him toward a listing wooden dinghy. "Last trip today," he announced, tapping his wrist where a watch might've been.
Charles didn't ask where they were going. He just tossed his sandals onto the pile of ropes and stepped aboard, the boat rocking gently under his weight.
The dinghyâs motor coughed to life, spitting out a thin blue haze as it carved through the harborâs glassy surface. Charles braced one hand against the gunwale, his other shading his eyes against the low sun.
The boat skirted the edge of the cove where the cliff path ended, and thatâs when he saw herâbarefoot on the wet sand, laughing as she caught one of the kids mid-cartwheel.
Her sundress was the color of the sea at dusk, clinging to her thighs where the waves had slapped against them.
She wasnât looking at the boat. She was too busy wrestling the giggling child into a headlock, her hair coming loose from its knot in dark, salt-stiffened waves.
Charles realized heâd leaned so far over the side that the old fisherman chuckled and throttled down the engine. âVuoi scendere qui?â he asked, jerking his chin toward the beach.
The dinghyâs hull scraped sand before Charles could answer. He leapt out, seawater sloshing around his ankles, and the fisherman waved him off with a grin. âTornerĂČ alle sei,â he called, already reversing back into deeper water. Charles barely heard him.
Up close, the woman was taller than heâd thought, her shoulders freckled where the sun had caught them. She released the squirming kid just as Charles reached the tideline, and when she turned, her eyes went straight to his bare feet sinking into the sand.
âYouâre either very brave or very stupid,â she said in English, nodding at the jagged rocks half-submerged nearby.
Charles grinned. âBoth, usually.â One of the childrenâa boy with a missing front toothâsplashed between them, eyeing Charles with open curiosity. âYour kids?â
âGod, no.â She swiped damp hair off her forehead, leaving a streak of sand. âThey belong to the trattoria up the cliff. I justââ Her sentence dissolved as the smallest child barreled into her legs. ââbabysit when Iâm not being used as a climbing frame.â
The boy tugged at Charlesâ wrist. âSei famoso?â he demanded. Before Charles could answer, the woman snorted.
âDonât encourage him. Last week he asked the same thing to a Norwegian tourist who turned out to be a dentist.â She extended a hand, her palm calloused. âIâm Y/N.â
Her grip was firm, warm from the sun. Charles noticed the fading biro scribbles on her forearmâcoordinates and what looked like a grocery listâbefore she pulled away.
The boy made a disappointed noise when she didnât introduce Charles as anyone noteworthy.
âI help at my uncleâs boat tours,â Y/N added, nodding toward the retreating dinghy. âMostly translating German pensionersâ complaints about sunburn.â She squinted at him. âYouâre not here for the tour.â
It wasnât a question. Charles shook his head, suddenly aware of how his Monaco-sharpened vowels must sound next to her lazy Sicilian cadence. âJust⊠escaping.â The admission slipped out before he could filter it.
Y/N studied him for a beat longer, then shrugged. âWell, escapees get local rates at the bar.â She hoisted the giggling boy onto her hip effortlessly. âIf youâre brave enough to drink whatever Enzoâs brewing this week.â
The missing-toothed child tugged Charlesâ wrist again. âVieni!â he insisted, already dragging him toward a cluster of overturned fishing crates that served as makeshift tables. Behind them, the trattoriaâs lights flickered on, casting long shadows across the sand.
Charles expected the usualârecognition, whispers, the careful distance people kept around him back home. But Y/N just tossed her hair over her shoulder and followed, her bare feet leaving deep prints next to the childrenâs smaller ones.
âEnzo!â she called toward the bearded man stacking glasses behind the bar. âAnother stray for you.â
Enzoâs laugh boomed across the beach. He set down a chipped tumbler filled with something amber-colored in front of Charles without asking. âFrom Sardinia,â he said proudly, then added in heavily accented English, âNot as good as Sicilian, but we forgive them.â
The drink burned pleasantly, tasting of figs and something herbal. Charles watched Y/N over the rim as she negotiated with the childrenâthree more minutes in the water, no further than the red buoy. Her hands moved as she spoke, tracing arcs in the air like she was conducting an orchestra.
âYouâre staring,â she said without turning around.
Charles didnât deny it. âYouâre good with them.â He nodded toward the children now splashing at the shoreline.
Y/N shrugged, but her mouth curved. âTheyâre easy. Tell them theyâre pirates and theyâll dig for treasure until sundown.â
She plucked a wedge of lemon from someoneâs abandoned plate and popped it between her teeth, sucking the juice with a thoughtful expression. âYouâre not what I expected.â
âWhat did you expect?â
âNot someone who jumps off boats mid-tour.â She wiped her fingers on her dress, leaving damp streaks. âOr stares.â
âYou noticed that?â
âHard not to.â She leaned against the bar, her hip brushing his elbow. âI thought maybe you were lost.â
Charles spun his glass, watching the liquid swirl. âI was.â
Y/N laughed, low and throaty. âThen youâre in the right place.â She plucked an olive from a bowl and tossed it into her mouth. The childrenâs voices rose behind them, arguing over who could hold their breath longest.
