Just A Fan Of Many

Feel free send me some you think are good 20 y

[multifamdomfan12]

Masterlist Fic Recs

Update when I remember

Tom Holland

Harry Styles

Peter Parker (MCU)

Youtubers (mosty w2s)

Chris Evans

Formula One

Footballers

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[multifamdomfan12]

just updated some of the rec masterlist :)

[pucksandpower]

The Shape of Your Silence

Max Verstappen x deaf!Reader

Summary: they call you “Charles Leclerc’s little sister,” “the deaf girl,” and “Ferrari’s newest junior engineer” … but Max just calls you the person he decided to learn a whole new language for (he’s totally chill and normal like that), because your silence has a lot to say and it deserves to be heard

The sun is high over Melbourne, heat shimmering off the asphalt like it’s trying to make the circuit dance. You step through the paddock gates, your pass clipped to your red Ferrari polo, heart pounding like it’s racing before the cars even start.

You’ve imagined this moment for years. Every lecture, every late-night study session with race footage playing in the background. Every time your brothers told you to be realistic, every time they hugged you tight and said they were proud , but still kept you wrapped in bubble wrap. Every second of wanting to be more than someone’s little sister.

You’re here now. Not as Charles Leclerc’s sister. Not as Arthur or Lorenzo’s baby sister either.

You’re here as you. Junior engineer. Ferrari. Official.

And you are not going to mess this up.

The paddock is buzzing. People shouting into radios, lugging gear, sprinting in and out of garages. Everyone looks like they know exactly where they’re going. You don’t — not quite yet — but you walk with purpose, tablet in hand, eyes flicking across the names on the motorhomes and hospitality units.

You’re so focused on the screen that you barely register the sudden blur of navy blue until it slams into you.

Hard.

Your tablet goes flying. You stumble backward, your shoulder banging into a column. And then a hand — strong, steady — grabs your elbow.

“Shit, are you okay?” The guy says.

You blink up.

He’s taller than you expect. Messy hair. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes narrowed in concern. It takes a second to register the Red Bull logo on his shirt, the sunglasses hooked into the collar, and the slightly scuffed trainers. The second after that, your brain catches up.

Max Verstappen just ran into you.

You don’t answer him. Not out of rudeness, but because you didn’t hear what he said. The world is a closed, silent room to you. It always has been. And he’s talking, voice moving in a world you don’t live in.

You sign quickly, I’m fine. It’s okay.

Then you kneel to pick up your tablet and turn on your heel, pulse still hammering. You need to find the engineering bay, check in with your supervisor, and double-check the tire compound setup for the weekend. No time for awkward apologies or flustered conversations. Definitely no time to explain your entire existence to Max Verstappen.

Behind you, Max is frozen in place.

He watches you disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed.

“What the hell just happened?” He mutters.

Carlos Sainz appears beside him, eyebrows raised. He has a protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other.

“You alright?” Carlos asks casually, eyeing the scene.

Max blinks. “I just ran into someone. Red shirt. Ferrari. She didn’t say anything. Just … did something with her hands and walked away.”

Carlos follows his gaze. His expression softens. “Ah,” he says, voice lowering. “That’s Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

“Leclerc. Charles’ sister.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “That was her? I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

Carlos shrugs, unwrapping his protein bar. “Yeah. She keeps a low profile. Just graduated with an engineering degree. She’s starting as a junior on the team.”

Max squints after you, baffled. “She didn’t say anything. Just kind of-” he waves his hand vaguely, mimicking the motion you made. “Was that sign language?”

Carlos nods. “She’s deaf.”

Max stares at him, then back at where you disappeared.

“She’s what?”

“Deaf. Profoundly, I think. Has been her whole life. Charles is super protective. Don’t take it personally — she probably didn’t hear you. Or didn’t feel like explaining.”

Max doesn’t respond right away.

He’s not sure what he expected, but that explanation hits like an unexpected downshift. His brain races to keep up. Deaf? He’s never met a deaf engineer in the paddock. Never met a deaf person his age, actually. The way you signed — fluid, fast — he had no idea what you were saying. And yet you moved like it was second nature. You looked at him like you were already done with the conversation before he’d even said a word.

It shouldn’t bug him.

But it does.

“You said she’s Charles’ sister?” He asks again.

Carlos nods, taking a bite of his bar. “Yep. Youngest.”

“And she works here now? Like … full time?”

“Junior engineer. Started this weekend. First race.”

Max nods slowly. Then blinks, brows drawing together.

“I think she hates me.”

Carlos laughs. “You collided with her at thirty kilometers per hour in the hospitality zone. Maybe give it a minute.”

Max watches the crowds flow past, still mildly stunned. It wasn’t the way you walked off — not exactly — but something else. The way you didn’t flinch. The way you didn’t wait for his response. The way you carried yourself, like your silence wasn’t something missing, but something deliberate. Controlled.

He’s used to people reacting to him. Good or bad, they usually say something.

You didn’t.

You just signed and left.

Carlos nudges him. “You’re still thinking about it.”

“No, I’m not,” Max says automatically.

“You are.”

“I just didn’t expect-” he gestures vaguely again. “You know. That.”

Carlos eyes him for a beat. “Yeah. Most people don’t.”

Max exhales sharply through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know,” Carlos says. “Look. She’s good. Smart. Tough. But she doesn’t like being treated like she’s fragile. Just talk to her like a normal person. Or-” he grins, “-you know, learn some sign language.”

Max snorts. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just add that to my to-do list.”

Carlos shrugs. “You asked.”

Max watches the crowd one more time, but you’re gone.

You, meanwhile, are at the edge of the Ferrari garage, face still burning from the collision. You’re not embarrassed exactly, but you can still feel the jolt in your bones, and the moment plays on loop in your head like a replay gone wrong.

You’re also annoyed.

Not at him. Not really. But at how fast it happened. At how you didn’t get a chance to explain. At how quickly you had to slip back into the habit of brushing things off before they became complicated.

You scroll through your tablet, grounding yourself in data. Suspension settings. Weather patterns. Tire allocations. There’s comfort in numbers. They don’t expect small talk. They don’t look at you funny when you don’t respond.

Charles appears beside you ten minutes later, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hair windswept and face already faintly sunburnt.

“You okay?” He asks, mouthing the words clearly.

You nod.

He tilts his head. “I heard you ran into Max Verstappen.”

You roll your eyes. He wasn’t watching where he was going.

Charles grins. “He never does.”

You arch an eyebrow. He looked at me like I had three heads.

Charles shrugs, suddenly less amused. “People are idiots.”

You sigh and give a small shrug. It’s fine.

But something about the look Max gave you — surprised, confused, not unkind, just clueless — lingers longer than you’d like.

Charles squeezes your shoulder and gestures toward the engineering bay. “Come on. Practice starts in an hour. Time to show everyone what you can do.”

You follow him, head held high.

You don’t look back toward the Red Bull side of the paddock.

And Max, two motorhomes over, doesn’t stop thinking about the way you signed without waiting for permission.

He doesn’t know what you said. But for some reason, he wants to.

***

The suite smells like garlic and olive oil and something faintly burnt — probably Arthur’s doing. The balcony doors are wide open, letting in the sound of a Melbourne Friday night. Laughter from somewhere below. A street performer’s faint guitar. The deep thrum of traffic.

You slip your shoes off by the door and pad into the open-plan kitchen, still in your red Ferrari jacket, hair up in a messy bun. Your tablet’s in one hand. You haven’t stopped reading telemetry since you left the garage. You’re buzzing — wired from the day, exhausted and electric all at once. Practice went better than anyone expected. And your code — the custom data-cleaning script you finished at 2 a.m. last night — ran flawlessly.

You’re still mentally reviewing downforce numbers when Arthur barrels into the suite like a cannonball.

“Tu rigoles! You’re here before me?” He shouts, arms flailing as he tosses his keys on the table.

You barely glance up before signing, Barely. I beat you by five minutes.

“Still counts,” he huffs, kicking off his sneakers.

Lorenzo arrives next, a plastic bag of wine bottles looped around his fingers. He smells like his cologne and long-haul flights. “Do you ever stop working?” He says, watching as you flick through another screen on your tablet.

You flash him a tight smile, then sign without looking. Telemetry doesn’t analyze itself.

“I brought Pinot,” he says instead. “Don’t say I never support your dreams.”

“You don’t,” Arthur mutters. “You’re just pretending to like wine now to seem sophisticated.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes.

The front door opens again, and you freeze before you even see him.

Charles steps into the room, hair damp from a shower, still wearing his Ferrari polo, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s grease smudged faintly on his wrist. His eyes land on you immediately.

He says nothing for a beat. “You’re still in uniform.”

You sign, So are you.

He sighs, drops his bag on a chair, then walks over and pulls you into a tight hug without warning.

You’re not expecting it.

For a second, you just stand there, his arms around you. Then your tablet lowers, and you press your cheek to his chest.

His hand finds the back of your head, fingers gentle.

You think he’s proud.

But when he pulls back, his expression is complicated.

Dinner takes shape fast — pasta boiling, Arthur chopping vegetables badly, Lorenzo opening wine, Charles strangely quiet. You hover near the kitchen island, half-listening to your brothers argue over whether the sauce needs more salt.

But your eyes flick to Charles. Again and again.

Finally, you sign, Say it.

He looks up from his glass of water. “Say what?”

You narrow your eyes. Whatever you’re thinking.

He hesitates. Then sets the glass down and leans on his elbows. “It’s not a small job.”

I know.

“It’s not a forgiving job.”

You nod. I know.

Charles exhales, rubs his hand over his face. “You’re twenty-two.”

You smile faintly. And you were twenty-one when you started at Ferrari.

“That’s different.”

Why?

His jaw flexes. “Because I wasn’t-”

Arthur throws a handful of basil into the sauce and cuts in. “Because you weren’t deaf?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

Lorenzo steps in smoothly, voice even. “It’s not about that. He’s just worried.”

Arthur scowls. “She’s not fragile.”

“No one said she was,” Lorenzo counters.

“You’re all thinking it.”

You cut in, fingers flying. Stop talking like I’m not here.

They all fall silent.

You press your palms to the countertop. I got this job on my own. I earned it. I’ve spent years watching you live your dreams while pretending I didn’t want the same thing. I’m done pretending.

Arthur’s the first to speak, voice soft. “We never wanted you to pretend. We just-” he breaks off, frowning. “We know what this world is like.”

Charles is staring at the wine bottle label like it holds the answers to the universe. “It’s brutal.”

And I’m ready for that, you sign. You don’t think I haven’t seen it? From the inside? I grew up in garages. I watched you kart before I even had baby teeth.

“You think I don’t remember Le Castellet?” Charles says suddenly, his voice low. “When you were six and someone on my karting team said you’d never survive a race track because you couldn’t hear the engines? You didn’t sleep for a week.”

You feel the memory hit like a punch to the ribs.

Arthur mutters, “I wanted to fight that kid.”

“You did fight that kid,” Lorenzo says dryly.

Charles’s voice goes quieter. “We’ve seen what this world does. We just wanted to protect you from it.”

You don’t get to protect me from my own future.

He flinches.

Lorenzo clears his throat and holds up a wine glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

Arthur grabs a glass and clinks it with his. “To terrifying little sisters who are smarter than all of us.”

You raise your glass, but Charles doesn’t move at first.

Then, finally, he lifts his and meets your gaze.

“To you.”

You smile.

It’s soft. But real.

***

Meanwhile, two hotels away, Max Verstappen lies on his bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling through YouTube.

A video’s paused on the screen. The thumbnail shows a smiling woman with short hair and bright eyes. The title reads Learn 20 Basic ASL Signs for Beginners!

Lando, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips, looks over. “What are you watching?”

Max doesn’t even glance up. “Sign language.”

Lando snorts. “Since when are you learning that?”

“Since today.”

“… Because of Charles’ sister?”

Max finally looks up. “She ran into me.”

“Actually,” Lando says, mouth full, “you ran into her.”

Max groans. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true?” Lando throws a chip at him. “So? What? She blew you off and now you’re in love?”

Max narrows his eyes. “I’m not in love.”

Lando grins. “You downloaded Duolingo for sign language.”

“No, I didn’t,” Max says. “Duolingo doesn’t have sign language.”

Lando blinks. “How do you know that?”

“I checked.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Lando howls with laughter.

Max scowls and throws a pillow at him. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” Lando gasps. “You’ve never even looked twice at anyone in the paddock and now you’re watching videos about finger spelling.”

Max shifts, face heating. “She’s just … different.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“She didn’t react to me,” Max says. “Not like people usually do.”

“She didn’t hear you.”

“No, but-” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t just that. She didn’t try to be nice. Or awkward. Or pretend she didn’t care who I was. She just signed something and walked away.”

“She probably thinks you’re a dick.”

Max sighs. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re not,” Lando says, surprising him. “You’re just not used to people not treating you like Max Verstappen.”

Max is quiet.

Then he reopens the YouTube app and hits play.

The woman on the screen smiles. “Let’s start with the alphabet!”

***

Back in the Leclerc family suite, you’re doing the dishes.

Charles stands beside you, towel in hand, drying each plate you hand over. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Arthur is on the couch, yelling at the TV. Lorenzo’s on the phone in the bedroom.

Charles breaks the silence.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

You glance over.

The job?

He nods.

I love it.

He nods again, slower this time.

Then he signs, You’re amazing.

Your breath catches. You smile — small, warm.

Thank you.

And for the first time that night, everything feels exactly right.

***

The morning is cool and bright when you step into the paddock, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tablet tucked beneath your arm. The air smells like fuel and fresh asphalt. The kind of smell that most people wrinkle their nose at, but to you, it smells like home.

Ferrari’s garage is already alive, buzzing with the usual symphony of controlled chaos. People moving fast, voices raised, tire blankets being peeled back. The pit wall team is calibrating headsets, and engineers are tapping away at laptops like they’re defusing bombs. But when you walk in, the air shifts just slightly.

One of the senior engineers, Sergio, gives you a nod of acknowledgment as you pass.

Another, Isa, offers you her usual crooked half-smile.

It wasn’t always like this — not even one day ago. But something changed after practice. The moment they saw your data lines. The way you isolated the inconsistent vibration through lap telemetry and flagged it before anyone else noticed. You didn’t say a word in the debrief, but the numbers did.

They’re starting to see you.

Not as someone’s sister. Not as a girl who needs shielding. Just as you.

You're mid-scroll through tire wear stats when someone taps your shoulder. Gently, like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they push too hard.

You turn.

It’s him.

Max Verstappen, in full Red Bull uniform, cap pulled low, jaw clenched like he’s about to launch into a high-speed corner.

You raise an eyebrow.

His lips press into a tight line. Then he lifts both hands, takes a deep breath, and starts finger-spelling something. Slowly. Carefully. Like every letter might explode.

H … E … L … L … O.

Then he hesitates. His brow furrows. His mouth moves slightly, mouthing the letters along with his hands. His finger flicks toward his chest.

You stare at him.

It takes a second before you realize what he’s trying to do.

And then it hits you.

He’s signing in ASL.

Your nose wrinkles. Not in annoyance, just surprise. Because you don’t use American Sign Language. You never have. You were born in Monaco. Raised in French. Your whole life has been in Langue des Signes Française.

And whatever Max just spelled?

It looked like a painfully slow attempt at ordering coffee in a different country.

You blink.

He looks so serious. Like this is a press conference. Like this is his world championship.

You burst out laughing.

Full-bodied. Loud. A rare kind of laugh that you don’t usually give out in public. It slips out of you before you can stop it.

Max’s face goes completely blank. Mortified. Like he’s just gotten out of the car and realized his fly’s down during a podium.

You hold up a hand, trying to breathe.

Then, still smiling, you reach behind you and grab a napkin off the coffee cart near the hospitality entrance. You scribble something with the pen clipped to your tablet.

You fold the napkin once, then hold it out to him.

He takes it, cautiously.

10/10 effort. 2/10 accuracy.

Wrong language, Verstappen.

Max reads it. Then blinks.

Then groans, tipping his head back toward the sky. “You’re kidding me.”

You shake your head, still grinning.

He rubs his hand over his face. “So what do you use?”

You sign, slow and clear. LSF.

“Is that … French?”

You nod. Then point to yourself, then your badge. Ferrari. Monaco. Surprise.

Max exhales, the tips of his ears pink. “Great. So I’ve been learning the wrong damn language all night.”

You shrug, amused. It’s cute.

He stares at you. “You think that was cute?”

You gesture toward the napkin. The effort. Not the execution.

Max looks at the napkin again, then folds it and stuffs it into his pocket like it’s a race strategy worth saving.

Then, after a beat, “Okay. New plan. I learn French sign language.”

You don’t have to.

“I want to.”

You blink. He says it with such ease. No hesitation. No bravado. Just … honest.

That’s new.

You cock your head. Why?

He shrugs. “Because if I run into you again, I want to say more than ‘hello’ and get laughed at in three seconds.”

You grin. Four seconds. Give yourself some credit.

He actually laughs. It’s short, but genuine.

Then he glances at the garage behind you. “You’re … uh, busy?”

You nod. Always.

He hesitates. Then holds out his hand. “I’ll get out of your way. Just … if I learn it. Will you help me practice?”

You eye his outstretched hand. Then, after a moment, you shake it.

Only if you promise not to run into me again.

He nods solemnly. “Deal.”

***

Later, in the garage, you’re reviewing a line graph on your monitor when Charles slides in behind you like a shadow.

He taps your shoulder.

You turn.

He signs hurriedly. You okay?

You nod. Then sign back, Why?

He tilts his head. “Because I saw Verstappen trying to mime at you and then you laughed so hard I thought you were having a breakdown.”

You roll your eyes. He tried to sign in ASL.

Charles frowns. “Isn’t that … the wrong one?”

You grin. Exactly.

He shakes his head. “This guy.”

He tried. It was sweet.

Charles narrows his eyes. “Max Verstappen is not sweet.”

He spelled hello and then looked like he wanted to cry.

Charles pauses. Then sighs. “Okay. That’s a little sweet.”

You give him a look.

His mouth flattens into a line. “Just … be careful.”

You raise both brows. Of what?

He gestures vaguely. “People like him.”

Confident men?

“Cocky men.”

You mean men like you?

He groans. “That’s not fair.”

You tap your fingers to your temple, smiling. Life isn’t fair.

Behind you, Sergio waves you over. You hold up a finger to Charles, then jog toward the data table.

He watches you go.

Isa sidles up next to him.

“She’s good,” she says.

Charles glances sideways. “She always has been.”

“No, I mean really good,” Isa says. “The sensor override fix she implemented this morning? Saved us thirty minutes in practice. Cleanest code I’ve seen from a junior in years.”

Charles stares at you across the garage.

You’re deep in conversation with two of the engineers. Laughing silently, eyes bright. You’re signing quickly, clearly. They’re following. One even signs back, haltingly, but with visible effort.

You’re not just holding your own.

You’re leading.

Charles lets out a slow breath.

Isa nudges him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He mutters, “That’s not how big brothers work.”

She shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time you learn.”

***

That night, Max sits cross-legged on the hotel bed, hair damp from the shower, eyes locked on his phone. His laptop is open beside him, playing a YouTube video titled Les bases de la langue des signes française – PARTIE 1.

The woman onscreen moves her hands with elegant fluidity. He mimics the signs, stumbling through them, pausing every five seconds to rewind.

Lando walks in, a PlayStation controller in each hand, then stops in the doorway.

“… Mate.”

Max doesn’t look up. “Don’t say it.”

“You switched languages.”

“Yes.”

“You really like her, huh?”

Max’s fingers pause mid-sign. He exhales through his nose.

“I don’t know,” he says. “She’s just … not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

Lando nods, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. I get that.”

Max clicks pause. The screen freezes on a still of the sign for “bonjour.”

He stares at it for a long time.

Then goes back to the beginning.

Again.

***

The rooftop bar is too loud. Too bright. Too many conversations colliding like spinning tires in a wet turn. Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls, neon reflections pooling in half-empty glasses. Somewhere across the rooftop, someone is already dancing on a bench with a Ferrari flag wrapped around their shoulders like a cape.

You stand off to the side, pressed against the railing, fingers curled around a glass of lemonade you haven’t touched. Your tablet is in your bag, and without it, your hands feel oddly empty.

The Ferrari team is celebrating — P3 for Charles, P5 for Lewis — and no one expected that after the struggles in FP2. There’s champagne being passed around like water, and someone has started taking shots off a tire-themed tray.

You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re not uncomfortable, exactly. Just … aware. There’s always this moment, at these things, when the conversation starts slipping just beyond your reach.

Not because people are cruel. Not intentionally.

But because laughter doesn’t translate. Lip-reading fails in strobing lights. And the group talk always fractures into side chats you can’t follow unless someone remembers to turn toward you. Remember to include you. Remember that you’re still here.

You’re used to it. You’ve perfected the art of pretending you’re not watching the room, calculating how long before you can politely leave.

And then-

“Hey.”

You turn.

He’s there.

Max. Hands shoved in the pockets of a black jacket, slightly rumpled hair, looking vaguely like he walked into the bar by accident.

Your brow lifts. Coincidence?

He pulls out his phone and types something. Turns the screen toward you.

Total coincidence. I just happened to crash the Ferrari party for no reason at all.

You laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

He grins.

You sign, simple and slow. You came to see me.

He shrugs. Maybe.

You tilt your head. How many signs do you know now?

He pulls a folded napkin from his jacket pocket. On it, scribbled in surprisingly neat handwriting:

Bonjour

Comment ça va?

Travail

Voiture

Toi / Moi / Merci / S’il te plaît / Fatigué / Intéressant

You raise an eyebrow. Then sign, Impressive.

Max looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

You grin. Then grab a pen from your bag, pull a coaster off the bar, and write.

10/10 effort. 6/10 accuracy. Upgraded from last week.

He reads it and chuckles. Then scribbles underneath.

Still failing, though?

You scribble back. Barely passing.

Then, before you can overthink it, you add. You’re getting better.

He pauses. His fingers hover over the edge of the coaster, tracing your handwriting once, then twice. His smile softens.

Max gestures toward the quiet seating in the corner. You nod, and the two of you move over, away from the noise, to a pair of stools by the edge of the railing, facing the skyline. The Shanghai towers blink like circuit lights in the distance.

He pulls out his phone again and types:

Can I ask you something?

You nod.

What exactly is your job? I mean not like, in vague PR terms. But actually.

Your brows rise.

Most people ask about Charles. Or about how hard it is. Or how you “cope.”

Not many ask what you do.

You grab a clean napkin and start writing. It takes a few minutes. He waits.

I write code that analyzes car data in real-time. I help identify irregularities before they become problems. Everything from tire temp curves to ERS discharge rates. Yesterday I found a minor brake imbalance in Lewis’ car before FP3. Probably saved a lock-up.

You pass the napkin over.

Max reads it, lips moving silently as he follows the words. Then, after a beat, he signs — carefully, but clearly — Smart.

You grin. Correct.

He types. So you’re the reason Lewis didn’t spin into Turn 11 today?

You nod. Probably.

He whistles under his breath. Do they treat you like part of the team?

That one takes you off-guard. You blink.

Then pick up the pen and write. Sometimes. Depends on the day. It’s better now. I had to earn it. Twice.

He doesn’t ask what you mean.

But you keep writing anyway. Once as a rookie. Again as the deaf girl.

He reads it. And instead of offering pity — or worse, fake admiration — he just writes. They’re idiots if they can’t see what you bring.

You stare at the napkin.

He taps the pen between his fingers and looks sideways at you. “I’m not always good at saying the right thing,” he says, voice low. “But I mean that.”

You nod. Something tugs in your chest. A thread, long and old and quiet.

People don’t usually talk to you.

They talk over you. Around you. At you.

They smile politely while looking to your brothers for your answers. They ask if you “mind” being here. If it’s “okay” that you have to “struggle” so much.

No one asks about your code.

No one waits to read your words slowly. Pauses between questions. Watches your hands. Listens with their eyes.

Except him.

You sign, slow and clear. Why do you care?

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean, I do. You’re interesting.” He hesitates. “You don’t pretend. You don’t do that thing where you act impressed or unimpressed. You’re just … you.”

You snort. Then write. You’re used to people trying too hard around you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Or pretending I’m not human at all.”

You nod. I get that.

You both fall quiet for a moment, watching the lights. Somewhere behind you, the Ferrari crew is howling over a game of darts using pitboard numbers as targets.

Max leans forward, resting his arms on the railing. “I looked up how sound works in your car,” he says suddenly.

You turn to him.

“The sensor translation system. It’s cool. I didn’t realize how much it’s tied into the telemetry.”

You blink. You researched it?

He nods. “Yeah. I wanted to know how you experience the car.”

You don’t reply.

Mostly because you don’t know how.

It’s the kind of question no one ever asks. People assume you miss something. Like hearing is the baseline, and everything else is lesser.

But he doesn’t ask what’s missing.

He asks how it feels.

You take the napkin again. Then, carefully, you write. It’s not quiet. Just … different. I read vibration, motion, tone. I can feel a problem in my chest before I see it on a screen.

You hesitate.

When I work in the car, I feel like I’m part of it.

You push it across.

He reads it twice. His jaw flexes like he’s trying not to say something too fast.

Then he leans back and signs. That’s incredible.

Your throat tightens.

You sign back. You don’t think it’s weird?

He shakes his head. “I think it’s probably what makes you better.”

You don’t say anything.

But your smile says enough.

***

It’s well past midnight when the party starts winding down. Someone’s already asleep under the bar, and Charles’ race engineer is trying to organize a very serious group karaoke plan for the following Sunday night.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at Max.

He types something on his phone, then holds it up.

Want to walk back to the hotel? It’s five minutes.

You hesitate. Then nod.

The Shanghai night is soft and humid, the skyline glowing above you like a ceiling of stars. You walk in silence, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind that feels like a warm hand resting on your shoulder.

When you reach the hotel entrance, you pause.

Max stops beside you.

You pull out a pen one last time and write.

10/10 effort tonight.

He grins. Then signs, 8/10 accuracy?

You shake your head, smile wide.

9/10, at least.

And this time, you’re the one who walks away first.

But not before you look back.

***

The sun dips low behind the Miami skyline, throwing sharp shadows across the paddock as the race trucks rumble to life. The air still hums with the echo of roaring engines, adrenaline not yet burned off. Debriefs wrap, interviews trail off, and slowly the paddock starts to exhale.

You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.

Ferrari finished decently well — Lewis P7, Charles P3 — but the mood in the garage is brittle. The race was messy. Tire strategy misfired. The late safety car scrambled everything.

Still, your data team caught the overheating rear brake sensor just in time. You flagged it at Lap 34, just before it could snowball into a full failure. Sergio clapped your shoulder when the drivers debriefed.

But you haven’t been able to enjoy any of it. Because you’ve felt Charles watching you.

All weekend.

And not in the proud big-brother way.

In the circling hawk way.

You’re mid-step toward the hospitality suite when he corners you. Right outside the motorhome, arms crossed, face unreadable. The same expression he wore at age seventeen when he found you trying to sneak into a karting track at midnight with Arthur.

You sigh.

Charles speaks first. “We need to talk.”

You frown. Now?

He nods. “Now.”

You glance around. The hallway’s mostly empty, save for a Red Bull junior engineer pacing on the phone.

You fold your arms.

Charles rubs the back of his neck. “This thing with Max …”

Your stomach drops.

What thing?

“You’ve been spending time with him.”

So?

“I just-” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t like it.”

You blink. Then laugh. It’s small and sharp.

That’s not your choice.

Charles flinches like the signs hit harder than your voice ever could.

“I’m just saying, he’s … Max,” he says, exasperated. “He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do people. He’s intense and impulsive and he plays mind games-”

He’s not like that with me.

“How do you know that?”

Because I pay attention.

Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand how he is when the pressure builds. He changes. I’ve seen it.”

You sign faster now, sharper.

What, and you think I can’t handle it?

“That’s not-”

You’ve never trusted me. Not really. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re just controlling me.

His jaw tightens.

You shake your head. I’ve earned my place here. And you still treat me like I’m twelve years old.

“That’s not fair-”

No, you sign furiously. What’s not fair is being watched like I’m a problem waiting to happen. What’s not fair is having my choices questioned just because they make you uncomfortable.

Silence stretches between you.

Your fingers are trembling.

Charles’ shoulders sag. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You stare at him.

Then, quietly, you sign, That’s not your call.

And you walk away before he can answer.

***

The gravel crunches under your sneakers as you find your way behind the paddock, to the far edge where the energy dies off. A line of cargo containers sits in shadow, quiet and cold, forgotten.

You sit on the edge of one, tucking your knees to your chest. The South Florida wind is somehow colder here. Your breaths come sharp and uneven, not from crying, but from holding everything in.

You hate that your hands shook.

You hate that your voice always has to be your fingers.

You hate that people still don’t listen.

You lean your head back against the metal container and close your eyes.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The voice is quiet. Familiar.

Max.

You turn your head slowly.

He stops a few feet away, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket. No Red Bull entourage. No camera crew. Just him. Looking at you like he already knows you don’t want to be seen but came anyway.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He sits beside you. Careful not to crowd.

For a while, there’s just wind. The low hum of trucks packing down. The distant laughter from a hospitality tent.

Max pulls out his phone. Then sets it on the ground between you, screen facing up.

Are you okay?

You stare at it.

Then shake your head. Once.

He nods.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his body toward you and lifts his hands.

You. Matter.

Your chest pulls tight.

He signs again, a little slower this time.

You. Matter. To me.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Then reach for his phone. I didn’t know how badly I needed someone to just say that.

He doesn’t smile. Just nods.

Then signs, I mean it.

You reach for your notebook, flipping to a clean page. Your hand shakes as you write.

Charles thinks I’m making a mistake. With you.

He swallows. His jaw ticks.

He thinks I can’t see who you are. But I do.

Max looks at you carefully. Like he’s afraid of breaking something already cracked.

You keep writing.

You’re stubborn. Competitive. Sometimes kind of an ass.

He barks a laugh. Muted and surprised.

You add, But you see me. You listen. You try. And you don’t make me feel like I have to fight to be heard.

He stares at the words. Then at you.

When he signs again, it’s slower than before, but steadier.

I want to learn how to do this better.

You nod.

Then sign back, softer now. So do I.

He looks at your hand for a moment. Then, carefully, threads his fingers through yours.

Your breath catches. The wind shifts.

You don’t need words right now.

You just sit with him in the quiet.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel understood.

***

Later, as the paddock lights flicker off one by one, someone watches from a distance.

Charles, leaning against the back wall of the hospitality suite.

He sees the way Max sits beside you.

Sees the stillness. The peace.

And something in his expression finally starts to change.

***

You’re not a morning person. Never have been. But the email came in at 6:13 a.m. from Ferrari PR, with the red URGENT tag glowing like a warning light on your screen.

Meeting at 8:00. Hospitality office.

No context.

By 7:45, you’re seated in the back of the Ferrari motorhome, legs crossed at the ankle, hair pulled up in a tight knot, tablet in your lap like a shield. You tap your pen once, twice, against the corner, heart drumming a half-beat too fast.