The sun dipped lower, painting Y/Nâs shoulders gold. Charles traced the curve of her collarbone with his gaze, then caught himself. âHow long have you been here?â
âForever,â she said, stretching her arms overhead. The hem of her dress lifted with the motion, revealing a thin white scar along her thigh. âBorn in Palermo, but thisââ She gestured to the cove, the ramshackle bar, the children now building a lopsided sandcastle. âThis is home.â
Charles wanted to ask what the scar was from. Wanted to know how her hands got calloused, why she spoke English with a British lilt, where sheâd learned to hoist children onto her hip like they weighed nothing. Instead, he said, âShow me.â
Y/N arched an eyebrow. âShow you what?â
âHome.â He drained his glass, the herbs clinging to his tongue. âThe way you see it.â
For a moment, she studied himâreally studied himâlike she was peeling back layers he didnât know he had. Then she grabbed his wrist. Her fingers were warm, rough with salt. âCome on, Formula One.â
Charles startled. âYou know?â
âKid recognized you first.â Y/N jerked her chin toward the missing-toothed boy now attempting to scale Enzoâs barstool. âBut the way you hold yourself? Like youâre waiting for someone to put you back in a car.â She tugged him toward the waterline. âNot here.â
The childrenâs sandcastle stood lopsided near the tideline, seashell turrets listing like drunkards. Nina kicked it gently with her bare foot. âAlbertoâs architectural masterpiece,â she said as the boy wailed dramatically. âLasted seven whole minutes.â
Charles watched her scoop up handfuls of wet sand to reconstruct the tower with quick, practiced motions. The boy quieted instantly, his outrage forgotten as he pressed starfish hands into the fresh mortar.
âYou do that a lot,â Charles observed. Nina glanced up, sand streaking her forearm where her sleeve had ridden up. âFix things.â Her shrug was almost lost in the movement of reaching for another shell. âEasier when theyâre small. Less broken.â
The water lapped at their ankles as they walked the crescent of the cove later, long after the children had been wrangled upstairs to bed. Nina carried her sandals looped over one finger, the other hand occasionally brushing Charlesâ when the path narrowed.
He could still taste figs from Enzoâs liquor on his tongue, could still feel the phantom warmth of her fingers around his wrist when sheâd pulled him toward the water.
âYou race cars,â she said suddenly, not looking at him. The moon painted a silver road across the black water. Charles exhaled through his nose. âSometimes.â
The waves curled around their ankles, the foam dissolving into the dark sand with a sound like whispering paper. Nina didnât react to his evasionâjust kept walking, her toes digging into the wet silt with each step.
âSometimes,â she repeated, tilting her head as if tasting the word. âThatâs a funny way to say âevery other Sunday.ââ
Charles laughed, surprised by how easily it came. The salt air stuck to his skin, the night pressing in around them like a held breath. âYouâve seen the races?â
âEnzo has a TV behind the bar.â She nudged a piece of driftwood with her foot. âMostly I just see you taking your helmet off. Always looked like you were tearing off your own head.â
A startled bark of laughter escaped him. âIt feels like that sometimes.â The admission hung between them, raw as the sea-worn rocks. Heâd never said it out loudânot to the team, not to the reporters with their microphones like weapons.
Charles watched the moon ripple across the water, her words settling somewhere under his ribs. "Doesn't feel like that here," he admitted, nudging a pebble with his bare toe. It skittered into the surf with a quiet plink.
Nina stopped walking abruptly. "That's because you're not wearing one." Before he could react, she scooped a handful of wet sand and pressed it to his forehead with theatrical solemnity. "There. Now you're properly armored for battle, Prince of Monaco."
Her fingers lingered just long enough for cool grains to trickle down his temple.
He caught her wrist before she could pull away, sand gritting between their skin. "You're mocking me."
"Only a little." She didn't struggle, just tilted her head. The sea breeze caught a strand of hair across her mouth. "Mostly I'm wondering why a man who drives into walls for fun is scared of a few local kids."
Charles felt the splash before he saw her moveâcold seawater hitting his chest in a starburst that made him gasp. Nina was already three steps away, her bare feet kicking up wet sand as she darted toward the tide line.
"Too slow, Prince of Monaco," she called over her shoulder, her laugh catching on the wind.
He lunged without thinking, chasing the flash of her sundress between the rocks. The children's abandoned sandcastle crumbled under his heel as he vaulted over it, laughing when Nina shrieked and nearly tripped on a half-buried anchor chain.