Silvia from PR sits across from you, all sharp lines and tight lips. Beside her is someone you don’t recognize — early forties, pale blue shirt, hair too neat for anyone who’s ever stepped foot on a pit wall.

To her left sits the interpreter.

You nod politely to him. His name is Luc. You’ve worked with him before. He’s kind. Precise. A rare comfort in a setting that so often feels too fast, too loud, too assuming.

Luc signs, They wanted me here to ensure full clarity on what’s being discussed.

You nod once, eyes already narrowing.

Silvia leans forward, elbows on the desk.

“There’s been chatter,” she says in Italian, her words slow but firm.

Luc mirrors them in LSF.

You frown. What kind of chatter?

The man in the pale blue shirt — Vincenzo, you learn — scrolls through his phone and swivels it toward you. It’s a tweet. And then another. And another.

Ferrari’s new engineer sleeping with the enemy?

Guess Verstappen isn’t just fast on track.

Charles Leclerc’s sister caught cozying up to rival.

Pick a struggle: nepotism or pillow talk strategy leaks?

Your stomach turns. Not from the words themselves. But from the way Silvia won’t meet your eye.

Vincenzo speaks again. Luc signs.

We’re not accusing you of anything. But this is … unfortunate. Distracting. The timing is poor. It’s the middle of a championship season.

You stare at them. So your solution is to what? Tell me who I can and can’t speak to?

“No,” Silvia says, gently. “But we need you to be aware. The optics aren’t ideal. You’re Charles’ sister. You work for the team. And you’re visibly spending time with someone from a rival camp.”

You exhale sharply. Then start signing quickly, hands snapping the air like a whip.

I’ve worked my ass off. I’ve earned this job. My deafness already made me a question mark to half of this paddock. Now I finally get taken seriously, and suddenly I’m a liability? Because I sat with someone at a bar?

Luc softens the delivery, but the heat still lands.

Silvia clears her throat. “That’s not what we’re saying.”

But it’s exactly what you’re implying.

Vincenzo’s tone turns clipped. “We are asking you to consider how your actions reflect on the team.”

You write a single word on your tablet screen, bold and in capital letters, then turn it toward them.

UNFAIR.

They don’t have a response.

***

You don’t cry.

Not until you’re in the back hallway near the logistics trailers, hidden behind a stack of wheel carts. Then you slide down the cold concrete, bury your face in your arms, and let the frustration roll over you in one silent, aching wave.

You’ve survived harder things.

But this … this feels personal. Because it erases everything. All the hours. The data streams. The quiet respect you’ve built in the garage.

Gone with a headline.

Reduced to someone’s sister. Someone’s rumored girlfriend. Not an engineer. Not a mind.

Just gossip.

***

The press conference is livestreamed.

You watch it from the back hallway of the paddock, standing just out of sight. The words blur together until you read your name cross someone’s lips.

A reporter from a sensationalist racing tabloid starts to ask, “Max, there’s been some speculation about your relationship with a Ferrari engineer — Charles Leclerc’s sister, to be specific. Any comment on the photos and what it could mean-”

Max cuts in. Instantly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do have a comment.”

The room stills.

Max leans into the mic, eyes sharp.

“I think it’s pathetic.”

A murmur ripples through the journalists.

He continues. “She’s a brilliant engineer. She caught a mechanical failure in China that probably saved a race. She works harder than most people in this paddock, and instead of talking about that, you’re writing clickbait about her sitting next to someone?”

The reporter tries to interrupt. Max doesn’t let him.

“If this is the level of journalism you’re going to bring to this sport, I won’t be answering questions from your outlet anymore. Period.”

He sits back. Calm. Dead serious.

The moderator tries to steer the conversation back to tire strategy.

Max answers without looking away from the camera.

And just like that, it’s over.

You watch the video again. And again.

You don’t know what to feel.

Until your phone buzzes.

MAX

You free after debrief?

You reply, Yes. Why?

He replies with a location pin. A quiet hill above the paddock.

And nothing else.

***

You’re sitting on a bench beneath the cypress trees when he arrives.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds out a small brown paper bag.

You open it.

Snowdrops.

Not roses. Not some generic red bouquet.

Snowdrops — your favorite. Soft, white, delicate, and defiant. The first flower to push through winter soil. The symbol of beginnings. Of resilience.

Your throat closes.

You sign, slow. How did you know?

He shrugs, awkward. “I asked Arthur.”

That makes you laugh. Wet, shaky, but real.

You touch the petals gently. Then look up.

Why did you do that? At the press conference?

His jaw tightens. “Because they made it sound like you’re some pawn. Like you’re here because of me. Or Charles. Not because you earned it.”

You stare at him.

He breathes out. “And because I hate when people talk about you like you’re not you.”

You stand up. Walk closer. Just enough for him to see your face clearly.

They made me feel small today, you sign. Like all I’ve done didn’t matter. Like I’m just a headline.

“You’re not,” he says.

Then what am I?

He doesn’t answer right away. “You’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. You see things no one else sees. You care more than people deserve. And you still let them in anyway.”

You don’t move.

“You make me want to be better,” he says.

You’re shaking again. Not with anger this time.

With something warmer. Something more terrifying.

Max steps closer. Carefully. Always carefully.

Then signs, as well as he can, one word at a time.

You. Are. Not. Small.

And finally.

You. Matter. To. Me.

You reach for him before you can think.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you don’t let go.

Not for a long time.

***

The rain doesn’t fall at Spa. It assaults.

The skies opened just past lunch, and now thunder rolls low across the Ardennes like some ancient god is clearing its throat. The paddock buzzes in disjointed chaos: engineers reworking strategies in damp garages, drivers pacing, fans huddled under ponchos. Visibility on track is nonexistent. Qualifying’s already been delayed twice.

And still, the rain doesn’t stop.

You watch the chaos from inside the Red Bull motorhome, seated awkwardly on the edge of a modular couch in Max’s driver’s room. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and fabric softener. The low hum of the television murmurs in the background, some archive footage of past Spa races looping while the commentators stall for time.

Max is pacing near the window, watching water stream down the glass like it’s personal. You’ve learned he’s always restless before quali, but this is a different kind of tension. One that builds when plans are disrupted and control slips through fingers.

You tap your tablet once to get his attention.

It’s not looking good, you sign, eyes flicking toward the forecast scrolling on the screen.

He huffs. “They’ll probably cancel the whole session. Call it based on FP times.”

Which would leave you starting fourth.

He makes a face. “Behind both Ferraris? That’s tragic.”

You grin. I might be okay with it.

“I’m not.”

You let the silence settle. The storm outside is louder now, wind rattling the motorhome's metal panels. The TV drones on, the voices muffled even to Max. You glance at him. He’s not watching anymore.

Without a word, he picks up the remote and shuts it off.

He turns to face you fully.

Then walks over and sits, close. Closer than usual. His shoulder nearly brushes yours, his thigh just shy of touching.

You glance at him. Okay?

He nods.

Then he takes a breath.

And lifts his hands.

Tu n’es pas du bruit de fond.

You stare.

The signs are slow, a little shaky, but precise. Thought-out. He even pauses between words like you taught him to let the sentence mean something.

You blink hard. Then again.

You are not background noise.

Your throat tightens.

You open your hands, unsure where to begin.

You practiced that?

He nods. “All night.”

Why?

“Because I needed to say it right.”

You look down at your hands, folded in your lap. Then back at him.

People have always talked over me, you sign. Or around me. Or about me.

He nods, not breaking eye contact.

But not you.

“I never want to be that person.”

You exhale, a breath that leaves your chest softer.

It’s terrifying.

“What is?”

Letting someone see me. Like really see me.

He nods, slow. “Yeah. I … I think I’ve been terrified since Melbourne.”

You blink. Why?

“Because I’ve never wanted someone to look at me the way you do. And I’ve never cared this much about getting it right.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in and expanding at the same time.

The thunder cracks outside again, closer now. The lights flicker just briefly.

You don’t look away from him.

And he doesn’t look away from you.

When he leans in, it’s not a dramatic sweep. It’s tentative. Slow. Like he’s giving you space to move. Space to say no.

You don’t.

His lips brush yours — just barely. A question, not an answer.

Your fingers curl instinctively in the fabric of his shirt.

You kiss him back.

Soft, deliberate, electric in the quiet way storms can be — no flash, no fury. Just the hum of something inevitable finally breaking the surface.

When you part, neither of you speak for a long time.

You touch his cheek once, then sign. You didn’t mess it up.

He grins, forehead resting against yours. “Good.”

Outside, the storm rages on.

Inside, it finally feels like something’s just begun.

***

The sun has barely dipped behind the trees in Monza when Charles finds Max.

The paddock is emptying out, crew members packing up gear with the dull exhaustion of another long race weekend, but Ferrari’s hospitality terrace still buzzes faintly — bottles of prosecco half-empty, leftover canapés untouched.

Max is sitting near the back corner of his own team’s hospitality, talking quietly with one of Red Bull’s engineers, face sun-flushed from the race, eyes sharp and clear despite the heat.

Charles approaches with purpose.

Max sees him and straightens a little, nodding at the engineer, who takes the hint and melts away without a word.

For a beat, it’s just them.

Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t challenge. He waits.

Charles folds his arms. His jaw works once before he speaks.

“What are you doing?” He asks. Not angry. Just tired. Guarded.

Max tilts his head. “Right now?”

“You know what I mean.”

Max breathes in slowly. “If you’re here to threaten me, I’ve already heard it from Arthur. And Lorenzo. Twice.”

“This isn’t about them.”

“Then what’s it about, Charles?”

Charles glares. “It’s about Y/N.”

Max meets his eyes, unblinking.

Charles huffs. “She’s not like the rest of us. She doesn’t live for this circus. This pressure. This madness. She’s not-”

“-a driver?” Max finishes. “That’s funny. Because she knows more about these cars than everyone in the grid.”

Charles scowls. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Max stands, finally. Slowly. Not confrontational. Just level.

“You still see her as the girl who needed you to walk her across busy streets and translate for her at the store,” he says, voice quiet. “You still think she needs your protection.”

“I know what she’s been through.”

“Then maybe you should stop acting like she’s fragile because of it.” Max’s tone is sharper now. “She’s not a child, Charles. She’s a professional. A brilliant one.”

Charles’s fists curl slightly. “I don’t care how brilliant she is. You’re reckless. You’ve got a temper. You shut people out-”

“You think I’d ever take her lightly?”

“You hurt people without meaning to. I’ve seen it.”

Max’s expression doesn’t shift. But something behind his eyes flickers.

“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But I see her.”

Charles doesn’t respond.

“I see someone who moves through the world in silence, and still manages to command every room she walks into.” Max’s voice lowers, almost reverent. “You see a little sister. I see someone who redefines the space around her. Who doesn’t ask to be heard, but is impossible to ignore.”

He steps forward, not aggressively, but close enough that Charles has to listen.

“I care about her. I respect her. And if she wants me in her life, that’s not your decision to make.”

Silence hangs thick between them.

“You don’t get to decide who’s enough for her,” Max finishes. “She decides that herself.”

***

While that storm brews outside, you’re walking into the lion’s den.

The Ferrari senior management team is mid-way through their end-of-weekend debrief. The air is thick with numbers, data, and the faint aroma of burnt espresso. You’ve been invited — not formally, but pointedly. You know what it’s about.

The rumors.

The tension.

The whispers in the garage.

You walk in calmly, dressed in your team gear, hair pulled back, tablet in hand but unused.

Luc sits beside you.

Fred barely looks up.

“Let’s make this quick.”

Luc signs the words, but you already know the tone.

You speak with your hands, composed and clear.

Let’s.

“I think we’ve given you a lot of freedom,” Fred starts, “more than most first-year engineers would get.”

You’ve given me a contract. I earned the rest.

Someone shifts in their seat. Not a challenge, not yet, just discomfort.

“You’re good,” he says. “But optics matter. And lately-”

Optics?

He hesitates. “There’s a perception that your relationship with Verstappen is … unprofessional.”

You don’t flinch.

Would it be unprofessional if I was not Charles’ sister?

He says nothing.

If I were a man?

Still nothing.

You tap your pen once against your tablet, then lean forward.

Let’s talk about what actually matters. My performance. The improvements I helped Lewis make in sector two. The aero feedback I corrected that gave Charles a 0.2 advantage in Q3. The fact that the simulations I ran this morning predicted the tire degradation curve to within 0.3% accuracy. That’s what I do.

A beat.

I don’t trade secrets. I don’t let anyone near my work. I’ve never once compromised this team. Not for Max. Not for anyone.

Your hands are steady. Your voice, through Luc, carries like steel.

If you have concerns, say them. But don’t mask discomfort with sexism or ableism and call it team management.

It’s quiet.

Very quiet.

Finally, Fred leans back.

“Noted,” he says.

That’s it.

But you know it’s more than enough.

You stand, nod once, and walk out.

Luc catches your eye as you reach the hallway. He signs, You okay?

You smile, just a little. Now I am.

***

Charles doesn’t speak to you that night.

You notice his silence at dinner. Notice the way he watches you — carefully, cautiously, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t know how to say. Lorenzo speaks softly about the season. Arthur cracks jokes. But Charles says nothing.

Until later.

You’re walking back toward your room when you notice him behind you.

“Wait.”

You turn.

He’s standing alone in the corridor, hands in his pockets, hair still damp from a post-race shower. His eyes are tired.

You sign, What is it?

“I spoke to Max.”

Your brows lift. Okay?

“I thought he’d be defensive. Or angry.”

You tilt your head. He can be both. But not when it matters.

Charles exhales. “I didn’t expect him to fight for you.”

He didn’t. He stood beside me.

Charles’s eyes soften. “You always say things like that. That make me feel stupid.”

You’re not stupid. Just used to seeing me as someone who needed protecting.

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I remember when you got your first hearing aid. You hated it.”

It hurt. And it made everything too loud.

“And you ripped it off in the middle of school and flushed it down the toilet.”

You smile. That was a proud day.

He chuckles softly. Then his expression shifts.

“I’m not proud of how I’ve treated you. Or how I treated him.”

You pause.

Why did you?

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Because he reminded me of me. And I didn’t want that for you.”

You take a step closer.

But I’m not you.

He nods.

And Max …

“He’s not who I thought he was,” Charles says quietly. “He’s better.”

That hits harder than you expect.

You smile. Just a little.

So you’re okay with this?

Charles laughs under his breath. “I’m still your brother. I’ll never be okay with any of it. But I trust you.”

You nod. Slowly. That’s all I wanted.

He opens his arms, tentative.

You walk into them.

And for the first time in a long time, your hug is that of equals.

***

Later, as the paddock winds down and the stars emerge over Monza, you find Max leaning against the fence near the parking lot, headphones around his neck, head tilted back toward the sky.

You tap his shoulder.

He turns, and before he can say anything, you sign:

He trusts me now.

Max raises a brow. “Took him long enough.”

You laugh, and he smiles — really smiles. The kind that lights up everything inside you.

He pulls you close.

And under the cooling night, you realize something else.

You didn’t need anyone to fight for your place in this world. But damn, it’s nice having someone who wants to.

***

One Year Later

It rains, as it always does in Belgium.

Not the full-force storm Spa is famous for, but a light, steady drizzle that makes the tarmac slick and the grass smell alive. The clouds hang low and moody over the forested circuit, and the energy is electric in that uniquely race day kind of way — tension, adrenaline, caffeine, too many radios crackling at once.

You walk through the paddock with Max.

You’re both in team gear — Ferrari red for you, Red Bull navy for him — but his jacket sleeve brushes yours every few steps. There’s nothing secretive about it anymore. You’re a fixture. A year in. Public. Steady. Still occasionally shocking to people who never expected Max Verstappen to show up for anyone like this.

But you know the truth.

He doesn’t just show up.

He stays.

You sign, You have a hair sticking up.

He glances at you, amused. “Just one?”

You reach up and flatten it with a smirk. He lets you.

You’re halfway to the Red Bull motorhome when it happens.

A small, insistent tug at the leg of Max’s jeans.

He stops.

Looks down.

And there, standing in the slight drizzle with wide brown eyes and a worn little Red Bull cap, is a boy — no more than six or seven — reaching toward him like he’s trying to touch something he’s only ever seen on screen.

Max immediately crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet to meet the boy’s eye level.

But before he can say anything, a woman rushes over, umbrella in one hand, backpack slipping off her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She blurts in French-accented English. “He just ran off. He saw you and — he doesn’t mean to bother, he just — he won’t understand, he’s deaf, so it’s okay, really, you don’t have to-”

Max holds up a hand, gently.

And then switches languages.

Does he use LSF?

The mother freezes. Yes … yes, he uses LSF.

You feel it before you see it — the shift in Max’s posture. The quiet focus. The ease in his shoulders.

Then he signs.

Clear, confident.

Hi, what’s your name?

The boy blinks. And then grins. Wide, startled, toothy.

He signs back, My name is Michel.

Max laughs — genuine, delighted — and nods. He points to himself. Mine is Max.

The mother covers her mouth.

You watch, heart thudding hard, as Max and the boy fall into an easy rhythm. Michel signs fast, little fingers moving with the eagerness of someone who doesn’t often get the chance. Max keeps up, asking questions, repeating signs when Michel stumbles, nodding along like they’ve known each other for years.

Do you like cars?

I love them!

Who is your favorite driver?

The boy points at Max’s chest. You! And I also like Ferrari. Because she’s cool too.

Max glances at you, eyes sparkling. “He says you’re cool.”

You blink rapidly. Try to keep your face still.

The mother is crying now — softly, silently. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears. You know that kind. You’ve seen them before. You’ve cried them before.

You step closer to her, gently touching her arm.

He never gets to talk to anyone, she signs shakily. People always say it’s too hard. That it’s not worth it. She laughs through the tears. But he’s talking to Max Verstappen.

You smile and sign, Of course he is.

Max is laughing at something now — something Michel just signed. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a sharpie. Without hesitation, he takes Michel’s cap, flips the brim, and writes something carefully.

He hands it back with a wink.

Michel clutches it like treasure.

Max signs, Thank you for talking to me. Have a good race?

Michel nods enthusiastically.

Then, with one last beaming look, he runs back to his mother, holding the cap like it’s made of gold.

The mother mouths “thank you” to Max. Then to you. Then wraps her arms around her son and disappears into the crowd.

The paddock noise returns. Radios. Heels on concrete. Someone calling Max’s name from the motorhome entrance.

But the quiet between you two lingers.

He turns to you slowly, suddenly self-conscious. “Was that okay?”

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

You step closer. Press your hand gently to his cheek.

Then sign, I fell in love with you all over again just now.

Max swallows hard. “Yeah?”

You nod.

That was more than okay.

He exhales, eyes soft, posture loose in a way you know means he’s trying not to let it show too much. But you see it. The way his fingers twitch, like he wants to say more.

You give him a moment.

He takes it.

Then signs, a little slower, You once told me silence doesn’t mean nothing. That it has its own shape. Its own voice.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Max smiles. Small. Tender.

That’s what I want to be. Someone who knows the shape of your silence.

You don’t kiss him.

Not there, in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by team staff and cameras and noise.

But you do reach out, take his hand, and pull it to your heart.

And when you sign, you already are, he doesn’t look away for a second.

[pucksandpower]

Lovefest

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Oscar thought that adjusting to Formula 1 would be the biggest challenge of his rookie season … no one warned him that being around you and Lando would somehow both traumatize and make him believe in true love at the same time

Based on this request

Oscar steps into the bustling McLaren garage, his eyes darting around as he takes in the flurry of activity. It’s his first day in the paddock wearing papaya and he’s eager to make a good impression.

As he weaves through the mechanics and engineers, he spots Lando chatting animatedly with a woman he assumes must be Lando’s girlfriend.

Approaching the pair, Oscar puts on his friendliest smile. “Hey, Lando! Great to see you, mate.”

Lando turns, his face lighting up. “Oscar! Welcome to the team.” He gestures to the woman beside him. “This is my girlfriend. Babe, this is Oscar, my new teammate.”

You extend your hand, smiling warmly. “It’s so nice to meet you. Lando’s been talking about you non-stop.”

Oscar shakes your hand, chuckling. “All good things, I hope?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you assure him. “He’s really excited to work with you this season.”

Lando nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, mate. It’s gonna be epic. We’re gonna crush it together.”

Oscar grins, already feeling at ease. “That’s the plan. So, how long have you two been together?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he notices a few nearby mechanics exchange knowing glances and stifle laughter. Lando and you, however, seem oblivious to this as your eyes lock onto each other.

“Well,” Lando begins, his voice softening, “it’s been about two years now, but honestly, it feels like I’ve known her my whole life.”

You blush, squeezing Lando’s hand. “Oh, stop it, you. But really, Oscar, from the moment we met, it was like everything just clicked into place.”

Oscar nods politely, not quite understanding the sudden shift in atmosphere. “That’s great. You two seem really happy together.”

“Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Lando says, his eyes never leaving yours. “She’s my soulmate, my best friend, my everything.”

You giggle, playfully swatting Lando’s arm. “You’re such a charmer. But he’s right, Oscar. We just ... we get each other, you know?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but Lando cuts in, “Remember our first date? I was so nervous I spilled my drink all over myself.”

“Oh my god, yes!” You exclaim, laughing. “But it was adorable. And then you tried to clean it up and knocked over the candle ...”

“Nearly set the whole restaurant on fire,” Lando finishes, grinning. “But you didn’t run away screaming, so I knew you were a keeper.”

Oscar shifts uncomfortably, feeling like he’s intruding on a private moment. He glances around, hoping to catch someone’s eye for help, but the other team members seem to be purposefully avoiding their corner of the garage.

You turn back to Oscar, your eyes shining. “Sorry, we got a bit carried away. It’s just, when you find that person who completes you, it’s hard not to gush sometimes.”

Lando nods sagely. “Absolutely. Like, did I tell you about the time she surprised me after a race in Monaco?”

Before Oscar can answer, you jump in, “Oh, Lando, I’m sure Oscar doesn’t want to hear about that.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Oscar says weakly, trapped by politeness.

Lando grins, oblivious to Oscar’s discomfort. “So there I was, exhausted after the race, and I walk into my hotel room to find it covered in rose petals and candles ...”

As Lando launches into the story, Oscar notices a mechanic nearby making frantic ‘cut it out’ gestures. Confused, he tries to catch the man’s eye, but the mechanic quickly busies himself with a nearby toolbox.

“... and then she steps out of the bathroom in this gorgeous dress,” Lando continues, his voice filled with awe. “I swear, Oscar, my heart stopped for a second. She was like an angel.”

You blush furiously. “Lando, stop it. You’re embarrassing me in front of your new teammate.”

“I’m just telling the truth,” Lando insists. “Oscar, mate, when you find someone who makes your heart race every time you see them, even after years together, you know it’s real.”

Oscar nods, desperately searching for a way to change the subject. “That’s ... that’s really sweet, guys. So, uh, Lando, how’s the car feeling this season?”

But Lando seems to be in his own world now, gazing adoringly at you. “You know, speaking of the car, it reminds me of how supportive she’s been throughout my career. Remember that time you stayed up all night with me before a big race, just talking and calming my nerves?”

You smile softly. “Of course I do. I’d do anything for you. You know that.”

“And that’s why I love you so much,” Lando says, pulling you close. “You’re always there for me, through the highs and the lows.”

Oscar watches, bewildered, as the two of you seem to forget his presence entirely. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and sees Daniel Ricciardo approaching, a look of amused resignation on his face.

“Hey, Oscar,” Daniel says quietly, coming to stand beside him. “I see you’ve made the rookie mistake of getting these two started.”

Oscar turns to him, relief evident in his voice. “Daniel, thank god. What’s going on? They’ve been like this for ages.”

Daniel chuckles, shaking his head. “Ah, mate. You’ve stumbled into the Lando and Y/N lovefest. There’s a rule around here: never get them talking about how much they love each other, or you’ll be stuck listening to them being lovesick for at least an hour.”

Oscar’s eyes widen in horror. “An hour? But ... but we have the first testing session soon!”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Daniel says, patting Oscar on the shoulder. “Once they get going, there’s no stopping them. It’s like a force of nature.”

As if to prove Daniel’s point, Lando’s voice rises slightly as he recounts another story. “... and then, on our anniversary, she organized this incredible scavenger hunt all around London ...”

You chime in, your voice equally enthusiastic. “Oh, but Lando, what about the time you learned to cook my favorite meal just to surprise me?”

Daniel leans in close to Oscar, whispering, “See what I mean? They’re in their own little world now. Best to just let it run its course.”

Oscar watches, fascinated and horrified, as Lando and you continue to trade stories and loving glances, seemingly oblivious to the world around you. The garage bustles with activity, mechanics and engineers working around the loved-up couple as if this were a regular occurrence.

“So, uh, how long does this usually last?” Oscar asks Daniel, his voice tinged with desperation.

Daniel checks his watch. “Well, you’re about fifteen minutes in now. I’d say you’ve got at least another forty-five to go, minimum.”

Oscar groans. “But what about testing? Shouldn’t someone ... I don’t know, snap them out of it?”

Daniel laughs, clapping Oscar on the back. “Oh, you sweet summer child. Many have tried, all have failed. It’s best to just let nature take its course. Think of it as your initiation into the team.”

As if on cue, Lando’s voice rises again. “... and that’s when I knew, without a doubt, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.”

You gasp, your eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Lando, do you really mean that?”

“With all my heart,” Lando says solemnly. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, on or off the track.”

Oscar turns to Daniel, a pleading look in his eyes. “There has to be something we can do. Anything!”

Daniel shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, there is one thing that sometimes works ...”

Before Oscar can ask what he means, Daniel cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Hey, lovebirds! Last one to the track buys dinner for the whole team!”

As if snapping out of a trance, Lando and you both turn, suddenly aware of your surroundings again.

“Oh, shoot!” Lando exclaims. “Testing! Come on, we can’t be late!”

As Lando rushes off to get ready, you give Oscar an apologetic smile. “It was lovely meeting you. Sorry if we got a bit carried away there.”

Oscar watches, dumbfounded, as you hurry after Lando. He turns to Daniel, who’s wearing a self-satisfied grin.

“And that, my friend,” Daniel says, “is how you break the spell. Welcome to McLaren. I’m just happy they’re your problem now.”

As they head towards the track, Oscar can’t help but shake his head, a mixture of amusement and disbelief on his face. It’s going to be an interesting season, that’s for sure.

***

Several months into the season, the McLaren garage buzzes with anticipation. It’s race weekend, and the team has invited a popular podcaster to get an inside look at their operations. Oscar, now comfortably settled into his role as Lando’s teammate, watches with mild interest as the podcaster, Mike, bounces around the garage, microphone in hand, eyes wide with excitement.

“This is incredible!” Mike exclaims, his voice carrying over the din of mechanics at work. “The energy here is just electric!”

Oscar chuckles to himself, remembering his own first days with the team. He catches Daniel’s eye across the pit lane, and they share a knowing smirk.

Mike continues his tour, interviewing various team members, his enthusiasm never waning. Oscar keeps one ear on the conversations while focusing on his pre-race preparations. Everything seems to be going smoothly until he hears the fateful words that make his blood run cold.

“So, Lando,” Mike says, his voice dripping with curiosity, “I couldn’t help but notice your lovely girlfriend here. You two make such a cute couple. How about you tell us a bit about your relationship?”

The entire McLaren garage falls silent. Tools clatter to the ground. A collective groan rises from the team members. Someone in the back yells, “No!”

Oscar feels his chest tighten, his eyes already beginning to water. He looks around desperately, seeking an escape route, but he’s trapped between his car and a wall of mechanics who have frozen in horror.

Lando’s face lights up, oblivious to the panic around him. “Oh, mate, where do I even begin? She’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

You blush, squeezing Lando’s hand. “Oh, stop it, you charmer.”

“No, really,” Lando insists, turning to face you fully. “From the moment we met, I knew there was something special about her.”

Oscar watches in mounting dread as the familiar scene begins to unfold. He catches Daniel’s eye again, silently pleading for help, but Daniel just shakes his head, a look of resigned amusement on his face.

Mike, unaware of the can of worms he’s just opened, leans in eagerly. “That’s so sweet! How did you two meet?”

“Well,” you begin, your eyes never leaving Lando’s, “it was at a charity event. I was volunteering, and Lando was there as a guest ...”

“And I saw her from across the room,” Lando interjects, his voice soft and reverent. “She was helping an elderly gentleman to his seat, and the way she smiled at him ... I swear, it was like time stopped.”

But Lando and you are lost in your own world now, the podcaster forgotten as you gaze into each other’s eyes.

“I remember thinking,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “who is this adorable guy in the McLaren jacket?”

Lando grins. “And I was trying to work up the courage to talk to you all night. I must have walked past your station a dozen times.”

“Thirteen,” you correct him with a giggle. “I was counting.”

Mike looks around, confused by the reactions of the team. He catches Oscar’s eye and mouths, “What’s happening?”

Oscar, his eyes already glistening with unshed tears, just shakes his head frantically. He tries to sidle away, but his movement seems to draw Lando’s attention.

“Oh, Oscar!” Lando exclaims. “You should have seen her that night. She was wearing this beautiful flowy dress that matched her eyes perfectly.”

You laugh, playfully swatting Lando’s arm. “Stop it, you’re embarrassing me. But Lando looked so handsome in his suit. I couldn’t take my eyes off him all night.”

Oscar feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Daniel standing beside him, a sympathetic look on his face. “Breathe, mate,” Daniel whispers. “It’ll be over ... eventually.”

Mike, still oblivious to the situation, presses on. “So, what was your first date like?”

The entire garage seems to groan in unison. Oscar feels a tear escape and roll down his cheek.

“Our first date,” Lando says dreamily, “was at this little Italian restaurant. I was so nervous I could barely eat.”

You nod, your eyes sparkling with the memory. “He was adorable. He kept knocking things over and apologizing.”

“But you were so patient,” Lando adds. “Even when I spilled wine all over the tablecloth.”

“Because I could see how genuine you were,” you reply. “How kind and funny and passionate.”

Oscar, unable to take it anymore, turns to Daniel. “Please,” he whispers desperately, “make it stop.”

Daniel pats his back comfortingly. “I know, buddy. I know. But you know the rules. Once they start, there’s no stopping them.”

Mike, finally sensing that something is amiss, tries to steer the conversation back to racing. “So, uh, Lando, how do you balance your relationship with your career?”

But Lando is too far gone now. “Oh, she’s the most supportive partner I could ask for. She’s there for every race, every triumph, every setback.”

“Because I believe in you,” you say softly. “In us. In what we have together.”

Oscar feels another tear roll down his cheek. He looks around the garage, seeing the mix of resignation and amusement on his teammates’ faces. Some have plugged their ears, others have found suddenly urgent tasks to attend to far away from the love-struck couple.

Mike, now looking slightly panicked, turns to Oscar. “Uh, Oscar? Any thoughts on ... on teamwork?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, grateful for the lifeline, but Lando beats him to it.

“Teamwork!” Lando exclaims. “That reminds me of the time we decided to cook dinner together for our six-month anniversary.”