She recovered with a dancer's grace, twisting to splash another arc of seawater at himâthis time hitting his thighs with pinpoint accuracy.
"Cheater!" Charles gasped as the icy shock hit his skin.
Nina's answering grin was feral in the moonlight. She kicked a wave toward him with her bare foot, the spray catching silver in the air. "You're the one with racing reflexes," she taunted, backpedaling toward deeper water.
Charles feigned left, then dove right, catching her around the waist just as the surf reached his knees. Her yelp dissolved into laughter as they toppled backward into the shallows, sending up a curtain of saltwater that drenched them both.
Nina's knee bumped his ribs as she twisted, her hair fanning out in dark tendrils across the wet sand. Charles braced himself above her, seawater dripping from his nose onto her collarbone.
"You," she wheezed, pushing at his shoulders, "are heavier than you look."
Charles rolled them sideways just before an incoming wave could crash over their heads. "Motorsport diet," he deadpanned, shaking salt from his hair like a dog. The movement sent droplets cascading onto Nina's face, making her sputter.
Her retaliation was immediateâa handful of wet sand smeared across his cheekbone. "Formula One," she declared, "meets Formula None." The triumphant gleam in her eyes made something warm and reckless unfurl in his chest.
Charles retaliated by scooping her up bridal-style, ignoring her shriek as he waded deeper. "Charles!" She clawed at his shoulders, her laughter bouncing off the cliffs. "I swear toâ"
The threat dissolved into a gasp as he dunked them both underwater. For three perfect seconds, the world reduced to bubbles and the press of her body against his in the sudden coolness.
They surfaced together, Nina's curses muffled by the seawater she spat out. Her dress clung transparent to her ribs, revealing the constellation of freckles across her sternum.
"You," she shoved his face away, "are the worst tourist we've ever had." But the way her teeth flashed in the moonlight betrayed her.
The tide pulled back just as Nina's fingers found purchase on Charles' biceps, her nails digging crescent moons into his skin as she hauled herself upright.
A wave sloshed between them, knocking their knees together, and suddenly they were nose-to-nose in the shallows, breathing the same salt-thick air. Charles watched a single droplet slide from her temple to her jawline, catching moonlight like liquid mercury.
"You've got sandâ" Nina's words cut off abruptly when Charles thumbed the grain from her lower lip. Her breath hitchedâjust onceâbefore she bit his fingertip hard enough to make him yelp.
"Payback," she muttered, but her voice had gone raspy, her grip on his arms loosening to something less defensive.
The tackle came from nowhereâa shrieking ambush of wet limbs and flying sand. Charles barely had time to register the missing-toothed boyâs war cry before three small bodies crashed into them, sending all five tumbling into the surf.
Nina yelped as a knee connected with her ribs, her grip on Charlesâ arms vanishing as a particularly determined child climbed onto her back like a barnacle. âTraitors!â she gasped, spitting out seawater and what mightâve been a piece of seaweed.
Charles found himself pinned beneath two giggling attackers, their small hands pressing his shoulders into the wet sand with surprising strength.
âPrigioniero!â the boy crowed, sitting triumphantly on Charlesâ chest while his sister attempted to stuff handfuls of wet sand down the neck of Ninaâs dress.
The moonlight caught Ninaâs expressionâhalf outrage, half helpless laughterâas she wriggled onto her side to avoid another sand attack. âYou littleââ
Her threat dissolved into a sputter when the third child dumped a bucket of seawater over her head. Charles wouldâve laughed if the boy on his chest hadnât chosen that moment to plant both knees directly on his solar plexus.
âWe save you from monster!â the girl announced gravely, patting Ninaâs cheek with a damp, sandy hand. Nina blinked up at her, dress plastered to her skin, hair matted with salt and grit. âWhat monster?â
The children exchanged solemn looks. âHim,â the boy said, pointing at Charles with all the gravitas of a prosecuting attorney. Ninaâs shoulders started shakingâwhether from cold or suppressed laughter, Charles couldnât tellâuntil she finally rolled onto her back with a dramatic groan.
âOh no, you caught me,â she deadpanned, throwing an arm across her forehead. âIâve been⊠kidnapped by the Prince of Monaco.â
Charles wheezed as the boy shifted his weight. âIâm the victim here,â he protested weakly, but the children were already swarming Nina like tiny commandos.
He watched through half-squinted eyes as she let them ârescueâ herâthe boy brandishing a stick as a sword, the girls draping seaweed over her shoulders like a royal mantle.