You laugh, the sound light and musical. “Oh god, what a disaster that was!”

“But it was perfect,” Lando insists. “Because we were together.”

Oscar feels his knees go weak. He leans heavily against his car, Daniel’s steadying hand on his shoulder the only thing keeping him upright.

“How ... how long?” Oscar manages to croak out.

Daniel checks his watch. “Only twenty minutes in, mate. We’ve got a long way to go.”

Mike, now fully aware that he’s lost control of the interview, looks around helplessly. His eyes land on a senior mechanic, silently pleading for assistance.

The mechanic just shakes his head. “You brought this on yourself, kid. Rule number one around here: never ask about their relationship.”

“I didn’t know!” Mike protests weakly.

“None of us did, the first time,” the mechanic replies sagely. “Consider this your initiation.”

Meanwhile, Lando and you continue your love-fueled reminiscence, oblivious to the chaos around you.

“Remember our first vacation together?” Lando asks, his eyes shining.

You nod enthusiastically. “That little cottage in the countryside. It was so peaceful.”

“Except for when we tried to go hiking and got completely lost,” Lando adds with a chuckle.

“But it led to that beautiful hidden waterfall,” you remind him. “Where you told me you loved me for the first time.”

Oscar lets out a quiet sob. Daniel, still by his side, pats his back sympathetically. “There, there, mate. Let it out. It’s healthier that way.”

Mike, looking increasingly desperate, tries one last time to salvage the situation. “So, uh, about the upcoming race ...”

But Lando and you are in full swing now, trading stories and loving gazes, completely lost in your own world.

“And then there was the time we went to that cooking class together,” you say, giggling at the memory.

Lando groans good-naturedly. “Oh god, I nearly burned down the kitchen!”

“But you made the most amazing chocolate soufflé,” you remind him.

“Only because you were there to guide me,” Lando says softly. “You always bring out the best in me.”

Oscar, his face now streaked with tears, turns to Daniel. “How ... how did you deal with this?” He asks, his voice hoarse.

Daniel shrugs. “You have to learn to find the humor in it, mate. And maybe invest in some good noise-canceling headphones.”

Mike, realizing he’s fighting a losing battle, slumps against a nearby workbench. “I’ve made a terrible mistake, haven’t I?”

The senior mechanic nods sagely. “Yep. But don’t worry, kid. We’ve all been there. Give it another ... oh, forty minutes or so, and they’ll run out of steam. Maybe.”

As if to prove him wrong, Lando’s voice rises again. “Oh, and remember that time we went stargazing in the desert?”

You nod enthusiastically. “How could I forget? The way the stars reflected in your eyes ...”

“It was nothing compared to the way you light up my world,” Lando replies, his voice thick with emotion.

Oscar, unable to take it anymore, slides down to sit on the floor, his back against his car. He draws his knees up to his chest, rocking slightly as he mutters, “Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.”

Daniel crouches down beside him, patting his shoulder. “There, there, rookie. It’s all part of the McLaren experience. You’re doing great.”

Mike, looking shell-shocked, turns to the senior mechanic. “Does this happen often?”

The mechanic chuckles. “Often enough that we’ve developed a whole system to deal with it. See those guys over there?” He points to a group of team members huddled in a corner, passing around a packet of earplugs. “They’re the smart ones. Always come prepared.”

As Lando and you continue your lovefest, the rest of the garage settles into a strange sort of routine. Some team members go about their work, seemingly immune to the ongoing spectacle. Others gather in small groups, sharing knowing looks and suppressed laughter.

Oscar, still on the floor, has progressed from quiet sobs to a sort of resigned hiccupping. Daniel sits beside him, offering silent support and the occasional reassuring pat.

Mike, having given up all pretense of conducting an interview, slumps further against the workbench. “I just wanted to talk about racing,” he mumbles dejectedly.

The senior mechanic laughs. “Lesson learned, kid. Next time, stick to lap times and tire strategies.”

As the love-fest enters its second hour, Oscar finally looks up, his eyes red and puffy. “Does it ever get easier?” He asks Daniel plaintively.

Daniel grins, helping Oscar to his feet. “Nah, mate. But you do develop a certain appreciation for true love. And maybe a slight tendency towards nausea.”

Oscar manages a weak chuckle. “I guess there are worse things than witnessing too much love.”

“That’s the spirit!” Daniel says, clapping him on the back. “Now, how about we sneak off for a coffee while these two finish up their romance novel?”

As they make their way towards the exit, carefully skirting around Lando and you (who are now recreating your first dance together, much to Mike’s bewildered amusement), Oscar can’t help but shake his head.

“You know,” he says to Daniel, “when I joined McLaren, I thought the hardest part would be the racing.”

Daniel laughs. “Oh, Oscar. The racing’s the easy part. It’s surviving the Lando and Y/N love story that’s the real challenge. But hey, look on the bright side.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “There’s a bright side?”

“Sure,” Daniel says with a grin. “At least now you know what true love looks like. Even if it does make you want to cry and vomit at the same time.”

As they exit the garage, leaving behind the sound of Lando and you laughing and reminiscing, Oscar can’t help but smile. It’s been a strange journey, but he wouldn’t trade his place on this team for anything in the world.

Well, maybe for a good pair of noise-canceling headphones.

[pucksandpower]

To Have a Heart

CEO!Max Verstappen x single mother!Reader

Summary: Max is a titan of industry, used to making grown men cry with one glance … then you and your daughter turn his carefully controlled life upside down

Warnings: descriptions of pediatric cancer

Max strides into his corner office, his Italian leather shoes clicking sharply on the marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline, but he pays it no mind as he makes his way to the large mahogany desk.

His assistant, Clara, follows a few steps behind, her heels clacking nervously. “Sir, Mr. Henderson is waiting in the conference room per your request.”

Max doesn’t bother responding as he unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat behind the desk. With a flick of his wrist, he motions for Clara to leave. She gives the tiniest of nods and scurries out, closing the double doors behind her.

Taking a deep breath, Max presses the intercom button. “Send him in.”

A moment later, the doors reopen and a balding, paunchy man in an ill-fitting suit enters. Even from across the room, Max can see the bead of sweat rolling down the man’s forehead.

Good.

He should be nervous.

“Mr. Henderson.” Max says, his tone clipped. “Do you know why I called you here?”

The man — Henderson — fidgets with his tie. “Y-Yes, sir. The, uh, the Brighton acquisition ...”

“The $3.75 billion deal that was supposed to be finalized yesterday.” Max interjects, leaning back in his chair. “A deal that the company has been meticulously negotiating for over six months. A deal that would have been the largest hostile takeover in our firm’s history.”

Henderson gives a somber nod, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Max fights the urge to roll his eyes at the sad display.

“Because of your incompetence, that deal is now in jeopardy.” Max continues, his voice dropping to a menacing register. “Please explain to me how someone with three decades of accounting experience could possibly make the amateur mistake of misplacing a decimal point on the binding purchase agreement?”

“I … I missed it in the final review.” Henderson stammers out, sweat now visibly staining the armpits of his shirt. “The numbers, they all start to blur together after-”

“Do not insult my intelligence with your pitiful excuses.” Max cuts him off, slamming a fist down on the desk. He takes no small amount of satisfaction in the way the man flinches. “Because of your idiocy, we offered $235 million over the agreed purchase price. An overpayment to the tune of $2.5 billion with a ‘B’!”

Henderson seems to shrink into himself with each biting word. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Verstappen. It won’t happen again, I swear-”

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again.” Max growls, rising from his chair so quickly that it goes clattering backwards. He leans across the desk, getting directly in Henderson’s ashen face. “Because you’re fired. Effective immediately.”

The words seem to take a moment to register in Henderson’s mind. When they do, his eyes widen in panic and he starts shaking his head rapidly.

“No, no, please! You can’t fire me!” he cries, any veneer of professionalism crumbling. “I-I’ll work double shifts, triple shifts! I’ll volunteer for all the weekend audits, no overtime pay! J-Just don’t fire me, I’m begging you!”

Max recoils slightly at the outburst of blubbering, his lip curling in disgust. How pathetic, to see a grown man so thoroughly debased. He almost feels pity for the wretch … almost.

“This conversation is over.” Max says, his tone resolute as he straightens his tie. “You have one hour to collect your things and get out of my building. After that, security will escort you out.”

“B-But I have three kids!” Henderson sputters, tears streaming down his face now. “A mortgage. Alimony payments! You can’t just-”

In a burst of rage, Max sweeps his arm across the desk, sending papers, files, and office supplies clattering to the floor in a violent clutter.

“I am Max Verstappen!” He bellows, his face flushed crimson. “I do not make empty threats, Mr. Henderson. You are a miserable, costly disappointment. A failure. And I will not allow failures to remain under my employ.”

The words seem to drain what little fight was left in Henderson. His shoulders slump in defeat, and he lets out a pitiful whimper. Max feels his anger deflate, replaced with a tired disdain.

“One hour.” he repeats, falling back into his chair in exhaustion. “Get out of my sight.”

Henderson doesn’t need to be told twice. With trembling hands, he begins collecting the various objects scattered across the floor — pencils, paperclips, manila folders now slightly crumpled. His motions are slow, pained, like those of a man having just received a terminal diagnosis.

Max watches impassively as the sniveling accountant gathers his belongings. Part of him feels a twinge of … not quite guilt, but maybe the faintest pangs of empathy for the broken man before him. He quickly smothers that flicker of sympathy. This is the cost of doing business in the world of high-stakes acquisitions and mergers. There is no room for weakness or mistakes. Only results matter.

Finally, with his meager pile of office supplies clutched to his chest, Henderson straightens up. His face is blotchy and tear-stained, but he seems to have regained some small scrap of dignity. He meets Max’s cold stare for just a moment before turning on his heel and shuffling out of the office.

The double doors close behind him with a hollow thud that hangs in the air. Max lets out a slow exhale, suddenly aware of the tension that had been coiling inside him. He runs a hand over his face, then taps a button on his phone intercom.

“Clara, get me William Evans from legal on the line immediately.” he says, his voice steady once more. “We need to do damage control on the Brighton situation before it becomes irreparable.”

“Right away, sir.” comes the reply, his assistant’s voice tightly professional.

Max leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he stares out at the New York City skyline. This is far from the first firing he has issued, and it certainly won’t be the last. He is a great white shark, always needing to move forward or else he will drown in the depths of his own ambition.

There is a soft rap at the door, pulling Max from his reverie.

“Come in.” he calls out. Clara enters, her face schooled into a mask of polite disinterest. So much the better — he respects discretion.

“I have Mr. Evans on line two for you.” she says crisply.

Max gives a succinct nod. “Thank you, Clara. That will be all.”

As his assistant withdraws, Max takes a fortifying breath. He is Max Verstappen. He is the master of the corporate ocean. And he will not allow one flailing failure to capsize his empire.

Squaring his shoulders, he picks up the phone and begins issuing a stern series of orders and demands. After all, there is little time for rest when one aims to be a modern day titan of industry.

***

You take a deep breath and rap firmly on the door to the HR director’s office. “Come in.” a flat voice calls out.

Steeling yourself, you twist the handle and step inside the dingy, fluorescent-lit room. Janet, the red-haired HR manager, looks up from her computer with a practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Ah, Y/N. What can I do for you today?” She asks in an overly saccharine tone.

You take a seat across from her cluttered desk, your knee bouncing with nervous energy. “I … I need to request some personal leave. Family medical reasons.”

Janet’s perfectly penciled eyebrows rise in bland surprise. “I see. And how much time were you hoping to take?”

Your throat tightens as you force out the words. “At least a month. Maybe more, depending on … on how things progress.”

The HR manager clucks her tongue as she shakes her head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’re in our busiest quarter and you know the company policy — no extended leave during crunch periods unless it’s a valid health emergency.”

You feel panic fluttering in your chest. This has to be a valid emergency! “But it is an emergency! My daughter, she’s ...” Your voice cracks and you swallow hard, desperate to maintain your composure. “She’s very sick, potentially terminal. I need to be with her right now.”

Janet’s face remains stubbornly impassive. “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. Truly, I am. But unless you can provide official documentation from a medical professional, my hands are tied.”

The words hit you like a slap across the face. Of course they would require documentation to approve leave — it’s standard corporate policy. But how can mentally collect yourself to get paperwork in order when you’ve been spending every waking moment by your little girl’s hospital bedside?

Unbidden, your mind flashes back to two nights ago, watching in helpless terror as your daughter’s tiny body was racked with another severe seizure. You had screamed yourself hoarse calling for the nurses as the meds they pumped into her did little to stop the violent convulsions ...

You’re vaguely aware of Janet still speaking across from you, something about company guidelines and productivity expectations. But the words sound muffled and far away, as if you’re underwater.

How naive you were to think they might bend the rules, just this once. To think the faceless corporation you pour your life into might actually show a shred of human compassion during your hour of desperate need.

No. That’s not how companies like this operate.

They don’t care about you or your daughter’s life. All they care about is the bottom line, and you’re just an expendable number in their organizational flowchart.

You’re jolted back to reality as Janet raps her lacquered nails impatiently on the desk. “Well? Is there anything else or can I get back to work?”

Is there anything else? Oh, there’s so much more you want to scream at this unfeeling paper-pusher. You want to cry and rage and beg her to just show an ounce of basic human decency.

But you know it would be pointless. Janet is just a cog, same as you. There’s only one person here with the power and influence to authorize what you need.

Only one person who strikes abject terror into the heart of every employee with his infamous volcanic temper and uncompromising expectations.

The thought makes your stomach twist into knots, but you know what you have to do. For your little girl’s sake, you have to try.

So you rise from the chair, willing your legs not to shake. “Thank you for your time.” you mutter tightly, already turning on your heel and storming out of the office.

You don’t look back as Janet calls out something about proper procedure. You just keep moving, your footsteps fueled by a mother’s desperation.

The elevator seems to take an eternity, each second feeling like a little bit more of your daughter’s life trickling away. By the time the doors finally open with a mocking ding, you’re practically vibrating with pent-up nervous energy.

As the mirrored box ascends, your heart feels like it’s trying to batter its way out of your chest. You can hardly breathe past the constriction in your lungs. What if the infamous Max Verstappen laughs in your face? Or has you fired on the spot for daring to interrupt his billion-dollar dealings?

No, you can’t afford to think like that. This may be your only chance to get the time off you so desperately need. For your daughter’s sake, you have to be brave.

The elevator seems to crawl upward at a glacial pace. By the time the doors finally part with a soft chime, you feel like you’re going to be sick from anxiety. This is it, the executive floor — the lair of the terrifying Max Verstappen himself.

You step out into the plush, mahogany-accented lobby with shaking legs. Behind a curved desk, Max’s assistant Clara looks up, her expression instantly hardening when she recognizes you as some inconsequential employee.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Verstappen is not accepting any visitors at the moment.” she says, her tone brooking no argument. “If you’d like to schedule an appointment for next week ...”

“Please.” you blurt out, hating how your voice trembles. “It’s an emergency. I … I need to see him. Just for five minutes.”

Clara’s manicured eyebrow arches skeptically. “I extremely doubt Mr. Verstappen would consider your issue important enough to warrant an unscheduled meeting. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a million things to-”

“It’s about my sick daughter!” The words burst from your lips before you can stop them. Immediately, you regret being so unprofessional, but desperation has eroded your self-control.

For a split second, Clara’s expression flickers with something that might be pity. But it’s quickly subsumed by her usual cool mask of professionalism as she shakes her head.

“I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. But those are still not grounds for me to disturb Mr. Verstappen while he’s-”

“Please!” You plead, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. “I’m begging you. This could be my last chance! If he says no, I’ll leave, I promise. But I have to try!”

Clara regards you appraisingly for a long moment. Then, letting out a weary sigh, she presses the intercom button. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”

The line crackles with static for several tense seconds. You hold your breath, praying beyond hope that the infamous Max has a rare charitable impulse today.

Then, his unmistakable baritone growls through the small speaker. “This had better be good. Send them in.”

Clara winces almost imperceptibly before gesturing towards the double oak doors to Max’s corner office. “Good luck.” she murmurs.

You don’t need any further prompting. Drawing a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and make your way to the doors. You pause just briefly, hands trembling, before rapping your knuckles firmly against the lacquered wood.

There’s no going back now. Either Max Verstappen is about to grant you a miracle … or utterly crush your last, fragile hope.

***

Max scowls as the intercom crackles to life, Clara’s hesitant voice filtering through the speaker. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. Surely whatever this is can wait until tomorrow. Max is elbow-deep in paperwork and holding patterns, trying to do damage control on the Brighton acquisition fumble. He has no time for frivolous “personal” disruptions.

“This had better be good.” he growls into the intercom. “Send them in.”

With an irritated huff, Max leans back in his buttery leather chair as the doors to his office swing open. He’s already opening his mouth to berate whoever dares disturb him over something as trivial as a “personal matter.”

Then you tentatively step into the room and Max’s words die in his throat.

Even with your shoulders hunched inward and your makeup smudged from crying, you are utterly breathtaking. A fragile beauty drowning in an oversized blazer, your wide eyes darting around his opulent office with obvious intimidation.

An unwelcome jolt of attraction lances through Max’s chest and he quickly squashes it down. He cannot afford such distractions, especially from a lowly employee like yourself who should know better than to interrupt him during work hours.

“Well?” He finally finds his voice, aiming for a brusque tone to remind you both of your respective places. “You’re hardly someone important enough to be granted an audience. This had better be worth my time.”

The harshness of his words seems to make you flinch. You worry your lip between your teeth, shrinking back slightly.

“I … I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Verstappen.” you begin haltingly. Already Max can feel his patience waning. He hates fumbling fragility and wants only confident decisiveness.

But then your next words come tumbling out in a desperate rush. “It’s about my daughter, sir. My little girl … she’s in the hospital. She has a brain tumor and her condition is deteriorating rapidly. I asked Janet in HR for some personal leave to be with her, but she denied my request and said I need official medical documentation which could take days I don’t have!”

Tears are welling in your eyes now, your voice rising to nearly hysterical levels. “Please, Mr. Verstappen! She’s only three years old and I’m a single mom. I’m all she has right now! I’m begging you … please just give me some time to be with her before … before ...”

You seem unable to voice whatever terrifying possibility lurks in the back of your mind. Instead, you dissolve into shoulder-shaking sobs, burying your face in your hands as you break down completely.

Max feels his earlier irritation softening in spite of himself. He’s seen grown men thrice your age become blubbering messes under his withering glare. But there’s something distinctly vulnerable and gut-wrenching about your anguished tears.

Part of him recognizes this as a prime opportunity to regain control, to berate you for such an unseemly display of emotion. His reputation as a merciless taskmaster practically demands he put you in your place.

But another part of Max … a part he barely recognizes … feels a rare pang of empathy pierce through his calloused exterior.

Perhaps it’s the thought of a scared little girl lying crippled in a hospital bed, scared and missing her mother. Or perhaps it’s the way you wear your devastation so plainly, managing to humanize yourself in a way most people never achieve in his eyes.

Whatever the reason, when Max finally speaks, his tone has lost its earlier bite.

“I did not realize the full severity of the situation.” he says, slowly rising from his chair. He moves around the desk, not missing the way you tense as he approaches.

Up close, he can see the puffy redness rimming your eyes, the despair etched into every line of your face. It stirs something inside him … an ancient ghost of an emotion he can’t quite place.

“I’m sorry you were dismissed so carelessly by HR.” Max continues, struggling to keep his voice even. “Perhaps if you had led with mentioning your daughter’s condition, instead of being so oblique ...”

He trails off as you sniff loudly, dragging the sleeve of your blazer across your nose. The motion is equal parts endearing and mortifying for him to witness.

“Here.” he says impulsively, plucking a crisp linen handkerchief from his suit pocket. He presses it into your hand, watching as you blink owlishly at the unexpected gesture. “Allow me to make things right.”

Without waiting for a response, Max turns and strides over to his desk. He snatches up the phone and rapidly punches in a extension code, holding the receiver to his ear as it begins to ring.

“Janet? Yes, it’s Max Verstappen.” he says crisply when the line picks up. “I’ve just been informed about an ... employee situation that requires your immediate attention.”

He pauses, glancing over at where you’re clutching his handkerchief like a lifeline. Your eyes are still glistening with tears, but you’ve gone utterly still — hanging on his every word.

“One of our marketing staff came to me in quite a state about needing extended leave to be with their hospitalized child.” Max continues, his voice hardening slightly. “A matter you seemed to dismiss without proper consideration for the … nuances of the circumstances.”

There’s a sputtering on the other end of the line, undoubtedly Janet trying to make excuses. Max doesn’t give her the chance.

“The decision has been made to grant the employee’s leave request, effective immediately.” he cuts her off. “They will be excused for … two months, with full pay and benefits.”

His announcement seems to render you momentarily stunned. You simply stare at him, eyes wide and unblinking, like you can’t quite process what you’re hearing.

Max clears his throat self-consciously, refocusing on Janet’s flustered response filtering through the receiver. “B-But sir, we have very strict policies about-”

“Which is precisely why I’m instructing you to make an exception.” Max interjects, his voice brokering no arguments. “This leave is to be coded as paid health and wellness time. I expect no push-back or foot-dragging on this, understood?”

There’s a meek murmur of assent from Janet’s end. Max can’t resist a tight smile of satisfaction.

“Good. I’ll leave the paperwork in your capable hands then. That will be all.” He punctuates the statement by firmly hanging up the phone.

As the clatter of the receiver breaks the tense silence, Max turns to find you staring at him with an utterly inscrutable expression. For a long moment, neither of you speak or move. He finds himself paralyzed under the weight of your intense, unblinking gaze.

Then, with a strangled cry, you suddenly surge forward and throw your arms around him. Max goes ramrod stiff as your slight frame collides with his, your tears dampening the front of his crisp dress shirt.

“Thank you!” You’re whispering over and over like a prayer, clinging to him with a desperation that should be uncomfortable. And yet ... “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Max feels utterly transfixed, like a statue too stunned to react. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to encroach so boldly on his personal space, much less make actual physical contact. He’s not accustomed to such … warmth.

But before the unfamiliar embrace can start to grate on him, you suddenly pull back. Swiping at your eyes, you manage a watery smile up at him.

“You have no idea how much this means, sir. I … I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and understanding.”

He wants to scoff at the notion, to remind you that he is Max Verstappen — merciless and uncompromising in his corporate dealings. That this was merely an isolated instance of pragmatism to avoid a PR incident or workplace lawsuit, nothing more.

But something in your earnest gaze stops the curt rebuttal in his throat. For once, the infamously brusque Max Verstappen finds himself momentarily at a loss for words.

So instead, he gives a terse nod of acknowledgment. Already, his mind is starting to analyze how best to re-allocate your responsibilities for the next two months, which temporary hires to bring in for supplemental coverage.

But one stray thought continues to nag at the back of his mind, an errant curveball amongst the dizzying calculations.

For the first time in years — perhaps his entire adult life — Max feels almost … human.

It’s a strange and deeply unsettling realization, but luckily one he doesn’t have to dwell on.

Because in the next breath, you’re sweeping out of his office, a renewed vigor in your step and a brilliant smile lighting up your features. Max watches you go, an odd tightness settling into his chest.

He doesn’t have words — or perhaps doesn’t want to admit to any words to describe what he’s feeling in this moment. But one thing is for certain, for better or worse, you’ve well and truly upended Max Verstappen’s world.

***

Max remains rooted in place long after you’ve departed, his office now eerily silent in your absence. He should feel relieved to have some peace and quiet again after that … emotional encounter.

Yet instead of settling back into his usual all-consuming work flow, he finds his mind stubbornly replaying the scene on an endless, maddening loop.

The desperation etched onto your delicate features. The way your frame practically vibrated with barely-constrained anguish. The broken, pleading sound of your voice as you begged for his mercy ...

Despite his best efforts to dismiss it, the memory of your raw vulnerability has burrowed its way under Max’s skin, taking up an unwelcome residence. It picks and nags at the edges of his consciousness no matter how much he wills it away.

He has witnessed similar breakdowns from countless employees over the years — grown men and women brought to sniveling tatters by his uncompromising demands. But none of them elicited the same … response within him.

None of them made something twist so peculiarly in Max’s chest, unleashing that brief yet startling flicker of empathy from whatever dark crevice it lurks.

Gritting his teeth, Max paces behind his desk in tight, agitated circles. He prides himself on being a merciless pragmatist, unmoved by emotional pleas or babelling outbursts. Whatever decisions he makes are calculated toward the maximum profit potential and bottom line, end of story.

So why does this one case, this one instance of showing a bare modicum of human compassion, insist on gnawing at him so persistently? It makes no logical sense, no matter how he tries to mentally contort it.

Perhaps that’s the core issue — that for once in his life, Max’s motivations weren’t born strictly of logic or financial incentive. Something else had escaped from beneath, something primal and indefinable, when you broke down so nakedly in front of him.

The realization causes Max’s steps to stutter to a halt. His jaw works tensely as he runs a frustrated hand through his brown hair, disheveling the meticulously groomed coif.

He can admit to himself that some base part of his brain had been … affected by the rawness of your emotion. The way you had stripped away all artifice and propriety to plead so urgently and authentically.

Not many people manage to disarm Max Verstappen’s carefully curated expectation filters. But you had blown straight through them without even realizing it, battering down the reinforced walls he builds around his life. Just by being horrifically, unguardedly human.

It’s both impressive and deeply unsettling in equal measure.

Before Max can spiral any further down this rabbit hole of self-reflection, a sharp rap of knuckles against the door jolts him back to awareness. He straightens and clears his throat roughly.

“Come in.” he calls out, already retaking his seat and trying to project an aura of resolute control.

Clara slips into the office, her usual unflappable poise slightly ruffled as she catches the tense atmosphere. “You asked to see me right away, sir?”

“Yes.” Max says brusquely, watching her over steepled fingers. “I need you to do some … discreet digging for me into a personal matter.”

Clara’s perfectly groomed eyebrow arches inquisitively. But to her credit, she doesn’t comment on his evasive phrasing.

“And what exactly am I looking into?”

“The employee who was just in my office seeking leave.” he explains curtly. “The one with the hospitalized child. I need you to find out everything you can — where the child is being treated, their condition, prognosis, all of it.”

Clara’s perfectly glossed lips purse ever so slightly. “You’re aware I can’t exactly go through official medical channels without violating all sorts of privacy laws ...”

“I’m fully aware.” Max interjects with a curt wave of his hand. “Which is why you’ll have to take a more … unconventional approach. I don’t particularly care what methods you have to employ, just get me those details by the end of the day.”

His assistant regards him silently for a long beat, as if trying to suss out his motivations. Max meets her contemplative look with an unwavering stare of his own.

Finally, Clara gives a tight nod of understanding. “Consider it done, sir.”

With that, she pivots on the towering heel of her Louboutin and sees herself out of the office, the click of her footsteps rapidly retreating down the hall.

Max lets out a slow exhale, alone with his thoughts once more.

What is he doing? This bizarre crusade is so wildly outside of his typical conduct and practices. The lengths he’s going to, all for the sake of some random underling’s personal crisis ...

A smart, calculated part of his brain recognizes this entire situation as a fool’s errand, a waste of time and resources. He should be devoting every ounce of his focus toward extricating the Chinese investment group from the Brighton deal before their next earnings call.

And yet, he can’t seem to fully let this go. Your haunted, hopeless expression keeps flickering through his mind’s eye. The memory of your tears soaking into his suit lapel as you clung to him with a desperation that shook something deep within him.

It’s almost as if his body is acting of its own accord, driven by some urge he can’t fully parse or control. Like a murmured voice insistently compelling him to … to what? Help you? Offer some vague sense of solace or security?

The thought is patently ludicrous, and Max scoffs audibly at his own melodrama. Get a grip, he chides himself sternly. Since when do you care about coddling your peons?

He forcefully shakes off the uncharacteristic reverie and turns back to the stacks of paperwork and documents splayed across his desk. Focusing intently on running new financial projections for Q3, he manages to bury himself in the work for a solid two hours.

He’s in the midst of furiously scribbling margin and revenue notes when the trill of the phone line cuts through his concentration. A glance at the caller ID has him resisting the urge to sigh.

“Clara.” he answers crisply, leaning back in his leather chair. “I trust you’ve made progress?”

“Indeed.” comes the smooth reply, devoid of inflection as always. “Though I should warn you, some of these details are … concerning.”

Something tightens in Max’s chest, but he quickly tamps it down. “Just lay it all out for me. No need to editorialize.”

“Very well.” Clara acquiesces. “So the child, a three-year-old daughter, is currently a patient at Lennox Hill Hospital here in the city. According to my sources, she was admitted five weeks ago after experiencing severe seizures and hallucinations. An MRI revealed she has a large mass-”

“Let me stop you right there.” Max interjects, his brows furrowing. Even he can recognize those are less than encouraging signs. “What’s the official diagnosis then?”

“Grade IV glioblastoma.” Clara replies flatly. “One of the most aggressive malignant brain tumors, especially in children her age.”

A terse silence falls between them as the weight of that diagnosis sinks in. Grade IV … practically a death sentence wrapped up in clinical terminology. Max finds his hand unconsciously clenching the arm of his chair.

“And her prospects?” He finally prompts gruffly. “What’s the … prognosis for her case?”

Clara doesn’t answer right away. Over the line, he can hear her exhale slowly, a rare tell of emotional discomfort from his typically unflappable assistant.

“From what my contact at Lennox Hill said … if we’re talking full disclosure?” Her customary professionalism wavers slightly as her voice grows hushed. “They’ve given her three months at most, sir. Maybe less, if another seizure or bleed occurs before then.”

The words hang in the air like a guillotine blade against Max’s neck. Suddenly, all those intrusive mental flashes of your inconsolable despair take on a sharper, even more heartrending clarity.

Of course you were devastated, he realizes with startling empathy. How could any mother face their child’s death sentence with any measure of composure?

An unexpected swell of emotion rises in Max’s throat and he has to blink rapidly to keep it at bay. Now isn’t the time for such indulgences.

“Thank you, Clara.” he manages in a rough baritone. “That will be all for now.”

He ends the call without waiting for a response, abruptly severing the connection.

Alone once more, Max slumps back against the leather upholstery, an uncharacteristic weariness settling into his bones. He reaches up to loosen his already disheveled tie, suddenly feeling stifled within the confines of his suit.

Three months. Three paltry months for a precious young life to be snatched away before it ever really began. His jaw clenches hard.

That’s unacceptable. Not just unfair, but a complete and total injustice to all that is right and good in this world.

No child should have to suffer like that … and certainly no mother should have to face a future of unimaginable grief and emptiness once her only family is gone. Not if there was anything to be done about it.

And, at the end of the day, Max Verstappen has the means to quite literally move mountains with his wealth and influence.

An idea begins to blossom in his mind — one that feels daring and reckless and so utterly unlike his usual business-oriented self. But he finds himself drawn to it with a singleminded resolve he can’t quite explain.

Jaw set, Max snatches up his phone and punches in a number he never thought he’d use outside of donor galas.