âYou have to kiss her to break the spell,â the youngest whispered loudly, nudging Charles with her foot. Ninaâs eyes flew open. âWhat?â
âLike Sleeping Beauty!â the girl insisted, while her brother nodded sagely. âIn the movie, the princeââ
âNo,â Nina said firmly, sitting up so fast her makeshift seaweed crown slid sideways. Sand cascaded from her hair as she shook her head. âAbsolutely not.â
Charles bit his lip to keep from laughing at her panic. âI think the lady said no,â he told the kids, rolling onto his elbows. The boy pouted. âBut then how will she turn back from a frog?â
âIâm not a frog,â Nina spluttered, plucking a piece of kelp from her collar. The children exchanged skeptical looks. Charles took pity on her. âMaybe the spell wears off at midnight,â he offered.
The kids considered this with grave seriousness before the oldest shrugged. âOkay, but we get to keep the treasure.â
Before Nina could ask what treasure, the trio bolted for the tideline where their sandcastle had once stood. She stared after them, her dress clinging to every curve, hair half-unraveled down her back.
âTheyâre feral,â she muttered, then yelped when Charles flicked a pebble at her knee.
âYou love it.â He stood, offering a hand. Nina eyed his palm like it might bite. âI love not being accosted by tiny pirates.â But she took it anywayâher grip warm and gritty with sand.
The children had unearthed something metallic near the rocks, their excited shouts carrying on the breeze. Nina squeezed Charlesâ fingers once before letting go. âCome on, Prince Charming. Before they find an actual frog.â
They trudged up the beach, seawater squelching in their shoes. The boy waved them over urgently, his treasure clutched tightâa rusted sardine can glinting in the moonlight.
âLook! Gold!â Nina crouched beside him. âAh yes. The lost doubloons of Captain⊠Enzo.â She shot Charles a grin over her shoulder. âVery rare.â
Charles watched her tuck damp hair behind her ear, the motion leaving a streak of sand on her cheek. The kids were already digging again, their small hands frantic. Something tight in his chest loosened.
Nina herded the exhausted children up the cliffside path like a shepherd with unruly lambs, their tiny feet dragging in the dirt. Charles followed with the youngestâthe missing-toothed boyâdraped over his shoulder like a sack of flour, already snoring softly into his collarbone.
"They're not usually this wild," Nina murmured, glancing back at Charles with an apologetic half-smile. "You bring out the worst in them."
Charles adjusted his grip on the boy's legs, feeling small toes twitch against his ribs. "Me? You're the one who turned them into pirates."
The path narrowed as they reached the crest, Nina's small stone house perched between olive trees with its shutters thrown open to the night. A string of fairy lights flickered weakly above the doorâclearly the handiwork of the children, judging by the lopsided nails and tangled wiring.
Nina fished a key from her dress pocket (how it hadn't fallen out during their impromptu seawater wrestling, Charles couldn't fathom) and shouldered the door open with a practiced nudge of her hip.
Inside smelled of rosemary and sun-warmed linen. Nina directed Charles toward a low couch strewn with patchwork blankets, where he deposited the boy with exaggerated care. The child didn't stir, merely curling onto his side with a contented sigh.
Nina knelt to pry sandals from tiny feet, her movements economical in the dim light. "Hand me that blanket," she whispered, pointing to a folded quilt draped over the armchair.
Charles reached for it just as one of the girls stirred on the makeshift pallet by the fireplace. "Ninaaa," she whined, stretching arms toward them with sleep-slurred insistence.
Without missing a beat, Nina gathered the child up, settling cross-legged on the rug with the girl's head in her lap. "Shhh, stellina," she murmured, fingers combing through damp curls. "Dream of treasure maps."
Charles watched, transfixed, as Nina's free hand continued smoothing blankets over the other children with absentminded precision.
She moved like someone who'd done this a thousand timesâadjusting a pillow here, tucking a stuffed octopus under an arm thereâall while keeping up a soft stream of nonsense murmurs that made the girl in her lap sigh contentedly.
The last child proved trickier. The oldest girl sat bolt upright when Nina tried to ease her under the covers, eyes wide with sudden alertness.
"Charles has to tell a story!" she announced, grabbing fistfuls of his still-damp shirt. Nina opened her mouth to protest, but the girl bulldozed on. "A racing story! With crashes!"
"Giulia," Nina warned, but Charles found himself lowering onto the edge of the pallet, his knees protesting the cramped space. "One story," he conceded, surprised by his own compliance.
The girl immediately burrowed under the blankets, her expectant stare reminding him painfully of his younger cousins.
He spun a tale of Monzaâembellishing the wet weather, downplaying the actual spinsâuntil the children's eyelids grew heavy.
Nina's expression hovered between exasperation and amusement as he pantomimed steering wheel motions for emphasis. When he described the post-race gelato, Giulia's grip on his sleeve slackened.
Moonlight filtered through the open shutters, striping Nina's bare shoulders as she shifted the now-sleeping girl from her lap to the pallet. Charles caught himself staring at the way her fingers lingered on the child's forehead, brushing curls aside with a tenderness that made his throat tighten.