“Roland? Max Verstappen here.” he says gruffly when the line picks up. “I need you to connect me directly with someone in Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology department ...”

Half an hour and multiple calls later, Max is finally patched through to one of the top clinical researchers in the field: Dr. Spencer Paulson.

“Dr. Paulson, thank you for making time on such short notice.” Max says, his tone polished yet clipped. “To cut right to it, I was recently made aware of a … sensitive case involving a terminal pediatric patient and some rather bleak estimated survival rates.”

Without preamble, he lays out what little he knows about your daughter — the diagnosis, the staging, the Lennox Hill prognosis that has already written her off for dead. All throughout, the doctor on the other end of the line remains grimly silent.

“So in your expert opinion.” Max finishes, realizing his hand has unconsciously tightened into a white-knuckled fist. “What would you say her realistic prospects for meaningful treatment or survival are?”

There’s a pregnant pause, then a grim sigh filters through the tinny line. “Based on what you’ve told me … I’m afraid the prognosis does indeed sound dire. Grade IV glioblastomas in children under five have approximately a 5% survival rate past twelve months with conventional treatment regimens.”

Max clenches his teeth, brutally unsurprised yet still floored by the frank assessment. Moments ago, he had still been clinging to a fool’s hope.

“However.” Dr. Paulson continues, his tone brightening slightly. “We do currently have an … experimental trial ongoing that might be an outside option to explore.”

Something akin to hope flutters in Max’s chest. “I’m listening.”

“Well, to put it simply, we’ve had some promising early results adapting viral gene therapies to target and destroy these aggressive brain tumor cells in young patients.” the doctor explains, shifting into a more clinical, lecture-style delivery.

“By modifying and re-engineering certain viruses to bind only to the specific mutated RNA and protein markers found in diseases like glioblastomas, we can theoretically use those same viruses as a delivery vector. One that can slip past the blood-brain barrier and directly infect the cancerous cells with a sort of … controlled payload, if you will.”

Max nods along, his mind working furiously to keep up with the technical jargon. “Some kind of treatment regimen then? Drugs or radiation therapy delivered directly to the tumor site?”

“Precisely.” Dr. Paulson confirms approvingly. “Only we’ve expanded past just chemo and gamma rays as the options. Thanks to the pioneering work of doctors like Bert Jacobs, we’ve now created an entirely new frontier of cancer treatments centered around gene therapy and mRNA editing.”

He rattles off a dizzying litany of polysyllabic scientific terminology that sails completely over Max’s head. Not that it matters — his focus is fully captured by the notes of guarded optimism finally creeping into Paulson’s voice.

“Of course, this is all still highly experimental. We’ve only managed to achieve remission in a handful of trial cases thus far.” the doctor cautions. “And we have no idea if the viral vector we’ve engineered will be equally effective against every variation of cancerous mutation out there.”

Max nods impatiently, waving a hand as if to physically shoo away the vague caveats. “I appreciate the need for clinical hedging, doctor. But let’s cut right to the heart of the matter.”

He draws in a fortifying breath. “If you were to take on this little girl as a patient, deploy these … gene therapy regimens of yours … would you give her a legitimate chance? At treatment, remission, survival?”

There’s a pregnant pause, as if Dr. Paulson is carefully considering the ethical ramifications of his answer. Then, “If she meets the selection criteria and baseline health conditions … and we get a bit of luck on our side ...” Another sigh, heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. “Then I’d say we would have a fighting chance, yes.”

Those five simple words crash over Max with the force of a tidal wave, hitting him squarely in the chest.

A chance. At life. At making it past those grim, dire prognoses.

After several moments of stunned silence, Max finally finds his voice.

“Say no more, doctor. Whatever it costs — money, time, logistics — none of it matters. I want this treatment option fully activated and prioritized immediately. Spare no expense, I’ll take care of the bill.” He utters the words with the same decisive confidence he handles his billion-dollar business dealings.

Because in this moment, it doesn’t feel like just some impulsive, emotionally-driven whim. Helping your innocent child — ensuring she gets the fighting chance she deserves?

It feels like the only choice he can possibly make.

***

You sit hunched in the hard, plastic visitor’s chair, your body angled protectively towards the small hospital bed. Despite the tubes and wires snaking from her fragile limbs, your daughter appears almost peaceful in her restless slumber.

She always was such a sound sleeper as a baby, you reminisce wistfully. Remembering how you’d regularly creep into the nursery just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, assuring yourself she was still breathing.

Even back then, the ever-present fear of something going horribly wrong never truly left you. The world is far too cruel a place to let a mother relax, no matter how deeply you wish you could.

One slender hand rests atop the thin bedsheet covering your little girl, your thumb tracing soothing circles along her tiny knuckles. A silent, simple gesture of tenderness you hope she can feel even in sleep. If only you could so easily soothe away her pain and suffering as you could your own.

The quiet flutter of the heart rate monitor keeps beat, each mechanical beep another hammer striking your already shattered soul. You want to feel relieved, blessed even, that it continues that steady cadence. Instead, you only feel exhausted hollowness.

Because this morning, the doctors came to “discuss options.” As if their clinical detachment could soften the blow of learning your child is well and truly out of miracles.

“We’ve run every available scan and lab test.” Dr. Rhodes had said, failing to meet your desperate gaze. “I’m so very sorry, but the tumor isn’t responding to any of our treatments. At this point, we have to start considering ...”

You hadn’t let him finish, couldn’t let those hateful, unthinkable words pass his lips. Palliative care. Hospice. Just give up and let nature take its inevitable, brutal course while they pumped her full of numbing opiates so she could “comfortably” slip away.

The rage and anguish had bubbled up from some primal pit within your guts, hot and viscous like magma erupting from deep beneath the earth’s crust. You’d screamed incoherent denials until your voice was hoarse, begging and pleading through sobs for them not to take away your only hope.

In the end, they’d sedated your daughter fully so you could “calm down” and “process things rationally.” You know they meant well, trying to spare her from your outburst. But it only compounded your devastation, feeling like they were already treating her as a lost cause no longer worth fighting for.

So here you sit, after untold hours of cycling through various stages of grief, left only with bone-deep weariness cloaked by a fragile veneer of numb acceptance. You dimly wonder if you’ll ever truly feel anything else ever again.

Through the blur of tears constantly stinging your eyes, you keep a silent vigil over your daughter’s bedside. You memorize every delicate sweep of her sooty lashes, the tiny smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. Desperate to commit every last precious detail of her existence to memory before … before ...

A choked sob bubbles up from your chest at the thought, hot and acidic at the back of your throat. You quickly muffle it with the crook of your elbow, determined not to disturb your resting girl with the outward manifestations of your agony.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. An old meditative mantra you try to focus on, struggling to regain control of your tenuous grip on composure. You know your tears and hiccupping gasps for air are only harming yourself at this point. Better to conserve what little physical and mental strength you have left to simply be with your daughter while you still can.

The grief is an ever-churning sea just waiting to drag you under its dark, icy depths. But still you stubbornly tread water, unwilling to fully surrender just yet. Not as long as you can still feel the reassuring thrum of her pulse against your fingertips, a solitary lifeline keeping you tethered to the present.

You aren’t sure how much time stretches in that manner — minutes or hours, you cannot say. The days have all started blurring into one long, endless haze of sleeplessness and overwhelming sorrow.

So when the door to the hospital room suddenly clicks open, the sound manages to penetrate the cotton-muffled fog shrouding your senses.Instantly, you stiffen and blink rapidly, as if only just now awakening to your surroundings.

A stranger stands in the doorway — a tall, slender man in an impeccably tailored suit that looks distinctly out of place amongst the bland, sterile patient rooms. His face is sharp and angular, almost harsh in its sternness if not for the way his brow is furrowed with evident concern.

You open your mouth to ask who he is and what he wants, but he raises a placating hand before you can find your voice.

“Please, don’t be alarmed.” he says, words clipped yet softened slightly. “I know this is a terrible situation, and the absolute last setting you’d want an uninvited visitor.”

Now that he’s closer, you can see behind his obvious affluence lurks a cultured, aloof sort of demeanor. There’s no outward malice or disrespect in his manner, but he carries himself like someone long accustomed to privileges and deference. The sight of him sets you even more on edge amid your emotional rawness.

“My name is Spencer Paulson.” the man presses on, taking a few measured steps further into the room. “I’m actually a doctor, Ms ...”

“Y/N.” you automatically supply, dredging up the remnants of social graces. “Y/N L/N. And this is … this is my daughter, Olivia.”

Your voice cracks ever so slightly on her name, heated moisture already welling behind your eyes once more. You quickly dab at their corners with the sleeve of your worn cardigan, determined not to dissolve into fresh hysterics in front of this absolute stranger.

“Well, Ms. Y/L/N.” the man — Dr. Paulson — says, tone measured. “I realize I’m intruding on a highly stressful situation for you and your family right now. And for that, I truly am sorry.”

His apology seems sincere enough. But wariness still prickles along your nape as your overtired, over-protective instincts flare up. You clutch your daughter’s limp hand in yours a fraction tighter.

“Then if you don’t mind my asking.” you begin in a calculated tone, scrutinizing Paulson carefully. “Why are you here? And what business could possibly bring you to Olivia’s bedside unannounced?”

He regards you silently for a long moment, something inscrutable flickering across his features. When he speaks again, his words are deliberately precise, weighted down by their momentous gravity.

“I was recently contacted by … an interested third party about your daughter’s case.” Paulson explains, clasping his hands behind his back. “I was filled in on the specifics of her diagnosis — glioblastoma, grade four, extremely aggressive and largely unresponsive to standard treatment. Am I correct so far?”

You can only numbly nod, a chill prickling across your flesh. The man’s crisp, clinical recitation of your worst nightmare forces a painful convulsion of renewed heartache.

Paulson seems to catch your distress and quickly presses on. “Right, well, I’m actually here in an official capacity as the Chief of Pediatric Oncology over at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.”

The words hit you with all the force of a defibrillator charge, jolting your entire frame upright in the hard plastic chair. Your jaw drops open, already fumbling for a desperate reply that will somehow make this all make sense.

But Paulson continues before you can vocalize any of the hundreds of jumbled questions flooding your mind.

“I’ll keep this relatively simple, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, holding up a forestalling hand. “My team at Sloan Kettering recently received permission to transfer your daughter over to our care as soon as logistically possible. You see, we’ve been working on an experimental new treatment protocol — a form of gene therapy designed to treat even the most aggressive, mutation-riddled forms of cancers like Olivia’s brain tumor.”

You blink owlishly, unable to fully process the onslaught of technical jargon being leveled at you. All you can do is continue sitting there, stunned into silence as the doctor launches into an almost dizzying explanation of re-engineered viruses, targeted gene editing, and “controlled payloads” being essentially the extent of modern medicine.

“... And while the trial is still in its early stages, we’ve actually already achieved partial and even full remission in a few key pediatric cases remarkably similar to that of your daughter.” Paulson continues, his tone growing faintly tinged with optimism and something akin to pride. “Which is why we’re reasonably confident Olivia could be an excellent candidate for our experimental therapies, if you allow it.”

He lets the weight of that statement hang in the air between you, watching you carefully for any visible reaction. But you’re frozen, fighting between warring tides of soul-rending hope and knee-jerk cynicism.

After all, you’ve come to reflexively distrust when desperation-stoking scenarios sound too good to be true over the past several torturous weeks. A small, rational voice in the back of your mind pipes up to remind you that you can’t afford to get your hopes up, only to be gutted yet again by the crushing inevitability of disappointment.

But another part of your wearied brain — the part that’s grown so fatigued by the oppressive feeling of hopelessness — recoils at dismissing any potential reprieve from the nightmare, no matter how fanciful or far-fetched.

So instead you hear yourself croaking out a single, wobbling syllable.

“How ...”

Paulson tilts his head inquisitively. “I’m sorry?”

You clear your throat, igniting the spark of desperate yearning flickering to life inside your chest. “How much would … would a treatment like this cost?”

For the first time since barging his way into your fragile world, Paulson’s aristocratic features twist into an unmistakable grimace. He lets out a tight sigh, clearly recognizing the gravity behind your simple question.

“Unfortunately, due to the experimental and intensive nature of this therapy … the baseline costs do run relatively high.” he explains in a precise tone, as if trying to distance himself from the crass logistical realities. “If approved for the trial and full treatment regimen, we’re looking at around $1.4 million in projected costs over the first six months alone.”

The astronomical number hits you squarely between the eyes, setting your head swimming with disbelief. One point four … million? The amount is so ludicrously exorbitant that it almost doesn’t seem real.

You open your mouth, fully intending to spit out the derisive scoff that such an impossible ask deserves. No amount of desperate wishing could ever make that attainable for a single, working-class parent already drowning in tens of thousands of medical debt.

But Paulson clearly recognizes the crestfallen defeat settling over your features. Because he quickly rushes ahead with his next words, effectively cutting off any vocal dismissal on your end.

“However, as I mentioned earlier, we did get some … special circumstances greenlighted regarding your daughter’s case.” he says, tone brightening with carefully cultivated hopefulness. “You see, there’s an anonymous benefactor who’s agreed to cover the full cost of treatment on a … philanthropic basis, let’s call it.”

The words punch you directly in the gut, momentarily robbing your lungs of oxygen like a cruel sucker-punch. You blink dazedly up at Paulson, struggling to make sense of what he’s saying through the roaring static in your ears.

“I … I don’t understand.” you manage to stammer out. “Someone wants to … pay for my daughter? All of it? But why? How could they possibly-”

“Hey now, none of that.” Paulson cuts you off, his voice softening with what might be the first hints of empathy and warmth creeping in. “The why doesn’t matter right now — only that it’s been arranged at no cost to you or your family.”

He moves closer then, resting one hand on your shoulder in an unexpected gesture of kindness that makes you flinch despite yourself. Up close, you can see the sincerity shining in his hazel eyes, pleading for you to simply accept this incredible parting of the dark clouds that have shrouded your existence.

“I know this is … well, frankly astounding news on top of everything else you’re already dealing with.” Paulson continues, giving your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “And please, believe me, we want to avoid overwhelming you with undue complications. For now, I think it’s enough to simply feel that spark of hope again, yes?”

Despite your best efforts to tamp down the desperate yearning swelling in your chest, you find yourself nodding mutely in agreement. Because in this moment, you understand exactly the miraculous implications of his words.

After so many agonizing weeks of feeling utterly powerless, of watching your baby girl’s life slowly ebb away before your very eyes … there is a chance. An opportunity, a fighting possibility that everything won’t end in crushing grief and irredeemable sorrow.

And even just that single glowing ember of hope, no matter how faint, is enough to shatter the dam holding back your turbulent sea of pent-up emotion. Paulson watches in quiet acceptance as you finally break down in great, shuddering sobs — only this time, they’re threaded with the catharsis of relief.

Happy tears stream down your blotchy cheeks, unchecked and convulsive. You press your face into the cool, starchy sheets of Olivia’s bed, body wracked with a release of tension weeks in the making. It feels as though you’re being simultaneously unmade and reborn in this singular, messy instance.

Through the storm of your breakdown, you’re dimly aware of Paulson stepping away to give you privacy. And then, just before he slips from the room entirely, his composed baritone rings out one last time.

“We’ll make all the arrangements to transport Olivia to Sloan Kettering as soon as possible. Get her started on this treatment regimen right away, alright?”

You can’t even summon the words to respond, only nodding rapidly between hiccuping bursts of gasping and sobbing. But just before he exits, shutting the door silently behind him, you catch Paulson’s murmur.

“There’s a fighting chance now. That’s all any of us can really ask for ...”

***

Max rakes a hand through his meticulously styled hair as he strides down the sterile hallway of Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology ward. His eyes scan the room numbers tacked to each door, searching for the one he was provided.

456 … 458… ah, there — 460. Max pauses outside the closed entry, squaring his shoulders as he tries to tamp down the uncharacteristic fluttering of nerves in his stomach. Taking a fortifying breath, he gives the door a perfunctory series of raps with his knuckles.

Almost immediately, a muffled voice filters through from inside — your voice, he recognizes with a start. “Come in!”

Max’s brow furrows momentarily at the warm, chipper lilt to your tone. So unlike the brittle, devastated one he had heard that fateful day in his office. Though he supposes that’s only fitting, given the radically shifted circumstances these past several weeks.

Pushing his hesitation aside, Max takes the invitation and pushes into the hospital room. You’re seated in one of the uncomfortable plastic visitor’s chairs, wearing a soft cardigan and jeans — by all appearances the very portrait of a typical doting mother.

Well, not entirely typical. Because curled up on the bed next to you is a tiny, doe-eyed little girl whose resemblance leaves no question as to her relation to you.

Olivia.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you glance up — and immediately do a double-take, eyes going comically wide. “M-Mr. Verstappen?” You splutter out, frozen halfway out of your chair like a hostess belatedly remembered her manners. “I … I didn’t realize you were-”

Max holds up a hand to stop the tide of nervous rambling, inexplicably touched by your visible shock. The effect is only compounded when Olivia shifts on the bed, eyeing him owlishly from beneath the cuddly weight of a stuffed unicorn nearly as large as she is.

“It’s quite alright, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, offering you the barest hint of a disarming smile. An expression he finds shockingly easy to produce given the scene before him. “I admit I hadn’t warned you about my visit in advance.”

He pauses there, suddenly realizing the reason for his impromptu trip isn’t entirely certain, even to himself. It had begun as little more than a nagging impulse tugging at him throughout his days, growing more persistent and insistent until he finally gave in and scheduled some time away from the office.

And now that he’s here, standing in this dimly-lit hospital room, Max feels strangely … unmoored. Adrift in a situation his renowned business acumen didn’t even begin to equip him for handling.

But then your daughter is shifting again, curiosity winning out over her bashfulness as she props herself up on her elbows. “Who’re you?” She pipes up in a tiny, raspy voice that somehow bypasses Max’s usually implacable defenses.

Something pangs oddly in his chest at the innocent inquiry. He finds himself crouching into an automatic squat, bringing himself level with the bedside so he can better meet Olivia’s inquisitive gaze.

“You can just call me Max.” he says, injecting a gentle warmth into his tone that he didn’t even realize he was capable of. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

It occurs to him then that he’s been subconsciously clutching the bouquet of flowers still in his off-hand — an overly ornate spray of exotic lilies and birds of paradise blooms that probably cost more than a month’s rent for most families. He had ordered them from the city’s most exclusive florist boutique on pure aesthetic impulse, without pausing to consider the message such an excessive display might send.

This morning, holding the massive arrangement felt appropriate, a reflection of Max’s stature as a dominant business magnate. But now, watching Olivia’s large eyes track the oversized bouquet with open-mouthed awe, he feels suddenly self-conscious.

Hoping to recover some sense of propriety, Max clears his throat and holds the flowers out in front of him.

“These are, ah, for your mother.” he explains gruffly, avoiding your questioning gaze burning against the side of his face. “A small token of … of appreciation, one might say.”

He isn’t quite sure what prompts the carefully worded addition — perhaps an instinctive reflex to avoid showing any overt sentimentality. But either way, you seem to simply accept the generous offering with bemused grace.

“Thank you, Mr. Versta-” You quickly correct yourself at his mild arched brow. “Er, Max. They’re absolutely lovely.”

You bend to inhale the rich floral perfume, eyelids fluttering in evident delight at the fragrance. Max watches the childlike awe play out across your soft features, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction settle in his chest.

Having given you the flowers, he rises to his feet once more with a put-upon sigh of effort. Every bit of spoiled opulence and bravado that usually comes as second-nature to Max.

And yet, none of it lands quite with the affected solemnity he’s accustomed to projecting. Not when Olivia’s sweet-faced attention is still utterly transfixed by his every move and micro-expression.

Your daughter still hasn’t looked away from him even as you arrange the flower vase on her bedside table, entranced in a way only the very young can be. It’s … disarming, to say the least. But not entirely unpleasant, Max finds himself admitting.

“I, ah, got something for you as well, Olivia.” he announces impulsively. From behind his back, he produces a floppy-limbed teddy bear easily half her size.

He’s not even sure what prompted him to purchase such a pedestrian sort of toy. All he knows is that he saw the stuffed creature in the hospital gift shop window on his way in, and some impulse compelled him to acquire it for reasons he still can’t understand.

But any lingering uncertainty fades from his mind like a passing cloud when Olivia lets out an audible gasp of delight. Her little hands instantly shoot out, making desperate grabbing motions at the plush offering.

“Ohmygosh, thank you!” The words tumble out in a breathless, childish rush. Before Max can even react, she leans precariously over the edge of the bed, arms outstretched and grasping imploringly.

On instinct, Max takes a half-step forward, carefully depositing the stuffed bear into Olivia’s waiting embrace to avoid any accidents. She immediately snatches it to her chest, burying her face in the softness of its soft fabric with a contented hum that seems to vibrate in Max’s very soul.

He swallows hard past the unexpected lump that forms in his throat, watching a child delight in something so simple and innocent. How long has it been since he allowed himself to find joy in the pure, unbridled way that Olivia does? Far too long, he’s forced to admit.

Clearing his throat with an awkward rumble, Max tears his gaze away from your daughter’s cuddling. He levels his focus back onto you instead. Only then does he realize you’ve been staring at him throughout the entire interaction, an unreadable look painted across your face.

“I trust the medical team has kept you informed of Olivia’s progress so far.” he prompts in his usual clipped tone, struggling to reassert some sense of distancing professionalism. “I don’t have any special insight into the procedural specifics, but from what I’ve gathered, positive results are steadily accumulating, yes?”

You blink once, almost like shaking yourself out of a reverie, before offering a slow nod in response. “Y-Yes, you could definitely say that.”

Something sparks behind your gaze then — some dawning realization creeping over your delicate features. “In fact, Dr. Paulson himself said Olivia seems to have responded better to the gene therapy than almost any other patient yet. Her tumor reduction trend is so far exceeding their best models that they’re actually considering tweaking the formula for future tria-”

You abruptly cut yourself off, lips pursing into a tight line as you turn your focus back to Max. He holds your stare evenly, waiting for whatever it is you seem to be mustering the courage to say.

Then, almost in a whisper, “Max … are you the anonymous donor paying for all of this?”

The words hang in the air like a physical force between you, so full of implication and unvoiced emotion that even Max can’t find a way to deflect them. He stares back at you, utterly disarmed beneath the intensity of your scrutinizing gaze.

For a long beat, only the hum of hospital machines and equipment fills the weighty silence. Max’s jaw works tensely as he considers how best to respond. He wants to shrug it off, make some sardonic quip to reestablish the carefully curated aloofness that serves him so well in the business world.

But then Olivia lets out another joyous giggle as she squishes the plush bear’s paw, completely enraptured and undistracted by the silent standoff occurring across her bedside. And all of Max’s formidable defenses and calculated denials abruptly dissolve in the face of such childlike innocence.

So instead of evasion, he answers your question with a small, barely perceptible nod and a softly murmured, “Yes.”

He doesn’t have time to brace himself before you’re suddenly surging up out of the chair with a wounded cry. And then your arms are flung around his neck, your body slamming against his chest as you pull Max into a fierce and entirely unexpected hug.

The impact momentarily stuns him, freezing Max in place with his arms held useless at his sides. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to initiate such a brazen display of physical contact — perhaps ever, now that he racks his brain.

But just as he contemplates gently extricating himself from your clutches, your ragged voice rises to his ear in a trembling whisper.

“Thank you.” you’re whispering over and over like a fevered prayer. “Thank you, thank you, thank you ...”

With each impassioned repetition, Max can feel more of the tension slowly leeching from his frame. He finds himself sinking bonelessly into your embrace, one hand coming to rest against the small of your back in an automatic gesture of soothing.

Soon enough, heaving sobs are wracking your entire body against his. Hot tears quickly begin to soak through the fabric of his expensive dress shirt as you cling to him with the desperation of a fallen angel clawing her way back into grace. But Max doesn’t pull away, doesn’t extricate himself or put distance between your respective roles as worker and corporate king.

Instead, in a move even he can’t fully explain or justify, his free hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in even tighter as you keen your grateful relief against the column of his throat.

“It’s … quite alright.” he finds himself rumbling in a low, soothing voice completely at odds with his usual persona. “No thanks are necessary. All that matters now is ensuring your daughter’s full and complete recovery … at whatever cost required.”

He isn’t sure whether his throwaway platitude is meant more for his benefit or yours at this point. But either way, you show no signs of releasing him from the crushing strength of your desperate clutch anytime soon. So Max does the only thing left available to him — he simply lets you cry and shake and cling to him for as long as you need.

Until finally, with a handful of watery hiccups and sniffles, you manage to tilt your blotchy face up towards his.

“I … I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.” you murmur throatily. “For giving Olivia more than just some faint hope, but an actual chance to grow up and live the life she deserves.”

Tenderness isn’t something that often breaks through Max Verstappen’s shroud of callous indifference. He can count on one hand the number of times in his adult life he’s allowed himself to indulge in such sentimental trivialities.

But gazing into your puffy, reddened eyes, he finds he can’t quite summon any bitter cynicism. Instead, his voice remains low with a soothing gentleness that feels almost foreign falling from his lips.

“The only form of repayment I’ll require.” he says finally, “is your permission to take you to dinner.”

He blinks once, almost taken aback by the words that slipped unbidden from his throat. But you, for your part, seem equally dazed as your brows knit in bewilderment.

“Dinner? But … I haven’t left Olivia in weeks.”

At that, Max manages a wry smile, feeling as if he’s regained at least some fraction of his footing and composure. “Of course I don’t expect you to. I simply meant for the three of us to dine together … here, in the hospital. My treat, naturally.”

Your fingers unconsciously clench tighter into the fabric of his ruined dress shirt. But even with the hint of embarrassment pinkening your cheeks, he can see what looks almost like … excitement? Perhaps even coyness sparking behind your gaze before you avert your eyes demurely.

“I … yes, of course.” you murmur, sounding almost bashful. “We would be honored.”

Max simply nods, committing every little part of the interaction to his increasingly scattered memory for later dissection. For now, he withdraws himself from the gentle circle of your arms with what he hopes appears a natural sort of casualness.

“Very good then,” is all he finds himself able to say in response. “I shall make the necessary arrangements and return shortly with something to eat.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides towards the exit, throwing one final look over his shoulder. You’re already back in your chair at Olivia’s bedside, shooting him another shy little smile as you start to idly stroke your now dozing daughter’s hair.

And before Max even fully processes the impulse, he feels the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a warm half-grin in response.

A expression so unfamiliar on his usually dour features that it renders him momentarily unrecognizable, even to himself.

Shaking his head as if to cast off the dizzy sense of displacement, Max continues out into the hallway. He stubbornly refuses to dwell too much on the stirrings of contentment radiating through his chest.

Such indulgent notions are highly unseemly for a man of his stature and influence, after all. Better to ignore them entirely, as he always has.

Though even as the thought crosses his mind, Max finds himself picking up his pace with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Because somewhere along the way, he realizes ...

Denial doesn’t appear to be an option anymore.

***

Two Years Later

The ornate grandfather clock in the corner ticks rhythmically, its pendulum swinging with measured precision. Max’s gaze flicks over to it briefly before returning to the stack of documents before him. Numbers and figures blur together as his eyes scan the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.

A giggle from the corner of the room breaks his focus. He glances up to see Olivia sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet, curls bouncing as she plays with her Barbie dolls. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips at the sight of her innocent joy.

“What are you up to over there, kleine muis?” He asks, his voice gruff but tinged with affection.

Olivia looks up, her eyes sparkling. “I’m having a tea party with Barbie and Ken.” she explains, brandishing the dolls. “Would you like to join us, Maxie?”

Max chuckles softly. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I have a bit too much work to do for a tea party right now.”

“Okay.” Olivia says cheerfully, returning to her imaginary festivities.

You had dropped Olivia off at Max’s office after her kindergarten class, needing to rush to an urgent marketing meeting. Max had insisted on keeping her company until you returned, despite the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

He watches Olivia play, mesmerized by her ability to create entire worlds from mere toys and her vibrant imagination. Her carefree laughter is a soothing balm against the chaos of his day.

After a while, Olivia looks up again. “Maxie, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, lieverd. What is it?”

Olivia fidgets with one of the doll’s dresses. “Today at school, we had to draw pictures of our families.”

Max’s heart constricts slightly at the innocuous statement, but he manages a reassuring smile. “Did you have fun with that activity?”

Olivia nods enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. I drew me, Mommy, and you.”

The words hit Max like a physical blow, stealing his breath away. He stares at Olivia, his eyes widening as a storm of emotions swirls within him.

Olivia, oblivious to his inner turmoil, continues, “But then Timmy said that you’re not really my daddy since we don’t have the same last name. Is that true, Maxie? Are you not my daddy?”

Max swallows hard, his throat constricting. He had grown to love this child as if she were his own flesh and blood, but he had never dared to assume the sacred title of father. The realization that Olivia saw him that way, despite the lack of biological ties, threatens to shatter his carefully constructed walls.

Pushing back from his desk, he rises to his feet and makes his way over to where Olivia sits. He lowers himself to the floor, his movements stiff and hesitant. Olivia watches him with curious eyes, still clutching her dolls.

“Olivia.” he begins, his voice thick with emotion he struggles to contain. “Even though we don’t share the same name, and I didn’t ...” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I didn’t have a hand in bringing you into this world, you are every bit as much my daughter as if you were my own.”

Olivia tilts her head slightly, considering his words. “So, I can call you Daddy?”

The simple question unlocks something deep within Max’s core, a part of himself he had locked away long ago. He feels moisture prickling at the corners of his eyes, an unfamiliar sting that he doesn’t fight.

“Yes, kleine muis.” he whispers, his voice wavering. “I would be honored if you called me Daddy.”

Without warning, Olivia drops her dolls and flings her small arms around Max’s neck, hugging him tightly. Max freezes for a moment, unaccustomed to such open displays of affection, before melting into the hug. He wraps his arms around Olivia’s tiny frame, holding her close as if she might slip away at any moment.

They stay like that for long minutes, Max’s shoulders trembling slightly as the dam he had so carefully constructed finally cracks. Tears slip silently down his cheeks, mingling with the softness of Olivia’s hair as he buries his face against her.

At last, Olivia pulls back, her eyes shining with joy. “I love you, Daddy.” she says simply, the words reverberating through Max’s very soul.

He manages a watery smile, brushing away the dampness on his cheeks. “And I love you, lieverd. More than you could ever know.”

Olivia beams at him before scrambling to her feet. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She darts over to her little backpack, rummaging through it eagerly.

Max watches her, his heart still thundering in his chest from the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him. He had built an empire, commanded boardrooms with an iron fist, and struck fear into the hearts of grown men … yet this innocent child had disarmed him completely.

“Here it is!” Olivia exclaims, returning with a piece of paper clutched in her small fist. She holds it out to Max, beaming. “For you, Daddy.”

With trembling hands, Max takes the drawing. A bright smile breaks across his face as he studies the crude but endearing figures — stick figures, but he can clearly make out Olivia, you, and himself, joined by vibrant swirls of color.