"Don't let them fool you," Nina whispered, rising with catlike grace. "They'll demand pancakes at sunrise like little tyrants." She stepped over a sprawled limb, her dress still damp at the hem where seawater hadn't fully dried.
Charles followed carefully, his socked feet (borrowed from Nina's uncle, procured after much grumbling about ruined leather shoes) making no sound on the terra cotta tiles.
The kitchen was all warm wood and chipped cobalt tiles, smelling faintly of lemons and the sea. Nina filled two glasses with something golden from a dusty bottle, pushing one toward Charles without ceremony.
"You're good with them," she said, echoing his earlier words with a twist of her mouth. "For someone who claims to only know how to drive in circles."
Charles huffed a laugh, the ceramic cool against his palm. "My mother says I have the patience of a toddler." He watched Nina's throat work as she swallowed, the moonlight catching the pulse point beneath her jaw. "She'd be horrified to see me now."
"Mm." Nina leaned back against the counter, her hips cocked in a way that made the dress cling to one thigh. "Horrified you're babysitting, or horrified you're doing it barefoot in a stranger's kitchen?" She wiggled her toes against the tile for emphasis.
Charles opened his mouth to reply when a crash came from the living areaâfollowed by giggling. Nina was moving before he could set his glass down, her bare feet slapping against the floorboards.
"Dio mio," she muttered, rounding the corner to find Giulia attempting to climb the bookshelf. "What did I say about sleeping?"
The girl froze mid-reach, her guilty expression illuminated by the streetlamp outside. "But Alberto snores!" She pointed accusingly at her brother, who remained blissfully unconscious in a tangle of limbs.
Nina scooped Giulia up with practiced ease, the girl's protests dying against her shoulder. "And I suppose that's why you were redecorating?" She nodded toward the toppled stack of seashells now scattered across the rug.
Charles righted the seashell tower with careful fingers, stacking them largest to smallest like he'd seen Nina do earlier. "Maybe she's an architect," he offered, earning a sleepy glare from Giulia.
Nina snorted, shifting the girl's weight to her other hip. "An architect of chaos, maybe." She pressed her lips to Giulia's temple in a way that belied her stern tone. "Bed. Now."
The next hour passed in a haze of half-hearted protests and whispered negotiations. Charles found himself pressed into serviceâfetching water glasses, untangling knotted hair, retrieving a mysteriously vanished stuffed seahorse from beneath the couch.
At one point, he caught Nina mouthing the words to a lullaby as she rocked the youngest girl, her voice barely audible above the cicadas outside.
He'd never seen anyone so effortlessly multitaskâtucking blankets with one hand while catching a thrown pillow with the other, all without breaking the rhythm of her singing.
When Giulia demanded a third glass of water ("But I'm thirrrrsty!"), Nina merely raised an eyebrow until the girl huffed and burrowed back under the covers.
Finally, blessedly, silence settled over the little house. Charles hovered in the doorway, watching Nina adjust a blanket over the last child.
Moonlight caught the curve of her shoulder where her dress strap had slipped, the pale skin dusted with freckles he hadn't noticed before. She straightened slowly, rolling her neck with a quiet pop.
The kitchen smelled of lemons and sea salt when they crept back in. Nina poured two fingers of amber liquid into mismatched glassesâsomething local that burned pleasantly on the way down. Charles watched her toes flex against the tile floor, her nails painted a chipped cobalt that matched the backsplash.
"You're good at that," he murmured, nodding toward the living area where soft snores now emanated.
Nina shrugged, but her fingers tightened around her glass. "Comes with the territory." She took a sip, her throat working. "Their parents work nights at the cannery. I get the easy shiftâbedtime stories and skinned knees."
Charles traced a chip in his glass with his thumb. "Seems like more than that."
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hush of waves against the cliffs. Nina exhaled sharply through her nose. "Come on." She jerked her head toward the terrace doors. "Before they wake up and demand pancakes."
Outside, the night smelled of salt and crushed rosemary. Nina led him to a low stone wall where the villa's garden dropped toward the sea. She hoisted herself up with effortless grace, the damp hem of her dress clinging to her thighs.
Charles hesitatedâaware of the ridiculousness of his borrowed socksâbefore joining her.
The first firework exploded overhead just as Nina leaned back on her palms, her bare feet swinging above the rosemary bushes. For a split second, Charles thought it was gunfireâhis body tensing on instinctâuntil the night sky erupted in a shower of gold.
Nina's startled laughter blended with the crackling sparks as another volley lit up the cliffs behind them, painting her profile in flashes of crimson and cobalt.
"Not part of the babysitting package, I assume?" Charles had to raise his voice over the whistling ascent of another rocket. Nina shook her head, her hair catching the light like polished obsidian. "Must be the Festa di San Giovanni."
She pointed toward the harbor where pinpricks of bonfires dotted the shoreline. "They drag the boats out at midnight andâ"
Her explanation dissolved into a yelp as a rogue firework veered wildly off-course, exploding directly above their heads in a starburst of silver.