“It’s beautiful.” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over the lines with a tenderness he reserves only for her. “Thank you.”

Over the next few days, Max has the drawing professionally framed, the simple piece of artwork taking pride of place on the wall of his office. Whenever his gaze falls upon it, his heart swells with a love and sense of purpose that had been missing for far too long.

Beside the framed drawing hangs his business degree, a symbol of his power and influence in the corporate world. Yet, it is Olivia’s artwork that holds the most meaning, a reminder of what truly matters in this life.

Because Max is many things — a captain of industry, a force to be reckoned with, a man who has clawed his way to the top through sheer grit and determination.

But most importantly, he is a father.

And he has never been more proud of any achievement than to call himself Olivia’s daddy.

[uglyducklingofthe2000s]

She Was Here - LN

Summary: There's one telltale sign Lando uses to know when y/n has been around.

This is kind of a sequence of events

Brain rot? Brain rot 🫣 Let's go.

Edit: I just realised the title of this fic might sound like the reader DIES. Ehhhh not to give away too many spoilers in case people think that is the case, but she doesn't die. It's just fluff.

No part 2 requests please

Lando really wants to believe his girlfriend doesn't have some natural talent in leaving a room right before he is about to enter it. Especially managing it every time he's actually looking for her.

The girl has some sort of sixth sense to just avoid him like the plague, despite insisting she loves him to pieces and really isn't doing it on purpose.

But he does have one telltale sign of y/n having been around in a room or a space. Even outdoors he managed to figure out she's been around from it.

Her perfume.

It's not as if it's especially strong or as if she's soaks herself in it.

But for some reason he can smell it in the air wherever she's been, it just lingers there and he can smell it above and before anything else. Even in the garage which can have all sorts of technical smells. If she's been around there, he'll know.

"Hey, was y/n just over here? I can smell her perfume." Lando frowns walking up to the pit wall while Will turns to look at him with Zak.

"She's right, you are a weirdo." Will comments with a laugh while Zak chuckles and points down the pit lane to the track.

"You just missed her. She was here for like 20 minutes talking our ears off about how the two of you have matching shoes." Zak states earning a smile from Lando as they all look down at her shoes. "Should get her a pair of McLaren shoes."

"She told me that she'd get me to sign them and then sell them online." Lando hums absently making the two men chuckle before he sighs. "I better go see if I can find her. Thanks."

-

Lando jogs over to the unit where the comms girls giggle as he seems to let his nose guide him at the scent of y/n's perfume, directly to them.

"She's not here."

"Oh for fu-where'd she go? I only just had her on the track yesterday and managed to keep hold of her. I stop for one conversation with Carlos and she's like a ghost." Lando groans since y/n really is iconic for her disappearing acts by this point.

"She said she had a gift for Ted because it's his birthday so she went to go give it to him."

Lando grumbles wanting to be mad that he's once again lost his girlfriend but really he knew she'd gone out of her way to be a sweetheart yet again and he knew she'd get herself on a mission to make sure she gave him the gift as soon as she could.

Nevertheless since Lando has a while till he needs to do anything for the team or preparing for being out on track, he goes out searching for her. It's really a never ending trail of essentially sniffing her out like a hound.

-

Lando sighs as he gets back from the gym, returning to his apartment where Max is currently hanging out. He arrived at the apartment while y/n was still there.

"Where's y/n? I know she's just been here." Lando frowns as he sits down next to his mate.

"How?"

"Her perfume. It's like she sprays it and just runs or something as soon as she knows I'm on my way." Lando sighs while sitting down. "Where is she?"

"Pretty sure she just went in the shower. I don't remember her spraying any perfume before she left though." Max laughs while Lando hums then rubbing his hand over his face. "No wonder she calls you a weirdo. Sniffing her out like a dog."

Lando would love to argue about it but he really doesn't think he can. He absolutely knows he's a weirdo for it. But he can't help it, it's the first thing he notices if he enters a room now.

His mind immediately seems to set out to try and figure out first if he can smell that perfume. Even worse, he couldn't tell you what perfume she wears. But he could pick it out from a million samples.

He could be blindfolded and pick her out of a line up.

"How long ago did she go in the shower?" Lando asks making Max puff out a breath since he really hasn't been counting the minutes and he didn't time stamp her disappearance.

"Maybe...10 minutes?"

-

Lando sighs as he wakes up the sound of soft padding of feet and the gentle click of the bathroom door stirring him from the depth of sleep before he rolls onto her side of the bed, relishing in the smell of her perfume residence on the sheets and especially on her pillow.

He starts to doze at the scent of her just surrounding him before he hears the door click.

"Hey. That's my side." A tired light voice giggles making him peak one eye open and lift the sheets. "I just needed to pee. What you doing on my side, weirdo?"

Y/n still climbs into the bed and finds herself suddenly position to lie underneath him with his face nuzzled deep in her neck as he inhales heavily against her skin.

"Do you like bathe in your perfume?" Lando asks, though his voice is muffled by her skin while she laughs.

"No. It's just a good perfume. Beginning to think it makes you feral or something from the way you react to it." Y/n jokes then yawning as she feels the heat of his body lulling her carefully to sleep. "Going to start spraying it on you before you go on track and on your clothes so you smell like me when you're around other people...especially other women. Like marking my territory."

Lando nearly chokes on his breath with that sleepy unfiltered thought.

"Are you sure you're not the feral one?"

"I definitely am feral. But so are you, weirdo." Y/n giggles then yawning. "Can we go back to sleep? You're so warm you're really sending me to sleep."

"Yeah." Lando mumbles since having his face completely buried into a direct source of her scent is such a comfort to him, he's entirely happy to sleep in this position.

Hell she might find that this is a new position they'll be sleeping in from here forward. Why he's never done it before suddenly makes no sense at all.

Taglist: @namgification @hiireadstuff @jsjcue @geniusalpaca @itsjustkhaos @llando4norris @partyinpitlane @lpab @xoscar03 @harrysdimple05 @mellowarcadefun @cixrosie @scopeiguess @racingheartsposts @c-losur3 @jehun @bethanymccauley @randomnessis-mine-me @sunf1ower16 @8justme @bborra @igotnorrrizz @unknownmystery22 @aeri101 @neilakk @d3kstar

[xhopelesslyromanticx]

A birkin bag for Y/n - Lando Norris x Horner! Reader

Masterlist

Warnings: sexual references, swearing, mentions of alcohol

summary: When Y/n‘s situationship gifts her a really expensive bag seemingly out of the blue it causes quite the talk in the paddock. Little does she know he‘s just trying to show everyone who she belongs to. (Inspired by the famous birkin bag scene in Gilmore Girls)

Lando was intrigued with you from day one. Literally from the get go. He remembers the first time he had bumped into you in the halls of his close friends home. He clearly remembers every second despite being hungover from the night before.

Your hands were jam packed with all kinds of crafting supplies that shattered on the ground, crayons spilling everywhere.

„Ah shit!“ the sleepy guy exclaimed as a small hand immediately slapped his shoulder. He looked at your face in shock. He was violently hungover from his late night celebraions with a certain three time world champion yet he had never seen such a beautiful thing.

„Shh!“ you whispered, him raising his brows questiongly „Penelope could hear you!“

Lando chuckled, as you started picking up all the crayons. He kneeled down grabbing some as well. He knew your face was somehow familiar. He couldn’t quite place it though. The freckles, the dimples and that hair.

„Babysitter?“ he asked mustering your face.

„Sort of.“ you nodded, shooting him an innocent yet friendly smile „Family friend.“

He hands you a blue crayon with a grin. You knew the grin probably made any girl weak in the knees and judging from the blonde woman you and little Penelope had watched stumble out of his room this morning while munching on your cereal, he knew as well.

„Well nice to meet you nanny.“

You cringe at the name before rolling your eyes „Nice to meet you to Lando.“

Lando had loved that. You hadn’t acted like you didnt know his name. You just didn’t care enough to pretend to ask. You smiled again before licking your lips and getting up. Hearing Penelope call your name. Y/n. What a name. He eatched you stumble away on that day, knowing he wanted to get to know you.

And he did. He learned very quickly,that you were in fact Horners daughter. Which was of course to his luck, because Christian loved him. So he showed up at family hosted events, made some apparences in the red bull motor home and before he knew it you spent the night at his.

Well it wasn‘t that easy. He had to do some convincing. But god Lando loved kissing you. He was addicted to it in fact. In every corner, whenever noone was watching his lips were on yours as he pressed you against the walls.

„Someone could see.“ you mumbled against his soft lips, slightly pressing your palms against his broad chest. Having to control youraelf from giving in.

„I don’t care.“ he chuckled his hands under your shirt rather quickly.

It was always like this. Sneaking around, yet most of the grid was aware off the little fling. But Lando had told you quite blank from day one; he didn’t do boyfriend and girlfriend. And having gotten out of a longer realitionship just months prior you were okay with that. You could do it, you thought. And it was fun for a minute. Exciting and new.

„No strings.“ you held out your little finger snd Lando rolled his eyes at the childish gesture. But he interwined his pinky with yours anyway after some hesitation. Laying on his hotelroom bed with your body next to his.

„No strings.“ he nodded. You smiled waiting for the next words before you raised your brows.

„You gotta say it.“ you exclaimed gesturing to your interwined hands.

„I don‘t want to.“ he groaned, his body pressing against yours as he was hovere above you.

„Okay.“ you nodded before turning around and crossing your arms „Then no sex.“

Lando chuckled pulling you into his body as he inhaled your scent „Fine.“

You smiled waiting to hear the words escape his lips as he pressed his lips against the crook of your neck „I pinky promise.“

Months passed like that. And it was fun for a moment. But reality eventually creeped back up. And as you were sat at brunch at your dads house back in England, having scrolled through endless pictures of Lando celebrating his podium in Silverstone the day prior. Including pictures of him with countless women. But you knew it was no fair. He could do whatever he wanted. Yet you somehow had gotten the sense that he maybe wasn’t sleeping around like that anymore. After all, you two saw eachother almost every week at least very two weeks. You just thought maybe it was heading somewhere, but clearly its wasn‘t.

It had been so easy. Life had been good. You had an internship at a sports paper back in Monaco. You were studying to be a journalist, meaning you weren’t necessairily location bound. And it allowed you to attend races. Which allowed you to see Lando. But not this race. You hsd promised Lando you‘d make it but cancelled last minute as you had to attend some stupid event in Monte Carlo. You had watched the race on the toilet, your phone in your hands the whole night. God you had been so proud once he had finished that crossing line. If only he knew how important he was to you. You think you might even have screamed a little when it was over. And of course you had immediately texted him. „Plan A babyyyy! so proud of you Lan, kisses and see you soon xx“

But there hadn‘t been any response. And seeing the pictures from the whole ordeal over the weekend you now understood why. While you had sat on the plan, still wearing your gown from the event he had been out and fooled around with lord knows who. You knew you had no right to be jealous or something. But you weren’t even jealous. You were just dissapointed, having expexted to be a little more important than that. But Lando was a player. He didn‘t do boyfriend/girlfriend.

You were so lost in your thoughts, not even having heard the front door open. Starkng at the perfectly arranged flowers your stepmom had on the wooden table. The whole house and every corner was so perfect, it made you think about how your dad really had a great woman by his side. She had made this place a home. Something it truly hadn’t been growing up there.

„Well good morning sweetheart!“ your fathers voice appeared behind you as your dad walked into the dining room where the brunch had been prepared.

Max and Kelly following behind him, having all drove out here to get some time off. The countryside the perfect place to do so. No people who‘d recognize you, not even in the little town nearby. And even if they did, they truly didn‘t care enough to bother you.

„Dad.“ you smiled getting up and hugging your father tightly, your arms wrapping stound his taller figure. Your dad quite suprised by the affectionate hug, as he held you close for some seconds; He immediately knew. From the second he saw you staring blankly at that wall just before to this desperate hug, something was wrong. He watched you greet everyone else with a somehow fake smile, including Max and Kelly who both hadn‘t seen you in some time as your job was keeping you really busy.

„What are you even doing back home?“ your dad later asked as everyone was eating.

„Well, I was suprised to to see her stumble in here this morning.“ Geri, your stepmom chuckled.

Max mustering you. He knew, he had seen the pictures. Well he had been there. Having told Lando if he was aware of the cameras on him as he was pushing his tounge down some girls throat. He even told some people to delete the photos. But people were drunk, plus Lando was famous. A deadly combination.

„What about Y/n, Lando?“

Max knew you two weren’t exactly offical. He had no idea what kind of realitionshipi it was. But he had seen you two. It was evident you both had feelings for eachother. So this was just stupid. It would hurt both of you. Especially you and Max thought of you like a little sister.

„Why should I care?“ Lando groaned sounding extremly cocky, making Max wanna puke. Lando scrunched his nose before he pushed past the dutch guy who just stood there baffled.

Now seeing your puffy eyes looking at everyone at the table. Max knew; you had seen the stupid pictures. You probably had flown out to England for Lando. And Lando had been an absolute idiot the past 24 hours.

„I wanted to suprise you.“ you whispered, lying to your dad. But your dad wasn’t stupid, he knew it probably had to do with a certain british boy who you seemingly had befriended ove the past few months. He had his concerns but you were a grown woman, he knew he shouldn’t get inbetween anything.So he just smiled before nodding „Well that’s nice. I‘m certainly surprised honey.“

The week passed quick. You spent some time with your siblings and Max and Kelly before saying your goodbyes again. Telling your dad you‘d see him in Hungary.

„Come to London please.“ You couldnt believe it. After three whole days of zero contact he had finally texted you. He didn‘t ask yet he clearly saw your instagram story showing you were back home. You wanted to text him, be mad and tell him how hurt you were. But you weren’t like this. Your weekend with your patents had made you realize you haf been raised better. Maybe you had lied to yourself. Maybe you couldn‘t do no strings attached. Maybe having standards was a good thing.

So you didn‘t respond. You told him a couple of days later; „sorry was busy, see you in hungary.“

It was the weekend before the Grand Prix you attended yet another absoluetly jam packed Gala event in Monaco. You were luckily not gonna be important next to all the stars and socialites there. So you put on some regular black dress, did your own hair and makeup before getting an uber there.

The evening was rather dull. But you‘d have to report on it for the paper next week so you had to stay for every second. You saw a couple if familiar faces, talked to some old family friends before admiring the beautiful hotel the thing was hosted at. The big chandeliers sparkling so brightly, you were bound to be mesmerized. It was then as you grabbed yet another glass of champagne when you turned around bumping into some guys chest.

„Oh. I‘m sorry!“ you exclaimed looking up at the familiar face. The blonde hair sitting ever so perfectly as the tailored suit sat on his broad shoulders. The tall guy shooting you a sly grin „You‘re fine my love dont worry.“

„Logan.“ you chuckled. Having seen the rookie a couple of times at least. But never really having spoken to him.

„Hello there.“ he waved awkwardly before induldging you in some small talk.

Logan was nice guy. Despite the internet making fun of him for his very american ways he was nice and polite. It started as nice chatters but somehow you two ended up at a corner at the empty bar, downing glass after glass of whatever alcoholic beverage the american ordered.

„So weird seeing you without Norris.“ he eventually bound up saying.

You scrunched your nose, a thing you always did but even more when you were drunk. If there was botox for that you might as well start young.

„Why is that weird?“ you giggle, your words coming out slower than usual as you kick your heels against the legs of the bar chair. Playing with the rim of your already empty champagne glass.

Logan looks down at you, seeing you nervously bounce your legs. He licks his lips, and if you weren‘t shitfaced you would have gotten the ick a long time ago. The guy was so obviously trying to flirt with you. Something you hated. Well except when Lando did it.

„Ah, I don‘t know I just thought he was your boyfriend?“

You burst out into laughter, causing some of the last people in there to look at you. Women being loud, something people clearly hated or were at least severly triggered by.

„What‘s so funny?“ Logan blushed looking around, kind of embarassed by the eyes on you. Lando would never be embarrassed. Yeah well Landos laugh was also way louder than yours.

„See…“ you catch your breath, before rolling your eyes and playfully punching his shoulder „Norris doesn’t do girlfriend boyfriend or boyfirend girfriend silly!“

Logan chuckled before his hand was placed on your upper thigh. It was like he had waited to hear that. It came so quick and at the most obvious time. The american guy leaned in towards you before whispering into your ear „You wanna head home?“

He smelled weird. No he actually smelled fine. He just didn’t smell like Lando. Lando smelled so perfect. Like your favorite smell ever.

Your heart ached for a second. This probably was good right? You had to do the whole multiple people thing. Lando was doing it. So you also had to.

„Why not?“

So you walked out the place with the blonde american. Not looking back once. Only what you didn‘t notice as you stumbled down the stairs with your heels in your hands was that, Arthur Leclerc who was Charles brother and Oscars best friend had waited for his girfriend outside when he spotted a very tipsy you get in a car with none other that Logan Sargeant.

The week passed rather quick and before you knew it you were sat on a plane towards Hungary. You were gonna arrive just in time for Qualifying. Heading straight from the airport to the paddock, having to change into a appropriate outfit at the airport toilet. Again. Low point.

It was a long taxi drive later that you made your way into the paddock, holding your recorder and noteclips. What you hadn’t known strutting, in there in your still perfectly white suit that could have used some ironing but no one’s perfect, that you actually had been the talk of the grid over the past two days.

Arthur Leclerc had a loose mouth. He had immediately texted Charles asking if Y/n Horner wasn’t involved with Lando Norris anymore. To which the older Leclerc responded that as far as he knew Lando and Y/n were somehow together all the time but not really exclusive. When Arthur dished the tea to him later the next day that he had seen you and Sargeant looking rather cozy with one another Charles immediately texted Carlos asking if there was trouble in heaven. The boys just loved gossip. And we all know who Carlos is best friends with.

On press day the ferrari driver asked his former teammate, right after getting of the panel „So Y/n’s really not as goody two shoes as we thought huh?“

Lando looked at him confused, he had just spent four days figuring what he had done to seemingly piss you off. No messages, the way you had stayed with your dad when you had promisef him to come to London. He missed you. He just couldn‘ admit that. No strings right? Plus he didn’t do boyfriend girlfriend.

„What do you mean? What about her?“

„Yeah well…“ Carlos chuckled awkwardly now spotting the very hot topic off his rumor talking to Oscar in the corner of the waiting room. Logan was showing Oscar something on his phone while the two youngest guys on the track waited for their turn to do interviews.

„Carlos, I don‘t have all day.“ Lando groaned, punching his friends shoulder „What about Y/n?“

Carlos contemplated for a second. He knew Lando was acting like he had no feelings for you but Carlos knew exactly that wasn‘t the case. He had after all been the one dragging the brit home after the silverstone afterparty. And the whole drive to the hotel the young Mclaren driver kept on talking about you and everything about you and everything about your looks and so on.

„Her eyes. Her hair, the way she scrunches her nose when shes confused.“ Lando slurred his head on Carlos lap as he was about to pass out „Y/n‘s just great. She- She is girlfriend material.“

„So Charles told me that Arthur told him. That last Saturday at some sort of Gala in Monaco, he spotted Y/n leaving with another driver…“

„What!“ Lando yelled immediately , causing everyone to look at him. Carlos hand covered his mouth, stopping him from screaming the place down. Shooting everyone an awkward smile as they continued their own thing with raised eyebrows.

„Shh!“ Carlos whispered as Lando looked at him in fury before removing the hand from his mouth.

„Don’t tell me to shush! Who the fuck did she leave with!“ he whisper yelled, and Carlos sighed. He really didn’t want any bad blood in between the grid to start because of him so he knew he couldn’t tell names:

„Well, Lando you two aren’t official so you dont really have the right to get mad at her.“ Carlos explained trying to sound reasonable. But Lando just raised his eyebrows holding up his hands clearly acting innocent as a lamb.

„Hold on! I‘m not mad at her! Im mad at whoever thinks its okay to take something that clearly belongs to me!“

Carlos chuckled. His friend sounded like a little kid in preschool who‘s toy was stolen. Guess that’s what love does to you „Lando first of all no one really knows if you two are offical or not…“

„I don‘t have to be offical with her, she‘s off limits for any other driver and they know it.“ he argues back and it actually makes so much sense in his head. Much more sense than it does to Carlos at least „If you don’t actually your car, I‘ll still never juste drive it.“

„But Y/n‘s not some bag Lando. You cant actually own her-„

„Thats it!“ Lando smiled and Carlos looked rather confused. He musters his seemingly insane friend who looked like he had just found the answer to lifes most profound question.

„What?“

„Im gonna get her a bag.“

You had just arrived at some food stand, grabbing a coffee and a bagle when a hand grabbed yours. You turned around looking up at the beautiful curly haired guy. Landos eyes looked at you as he had a huge grin on his face „Hey baby.“

„Lan.“ you stated, rather suprised by the bubbly greeting. Last time you had checked both of you were ignoring one another. But Lando didn‘t even give you any time, he put his hand on your back before guiding you towards the mclaren motorhome like he was on some sort of mission.

„What are you doing?“ you chuckled as he pulled you past security who grabbed your bagle and coffee as it was not allowed to bring food from outside. Rude. You looked Lando up and down as you followed him. He was already in race gear probably having to go on track any minute now.

The young guy didn’t say a word he just pulled you into his drivers room closing the door behind him quickly. Before he immediately smashes his lips against yours leaving you no choice but kiss him back. After a while you come to your senses as you push him off you “What‘s going on Lan?“

You missed this. But you weren’t naive, he was acting like you hadn‘t completely had zero contact over the last two weeks. Like he hadn’t ignored you for days after Silverstone. Lando pressed his lips together, his hands still on your waist. He looked like he was contemplating to say something but then shook his head.

„Baby.“ he whispered, his fingers digging into the material of your white blazer.

„Yes?“ you asked sounding rather hopeful. Maybe youw two were actually gonna talk for once.

Lando looked into your eyes before taking a deep breath „I got you something.“

He what? The brit now turned around and you looked at him dumbfounded. He walked over to the cabinet pulling out an orange paper bag. You furrowed your brows. Not understanding what on earth he was doing. He got you a present?

„Here.“ the brown haired handed you the big bag and you looked at him confused.

„It‘s not my birthday yet.“ you stated knowing your birthday was coming up soon. Maybe he had remembered wrong, wouldn’t be a suprise as he seemingly didn’t care where you had been the last two weeks.

„I know but just open it!“ he chuckled, sounding like an excited little boy. You can’t help but giggle nodding as you walk towards the table. You place the bag down pulling out an orange cotton bag. You look at Lando still lost before pulling out the inside. Holding a rathe big snd bright pink leather bag in your hand.

You scrunch your nose „A purse?“

„You dont like it?“ Lando looks panicked and you get even more confused. He sighs rubbing his face „I thought pink was your favorite color.“

„No it’s nice! Really nice!“ you admit looking at the bag „Im just confused why you got me a- a bag? I mean i know im a girl, and I love bags but why..“

„It‘s not just any bag.“ he chuckles, only now realizing you had no idea what you were holding in your hands. He forgot you actually grew up with only a father. This could be amusing.

„What is it then? A special bag?“

„Ah forget it.“ Lando shrugged it off, kissing your cheek . This maybe was actually good. If you didn’t know what the bag meant you‘d go parade it in front of everyone which was exactly what Lando wanted. This bag would surely keep anyone away „I hope you like it baby.“

„I love it Lan!“ you smiled, before tiptoeing and kissing his cheeks. In all honesty the bag was nice but you had still no idea why he‘d just gift you some purse. But you figured it was his way of aplogizing or somethingand you really had no time to discuss the matter at that moment „If you excuse me now I gotta go show everyone my new bag and you have to go race. Good luck!“

Lando couldnt believe it. His plan had sorta backfired. But in the weirdest most unexpected way. He was stunned as he watched you strutting away with your new bag in one hand as you grabbed your coffe on your way out. This could be fun.

Kelly was watching her boyfriend qualifying from the redbull garage as she noticed you walk up to her. The dark haired woman smiled talking off her headphones „Y/n!“

„Kells!“ you embraced her in a hug. You two catch up a little and you just wanna ask Kelly about Little P when her eyes fall onto the bright pink thing in your hand. Kelly raised her eyebrows staring at it“Wow does your internship suddenly pay that much?“

„What?“ you chuckled, noticing her eyes on your bag. You pull it up swinging it around a little before wiggling your eyebrows „Oh, this?“

You roll your eyes turning it around „It‘ a pretty nice bag right?“

Kelly looks at you a little stunned „Nice?“

„You dont like it?“ you ask mustering the older woman „Well you won’t believe this but Lando got me this, totally random!“

„Lando got you a birkin!“ Kelly now yelled covering her mouth in shock as everyone started to look at the two of you. It was then that your step mom appeared from the backroom, taking off her own headset. Looking at Kelly and than at you snd than the very pink bag in your hand.

„That’s what it‘s called?“ you scrunched your nose before chuckling„Its apparently a special purse.“

„Who got you this?“ Geri now asked looking utterly confused at the very beauty you were holding in your hands. She had seen her share of beautiful birkins but this was next level. You grew more confused by the second as people were suddenly hovered around you, well especially women.

„Well- Hello to you to.“ you say rolling your eyes „It‘s just a bag girls. Lando got me it and it was so weird, it was completly out of the blue!“

„Just a bag?“ Geri asked, looking at Kelly unbelievingly „Y/n thats a very nice purse!“

„Oh.“ you state, raising your eyebrows „Maybe I shouldn’t use it then?“

„Oh no, A birkin bag is meant to be used honey!“ Geri chuckled, and Kelly can’t help but laugh along still absolutely shocked„Max never got me a birkin bag.“

„Whatever.“ you now shrug not knowing how a bag could be such a big deal. The two women continue their jokes before you walk around and take off. You had work to do after all. You muster your bag one last time. A birkin bag. Whatever that was. You should probably google it later.

Talk of the bright pink birkin bag that had been gifter by the very Lando Norris spread like water. Soon everyone knew about the most expensive hermes bag being given to a certain young journalist who was parading it like she had zero idea what it was. Well, that was actually the truth. Even instagram had their fieldday seeing you enter Mclarens motorhomes with Lando and leaving it with a pink birkin.

But you were too busy to notice. You only noticed the stared from every woman passing you and the fact that even some of the drivers started whispering and pointing at you whenever you passed them.

When Carlos bumped into you and noticed the little thing in your hand he immediately wanted to slap Lando. He Couldn’t believe the young guy thad actually pulled through with the utter insane plan. He had watched the guy make five hundred calls the day prior. If he had known what kinda bag he was on the hunt for, he‘d probably tell him to forget it.

„Max!“ Carlos yelled running up to the dutch driver, Max turning around „Yes?

„Did you see what he did?“ Carlos asked completely out of breath. Max raised his eyebrows taking a sip of his water in his Red Bull bottle.

„Who did what?“ Max asked, looking at the spanish ferrari driver.

„Lando.“ he stated and Max ju shrugged his shoulders, completely oblivious to the gossip that had been circulating all day„He bought her a birkin bag!“

„Who?“

„Y/n!“

„That little sly fuck!“ Max cussed, not actually believing what he was hearing. Everyone knew what gifting a birkin to a woman means. It‘s like putting a lock on her. It could be only described as some sort of pre proposal, letting every guy know: she is in fact off limits and you better back off.

„He couldnt ask her out normally huh?“ Max laughed shaking his head, grinning at the thought of the young brit.

„No. It‘s Lando. Typical Lando.“

On race day you decided you had enough for once and for all from the stares shot your way every second you walked through the paddock. The bag was pretty yes, but people were surely acting like it was a god. You walked into the redbulm garage approaching Kelly who was stood there with Max and your dad.

„Guys!“ they all stared at you as you looked at them in frustration.

„What the hell is the deal with this stupid purse!“ you held up the thing once again and your dad looked at you suprised while Max chuckles. There‘s a moment of silence before your father crosses his arms, raising his eyebrows.

„It‘s hideous?“ Christian asked. Max and Kelly looking at both of you stunned.

„Dad!“ you punched him with the bag as he laughed like an evil witch. He always made fun of your clothes so this wasn’t personal.

„Y/n!“ Kelly yells before the panicked women reaches out to garv the bag out of you hands like it was a child in need. She wrapped her arms around it protectively looking at you in fury. Meanwhile you look at her like she’s the one that’s lost her mind and so does your dad.

„What the-„

„Okay Christian.“ Max took a deep breath, looking at Kelly who was looking at him in desperation. Silently begging him to put an end to her misery of watching you treat a birkin like that„You may wanna take a seat for this.“

„Bullocks.“ Christian chuckled raising his eyebrows as you looked at Max confused. What was everyone’s problem?

„Well, this bag.“ Max ponited at the thing in Kellys hand and you looked at him exceptingly „It’s a birkin bag. And Lando gave it to you? Right Y/n?“

You slowly nodded, your dad already confused on why Lando would even buy you a bag in the first place. You weren’t that serious, right?

„Well its a forty thousand dollar bag. At least.“ Kelly now stated.

You felt like your heart stopped beating „A what?“

„Why?“ your dad now looks at you putting two and two together „Why does Norris gift you a forty thousand dollar bag Y/n?“

„I- Uhm.“

„I don’t know?“ you lied, before going to grab the bag from Kelly’s hand. Your dad throwing daggers at you. Realizing his daughter actually isn’t as innocent as she seems. You grin awkwardly „If you excuse me now. I gotta go!“

You wahtched the race from the stands, figuring you‘d be safest there as you tried to grasp the sheer fact that Lando had actually bought you a bag that cost more than all your other bags combined. And god you didn’t even say thank you really. But you also truly didn’t understand why he‘d do something so insane. This was serious. You don‘t gift bags like this to your situationship. After a long day you finally headed back to the hotel. Texting Lando to come to your room to talk on your way there.

You were getting ready to out to dinner with your family when a knock appeared at your door. In nothing but yout bathrobe you went to open the door expecting it to be Lando only to be met with a certain american guy lean against your doorframe „Howdy.“

„Logan.“ your eyes were wide open as he looked you up and down with a sly grin.

„Greetings.“ god he was unbarebale when not drunk. You look at the taller guy an awkward grin plastered on your lips.

„What do you want?“ you asked and you knew it sounded quite rude. But you quite honestly didn’t care because Lando could show up any second and you didn’t exactly want him to find you here with Logan.

„I wanna talk.“ He speaks as he pushes past you. You watch him enter your room. Well he was persistent.

„Well, now really is a bad time.“ you stated gesturing to your soaking wet hair and bathrobe. He really had to leave.

„How so?“

„Well, to be quite frank.“ but you couldnt finish it because a second later the door opened behind you. You shut your eyes knowing exactly who that was and how this was gonna look for you. Lando walks in fully dressed for the night, spotting you stand there in your bathrobe, your back turned towards him and in the room none other than. What? Logan? Really?

„What the fuck is he doing here.“ Lando asked not even acknowledging Logans presence. Great. Could anything go your way. You sighed turning around and looking at him „Lan…“

„I‘m here to pick her up for dinner.“ Logan states crossing his arms. You turn back around. He was not serious. „What?“

„Excuse me?“ Lando hissed, clearly already getting worked up about the fact that the Williams driver had the audacity to show up here after he had clearly made sure the whole paddock knew you were his. The birkin had done his job. People had already texted him congratulations on the realitionship.

„Yes remember, we made the plans last week when I came to your place?“ Logan asks you, quite literally doing it on purpose. You knew he was doing it on purpose.

„So hold on!“ Lando grabbed your shoulde and you turned around to look at his pissed off expression „He‘s the other driver?“

„The other what?“ you exclaimed being quite lost. Logan just chuckling, he had heard that Lando was trying scare someone off, apparently it was him. It mad Logan chuckle, surely you wouldn’t be so easy right?

„Last week you left an event with another driver!“ Lando hissed, pointing at the blonde american whi stood there with a cocky smile “It was him?“

„Yes.“ Logan grinned and you knew if he wanted Lando to punch him he was almost there. The brit had a short temper for stuff like this.

„Wait!“ you now yelled turning your attention towards Lando only „How do you know that!“

„Arthur saw you.“ Lando hissed, looking at you with a digusted expression. He starts to pace up and down the room and you roll your eyes at the dramatics.

„Lando calm down!“

„He’sinsane.“ Logan chuckled, shaking his head „Thinking he can put dibs on girl with some freaking bag just because he‘s too stupid to ask her out.“

„Logan!“ you now sighed , pointing at the door „Leave!“

Logan looks at you unamused but seeing you were serious. He rolls his eyes before pushing past you and leaving your room. Slamming tbe door shut on his way out, causing you to flinch as you stare at Lando who‘s looking like some maniac.

„Jesus!“ you sighed.

„Did you have s*x with him?“ Lando asked, blurting it out without hesitation but scared of the answer. You looked at him completely lost on what gave him that idea. Arthur for sure wasn’t a reliable source. Noted.

„What if I did Lando? We agreed on no strings!“ you tried to reason with him. The whole bag thing and him acting all jealous. It made zero sense „Its not like you weren‘t the one who was partying with a million girls after Silverstone.“

„Because I was mad at you!“ Lando now yelled. He really hated to admit this. He hated talking. He‘d rather buy you a million birkins but he knew his words were now needed.

„For what?“

„For not being there. You knew how important it was for me!“

„Lando I had to work!“ you sighed, still lost on how this all made sense „Thats why you slept with other women? Because you missed me?“

„I didn‘t sleep with anyone!“ he now defensed himself. You take a step back raising your brows as you realize you had been foolish.

„But the pictures?“

„Yes I made out with some of them. Im not proud. But I went home with Carlos.“ he sighed, looking at your smaller frame „And I got you that bag hoping you‘d forgive me for that. Well I also got it to scare the competition off.“

„Why didnt you say anything?“

„The bag speaks for itself or so I thought.“ he shakes his head „Only I forgot you aren’t like every other girl.“

„Lan.“ you smiled weakly, approaching him and putting your hand against his face „It‘s a nice bag. But unfortunately you will have to take it back because baby, forty thousand dollars? Thats ridiculous!“

Lando chuckled knowing how insane he sounded. He looked down at you „It was fifty thousand actually. I was trying compete with the other driver. If had known it was Sargeant I‘d gotten you something cheaper trust me.“

You can’t help but laugh „You’re mean!“

„No but seriously? He’s american!“ Lando said his voice all high pitched.

„I know.“ you. giggle, shaking your head „I didn’t t sleep with him tough baby. So you can take the bag back and buy yourself a car.

„Oh thank god!“ Lando sighed in relief his whole body relaxing. God he could be dramatic.

„I thought I was gonna have to pull an exorcism to get that thought out of my head.“

„Well we kissed.“ you smirk „So theres your exorcism.“

Lando fake gags and you punch his shoulder. Before wrapping your arms around his neck. Tugging on his curls. You look into his beautiful eyes, and he smiles down at you.

„So this no strings thing.“ he mumbles, biting the inside of his cheek. You feel your heart flutter as he comes down and kisses your lips softly his hand on your chin. He smiles „Its really just silly isn‘t it?“

You giggle „It is silly baby.“

„Okay from now on its strings baby.“ he states his hands wrapping around you body.

„Oh-„ you look at him with a scrunched nose „You might wanna skip that and go do boyfriend girlfriend right away.“

„Why?“

„Mhm…“ you sighed „Pretty sure my dad knows we had s*x.“

„What?!“ his eyes are wide open „How?“

„The stupid-„ you start but he interrupts you with raised brows.

„Birkin Bag.“

[verstappen-cult]

I have a request for max!

Reader is a strategist for Mercedes. Max and her, they got married in secret and have a 2 year old daughter together.

I know this is not much to work with but you do you!

(I love your fics <3)

hi bestie! i left the mercedes’ strategist plot out of this, but i hope you still like it! btw this was gonna be really short and ended up being this other thing. <333

You look out the car window and then to your daughter playing with her favorite plushie next to you. She doesn’t know that you’re about to be the topic of conversation for the next week — month even. She only knows that there are gonna be a lot of people trying to take pictures of you both, and that you’re gonna see Dad’s friends too. 

“Hey, baby.” You whisper, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “You’re ready to see Daddy?” She smiles at the mention of her favorite person in the whole world, forgetting all about her toy. 

“Where are we?” She asks, looking out the window. 

You lift her up onto your lap, placing a kiss on her temple. “We’re gonna watch papa just like we do from home every Sunday.”

“We have fun watching papa.” 

“Yes, so,” You take your bag and her plushie before taking a deep breath. “let’s go and have some fun, then.”

It’s no secret to anyone that you and Max have been dating for quite a few years now. You used to be more public about your relationship, but then you got pregnant and Max decided that it was best if you kept things a little more private, and you were more than happy to do it until you started to miss going to the races and seeing him more often. 

Max was a bit reluctant at first, but after some — a lot — of convincing he accepted. The two of you agreed to put some boundaries and to take things slowly. The first step was going to the Monaco Grand Prix, so, you wouldn’t have to travel and he could be home by the end of the day with his favorite girls. And, if things become too much, you can just go home. 

The moment you set foot on the paddock, you know there is no going back. You feel nervous and like your whole body is on fire, but when you look at your daughter’s smile as you hold her in your arms, you forget about everything.

“Mama, look! Papa!” She points to the giant banner to your left. And there he is, alongside a few of the other drivers. 

“Oi!” Dani calls from a few meters away. You wish he would not have done it because it draws attention you really didn’t want. 

“Uncle Dani!” 

You see the exact moment people recognize you, reporters starting to make their way to you at the same time you hurry to Dani’s side. He has a big, bright smile on his face, he’s always smiling but you think he’s genuinely happy to see you and your daughter. 

“Hi, Dani.” The Aussie wraps an arm around your shoulder and kisses your cheek as a greeting. 

“Hey, angel.” Your daughter makes grabby hands at Dani and, obviously, he immediately takes her in his arms. “Did you miss uncle Dani?” She nods, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck. 

“Have you seen Max?” You ask him, but he shakes his head, too busy paying attention to whatever your daughter is telling him in the ear. 

You don’t feel comfortable. It’s been so long since you’ve been in the paddock that now feels like you’re attending your first race for the very first time. You were nervous then, you are terrified now as you see reporters approaching, calling your name and asking about your daughter. It’s not that they don’t know you and Max have a daughter, you and Max have been pretty open about her but always leaving her face out of the family photos you share on social media. However, this is news to everyone. This is a headline. And you know they’re just doing their job.

“Let’s go find him, okay?”

You barely hear him, trying to politely tell the reporter by your left that you will not give any interview and to stop asking about your daughter. Daniel has to give you a little pat on the back to make you walk, sending death glares to the people surrounding you in the process. 

There are phones and video cameras following you along the paddock, and you think you should’ve accepted Max’s offer of waiting for you at the entrance. But you didn’t want to be a burden. You were pretty confident about handling things by yourself but now… not so much. 

“Hey, are you okay? You’re a little pale.” Dani’s voice is soothing. You’re glad he’s carrying your daughter because you don’t feel strong enough to do it. Someone behind you — one of the many, many people following you — pushes you, making you bump into another person by your side. “Watch out! There’s a baby here!”

Daniel is mad and doesn’t hesitate in wrapping an arm around your waist, guiding you inside the nearest place that turns out to be the McLaren hospitality. 

“I’m gonna call Max, alright?”  

“What’s happening outside? Oh, you’re here!”

“Uncle Lando!” Your daughter’s voice is what finally pulls you out of your head. 

You walk to Dani, taking her in your arms. “Did you miss Uncle Lando too?”

“Is something wrong?” Lando asks again, bopping the little girl on the nose. 

“So many people,” You breathe out, closing your eyes for a second. “I didn’t think it was going to be this way, really.”

“Well, it’s a big deal that you’re here. Both of you.” Lando looks outside, reporters and cameras ready to catch a glimpse for when you have to leave. “Do they know? The media, I mean, about…” He looks to your hand, right where your wedding ring is. 

You groan, hiding your face in your daughter’s neck, making her giggle. “No, but I’m sure it will be worse when they notice.”

There’s a huge commotion outside that draws your attention. When you look, you find Max trying to make his way through the mass of people. Seeing him makes you relax immediately, but then he’s pushing a man when this shoves a microphone in his face and you don’t feel so relaxed anymore.

“Shit, shit” Daniel is quick to open the doors and go outside, a few members of McLaren following him. “Can you hold her, please?” 

Your daughter goes willingly with Lando as you run outside. Daniel stands between the reporter and Max, his hand on your husband’s chest trying to stop him from jumping over him to get to the man. 

There’s a bigger commotion when they see you, everyone shouting your name and asking questions that you don’t pay attention to, but it’s enough to make Max forget about fighting the reporter.

Max runs to you, hands cupping your face. “Hey, baby. Are you okay? Something happened?” 

“I’m okay. Just—let’s go inside, please.” 

Max doesn’t hesitate. He grabs your hand tightly, not caring about being seen going inside McLaren hospitality, not when you and his daughter are there needing him.

“Papa!” 

Your husband’s face lights up, that pretty smile you love so much making its way onto his face. "Mijn mooie meisje.” The tension on his face goes away the moment he takes her in his arms. 

“You wanna go home?” Lando asks you, handing you a glass of water. 

“Yes, you’re going home.” Max answers for you, hugging his daughter tightly against his chest. 

“We are not. We knew this would happen, well, not at this scale but,” You shrug, taking a sip of water. “I don’t wanna go. We should’ve planned this better.” 

“Yeah, you should have.” Daniel jokes, but when no one laughs he just stands there awkwardly. “Look, she’s already here. You’re not gonna send her home, are you?”

Lando bites his lip before saying, “You won’t be able to hide forever.” 

“I know!” Max sighs, putting down his daughter on one of the sofas. “Why don’t you play while I talk with your uncles for a bit?” Unaware of everything, she just takes her plushie and waits for you to be finished. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or feel unsafe.”

“We’re safe here. Everyone will take care of us, I know that.” You take his hand, thumb caressing the back of it. “It was just the shock of experiencing all of this again. It reminded me of the first time I attended a race.” You say, shyly. 

“Oh, I remember that.” He has that special glint in his eyes that tells you that he remembers every little detail of that day. 

“Uh, gross.” Lando pretends to throw up, earning a playful push from Daniel.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Yes, love. Besides, how are you gonna tell her she won’t be watching papa race?” You look at your little baby, talking with her plushie and showing the toy around. “I don’t know which one of us is more excited.”

“You know it’s only a matter of time before they notice this?” Max takes your hand to his lips, kissing your wedding ring.

“I want them to know.” 

“Oh, thank God!” He exclaims, peppering kisses all over your face. “I hate not wearing my ring on race weekends.”

[thef1diary-deactivated20251121]

Little Big Fan Series Masterlist

A Max Verstappen x SingleMother!Reader Story

Status: complete (still updating for blurbs)

Series Summary: Your daughter runs off while you were in the middle of grocery shopping because she spotted Max, her favourite driver. Meeting you, Max wants to know everything about you and your six year old. So of course he finds excuses to keep meeting you, starting with inviting you to the Dutch Grand Prix.

total wc: 33.1k

Note: feel free to request a drabble or chapter idea for this story.

#lbf fic talks -> writing process, answering asks about the story, and pretty much anything related to this fic series.

1. Little Big Fan (1.6k words)

2. Little Big Flight (1.7k words)

3. Little Big Race (2.4k words)

4. Little Big Celebration (1.6k words)

5. Little Big Surprise (3.3k words)

6. Little Big Gifts (1.9k words)

7. Little Big Movie Night (2.4k words)

8. Little Big Allergy (3.6k words)

9. Little Big Phone Calls (1.7k words)

10. Little Big Date Night (1.9k words)

11. Little Big Schooldays (2k words)

12. Little Big Relationships (2.1k words)

13. Little Big Sleepover (2k words)

14. Little Big Champion (1.9k words)

15. Little Big Aftermath (3k words)

Little Big Blurbs

Mr. Bear & Bearman

Braid Bonding

Mother’s Day Special

Hide & Flee

[uglyducklingofthe2000s]

My Girlfriend is a Menace (Menace series) - LN

Summary: Lando's girlfriend finds anyway to embarrass or torment him but he loves her regardless

Kind of love the idea of Lando dating an nightmare of a girlfriend for his PR team but her loving her regardless and always defending her or protecting her when it comes to people being too harsh on her. Maybe a new series? Idk.

Lando honestly loves his girlfriend. He loves the fact she trolls haters online, she has the same sense of humour as him, she is his PR team's nightmare and most importantly she bullies and annoyed the hell out of him.

"Lando, mate...what is y/n doing there in the background? I keep seeing her moving around in the background there." Max questions making Lando smile sarcastically before shifting back, knowing the inevitable.

Y/n appears on the screen sitting on his lap and leaning into the mic while Max already start laughing.

"Hi, Max. Lando promised that we could have a skincare night then forgot and came on here. So I'm doing it anyway, because he promised." Y/n states while he smiles behind her.

Truth be told, he may not have forgot, but sometimes he loves showing her off to the world. Plus she's became a meme within the F1 community from her responses to haters in his chat that are against her dating Lando.

"Did he?" Max hums unconvinced Lando forgot a promise. If there's one thing Lando isn't with y/n, it's forgetful. "When you two come back to England, can you come feature in my stream?"

"Is that an invite?" Y/n pouts looking completely touched by the idea that Max would want her on his stream.

"Don't make my girlfriend cry, you know she'll shed tears over anything." Lando jokes while poking y/n's ribs teasingly which tears her eyes from Max before she spots the chat and immediately rolls her eyes.

"Sorry, Lando. The chat is right, I'm dumping you to pursue the real love of my life...Max."

"Told you mate. I'm irresistible." Max laughs then earning a grin from the young woman before she remembers what she's meant to be doing. "You know, I think we should just pause the game. Lando, your skincare routine has been asked for for months. Time for the fans to know."

"Y/n, talk them through it."

"Ok, baby." Y/n smiles turning around to tap his cheek. "Need to cleanse first-I need a cloth, wait here. I'll be a minute Max."

Y/n takes off jumping up from his lap while Lando grins not being able to shake off how good it feels to see her so excited.

"Jesus, did you do this on purpose to show her off again?" Max questions while Lando just raises his middle finger to the man through his camera. "Could just say yes."

"I could." Lando hums before she reappears moving back onto his lap with her mumbling something about him not distracting her. But once she's cleansed his skin she gets out the face mask. "Ah, no baby. No-"

"You promised." Y/n pouts making him groan since face masks are only annoying because it means he has to tame his facial expressions. "It doesn't dry down. This one is a yoghurt one."

"Uh, ok? Does that do something good?"

"Shut up, you muppet." Y/n tsks while Max cackles watching her wipe it on his face, he's turned the chair so it's not just a view of her back blocking the sight of what she's doing. "Does it feel ok? I don't want to give you an allergic reaction or something."

"Yeah, it's fine."

"Can he play the game with the mask on?" Max asks making her look and nod with a thumbs up.

Another minute later of Lando actually realising how relaxing it is for her to do his skincare.

"Ok, I'll leave you to play on the game, it's a 20 minute mask...don't touch it, or try to eat it." Y/n instructs earning a nod before she leans over kissing him softly while he rolls his eyes at her feeling the need to tell him not to eat it.

"Thank you, I'll see you soon." Lando smiles before she climbs off of his lap and blows a kiss to the stream.

"When I come over to see you Max, I'll do your skincare on stream too so the chat can really get riled up." Y/n smiles sarcastically sending Max into some hard laughter before she's up on her feet and Lando smacks her ass clearly as a warning but also just because he can.

-

Y/n smirks looking at Lando's Vegas helmet since she giggles at him, since she's seen posts and comments about the helmet which she just thinks are really funny.

"What?" Lando questions, immediately recognising the expression from her.

"Everyone is saying it's great that you've got a helmet dedicated to Taylor Swift."

"You're so annoying." Lando groans while she just laughs at him before he shoves the helmet on her head and pushes her onto the sofa in the McLaren unit. Smiling to himself as she breaks into hysterics from his actions.

So far in Vegas, y/n has been even more of a menace to the point that the McLaren PR team has begged Lando to essentially leash her. Apparently her being at the casino in a fairly immodest dress and blowing through quite a bit of her own money, all of which she documented.

"Ah no. You already got shouted at and nearly cried. Don't leave my side." Lando states catching her arm when she tries to make a break for it.

She did actually get yelled at by the PR team while Lando wasn't around, since they wouldn't have dared speak to her like that in front of Lando and he had words with them about them not cornering her whether he is there or not. But also, he knows they're stressed and she does have a questionable public image. She's young and just doesn't care what people thing.

"Lando..." Y/n pouts while he sighs knowing that she likes to go out and socialise with others around the paddock. "Ok...I'm sorry."

"I love you." Lando whispers softly knowing that a strong-willed and bold his girlfriend is, she can also be quite sensitive behind closed doors and she isn't always so quiet and softly spoke so when she is he knows to try and reassure her.

"I love you too." Y/n murmurs as he moves closer and kisses her forehead before tucking her head under his chin while he hugs her tightly. "Does that mean I get to sit in the car with you for the race?"

Lando can't even stop himself from laugh as she shifts back to look up at him with a grin.

"No, you're going to your second boyfriend."

"Maxie! Where is he actually?"

"I don't now, we can go find him though." Lando smiles knowing his friend always perks up his girlfriend's mood, if only because she likes to make Max constantly wish Lando was still single. She's like an annoying little sister who lives to frustrate Max when they're side by side.

-

Y/n not being a fan of the cold, the first skiing trip with his friends doesn't involve her but that doesn't mean she's inactive.

"Hi, everyone. I'm on Lando's stream. He uhhhh...he's on holiday and I'm going to try to figure out how to game. He always tries to get me to do it...no I'm not going to break it. I know how to turn the damn turn otherwise you wouldn't see me right now." Y/n smiles then sighing. "But...I don't know how to get the game screen up...No! No. No one tell him! No one tweet him or message-oh actually he's skiing right now so he won't look at his phone."

After nearly an hour she finally gets the chat to guide her before she is up playing COD.

"Oh yeah, baby. Time to play." Y/n grins then sighing and settling back in the seat. "When I was younger, my dad used to want me to play games with him...but that was on the PlayStation 2. So we're going to see how I cope with this change. Lando is actually coming home tomorrow, I've just ran out of things to do at the moment and I saw his stream set up."

Y/n ends up gaming with all sorts of people through hours of playing and slowly but surely she picks up her skills again and the chat goes from primarily telling her to get off to actually rooting for her and telling her to make her own channel on twitch.

What she doesn't realise is that she ends up playing for the better part of the whole day till Lando appears in the dark background and she literally screams nearly breaking his headset that she'd had to wear plugged in after the battery started to die.

"Baby! Baby! It's me. Stop hitting me!" Lando laughs kneeling on the floor as she slaps at his back, not really hard but enough to keep him down. Though he's wheezing from his laughter.

"No! You scared the fuck out of me. Who grabs someone like that? And why are you home early?"

"I'm not! And you're supposed to be ready to leave for our trip home." Lando cackles as she finally stops clearly confused. "And I've been trying to call and message you for hours since my fans told me you nearly reached the 24 hour mark of playing on COD."

"I-what?"

"Alright, guys. Y/n is done, I'll help her set up her an account another time. We have to go and she has to sleep. Thank you for watching her completely destroy everyone on COD, thank you for sharing clips with me." Lando smiles before ending the stream while y/n rubs at her eyes realising how sore they are.

"Fuck...now I know how you manage to play for so long." Y/n groans rubbing her eyes and yawning as it all hits her at once. "I didn't break anything I promise."

"I know, but you did make enough unhinged and unfiltered comments that I think my PR teams messages about how your temper might be a risk to my safety were genuine and not just jokes." Lando smirks while she smiles and rushes to him, jumping up to wrap her legs around his waist as he catches her and there's an immediate kiss.

"I missed you. How was your last day of skiing?"

"It was good, but we need to get over to Woking." Lando states while she hums resting her head in his neck. "No. You can't sleep yet, wait till we're on the plane."

"Mmm...but I'm tired now." Y/n yawns latching onto him when he tries to encourage her to get down.

"But we have to travel." Lando chuckles shaking his body till her legs finally drop and he cups her face lightly. "Alright, baby. We'll be quick. But maybe next time keep an eye on how long you're gaming for."

[boiohboii]

Hiiii, can you please do another toddler leclerc reader and it’s like she’s left in care with her brothers and Arthur swear and she mimics them making them want to kill Arthur and try to correct her gently

How to undo (leclerc brothers x toddler!leclerc!reader)

Masterlist

YN Leclerc, even at the very young age of 1 year and a half, was very aware of how much she's loved by her older brothers. She never had to speak (huge factor is that she does not even know how to speak properly yet) to get what she wanted, she'd just pout and point and suddenly whatever it was that her little heart desired would be placed in her little chubby hands.

Pascale Leclerc had never been more grateful to have gone through 3 childbirths before yn came along more than when she had to head into work. Did she, strictly speaking, have to be there? No. But she liked the change of scenery and although she hates the thought, taking care of a baby after so many years definitely tires her out, so she's more than happy to rest while the boys take care of their baby sister.

Some could say that it had happened because yn was too happy to have her 3 brothers with her together for a long time. Some could say it happened because yn is at the age where she just imitates whatever someone says or does- and who better to copy than one of her older brothers. Some could also say that yn just wanted to impress her brothers, wanted to be praised and cheered on by her three of most favorite people.

"enculé de salaud!" The giggly voice of one and half year old yn leclerc echoed through the living room.

"YN!!" Lorenzo was the first to act, quickly getting up and moving over to where his baby sister was sprawled out on the floor. "Where did you learn that?"

Was he expecting an answer? Maybe, after all she does seem to grasp more and more of whats going on around her.

"Mon ange," yn turned to look at Charles, with her hands flailing and her giggles still ringing throughout the house, only getting louder. "Who said that before?"

Her brothers questions seemed to only amuse her more, the airy, playful chuckles only getting louder with each question.

With only 2 out of her 3 brothers being around her, yn focused on where Arthur was sitting, headphones in (talking with his friends) and eyes glued onto the video game. Moving around as much as she could, Lorenzo and Charles sat beside her on the soft blanket laid on the floor, trying to get her to understand that she should not repeat that word.

"Tu es un joueur de merde!"

"TU MERDE!"

"ARTHUR!!"

It was safe to say that this would definitely be the last time Arthur even comes close to babysitting his sister, alone or with someone.

Unfortunately for the youngest Leclerc brother the babysitting ban stayed in place for the 4 following years.

[lqvesoph]

Hot Wings - LN4

landonorris x fem!reader

summary: your boyfriend does the hot wing challenge for quadrant and you make a little cameo for the first time ever

warnings: none, just fluff

masterlist | taglist

"Baby, you've got no right to laugh, you're not going this", your boyfriend Lando called, he would've laughed if his mouth wasn't burning at the moment.

He was currently filming a YouTube video for Quadrant and Max and him were eating hot wings while Niran asked them questions.

At the moment they were at the 7th wing, at level 300,000.

Max and Niran looked over at you behind the camera when Lando called your name.

Your boyfriend waved you over, signaling you to come to him. You hesitantly stood up, as you haven’t really confirmed your relationship yet, and walked to him and his best friend.

"My lips are burning", he mumbled, leaning back against your stomach, his head tilted back so he could hold eye contact.

You let your finger trail over his cheek, placing them onto his full red lips.

Lando leaned further into you. "Ohh, your fingers are cold, baby. I've never loved your fingers more than in this moment", the driver muttered, wrapping his arms around your middle, to keep you in place.

Max and Niran broke out in hysterical laughters as soon as Lando stopped speaking and even you couldn’t help a grin forming on your face.

"If you say so", you muttered, pushing your fingers into his curls, wrapping them around your fingers.

"Stay", he demanded.

"You're full of milk", you complained, stroking over the wet patches on Lando's black shirt.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, baby", he cooed, not really paying attention, which made you chuckle.

"You wanna take a bite as well?", Max suggested, holding up a hot wing with some sauce on it.

His best friend addressing you, made Lando lift his cheek from your stomach and look up at you.

In the meantime, you nodded, taking the chicken wing from Max's hands and taking a bite.

You didn't want to admit it but Lando's reaction wasn't unreasonable. The sauce was fucking spicy. But you tried to not let it show too much.

"It's spicy, that's for sure", you managed to say, taking a sip of the cold milk next to Lando.

"Well, at least you didn't spit everywhere like Lando", Max chuckled, slapping his best friend's back.

"She never-", Lando started with a grin, looking up at you, but before he could say anything else, you put your hand over his mouth, stopping him from telling a stupid sexual joke.

"You didn't eat the earlier ones", Lando complained, his voice muffled due to your fingers on his lips.

You listened to Lando answering Niran's question, with your boyfriend's arm still wrapped around your legs.

"Your lips alright again, mate?", Max asked teasingly.

"Mmh-mmh", Lando asked, looking up with his head thrown back. You could read his face telling you he wanted a kiss. You shook your head but still leaned down to peck his cheek, not feeling quite comfortable to properly kiss him with a camera recording you and in a video that will be posted on social media soon, before walking back to your chair behind the camera.

"You okay over there?" Max asked, after a few more hot wings when he noticed you pacing up and down behind the camera.

"My lips are burning", you replied. The boys laughed. "No, really it's actually painful", you called back, chuckling.

"You want ice cream", Lando offered, holding up the vanilla ice cream box. You agreed and walked over, the spoon already ready in Lando's hands.

You opened your mouth, letting Lando feed you. "You know Lando's salvia is all over that, he drooled on it", Max pointed out, looking at the spoon in Lando's hand.

"My salvia has been different places already", Lando quickly replied, not even taking his gaze of you.

"LANDO!", you yelled, realizing what he just said and threw the empty milk can that stood on the table at him.

Lando dodged the can successfully. "What? It's true", Lando laughed, smearing ice cream on your cheek.

Then he pulled a third chair closer for you to sit on.

"If there's anything you would change in Formula 1, what would you do?", Niran went on with the questions. "I'd make them do this. On the grid. During the national lanthem- lanthem", Lando replied, struggling to pronounce the words coming out of his mouth.

Max and you started laughing. "It's alright, baby", you laughed, making Lando look up at you. "You have the exact same look on your face as if you just came from a night club, completely shitfaced", you told him with a chuckle.

"I- I do talk li- la", Lando slurred, only confirming his words by the way he said them. You laughed and buried your fingers in his curls when he laid his head on the table.

"I need something to eat, something that's not spicy", he whined and sat back in his chair. "You want noodles?", you asked, grinning at the state your boyfriend was in.

Lando looked up and nodded, looking like a little kid. You smiled and ruffled his curls before standing up and walking to the kitchen upstairs.

Only a few minutes later Lando and Max came up from the filming room. Your boyfriend came up behind you and wrapped his arm around your body, his head resting on your shoulder.

"I’m almost done", you told Lando, who nodded and sat down next to Max on at the kitchen counter.

You took two plates from the cupboard and placed them in front of the two boys before putting the noodles along with the sauce on the table.

Lando pulled you closer like he had earlier while filming as well and put his head against your stomach.

Ria entered the kitchen and chuckled at the scene in front of her. Both boys looking like they just went through the most traumatic experience of their lives, with milk dripping down their shirts. "What happened to you two?", she laughed.

"Now you wait till you do that video", Lando called, grabbing his burning throat after, making you and Ria chuckle.

Comments:

fan: Y/N CAMEO??? IN A QUADRANT VIDEO

fan: She gets along with Max so well, I love it

fan: Ria is probably so happy she doesn't need to deal with the guys on her own anymore

fan: I don't think we need an official statement about their relationship anymore

> fan: Yeah, I think that's confirmation enough...

> fan: "My salvia has been different places already"

> fan: Charlotte would sue him for that

> fan: PAHAHAH SHE DEFINITELY WOULD

fan: Her voice is so calming, I could listen to her talk all day

> fan: Her accent is so adorable

fan: Y/n immediately burying her hands in Lando's curls is the cutest thing I've seen all day

> fan: Can we blame her? His curls do look amazingly touchable

fan: Now after this, I wanna see drunk Lando

fan: I wanna see more of boyfriend Lando, he’s the cutest

taglist

@im-an-overthinker @buendiabebeta @hungryhungariann @ohthemisssery @kenopsiababe @sawendel @enjoymyloves @ricsaigaslec @ravenqueen27 @temqr1 @leclerc16s @theamazingsimplethings-blog @coldmuffinbanditshoe @hotchnisscm97 @andtheworldiscrashingdownonme @moneymasnn @justme2042 @amulhermaisfelizdomundo @pleasantducktimetravel @anthonykatebridgerton @lisannehus @hannahholland1811 @lighttsoutlewis @mydutchproblem @dan3avocado @alwaysclassyeagle @cocomiracle @allthisfortommy @soleilgrec @cheeryara-blog @person2345-blog @aquamariene-me @judespoision @sbgal @teti-menchon0604 @darleneslane @flower-name @mehrmonga @bingewatche

[lqvesoph]

Baby Girl - LN4

landonorris x fem!reader || dad!landonorris

summary: a few little insights on yours and Lando’s life, following the summer vacation with his family

part 2 of Baby Fever

requested: @avenger122, @kapsylia @mickslover

masterlist | taglist

*~*~ Finding out you are pregnant ~*~*

How much anxiety can a little stick bring?

The answer is, one hell of a lot!

You sat on the bathroom tiles, hair messy from having woken up just a few minutes ago, nibbling on your nails, something you haven’t done since you were a little kid. Your foot nervously tapping on the ground.

Lando was peacefully asleep in the room next to the bathroom, not knowing that you had just taken a test to confirm a suspicion based on mood swings, morning sickness and weird cravings.

A look at the timer on your phone told you the five minutes of waiting time were over. Carefully you reached over to the sink to turn the small blue stick over, only for it to reveal two deep blue stripes.

You put your hand over your mouth in shock while feeling the tears start to fall. You have no idea how long you sat there until you whipped away the tears and pulled yourself up on your legs, gripping the little stick tightly in one hand and making your way back to your bedroom.