Charles reacted without thinkingâhis arm coming up to shield Nina's face as hot embers rained down around them. The smell of burnt rosemary filled the air as one landed smoldering in the bush below their feet.
The embers fizzled out in the rosemary bush below, leaving only the ghost of smoke curling between them. Nina's breath hitched against Charles' forearm where it still hovered near her cheekâclose enough that he could feel her eyelashes brush his skin when she blinked.
Neither moved for three heartbeats, the afterimage of silver sparks still dancing across Charles' vision.
"Shit," Nina breathed finally, her laughter shaky. She leaned back just enough to break contact, but the warmth where her shoulder had pressed against his lingered like a brand.
The night air smelled of gunpowder and singed herbs. Charles lowered his arm slowly, watching another firework arc over the harbor in a lazy spiral. "They're not usually that⊠enthusiastic."
Nina huffed a laugh, kicking her bare feet against the stone wall. A fleck of ash drifted onto her knee; Charles brushed it away without thinking, his fingertips grazing sun-warmed skin.
She went very stillâthen pointedly turned her attention to the next explosion, this one a perfect chrysanthemum of green and gold reflected in her pupils.
The display escalatedânot in grandeur, but in sheer chaotic joy. Rockets zigzagged like drunken lightning bolts; fountains spat erratic showers of sparks that made Nina gasp and clutch Charles' sleeve.
At one point, an entire cluster shot horizontally across the bay, skimming the waves like flaming skipping stones before fizzling out with indignant hisses.
Charles found himself cataloging Nina's reactions more than the fireworksâthe way her nose scrunched at the sulfuric smell, how she instinctively ducked when a particularly loud report echoed off the cliffs.
When a misfired Catherine wheel careened into the harbor, spinning wild circles of blue flame atop the water, her laughter rang out clear as a bell over the gasps of the distant crowd.
"Someone's getting fired," she wheezed, wiping her eyes. The dying firelight caught the curve of her throat as she tilted her head back.
Charles followed the line of her neck to where her dress strap had slippedânoticing for the first time the tiny constellation of freckles beneath her collarbone, shaped like the Cassiopeia his nonna had shown him through a childhood telescope.
The firework's dying embers reflected in Nina's eyesâgold on goldâjust as Charles realized he'd leaned close enough to count her freckles.
Somewhere between the first explosion and the last, the space between them had collapsed like a poorly built sandcastle. Her breath hitched, warm against his lips where it mingled with the scent of burnt sugar and sea salt.
Charles wasn't sure who moved first. Maybe Nina, when her fingers curled into the damp fabric of his borrowed shirt. Maybe him, when his hand found the sun-warmed curve of her waist.
The kiss tasted of Sardinian liquor and stolen momentsâslow at first, then deepening when Nina made a sound low in her throat that had nothing to do with the fireworks still popping overhead.
Her sandal dangled precariously from one toe before clattering to the stone path below. The noise should've broken the spell, but Nina only pressed closer, her fingers tunneling into his hair with a possessiveness that made his pulse stutter.
Charles caught her lower lip between his teethâgentle, testingâand felt her smile against his mouth before biting back hard enough to make him gasp.
The terrace tiles were still warm under Charles' palms when Nina pulled away, her breath coming fast. Behind them, a firework burst in a shower of silver sparks, illuminating the pulse hammering at her throat.
Charles watched a stray ember land in her hairâa single glowing point against the darkâbefore she shook it away with a laugh that sounded slightly unsteady. . . .
Summary: It's you and Carlos's honeymoon and you've never been so in love with each other
Song: Kiss Me More â Doja Cat
Authorâs note: 18+ at the END! Please like, reblog and share this! đ€đ«¶
Word count: 2.2k
MASTERLIST - F1
"Did you steal all the blankets again?" Carlos's voice was warm with amusement, his fingers brushing against your bare shoulder as you blinked awake.
The sheets were tangled around his waist, leaving you half-covered in the crisp hotel air conditioning.
You stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in your limbs from last nightâGod, last nightâand turned to see him propped up on one elbow, grinning like heâd won something.
His grin softened into something slower, more private, as he traced the curve of your collarbone with his thumb. "Good morning, mi amor," he murmured, the words still sleep-rough, and you caught his wrist before he could pull away, pressing a kiss to his palm.
The scent of himâwarm skin, the faint tang of salt from last nightâs impromptu swim in the hotel poolâmade your stomach flutter.
His heartbeat thudded steadily under your ear, and you wondered if he could feel the way yours kicked just at the proximity.
"Mm, good morning to you too," you murmured against his chest, lips brushing skin still warm from sleep.
His chuckle rumbled through you, low and rich, and you felt his fingers card lazily through your hair, tugging just enough to make you tilt your head up.