You sat down next to a sleeping Lando. He shifted when the mattress moved next to you, his eye lids fluttering and finding your figure next to him.

His smile turned into a frown quite quickly when he saw your worried face. "Baby, what’s wrong?", Lando muttered, brushing his curls out of his face. "You look like you’ve been crying", he said, sitting up.

You silently handed him the stick, looking at his face to catch any slightest reaction possible.

"Is- is this what I think it is?", he whispered, not taking his eyes off the stick. You nodded slightly. "I’m sorry, I- I know your season is starting soon a- and we’re still so young and I’m-", you stuttered but got interrupted by Lando almost tackling you back down in to the sheets, covering you with kisses.

"Baby, that’s awesome!", he called into your neck. Now it was your time to frown. "W-what? But your season and-"

"I don’t care about work right now, baby. You’re pregnant, you are carrying a tiny little human that you and I made", Lando smiled, pulling back from you.

"You’re happy?", you asked confused. Your boyfriend nodded frantically. "Of course I’m happy, this is great!", he called.

"But it’s so early?", you muttered. Lando frowned. "Are you happy about this?", he then asked in return. "Of course I am, I’ve always wanted to be a mother but-" "Then we can do this! No matter the circumstances", Lando’s smile brightened again and he moved down your body, pushing up your sleeping shirt and resting his cheek on your exposed stomach.

"Hey, baby, how you doing in there?", he whispered softly and pressed a light kiss on your skin. "Baby is probably only a bundle of cells right now", you chuckled, moving your hands to his curls and running through them.

"Hey shh, this is our baby!", Lando mocked you and put his head back down on your belly.

"You are already the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me", he whispered. You couldn’t help but smile at his words, knowing you definitely chose the right man to get you knocked up.

"Huh, guess what happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas", Lando chuckled after a few minutes of silence. You stopped and calculated back eight weeks. The Las Vegas Grand Prix, more specifically the After Party and let out a chuckle as well.

*~*~ Giving birth ~*~*

"Nope, I’ll be staying until the last possible minute", Lando said over the phone. "Zak, I don’t care if I’m missing Thursdays Media Duties", he rolled his eyes and sat down next to you.

It was the Tuesday morning before the Dutch Grand Prix, the first one after the summer break and the McLaren team was flying to the Netherlands today but your boyfriend was determined to stay with you.

Your due date was August 24th, so Saturday, you were aware that if your little baby girl decided to stay inside you until then, Lando couldn’t make it to the birth but he was convinced that she would come early because "she wants her father there with her".

Lando put a hand on your belly and started stroking it while still arguing with his boss. "Zak I will be there for FP1 on Friday, I promise but I won’t leave my pregnant girlfriend’s side until the last possible minute. The end!", Lando called, pressing the red button.

"I don’t know why he’s making such a big deal about it", Lando said defiantly. You couldn’t help but smile. "Baby, I know how much you want to be there but you need to prepare for the possibility that it might not happen", you tried to console him.

Lando shook his head and crossed his arms.

You sighed and pushed the blanket away from your legs. "I’ll be on the toilette", you smiled, stroking through his curls again before standing up.

Flicking the light on, you felt a sharp pain in your abdomen before feeling liquid dripping down on your feet and spotted the wet patch on the ground between your legs.

"Uh, Lando?", you called for your boyfriend. "What’s wrong, baby?", he yelled back and you heard him picking himself up from the couch. "I think you were right", you replied as you felt another sharp pain.

Lando looked at you, then at the wet patch before looking back to you. "I was right!", he called happily, before catching your deadly glare. "Get the hospital bag and some new sweats!", you ordered and Lando nodded. But before he rushed away, he leaned forward to place a gentle kiss to your lips.

"Let’s do this, baby", he smiled encouragingly and disappeared to your bedroom.

You caught a glance of yourself in the mirror and took a deep breath. "Let’s do this", you muttered, caressing your belly.

Lando had gotten your hospital bag and put it in the car while you changed your trousers. He held your hand the whole way to the hospital while managing the wheel with the other one.

Mia, your midwife, was already at the hospital when you two arrived. "Good morning, you two", she greeted you. "How are you doing?"

"I’m having contractions and my water broke", you quickly explained what Lando had already told her over the phone. "Let’s get you up and see how dilated you are", Mia smiled and lead you to the elevator.

*~*~*~*~*~*

"You son of a bitch!! YOU put me in this position!! I- ARGH", you called, gripping onto Lando’s hand tighter. "Baby, I need my hand for the weekend", he tried to crack a joke but was immediately shut down by you. "YOU DON’T GET TO COMPLAIN RIGHT NOW!!"

"You’re almost there, I can see her head. Give me another push, please", Mia spoke in her calming voice. "You’re almost there, baby. Come on", Lando muttered encouragingly.

"Shut up!!", you snapped at him but Lando only smiled and kissed your knuckles. "One last push, Y/n, come on, one last time", Mia smiled as you took all the strength you had left in you, to push once more.

A cry filled the air. A baby cry. You smiled and closed your eyes in exhaustion. "Here we go, a little baby girl", Mia grinned as you opened your eyes again to catch a look at your daughter. "Mr. Norris, do you want to do the honor?", she looked at Lando and nodded at the scissors.

He nodded and carefully trimmed the umbilical cord before Mia placed your daughter on your chest.

"Hey, baby", you smiled and, carefully as if not to break her, stroke down her naked back. Lando sat down next to you again, stroking his finger over her tiny fist.

"Have you decided on a name?", Mia asked. You looked at Lando and nodded. "Isabella Rose Norris", he answered while looking down at his daughter.

"A beautiful name!"

*~*~*~*~*~*

Lando joined little Isabella when she was taken away by the doctors to undergo the usual post birth examination. He came back half an hour later, with your daughter, dressed in a pink bodysuit and wrapped in a fluffy blanket, in his arms.

"We’re parents", he stated, not quite believing his own words. You nodded and moved a bit on the hospital bed so Lando could sit down.

"Yep, we are", you smiled.

"Oh!", Lando called out as Isabella opened her deep blue eyes. "Hello baby girl", he whispered, rocking her in his arms. "I knew you wanted your daddy here with you, huh?", he smirked as you hit his upper arm with a chuckle.

"I love you two so much", he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

tagged: landonorris

liked by: landonorris, mclaren, carlossainz55 and 4,628,729 others

yn: Welcome to the world little Isabella Rose Norris🧡

comments:

landonorris: My whole world❤️‍🩹

ciscanorris1: Can’t wait to meet her!!

adam_norris_pure_electric: We are so proud of you🧡

charlottesine: Aww congratulations!!

mclaren: So when can we get her into a car?👀

–> landonorris: I’ll sneak her to Monza

–> yn: No.

oscarpiastri: Finally Lando did something good!

–> landonorris: HEY!

kellypiquet: So happy for you🫶🏻

lissiemakintosh: Congratulations❤️

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tagged: yn

liked by: yn, mclaren, danielricciardo and 6,628,426 others

landonorris: I knew she wanted her daddy there. The best and most special end of summer break🧡

comments:

yn: I love you🧡

ciscanorris: So proud of you my boy❤️

mclaren: She’ll definitely get her own customized bodysuit

carlossainz55: Congrats muppet, you finally did good!

oscarpiastri: Give me a call when she’s ready to wear thongs😉

–> landonorris: …

lewishamilton: Congratulations, mate!

maxverstappen1: I volunteer as a babysitter 🙋‍♂️

zbrownceo: Congratulations 🧡

–> landonorris: It was so worth fighting you

danielricciardo: LITTLE NORRIS!!

f1: Congratulations from the whole circus🏁

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*~*~ Bringing her to the paddock for the first time ~*~*

"Baby, she’s too young!", you argued back while Lando put the orange Mclaren bodysuit on your 3 months old daughter. "No, she’s not. Trust me, baby. Also I know you want to come back to the paddock again", your boyfriend replied, tickling Isabella’s belly with his finger.

You put your flat hand against your forehead and closed your eyes.

"It’s the last race of the season, you are already here in Abu Dhabi and I really want the two of you there", Lando spoke as he picked Isabella up and walked over to you.

You took your hand down and looked at him. "You’ll stay in the hospitality, the team has little headphones for her ears and everything will be fine", he said soothingly and placed a light kiss on your forehead. "And my family will be there as well."

"Alright, okay", you gave in. "Yesss!!", Lando called and held up his fist for Isabella. "See, I knew mummy would agree", he whispered to her and took her fist to bump with his. You chuckled at the gesture.

"The boys can’t wait to meet you", he smiled and kissed the side of her head. "She won’t be passed around, okay? You are the only one holding her, Max is the exception because she knows him already", you called from the bathroom.

"Ay-ay captain!", Lando yelled back and reached for the baby bag.

*~*~*~*~*~*

You took a deep breath when Lando stopped the engine and reached back to grab the bag. "Baby seat or stroller?", he asked, hand on the door and ready to open it.

"Stroller, she likes it better and it’s more practical", you replied, making Lando nod and open the door. The cheers from the crowd erupted and your anxiety rose slightly.

You looked back at your little princess whose eyes were wide open from the noise and the excitement around her. "Let’s do this, Bella", you smiled and undid your seatbelt. The crowd screamed again when they saw you and you caught small whispers of "Oh my god, she’s here!" "Does that mean that baby is here as well?"

You waved at the people waiting by the gates and walked around the car to see Lando setting up the stroller.

"Can I carry her in?", Lando asked with a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. "You don’t wanna sign stuff?", you replied, leaning against the car. Lando stopped in his tracks for a second, making you smirk.

"You can carry her when we’re inside, alright?", you chuckled and pushed yourself off the black car.

"Get lost, champ", you smiled and patted his arm while nodding towards the fans. "You’re the best!", Lando muttered, placing a gentle kiss to your lips before jogging over to the waiting fans.

You saw that Lando had already put Isabella’s bag on the stroller, so you closed the trunk and went to pick up your daughter.

"Hello, princess", you smiled and grabbed the baby sling to throw inside the stroller as you were certain you’d need it later. Then you started to undo your daughter’s baby-seat before lifting her out of the car and into your arms.

You quickly checked if you had everything you needed before closing the car up and waiting for Lando.

Isabella tried to look around, constantly lifting her little head off your chest. "Belle, I know this is veeeery exciting and you’re very curios, but I need you to stay close because you are not old enough to lift your head like that", you spoke in a calm voice and put your hand behind her head.

"Daddy’s gonna be here very soon, I promise", you soothed her and just in that moment Lando turned around to look at you two.

A big smile spread across his face and he nodded at something the girl behind him said.

A few minutes later he turned away from the fans and sent them a wave as he jogged back to the car. "Let’s gooo!!", he said hyped and made grabby hands at his daughter who immediately turned her head when she heard her daddy’s voice.

You chuckled and handed Lando his daughter as the fans behind him cheered and a loud "Aww" sounded through the crowd.

You grabbed the stroller and pushed it towards the entrance of the paddock. As soon as you entered, the majority of eyes turned to look at you.

"Cabrón!", you heard a voice behind you call and spotted Carlos when you turned around. The spaniard jogged up to you and smiled when he saw Isabella in Lando’s arms.

"You brought the little princess?", he asked and gave you a quick hug. Lando nodded with a big smile and turned himself so that Isabella could look at Carlos. "Look up, princess, that’s Uncle Carlos", he spoke in a soft voice and Carlos lifted his hand to wriggle his fingers. "Holà, princesa", he whispered.

"Can I touch her?", the Ferrari driver then asked with a glance at you. You nodded. "Not her head or face, please but apart from that yeah", you replied and saw a certain Australian driver approach the four of you.

Carlos nodded and carefully stroke over Isabella’s small back. "I see you brought my favorite little person!", Daniel called, making you chuckle.

He put his arm around you and pulled you in a hug. "You okay?", he whispered. You nodded. "Yeah, the break between Singapore and Austin and Brazil and Vegas helped a lot because Lando could he home", you answered, pulling back from the hug.

"And we had Kelly and Max helping us out quite a lot", you added, thinking back at how the two were incredibly helpful during the first three months of Isabella’s life.

"Oh, look who we have here", another Australian accent called and you saw Oscar and Lily walking up to you.

In only about ten minutes half the grid found themselves around you, everyone wanting to catch a glimpse at 'little Norris' as Daniel called her.

"She’s quite the attraction", Kelly chuckled next to you. You nodded, keeping your eyes on your boyfriend and daughter. "Their teams are probably missing them by now", Lily, Alex’s girlfriend, said.

You saw Lando walking out of the crowd of people and closer to you. "She’s getting a bit cranky. I think the attention is getting a little too much", he told you, rocking her little body to prevent her from crying.

"I’ll take her. You need to be with your team anyway", you nodded and held your hands out. "All of you actually!", you added a bit louder, addressing the drivers behind Lando, making them break out in small chatter as they split up.

*~*~*~*~*~*

"See darling? That’s daddy", you whispered although you were well aware she couldn’t hear you with her ear protection.

Isabella‘s eyes were still wide open, trying to take it all the new surroundings. Cisca, who stood next to you, chuckled. "She‘s handling it pretty well, isn’t she?", Lando’s mum asked.

You nodded and swayed gently with your daughter in your arms. "I was so anxious about bringing her to the paddock but she’s handling it like a queen", you smiled proudly. "Lando‘s been pretty much begging me to bring her ever since she was born", you chuckled at the thought of your boyfriend asking you a week after she was born if you would come to Monza.

"Jon told me", Cisca laughed. "Said the boy was facetiming the two of you every free moment even if it was for less than five minutes."

You smiled and nodded. "He hates leaving her", you huffed. "He asked Kelly to keep an eye on you whenever Max and him had to leave for a race weekend", Cisca revealed and you turned your head to look at her. "He called me one night, sounding so anxious. He kept babbling on about how he couldn’t just leave you alone with her."

"I didn’t know about that", you whispered. Thinking back on how Kelly always showed up on your doorstep a day after Lando had left for another Grand Prix.

"It‘s been hard on him but I believe the two breaks have helped him manage quite well", Cisca then said right as Lando‘s bright papaya car was shown on the screen again.

"If you ever need help with anything, I‘m always here for you, you know that right?", she smiled and squeezed your shoulder. "Thank you so much, Cisca", you replied sincerely.

From the side you caught the first light lighting up so you brought your attention to the TV in front of you.

You cheered loudly when Lando passed Max into Turn 1 and even more when he was able to pull a gap of over 1.8 seconds in the first few laps.

And even louder when he was the first to cross the chequered flag. Isbella, who took a quick nap at around lap 23, was wide awake now. Especially with everyone cheering around her.

"You wanna go down?", Cisca asked, knowing how much Lando and you loved that short time of celebration in parc fermé. She knew that when Lando got on the podium he wanted to celebrate with no one but you.

"Can I even take her with me?", you muttered. "Of course, keep to the sides and you‘ll be fine. The team will make sure of that, I‘m certain", Cisca nodded and pushed you out of the door.

You chuckled as you stroke over Isabella‘s cheek. "We‘re gonna go see Daddy. He won!", you whispered with a bright smile.

Cisca led you to the small area in front of the podium where Lando just parked as you arrived.

He climbed out of the car, standing on the hood for a second and raising his arms in celebration before jumping down and running straight for his team, launching himself into their arms.

You watched with a smile as they patted his helmet and back before he took off his helmet and handed it to Jon who pointed in your direction.

Lando turned his head and his eyes widden in surprise, not expecting you to be down here. He didn’t waste another second before jogging down the line of team members to reach you.

"Baby! I didn’t expect you to come here!", he called before he wrapped you into a hug, careful as not to crush Isabella who was still in your arms.

Lando placed his lips on yours while you wrapped one arm around his neck, pulling him closer. You put your forehead against his after pulling away. "I‘m so proud of you! We both are!", you whispered, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before he pulled back.

He made grabby hands at the baby in your arms. "Gimme!", he grinned, making you laugh as you carefully handed Lando his daughter over the waist-high fence.

"Hello, darling, how you doin‘?", he whispered, caressing her cheek gently.

Isabella started blabbering excitedly when she recognized the man holding her as her father, making both of you chuckle.

"I’m so freaking happy you’re here! love you two so much!", Lando said, looking up from his daughter. His eyes sparkling in the dark of the warm night. He placed his hand over yours that rested on the metal fence.

"I love you, too!"

tagged: landonorris, mclaren

liked by: landonorris, kellypiquet, oscarpiastri and 3.628.926 others

yn: Last race of the season🎆☺️🫶🏻

comments:

landonorris: I‘m so happy you two are here❤️

mclaren: Lando got his good luck charm back

–> yn: Missed coming to races sm

ciscanorris: Most special day meeting the little one again💞

oscarpiastri: Please, on behalf of everyone at McLaren, come to more races or else the man is insufferable!!

–> landonorris: Heyyy!!!

–> yn: I promise I will, Bella loved it!

fan: She brought the baby!!!

–> fan: They arrived together and it was honestly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen!!

–> fan: Lando signed my hat when I asked him about the girls and his smile was sooo big and he then looked over to them!! So cute!!

fan: The queen is back in the paddock

–> danielricciardo: With the little princess

fan: Their little family is adorable!

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taglist

@im-an-overthinker @buendiabebeta @hungryhungariann @ohthemisssery @kenopsiababe @sawendel @enjoymyloves @ricsaigaslec @ravenqueen27 @temqr1 @leclerc16s @theamazingsimplethings-blog @coldmuffinbanditshoe @hotchnisscm97 @andtheworldiscrashingdownonme @moneymasnn @justme2042 @amulhermaisfelizdomundo @pleasantducktimetravel @anthonykatebridgerton @lisannehus @hannahholland1811 @lighttsoutlewis @mydutchproblem @dan3avocado @alwaysclassyeagle @cocomiracle @allthisfortommy @soleilgrec @cheeryara-blog @person2345-blog @aquamariene-me @judespoision @sbgal @teti-menchon0604 @darleneslane @flower-name @mehrmonga @paolexsstuff @cstads-blog @spaghetittied

[lqvesoph]

Baby Fever - LN4

landonorris x fem!reader

summary: summer vacation with lando and his family, especially his little nieces have got you feeling a certain desire

warnings: a bit of kissing but apart from that just fluff

part two

masterlist | taglist

"Baby, look!", Lando called from a distance. You slowly opened your eyes and sat up, having laid spread out on a tanning bed, enjoying the warm spanish sun gracing your body.

Your boyfriend held his niece Mila in his arms, or better said, on his shoulders. The little girl let out squeaks of laughters, especially when Lando crouched down a little and stretched his legs again.

An unfamiliar feeling tugged at your heart and a warmth that definitely wasn’t from the sun spread inside of you.

Mila squealed a little. "You wanna get down?", Lando asked softly, and she nodded so he placed her gently on the yacht deck.

The little girl walked closer to the edge of the yacht, making Lando react quickly and snatch her into his arms again. "Heyyy careful, darling", he mumbled and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Swim!", Mila called out and pointed to the ocean.

"Of course we can go swim but you need your floats", Lando genteel explained and stroke his fingers over her back. The little girl nodded and looked around for her mum. "Let’s go find your mummy to ask her where she put them last time", he said, sending you a quick smile before disappearing.

You couldn’t whipe the smile off your face even if you wanted to. Seeing the way Lando interacted with his niece made you incredibly soft.

Only a few minutes later Lando "ran" back to your side of the yacht with Mila chasing after him. One quick glance told you, he held her floats in his hands.

He fell to the floor when she caught him and lifted her on his torso, making the girl giggle loudly.

"Baby help!", Lando called out for you between laughters and you shook your head with a grin on your face but got up from the bed and crouched down next to the two of them.

"Tie-Tie", Mila giggle when she saw you, her nickname for you based on "Auntie" which she still struggled to pronounce so Tie-Tie it was.

"Hello, darling", you smiled and poked her side a little. "Want me to help you with your floats?" She nodded and held one of the pink floats out for you to take. With her still sitting on Lando’s torso you put on both of her floats before lifting her up and placing her on the deck. Together you walked over to the edge of the yacht but before you could safely enter the water with the little girl, you felt a pair of arms wrap around you, body checking you into the ocean.

You let out a scream, trying to wriggle out of Lando’s arms underwater to catch some air. "I hate you!", you called, slapping your boyfriends’ shoulders before placing your hands on his shoulder and putting weight on them to dunk him into the water again.

From the boat you could hear Mila’s giggles while she was watching the two of you.

You swam closer again, motioning her that it’s safe to jump into your arms. "Come here. Close your eyes and jump", you encouraged the little girl and smiled when she did as you said.

Lando had swum closer to you in the meantime, wrapping an arm around your waist so you wouldn’t have to kick your feet as hard to hold yourself up. You placed one arm around Lando’s shoulders and leaned in for a second.

"I love watching you interact with her", you mumbled while both of you were watching Mila having fun in the water. Lando smiled and turned his head to you to press a short kiss on your lips.

You let your hand that wasn’t wrapped around him absently wander underneath the water until you felt his hard chest, from there on you traveled along his torso.

The deeper your hand went the shorter became Lando’s breaths. "Baby…", he muttered warningly. "Hm?", you asked, focus still on Mila. "I really love it when you’re feeling me up, don’t get me wrong, but maybe not when we have to watch my niece swimming in the ocean", he muttered and you quickly moved your hand. A surprised look grazed your face before you chuckled.

"I swear that wasn’t my intention", you laughed. "You know how comforting I find it to trace your body."

Lando crackled and placed a kiss on your lips.

"Hey watch the kid, dickhead. You can make out later!", you heard Max call and saw Pietra approaching behind him as well. Lando held up his middle finger as a response.

"Lando, darling! The food is ready!", his mum called before spotting the three of you in the ocean. "Well hurry up", she smiled nodding towards the rooms.

"Mila, honey, come on Grannie cooked!", Lando called and swam over to Mila to bring her back to the boat and lifted her out of the water.

You watched the two of them and swam closer to the boat as well. Lando was already sitting on the edge of the yacht and waited for you. Dopplets of water dripping down on his bare skin.

He gave you his hand to pull you up next to him. You pushed a few wet strands of his hair back and leaned in to give him a gentle kiss. Lando’s hands rested on top of your thighs and smiled into the kiss.

He laid his forehead against yours, still staying close to you.

"Come on, let’s go", he muttered, pulling you up to your feet and leading you to your room.

Dripping wet Lando stood in front of the small closet, trying to figure out what to wear. You moved behind him, wrapping your arms around his naked torso, putting your cheek against his shoulders.

"I love you with Mila", you mumbled. Lando chuckled. "You tell me that quite often, baby", he said, placing his hands over yours on his stomach. "It’s true. You’re perfect with her", you smiled, pressing a light kiss to his right shoulder.

Lando turned around and leaned down to you and gently started kissing your lips, his hands moving from your shoulders down to your waist and pulled you in closer.

He moved you back a little until the back of your knees hit the bed. "We shouldn’t-", you muttered but allowed Lando to put you on the bed. "I thought you said you like me with children", Lando smiled, moving down between your bikini covered breast.

You giggles softly and pushed your hands in his curls. "I do, I totally do", you sighed as he places gentle kisses to your skin. You tapped his back a few times. "Come on, get up. Your mum’s made food", you said, pushing yourself up on your elbows. "What? I thought we can practice a little?", Lando whined. You let out a laugh and pushed him off you to the other side of the bed.

You got up and quickly exchanged your wet bikini for a dry one, hearing a groan from Lando behind you.

"You can’t say we can’t have sex and then proceed to undress in front of me!", he complained, making grabby hands to signal you to come back to bed. You laughed and took his hands but instead of getting in the bed with him you pulled him up into a sitting position. "Get changed and maybe later", you smiled, pressing a kiss to his lips before throwing on your white sundress and leaving Lando to get changed.

Upstairs his family had already gathered around the table. Even Mila was faster at getting changed than Lando.

"Lando will be up in a second", you excused your boyfriend, only earning a joking eye roll from his older brother Oliver. "Don’t worry, we know what he’s like", Cisca chuckled and nodded to the two empty seats next to Pietra and Max.

After lunch you went back to the book you were reading prior to your little ocean trip. Lando’s head rested on your naked stomach, his arms around you and his eyes closed. You were sure he wasn’t actually sleeping and only relaxing a little as he’s been tracing your waist with his fingers.

A few minutes later, Mila waddled closer and tapped Lando’s back a few times. "Uncle Lan!", she called, making Lando open his eyes. "Let’s play!!"

Lando murmured something inaudible and snuggles closer into your stomach. You signaled Mila to climb on Lando’s legs.

Your boyfriend jokingly whined, lifting his niece up and turning around between your legs so his back was resting against your stomach.

Right then Sav walked out from downstairs, Athena in her arms. She immediately smiled when she saw the three of you.

"You look adorable!", she called out, walking closer to you. "Wait a second", Lando’s sister in law said before handing Lando his littlest niece.

He gently took her from Sav’s arms and crawled her safely into his arms. Mila was sitting between Lando’s legs, who sat between yours.

Savannah smiled and pulled out her phone quickly. "Let me take a picture of you”, she smiled, snapping a few pictures.

"My uterus can’t take this", you whined into Lando’s ear and pointed at the small baby girl in his arms and the other toddler in front of him. Lando broke out in a fit of laughter before turning his head to whisper something into your ear.

"Wanna practice?", Lando grinned smugly, causing you to hit his upper arm. "There are children around!", you hissed which made Lando only crackle.

part 2

taglist

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[sinofwriting]

Private Professor - Max Verstappen

Words: 5,576 Summary: For years and years, Max has claimed that he has a girlfriend, but no one has ever met her and he refuses to talk about her with the media. And it’s far easier to believe that he’s lying when no proof of a girl exists. Note(s)/Warning(s): Small Age Gap (Reader is nearly two years younger), Some Angst, Mostly Fluff, Jos Verstappen. Thank you so much to the anon that requested this! I had a lot of fun writing it!

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At fourteen and sixteen, their relationship is all blood rushing to their cheeks, fluttering hands, kisses that last too long and not long enough, panting breaths, and hickeys below shirt collars. It’s whispers of forever, of I’ll take you here and there. That house will be ours one day. Whatever you want, you’ll have. I’ll be on break, you’ll come home and I’ll be waiting. You’ll follow me everywhere and I’ll do the same.

It’s promises they don’t realize they shouldn’t be making but do. It’s sweet nothings and petty fights that last a day before they’re back in each other’s arms. It’s pretending not to notice how his dad watches him amused as he walks calmly out of the door before sprinting over to her house and sneaking into her bedroom. It’s her parents pretending not to hear the thud of him falling into her bedroom and the light giggles their daughter makes.

At fourteen and sixteen, their relationship changes. It’s no longer seeing each other when he doesn’t have a race or training and is home, no Red Bull duties to be done. It’s long phone calls, texts, snapchat streaks, learning how to video call. It’s carrying two power banks with them everywhere and Max buying them both expensive phone cases that charge their phones. It’s falling asleep on the phone while the other is just beginning their day. He attends classes with her, while she listens to him train. He goes to red bull meetings and pretends not to have the light sound of breathing in his ears from her falling asleep while studying or doing her homework.

Fifteen and seventeen, brings them peace. She’s still studying like a mad woman at Harvard of all places, but he’s got an F1 seat of all things. He’s in F1. He suddenly has more things to do but more free time. When he’s not racing or at the factory or doing weird press things that make him want to rip his hair out, Jos is putting him on a plane to America, to her. And he soaks up all the time with her he can, despite it being filled with her studying, attending classes, and forcing actual food down her throat which her parents both thank him for.

It also brings the stupidest thing in the world; the doubt and disbelief that he has a girlfriend.

Carlos is the first to bring it up upon seeing his home screen that’s just all black, not even the default that iphone has.

“No girlfriend?”

Max frowns at him, pocketing his phone and sending a glance over to where his father is standing and talking to his race engineer. “What?”

“Your home screen, it’s all black. You don’t have a girlfriend?” Carlos is teasing, joking. The whole paddock already knows that Jos Verstappen wouldn’t let his son have a girlfriend, not now when he’s got an F1 seat. Such a thing would be a distraction and Max isn’t allowed those. Max isn’t allowed friends on the grid either. Carlos wonders though how much the last part is just a Jos thing.

“I do.” Then he says her name, all soft and sweet in a way Carlos never thought Max could be. It’s nearly enough for him to believe Max, but then he catches a glimpse of Jos and shakes his head, clapping the seventeen year old on the back.

He is the first to not believe Max, but far from the last. It’s Daniel next, Christian, Esteban, Pierre, Sebastian, Lando, every interviewer that asks.

It doesn’t matter because at seventeen and nineteen, she gets her second degree and begins the nightmare of getting her doctorates in education and history. And he picks out a ring before making his father hide it away. And instead of him constantly flying to her, she’s flying to him. Hiding out in his Monaco apartment, turning his living room into a disaster zone as she spreads her things around to study.

The mess drives him crazy, but he doesn’t move anything no matter how much his hands itch to do so, instead just pressing a kiss to the top of her head before pressing himself in between her and the couch. Grinning when she sends him a look, a clear don’t be a distraction, before giving him a kiss.

His days in Monaco when she’s there are spent in the living room after training, playing fifa or watching some documentary for one of her classes with her, and poking at her lightly because he doesn’t know shit about history but he’s still able to remember countries quicker than her.

They turn eighteen and twenty and nearly get married when her family goes on vacation to Vegas, dragging the two along despite them not being able gamble, which is the only reason her parents had chosen Vegas. The only thing that stops them from getting married is him not being a US citizen and her visa just being for school. It’s a fucking wakeup call for him and he can’t help but pester her about places in Monaco to live.

She entertains it for all of five minutes before she’s cupping his face and kissing him. When she pulls back, she’s shaking her head. “As long as it has you and four bedrooms, I don’t care.”

“Four?”

“We’ll need our own offices and a guest room.”

It’s barely anything for the real estate agent to work with but he doesn’t care. He wants something that’s at least four bedrooms, two baths, a decent kitchen, and a view. She liked the Monaco sunrise and sunset and he planned on letting her be able to see it anytime they stayed in Monaco.

His agent gets back to him in a week and he ignores the look on Daniel’s face when he comes over for the first time. Ignores the jokes about it being too big for one person just like Daniel ignores him saying that he has a girlfriend.

“If you had one, I’d have seen a picture of her mate. The whole world would.”

Max still remembers the way his jaw had twitched at the thing everyone said. That if he had a girlfriend, they’d have seen a picture of her, that he’d be showing her off every second, have her at the races, been seen with her. When Max had made it abundantly clear that the worst part of driving was the media, the fame. So why would he ever subject someone he loves to that when they both weren’t ready for that?

Because they weren’t. He wasn’t ready for another part of his life, one of the most important parts, to be something for everyone to look at and dissect. And she wasn’t ready for it either. Not when she was doing so much studying. She barely felt like she had time for him, which he denied and hated vehemently, she didn’t have time for the online vitriol of being a girlfriend to a high profile athlete. And she didn’t need to be harassed as she attended classes and studies groups and such if someone recognized her and didn’t like that she was with him.