His eyes were dark in the golden morning light filtering through the blinds, crinkling at the corners as he studied you. "Sleep well?" he asked, though the way his thumb traced the curve of your lower lip suggested he already knew the answer.
You nipped playfully at his fingertip, delighting in the way his breath hitched, and he huffed a laugh. "Ah, so thatâs how itâs going to be." His hand slid down to your hip, pulling you flush against him, and you gasped at the sudden contact, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of yourâhisâsleep shirt.
The alarm on his phone buzzed from the nightstand, the sound jarring in the quiet between you.
Carlos groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a muffled, "Five more minutes." You laughed, tangling your legs with his beneath the sheets. "We have a whole day," you reminded him, though you werenât exactly eager to move either.
His lips trailed up the column of your throat, lingering just below your jaw, and you shivered. "A whole day," he repeated, voice dipping into something huskier, "and I plan to spend at least half of it right here."
Outside, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore drifted through the open balcony doors, a reminder of the private beach waiting just beyond the suite.
Youâd picked this place for the seclusion, for the way the ocean stretched endlessly under the sun, but right now, you couldnât imagine wanting to be anywhere but tangled in these sheets with him.
Carlosâs mouth found yours, slow and deep, and you melted into it, fingers tightening in his hair.
The second time you woke upâproperly, languidlyâCarlos was already watching you, his gaze a slow drag of heat that curled your toes under the sheets.
His fingers were tracing idle patterns against the dip of your waist, his touch featherlight, as if he was relearning the topography of your body.
"You're staring," you murmured, voice thick with sleep, and his grin flashed bright against the golden spill of sunlight.
"Can't help it," he admitted shamelessly, leaning in to press a kiss just below your ear. His breath was warm, tickling your skin as he added, "I still can't believe you're mine."
The words sent a thrill down your spine, the same thrill that had been coursing through you since the moment you'd said 'I do.'
You turned onto your side to face him fully, catching his hand in yours and lacing your fingers together. His wedding band glinted in the morning lightâsolid, real.
A breeze drifted in from the balcony, carrying the scent of salt and something faintly floralâmaybe the bougainvillea climbing the trellis outside.
It ruffled Carlos's hair, already delightfully messy from sleep (and your hands), and you reached up to push a stray curl from his forehead. He caught your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm before murmuring,
"Breakfast?" in a tone that suggested he wasn't remotely interested in leaving the bed.
You laughed, shaking your head. "You just want room service so you can keep me here."
The third time you woke, it was to the press of Carlosâs lips against your shoulder bladeâslow, deliberate kisses that trailed down your spine like a whispered secret. You arched into the touch, half-laughing as his hands slid around your waist, anchoring you against him.
âYouâre insatiable,â you murmured, though you made no move to stop him. His chuckle vibrated against your skin, warm and familiar, and you twisted just enough to catch his mouth with yours.
His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back as he deepened the kiss, lazy and indulgent, like you had all the time in the world. Maybe you did.
The thought sent a shiver through youâCarlos, this man whoâd raced against time on the track but now seemed content to let the hours stretch endlessly between you.
When he finally pulled back, his thumb brushed the corner of your swollen lips, his gaze darkening with something possessive.
âBreakfast,â he declared suddenly, as if it had just occurred to him, and you groaned, flopping back onto the pillows.
âYouâre the worst,â you muttered, though the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you. Carlos rolled onto his back with a dramatic sigh, one arm slung over his eyes. âYouâre right. Starving my new wife is a crime.â
You snorted, nudging his ribs with your knee, and he caught your ankle before you could retreat, dragging you halfway atop him with a grin.
âRoom service,â he bargained, âand Iâll let you steal all the croissants.â
You pretended to consider it, tapping a finger against his chest. âOnly if you promise not to distract me.â His eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned up, brushing his nose against yours. âNo promises.â
The fourth time you woke, it wasnât to the brush of lips or the drag of fingersâit was to the absence of him. The sheets beside you were still warm, the indentation of his body fresh enough that you could almost pretend heâd just slipped away seconds ago.
You blinked against the late morning light, heavier now, golden and syrupy where it pooled over the rumpled duvet. A rustling sound came from the direction of the balcony, followed by the clink of porcelain, and you turned your head just as Carlos stepped back into the room, balancing a tray laden with fruit, pastries, and two steaming cups of coffee.
"Ah," he said, catching your gaze, his smile slow and pleased. "There you are." He set the tray down at the foot of the bed with practiced easeâlike heâd done this a hundred times before, though you knew it was the first.
The thought sent a curl of warmth through your chest. Heâd poured the coffee just how you liked it, no milk, one sugar, and the croissants were still flaky, their scent buttery and rich.
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, letting the sheet slip to your waist, and his eyes tracked the movement with undisguised hunger.
"You," you said, voice still sleep-rough, "are a menace." He laughed, low and unrepentant, and climbed back onto the bed, kneeling beside you with the air of a man who knew exactly the effect he had.
The sunlight caught in the scruff along his jaw, turned his skin bronze, and you reached up without thinking, tracing the line of his cheekbone.
He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your fingertips before murmuring, "Eat something, mi vida. Youâll need your strength."
You arched a brow, plucking a strawberry from the tray and holding it just out of reach. "Oh? And whyâs that?" His grin turned wicked as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Because I have plans for you," he said, nipping lightly at your lobe, "and they donât involve leaving this bed until sunset."
You shivered, letting him steal the fruit from your fingers, his teeth grazing your skin as he took it. The juice stained his lips red, and you couldnât resist swiping your thumb across them, tasting the sweetness when he caught your wrist.
You woke up to himâagainâhis breath warm against the nape of your neck, his arm slung heavy and possessive over your waist. The sunlight had shifted, painting the room in honeyed streaks, and the tray of breakfast sat half-forgotten at the foot of the bed, the coffee long gone cold. Carlosâs fingers traced idle circles against your hipbone, his touch featherlight, as if he was mapping the contours of you even in sleep. You shifted just enough to turn and face him, and his grip tightened instinctively, pulling you closer with a drowsy murmur.
His lashes fluttered open, dark against his cheeks, and he blinked at you with the slow, unfocused gaze of someone still half-lost in dreams. âMm,â he hummed, voice thick with sleep, and you watched as his lips curved into a lazy smile. âStill here.
As if heâd expected you to vanish overnight. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, tasting the ghost of strawberry and sleep, and he made a soft, pleased sound, tilting his head to catch your lips properly.
The kiss was slow, syrupy with drowsiness, and when you pulled back, his fingers tangled in your hair, keeping you close. âWhat time is it?â you murmured against his mouth, and he shrugged, the movement sending a ripple through the sheets.
âDoesnât matter.â His thumb brushed the swell of your lower lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up. âWeâre on honeymoon. Timeâs⊠flexible.â
You laughed, and he grinned, boyish and bright, before rolling onto his back and dragging you with him. You sprawled across his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
His hand slid down your spine, settling at the small of your back, and you sighed, melting into the warmth of him. Outside, the ocean murmured against the shore, a distant, rhythmic counterpoint to the quiet between you.
"I love you," you whispered against his chest, the words muffled but unmistakable, your lips brushing the warm skin over his heartbeat. Carlos stilled beneath you, his fingers pausing mid-stroke along your spine.
For a heartbeatâtwoâthere was nothing but the sound of the ocean beyond the balcony and the quiet rustle of sheets as he shifted. Then his hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
"I love you too," Carlos murmured, the words so quiet they might have been lost in the rustle of the sheets if not for the way his lips brushed your forehead as he said it.
His fingers tightened in your hairânot enough to pull, just enough to anchor you both in the momentâand you felt the slow exhale that followed, warm against your skin.
The words had been traded a hundred times before, but this time, tangled in honeymoon sheets with the ocean humming beyond the balcony, they felt heavier. New.
Carlos's mouth found yours again, slow at firstâjust the brush of lips, the teasing flick of his tongue against your lower lipâbefore deepening into something hungrier.
You arched into him with a soft gasp, fingers tightening in his hair as he rolled you both onto your backs, his weight settling over you in a way that made your pulse stutter.
His knee pressed between your thighs, the friction delicious even through the thin fabric of his sleep shirt, and you moaned into his mouth, your hips lifting instinctively.
He laughed against your lips, the sound dark and pleased, and rocked against you just enough to steal your breath. "Mm, impatient," he murmured, dragging his mouth down your jaw to nip at your throat, his teeth sharp enough to make you whine.
You could feel the curve of his smirk against your skin as his hand slid beneath the hem of your shirtâhis shirtâskimming up your ribs with agonizing slowness.
"Carlos," you breathed, half a plea, half a curse, and he hummed, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast in a way that made your back bow off the mattress.
"Say it again," he urged, his voice rough with want, and you did, gasping his name as his fingers finally closed over you, his touch sure and knowing.
The shirt was gone before you registered him moving, tossed carelessly to the floor, and then his mouth was on youâhot, wet, perfectâand you cried out, your fingers scrabbling at the sheets.
He took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of skin he could reach, his tongue swirling around your nipple before sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.
You writhed beneath him, torn between the need to press closer and the urge to push him onto his back and take your turn. As if reading your mind, Carlos caught your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head with a smirk that was all challenge.
"Uh-uh," he chided, his free hand skating down your stomach to hook under the waistband of your panties. "My turn."
The fabric tore with a sharp sound, and you gasped, shocked and thrilled in equal measure, as he tossed the ruined lace aside. . . .