Not showing any pictures or videos of her was also easy for him. It wasn’t because he didn’t have any, he had hundreds. But they were pictures and videos of her, only meant for him. Not because they were dirty in nature, though some were, but because how she was in them was something only she allowed him to see. It was photos of her with a finger pressed to her top lip as she glared at her books, videos of her sitting on something too tall for her feet to touch the ground and letting them swing. It was her smiling at him, all fond, shy and in love.

It was them wrapped up in each other’s arms and love. Her in between his legs or the other way around. Her sitting on his lap as Vic stole his phone to video them laughing and exchanging kisses. Her giggles as she tries not to fall asleep as reads her books to him over facetime. It’s her in her purest form and he doesn’t want the people in his life who are so quick and sure to not believe him to get to see that.

Nineteen and twenty-one, she officially co-owns their place in Monaco and he starts scouting out property in Belgium and land in France that’s somewhat close to the principality he lives in. It was too early to start building a house to live in forever, not when they weren’t sure what they wanted to live in forever with their kids, but it wasn’t too early to buy the land for it.

It also leads to their biggest fight in years.

“Max!” Her nails are digging into her arms. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying that I want to help, that I can pay. I have money!”

“And you don’t need to!” He’s yelling as well, face red with anger. “I’ve got money too! You don’t need to pay for shit when I can.”

She shakes her head. “Really? Is that how it’s always going to be? I won’t ever get to pay for anything? Just have a salary and trust fund wasting away.” She scoffs, giving another shake of her head. “Is it about being the breadwinner? Because don’t worry Max, I’m well aware that you’ll always have more money than me. Doesn’t mean I can’t contribute to our life.”

“Fuck.” He murmurs seeing the tears brimming in her eyes but not falling, the hurt in her words. “It’s not about that at all. It’s not about being the breadwinner.”

“Then what is it about?” Her voice is high pitched. “You won’t let me pay for a single thing! I can’t buy groceries without you slipping money back into my wallet. I can’t help pay the bills and now you won’t let me help buy the land that will have our house on it. What is it about Max?”

“You’re mine.” Her eyes widened at his quiet but firm tone. “You’re my girlfriend, the love of my life. One day my wife and the mother of my children.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling words and feelings he’s only ever really let come out during sex or when they’re both so drunk they barely remember anything the next day. “I want to pay for everything because it’s providing for you, it’s making sure you’re eating, sleeping somewhere safe, getting the best, most accommodating flights. It’s knowing that I’m providing for my family.”

“Max,” she breathes out, arms falling away from her chest and then she’s moving closer, resting a hand over his racing heart. “You want to provide for me?”

He nods.

“For our future kids?”

“Yes.”

“So do I. So, we’re going to work on this. You want to buy the land, you can.” He looks at her distrusting, because this didn’t sound like working on it. “But, I get to pay for groceries when I go out for them, without you paying me back. I get to pay for netflix because I use it more and spotify.” She adds.

He frowns at her. “I don’t like it.”

“Too bad and I’m not done. In return, you get to pay the bills, put gas in the car for me,” he grins at that.

“Pay for my flights and we are going to open a joint account to put an equal amount of money in every month. For things like vacations, anniversary dinners, and the kids. Because it’s important that I get to help provide for them too. And when we build that house together, I want to pay at least half of the contracting fee. I’ll let you pay for the rest.”

“I want to pay for any of the kids’ interests. Like art, ballet or karting.”

“No deal.” She shakes her head and he’s frowning again. “You can pay for all the karting, it will mean more. But I want it out of the shared account for the other things. Unless,” she pauses.

“Unless,” he encourages.

“If any of them decides to go to university early like me, I want to pay fully for it.”

“No.” It’s quick and now she’s frowning as well. “It’s our children and their education. Shared account.”

“Their first degree.”

He shakes his head. “And if it’s their only degree?”

Her brows press together, it was a good point. Just because they decided to go to university early like her didn’t mean they’d go for more than one degree. “First year.”

His eyes narrow as he looks at her, but he nods. “First year. But only of the first degree.”

“First degree only.” She agrees.

It’s quiet between them before Max lets his face soften, lips twisting slightly into a smile. “Are we done fighting?”

She laughs, but nods. “Yeah. We’re done fighting.”

“Thank god.” He breathes, pulling her into his arms and burying his face into the crook of her neck. “Let’s not do that again.”

“Not anytime soon at least.”

“I love you.” He murmurs.

“I love you too.”

Twenty and twenty-two has their families asking when exactly they’re getting married, wondering why there isn’t a ring on her finger and their only saving grace is their time spent in Monaco together away from them all. But when it gets to be too much as pressure builds as she tries to finish her doctorate in education while still working on her doctorate for history, it’s Jos that steps in for her and Max.

The three of them shared a complicated relationship. She could never like him for the parent he was to Max growing up. From the near abuse he hurled at him when he failed, the pressure he put on a child, the leaving him in a foreign country for a few hours when he wasn’t even a teenager more than once. But she did love him, because Max loved him and in his own way he loved Max and he showed that with his support of their relationship when everyone expected for him to have a problem with it, label it as a distraction. And now as a few years had passed and Max was comfortable in his F1 seat, he was Max’s fiercest defender, unwilling to back down, but would if Max told him too. And he was her fiercest defender as well. Glaring at jokes about her not needing a degree with the money Max made, not forcing her to join on trips when she was busy with school or questioning her support of Max because she didn’t attend races.

So, neither Max or her are surprised when Jos steps in when her grandparents are trying to back them into a corner as to why she doesn’t have a ring on her finger and how they have a number for a wedding planner and she should really give her a call, when all they want is to get breakfast before retreating to their room so she can resume her studies while Max hovers around her while going over his own work.

She hadn’t been thrilled at first when she learned that Jos would join them on the trip, knowing that Sophie wouldn’t be there, but now she was grateful and she made sure to squeeze his shoulder before leaving the kitchen and scheduled a nice quiet dinner for herself, Max and Jos as thanks.

The media becomes relentless when they’re twenty-two and twenty-four and Max wins his first championship. Because there is no girlfriend in sight despite the now champions thanks for her support and love. They tear Max apart for creating a fake girlfriend that has no name or face, call him unloveable with his fake championship. Some tear her apart as well, calling her gold digger, selfish, undeserving, fans of Max and the sport do as well.

It was supposed to be a happy moment for him, one of if not the best in his life, but it’s tainted, ruined, and as soon as he’s home with her in Monaco, all she can do is hold him and pretend that the texts from his friends begging him to go out and get laid don’t make her cry later in the shower.

Despite the texts and a bold one from Daniel about hiring him a prostitute, she forces Max to go out, to celebrate with the drivers in Monaco, to get drunk and have fun, and forget what the media is saying about him.

“I’m coming back if one of them even hints at a prostitute.” He tells her and she laughs, but she knows that he’s serious. He’s never even once considered cheating on her and one of their first serious fights had been about her trying to convince him and herself that she’d be okay if he got lonely while he was traveling and needed someone. He hadn’t believed it for a second and it had been one of the few times he had been so pissed at her that he couldn’t even stomach to look at her.

“Am I making a mistake, mom?” She asks, barely five minutes later, not even bothering saying hi when her mom greets her over the phone.

“No.”

Her mom’s voice is firm and has her blinking away tears. “But,”

“No.” Her mom cuts her off. “Sweetheart, I can’t even begin to try and understand Max and yours relationship. But this, this privacy that you two have, that’s not a mistake. It’s rough right now and it will be. And it will come back later when you two do decide to be public, but it’s not a mistake. You two both made the difficult, heartbreaking, mature decision to keep it private for both of yours sake.”

“I know.” She whispers, wiping away tears.

“You both still need privacy and there is no shame in that. Max isn’t ready and neither are you. As far as I’m concerned the only mistake you two have made is still not being married with a baby on the way.”

“Mom.” She groans and her mom laughs.

“I know, I know. Just remember that despite the seven or so years you’ve been together, that you two are still young, still doing so much growing.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

When Max arrives home hours later, drunkenly stumbling around and into bed, she’s not surprised by the smell of liquor clinging to him or the drunken murmurings he’s pressing to her skin. She is surprised by the deep inhale he takes and the splutter that makes her turn to face him.

Eyes a little blurry from sleep and wine, she makes out squinted eyes, flushed face, and a frown.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk.” She replies, curling closer to him.

“You’ve been crying.”

“Yeah.”

He slips an arm around her, pulling her closer. “We’re going to feel like shit when we wake up.”

“Yeah.”

He chuckles, brushing lips over her forehead. “That bad?”

“That bad.” She nods.

At twenty-three and twenty-four, the itch that Max has had since he was nineteen, one that’s grown worse and worse as the years have gone by, is too persistent and he takes a quick trip to his fathers house the day after she turns twenty-three and returns with a ring and the promises they made at fourteen and sixteen, promising them all over again, as she stares at him with a smile and teary eyes.

“I’d be stupid to not want to marry you Max.” She tells him when he slips the ring on her finger, breathing a sigh of relief when it goes on, fitting perfectly.

“You’re going to marry me.”

She nods, giggling at his blown pupils and silly grin. “Yes, I am.”

It seems stupid to be so giggly and flustered about it, so love sick, when they’ve talked about it so much. About getting married, about houses, kids, life after racing and teaching. But it’s different with the ring on her finger. Not more real or tangible. Just more.

“I know I proposed early.”

She shakes her head, wrapping her arms around his neck and his arms eagerly wrap around her waist. “It’s perfect. I know we talked and had plans, but this is perfect. Besides, I’ve got news of my own that’s early.”

“Oh?” Max’s eyebrow raises and he knows it’s not possible, not really with her religious use of the birth control shot and the way they mainly use condoms, more for convenience than anything else, but his eyes drift down to her abdomen that’s exposed. There’s no difference, but he can imagine what it would look like, he can also imagine what it will look like in a few hours.

“Not that.” Her bottom lip is pulled between her teeth. “I got an email about my viva exam.”

“Your viva? But you haven’t submitted your thesis yet.”

“Actually,”

“Stop.” He lifts a hand to press it against her mouth. “You submitted your thesis already? You completed it?”

She nods, her laughter muffled by his hand and he drops it.

“Well, what did it say? The email.”

“Once I get to the ceremony, I will officially hold a doctorate in education and history.”

He kisses her before she can say anything else.

“Unbelievable my love, unbelievable. Two doctorates by twenty-three.” He shakes his head, smiling wide.

“You know what that means right?”

He shakes his head again, unable to think of anything. Too overcome with his proudness and love for her.

“I’ll have my position at Harvard right after the ceremony.”

Blue eyes widen.

“And they agreed to let me teach a mix schedule for all of 2022, but when the official school year starts for 2023, I’ll just be teaching digital.”

Twenty-three and twenty-five has them weathering the media storm once again as Max wins his second world championship. It’s worse this time. Not because he says more than he did last time about her or says her name or slips up and calls her his fiancee and not girlfriend like they agreed to. But because this championship no one can deny is his and she’s still not there. Too busy in a different continent with the start of the school year as she teaches by herself for the first time since earning both her doctorates.

It’s also not as bad this time, because some of his friends do think that he’s seeing someone, not the girlfriend of years, or even really a girlfriend, but just some random girl that understands he’s too busy for an actual relationship and willing to put up with him spouting to the media and everyone else that he’s in a committed relationship. She doesn’t have time to focus on the media and fans that believe she exists, she barely did last year, but this year she really doesn’t.

“You know,” she says five days after he’s won his championship and they are in the house they have stayed in for the past two years when she has to be at Harvard and he wants to join her. “Around this time next year, we’ll be public.”

His face does a weird contortion at the thought. There was a giddiness to the idea, to the thought, but also dread.

“That means,” she continues when Max doesn’t say anything. “That you have ample time to figure out how you want to tell people.”

“How I want to?”

“Yeah. This is your world, your friends, colleagues, nightmares,” she adds and they both laugh. “You can decide how exactly you want to get back at them for not believing you.”

“I’m not going to be cruel.”

“No.” She lifts her hand and lets her pointer finger trace over his lips. “You’ve never been a cruel person, Max. But you can be a menace.”

His eyes light up at that. “Oh. And you don’t care?”

She shakes her head, “This is all you and I’m more than happy to be along for the ride.”

She is twenty-four and he has just turned twenty-six when he decides to enact his plan that he came up with so many months ago.

He had made a reservation for a private hall in Monaco months ago, hired a party planner to take care of the finer details, but sorted himself out the place and the food and drinks that would be served. And the day after he turns twenty-six, he picks up the large stack of enveloped invitations he had made and carefully packs them in his suitcase for Qatar. He was winning the championship there and he’d be damned if he didn’t make an already memorable weekend even better.

It’s the first time in a decade she has traveled with him to a race to actually watch the race and not just be there at the hotel to support him as she studies and he can’t help the smugness and happiness that radiates off him when he shows up to the track for the first day.

He’s got his backpack over his shoulder, but the invitations are already in his hands, ready to be passed out.

“Max!” Charles greets when he arrives in the driver’s debrief room. All twenty of them, plus reserves, team principals, and Daniel sitting and standing around as they wait for the FIA representative to get here. He looks down at his watch, noting that it will at least another ten minutes, before his eyes flicker to a member of the Red Bull staff that’s standing against a wall, but just like he asked, they’ve got a camera in their hands and there’s another one standing leaning against the opposite wall, also with a camera.

“Charles. Safe flight?”

“Always. What do you have there?”

“Ooh,” Daniel chimes in, moving closer and looking at the envelopes in his hands. “What do you have there?”

He smirks and he can see Daniel’s grin flatter at the sight for a brief second. “Invitations.” He says, before tossing or passing them around to the different drivers and Christian. He nearly avoids giving Lando one just to be a shit but Toto isn’t there to give it too and it wouldn’t be the same to give it to a different team principal jokingly.

“What is it for?” Carlos asks, eyeing the dark envelope like a lot of the other drivers are, suspiciously.

He shrugs, eyebrows raising when he sees the way Lando is feeling the envelope. “Mate, I’m not giving you money.”

Lando frowns, before ripping it open. “You’ve got more than enough to spare.”

Seeing Lando open his, has the rest of them following suit.

“Dear friends of Max Verstappen,” George reads out and the wording earns a few snorts but he continues. “You are invited to celebrate at the” he pauses squinting at the french on the page.

“The Salle des Étoiles” Charles says.

“Cheers, mate. You’re invited to celebrate on the 8th of November at 4pm.” His eyebrows furrow. “Celebrate what?”

Max watches from the corner of his eye as Christian flips the invitation over and nearly chokes.

“Your engagement?”

“Your what?”

“Engaged?”

“Impossible.”

“Lies.”

The whole room is filled with denial and panic and Max just smiles, nearly laughing when Logan thrusts his invitation into James’ hands and asks the team principal if it’s true.

“Max, you aren’t engaged, right? Like that was a fuck up with the print place?” Daniel is nearly pleading, begging, and Max would feel sorry, but for the past ten years he’s been telling people he isn’t single, and sure he’s never shared many details, but they all refused to believe or even consider it.

He ignores him, instead looking at the room in large. “You’ll meet her tomorrow. She’s very excited about it.” And as if he planned it, the FIA official walks into the room and no one can question him.

When the meeting is over he manages to avoid all of them except for Christian, who nearly drags him into a private room.

“Is this real?”

Max raises an eyebrow at the way he’s waving around the invitation but nods. “Yes.”

“You’re really engaged.”

“Yes, Christian. I am.”

The older man stares at him, not blinking before sighing and running a hand over his face. “Is she pregnant?”

“What?”

“The girl you’ve been sleeping with recently. Is she pregnant, is that what this is about? Because you don’t have to marry her.”

“No one is pregnant.” He reassures, not even able to find any anger for Christian and his assumption.

The older man sighs again before sitting down and slumping in the chair.

“You’ve had a girlfriend since you were sixteen.” There’s regret, guilt, and sorrow in his voice.

“Yes.”

“And I never believed you.”

He shrugs, it had hurt yes, but he had always understood Christian’s disbelief in it over anyone else’s. “No.”

Christian nods. “And I owe you both an apology for that. I should have believed you Max.”

“Thank you.”

“But really, ten years and you’ve just put a ring on it?”

Max groans, rolling his eyes. “You sound like our families.”

They are twenty-four and twenty-six when Max wins his third championship, with the sprint race of all things, and the whole world watches as he’s enveloped by his team before he’s tugging off his helmet and kissing the unfamiliar girl that’s between Christian and Jos, shielded from the rough crowd of Red Bull mechanics, crew, and such. They are twenty-four and twenty-six when everyone finds out that Max had been telling the truth the whole time.

Just about a month later, she eases into the spot between Max and the arm of the couch, eagerly tucking herself closer to him when he drapes an arm over her shoulders.

“You alright?”

She nods, “Yeah, Vic and Tom finally left.”

Max snorts, “It only took them thirty minutes.”

“A record for them.” She grins, before looking at the other people surrounding them, or rather Max. She wasn’t surprised that Max had taken to quickly grabbing a few people and secluding themselves in a corner. She was a bit surprised by the people however.

Charles and Daniel which isn’t too surprising, but there’s the three rookies of the season, Liam, Oscar, and Logan, as well, a little surprising, but nothing compared to the two Mercedes drivers also in front of her.

“You aren’t trying to get Lewis to play paddle are you?”

Lewis laughs, shaking his head. “I get enough of competing with him on the track. There’s no convincing me there.”

“It’s fun, Lewis.” Charles says. “You should join. George, you too. Make it Mercedes versus,” he pauses, eyebrows scrunching together as he tries to think of something to call himself and Max.

“Lestappen.” She offers, inching away a bit when Max pinches her side.

Charles doesn’t notice the pinch, just smiles at her, before looking at the two British drivers. “Yes! Mercedes versus Lestappen.” His eyebrows then furrow. “What is Lestappen?”

“Mate, you don’t want to know.” Liam tells him.

Logan chuckles, “I don’t know. Either he finds out now or he finds out when he googles it later.”

“Googles it.” George murmurs, mocking the American accent that Logan has. “Bloody Americans.”

“Yeah, yeah, tea and crumpets.” Logan waves off Georges mocking with a grin as he looks at Charles.

“It’s what people call you and Max, a nickname you could say for when you two are together.” She tells him before Logan can say anything.

“Oh,” he frowns, considering. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It’s not.” She assures.

Before anyone can say anything else, someone joins their group, eyes focusing on her.

“Dr. Y/L/N, congratulations on your engagement.”

She looks at the older man in surprise before quickly standing to shake his hand. “Toto, a pleasure to see you again. And please you don’t need to call me doctor.”

Toto smiles, tilting his head forwards, conceding as she sits back down.

“Doctor?” Daniel questions, eyes flitting between her and the Mercedes team principal, not sure of what to make of the interaction, though Max seems perfectly fine with it.

She presses her lips together and she can feel Max move a bit closer as Toto’s eyes narrow at Max. “Yes.” She tells Daniel and the rest. “I managed to get both of my doctorates last year.”

A few jaws drop and Lewis whistles. “And I thought you were just a teacher.”

Toto’s looking at her now, with narrowed eyes and she sighs.

It would be just her luck that despite having just met the man once, that one time had resulted in a long conversation after he gave his guest lecture at Harvard.

“You told them you’re a teacher.”

“I told them I teach.” She corrects. “Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”

“I want to make a big deal out of it.” Max mumbles and she sends him a pleading look.

But Max doesn’t give in, instead he turns to the rest of them. “She’s a professor at Harvard. She got both her doctorates at twenty-three and quickly was signed on as professor.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Oscar starts, breaking the silence that has fallen over the group. “Is that she is way too smart for you?”

Max laughs, eyes crinkling and body bending forward from the force of it. “Without a doubt, mate. Without a doubt.”

[whoetoshaw]

MEET THE UNCLES | h. lewis

summary: harry brings the babies to meet the boys! [9.3k words.]

pairing: reader x bog (W2S.)

notes: surpriseee, baby bog fic for you lot, it’s been a while!! 🥳 plssss let me know what you think!!! 💗 i thought this was the cutest idea and was excited to start adding lil dad!bog moments of him already being the best dad. hope it doesn’t seem rushed! enjoy! and don’t forget to reblog! <333

IT HAD ALMOST BEEN 6 WEEKS SINCE you welcomed two new little faces to the world, six weeks since your world changed completely, and more notably, six weeks since you had been in contact with the real world.

The baby bubble was in full swing. Your home was suffocating with that sweet baby smell, clean cotton and baby powder, and looked the part too, with blankets and moses baskets in the living room, packs of nappies and wipes stacked by the sofa, endless baby clothes hanging around the house, and formula and bottles sitting out on the kitchen counter. Not forgetting the sterilizing station which was never off.

But that wasn’t even it. The baby bubble was you feeling cozied up at home all day, every day, away from the outside world of responsibilities and havoc, enjoying the safety and privacy of your home to grow and bond with your two, new little babies. To learn everything there is about them. Recognise their patterns. Suss out who they were gonna be.

It was just you, Harry, and them.

It was tiring, of course. Over a month of the most fucked up sleeing pattern you’d ever have, but worth it, I suppose. The only time you left was to do little strolls around the park or maybe nip into town, but nothing could beat home when it was pouring outside, no responsibilities beyond your front door. It was a bonding experience for you and Harry in itself, seeing who was going to be nice to get up and make the bottle or be the one to kick the other to see who needed their nappy changed, and wake up along with to keep the other company.

Harry was in awe of you, and you were in awe of Harry. He’d really taken you by surprise. For those whole 9 months, he’d had the worst anxiety ever over being a parent, convinced every worst case scenario to occur whilst caring for an infant, would occur. But it hadn’t, and if anything — he had more confidence than you at this point.

He checked the time on his phone, a blue blanket covering his shoulder with his baby boy snoozing on top of it, out for the count after his bottle while you carried his sister to the front door, seeing Harry’s parents out. “—I’ll have a look at it tomorrow if you want,” you talked with his Dad, Rosie standing next to him with shivering shoulders, her arms crossed to keep warm under the night’s sky. She was quick to go wait in the car.

His Mum was in the living room, feeling a part of that baby bubble herself every time she walking into your home and saw you both with her grandbabies. It would just never sink in.

She was fully convinced her heart exploded seeing you all at home for the first time, walking into your living room to find a very sleepy Harry and you sitting on the sofa, tired eyes and tired smiles, a baby each in your arm as you sat comfortably next to each other. The TV wasn’t even on but just your lamp as you two talked between yourselves, feeding them both, looking up at who had walked through the door.

She’d taken a photo to capture the memory, because she hadn’t felt her heart burst with pride so much seeing you take to your new responsibilities so smoothly. And so adoringly.

It made her tear up, seeing her firstborn experience this stage.

Talking to him so casually while he held that little baby on his shoulder, it almost triggered her again! She remembered the days she had to force him to hold a child! “—I could cry again!”

“Oh my days, please,” Harry threw his head back, crossing his sock-covered feet over the other. “He doesn’t even.”

“He does!”

“How? All babies literally look the same when they're just born, they look like aliens.”

“I’m telling you now, I will send a picture of you just days old and you tell me he is not your spitting image,” she stood up with her bag, ready to head home to dig through those baby pics. “Although I am starting to see hints of y/n.”

“All I see are hints of y/n,” he said, looking down at his sleeping son. “Anyway, about tomorrow . . do you think that’s ok for us to do?”

“I think it’s whatever you guys think. Whatever makes you guys comfortable, there’s no precise rules. If you’re fine with it, go ahead. I had everyone meeting you lot when you were still in the hospital, it’s whatever you think is best for your child. I think they’ll be fine. They’ve already met a good bit of family, they should be grand.” His Mum gave her input. “Well, I’m off. I’m sure I’ll maybe see you tomorrow at some stage,” she kissed you all goodbye, “goodnight! Love you!”

“Love you,” you called from the door, closing it behind them. You locked the door for the night, getting ready for bed.

Walking back into the living room, patting the back off the windy baby on your shoulder, you looked down at Harry on the sofa.

He was so cute.

He laughed at you.

“What are you laughin’ at?”

It didn’t take much to spot the new mum, your sweats, baggy t-shirt with the odd milk stain, a messy bun of hair and not forgetting the faint eye bags - his little love was exhausted. But she still smiled every day, and that just made his heart grow. She was rocking it.

“Just you,” he dreamily sighed, resting his head back.

“You don’t look any better,” you grinned, tapping his foot with yours.

He did. He looked so good.

In fact, he had a Dad glow almost, despite those tired eyes and messy hair, you’d give him baby number 3 if you had the energy to do it so soon. “What do you want for dinner tomorrow?”

“Well, this is my idea,” he proposed, watching you continuously pat his baby girl’s back. “So tomorrow, when I bring the twins into work with me, you can have all morning to do whatever it is you want, and then after when we’re wrapped, I’ll meet up in town and we can all go for a Nando’s. How’s that sound?”

You raised your brows, “hm, that sounds pretty bangin’.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But . . now are you sure you want to go on your own tomorrow? I can help if you want. I don’t want you to stress, I can even meet up l—”

“Y/n . . y/n. I’ll be fine. I want to do this, I want to do it for you. And for the boys! I want to surprise them,” he reassured, looking at you sincerely.

Harry had planned to come into the ‘office’ tomorrow to surprise the boys with the newest editions. He talked to the boys everyday, and he’d saw a couple of them in the weeks he was off work, but none were yet to have met his baby boy and girl. He wanted them to, of course he did, but even if all was good to do so, their schedules had been so hectic, and they didn’t want to offend you with constant visitations while you were trying to find your feet. Believe me, they were busting to see those Lewis twins more than anyone.

You both weren’t as fussy with having people around your twins, they were over a month old and you’d gathered so much advice from the hospital, from your midwives, from other parents, from online, from your friends and family, and you knew there was no harm them getting a little cuddle from some of the boys.

Harry had it all planned. He’d been keeping up with the groupchat and checking in when their next shoot was for MoreSidemen so he could drop by, and tomorrow was the perfect opportunity.

You trusted him completely to take them both for their morning, you were just worried he’d get nervous and doubt himself, but he seemed too excited to be thinking like that, and you encouraged him to go for it.

“You take that nice, relaxing bath, wash your hair, do your skincare. Get dressed, make yourself a nice breakfast you don’t need to rush and a cup of tea that you won’t end up drinking cold, and lounge about. And then, I’ll text you when I’m done and you can make your way into town once you’re ready, okay?”

“Okay,” you smiled, thinking of your day already.

What would you do for four hours? Was it bad you weren’t a nervous wreck at the thought of leaving your babies for a few hours?

Pfffftt. With Harry? No way. They were just over 5 weeks old and made it very clear who they preferred, but we’ll not get into that.

He smiled. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you smiled back, placing a kiss on his lips. And again and again, feeling his stubble on your face. He was quick to shave it now, not wanting to irritate the delicate skin on his babes, but the familiar feeling tickled you.

His free hand snuck up and tuck your hair behind your ear before slightly tilting your head, trying to get better access, and your heart fluttered, and Harry could feel your smirk against his mouth, having him reciprocate as he knew your mind wandered off.

He was such a DILF.

“Is she asleep?” You pulled away before you fell on top of him, flicking your hair back.

You spun around, and he was met with the eyes she’d stolen from him. “Nope.”

The following morning, you got up at 8:00 to help get the babies ready for their big day of meeting their uncles, allowing Harry to get showered and dressed, you had them sitting perfectly for their daddy to take out.

“—you are just going to melt their hearts with those big eyes and long lashes,” you buckled your baby girl in one car seat, Harry tucking her baby pink blanket in afterwards. “And you are just going to steal the show, showing everyone who the first big boy is,” you kissed your boy’s cheek repeatedly, buckling him in next. Harry copied his actions, tucking the warm baby blue blanket over his mini-me, face full of concentration as wobbled hunched on his knees.

You were so proud of him. You knew it was the bare minimum for men but for someone like Harry who was adamant this was just something he should never do – your heart burst, and you kissed him, wishing him the best of luck and a good day.

“See you later, gorgeous,” he leant down to get your kiss on his cheek, but the compliment just set your mood up for the day, and you beamed, grabbing his face in your hands and kissed four loud smacks to his face. Harry’s cocky grin took his face as he stood at the front door, knowing the neighbours see.

“Love you. Be safe,” you let him go, “‘n look after them!”

“Of course I will,” he muttered, slouching to get a kiss off his wife once more, bringing your face back. Never would he ever get tired of those lips on his, and neither would you, feeling all tingly when his hand lifted your face up towards him.

It had been a longgg 6 weeks.

It would be weird not having the other around for a bit, but few hours apart would do you good.

If Harry would go. “Harry,” you breathed, laughing at his greed, “go. I need to get showered.”

He pressed one more to your cheek and then he was off, carrying both car seats to the car, shooting you two thumbs up through the window where you smiled and waved from.

“Please drive safe,” you muttered to yourself.

“Boys, I’m not gonna lie to you, I’m still rusty driving this thing,” he spoke from the driver’s seat, maneuvering your default positioning with your chair and rear view mirror. As expected, there was no response from the backseat.

Harry was excited. He was buzzing beyond belief. Running up those stairs to the office with his hands full, the smile wouldn’t leave his face.

He turned the corner, peaking, he could see the six of them chilling on the sofa, chatting amongst themselves before preparing for their next shoot.

“Boys,” he called, grabbing all their attention, “. . look what I made.”

Mouths dropped open and brows raised as he rounded the corner, twisting the seats around, all shocked faces were stunned by the blond’s surprise visit but more so at the sight of the two little ones he brought with him, sleeping snug in the carriers.

“HARRY . . WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“You’re kidding,” Ethan sat up with the biggest smile on his face, Vik next to him with his hand on his mouth, “no way!”

“Are they— are they there?!” JJ hunched forward as Harry made his way over, the crew pausing their actions to be part of the meeting. They were shocked to see Harry too.

“Yeah man! Yeah, what’d you mean?” He laughed, bringing them over to the couch. He placed them on the floor, taking a seat at the end so he could lift them out.

“You think he was gonna go the extra length of carrying two empty car seats all the way to here?” Simon laughed at JJ.

“Yeah?!”

“Oh my god, Bog,” Ethan inwardly gasped, watching the man already in the zone of lifting out the tiniest being the boys had ever seen. They hadn’t even met Olive this young. Ethan was baffled just watching him, even more baffled he’d come here on his own, without you. “Oh my god!”

“It’s fine man, it’s fine,” he raised the baby up above, capturing the newborn scrunch for all the boys to see.

And awed out loud.

They were amazed.

Harry looked around at them, clueless by the silence and them just watching, snickering to himself, “Does . . does anyone want to hold them?” He broke this unnecessary tension, humoured by the uptight bunch. “Who—who wants this one?” He looked to Vik.

“Yeah, I–I’ll take him, yeah,” he nervously laughed, the boys laughing along with them. Of course they all wanted to see them, they were just scared.

Especially with it being Harry. It felt like there was pressure on them, because if he could do it, they all should definitely be able to do it. The boys were in awe of Harry. I mean they all knew things changed when you had your own but . . this was scary. Why was he so confident? How was he doing that? Who was this?!

Harry copied your routine and gave Vik a pillow to lean his arms on before settling his baby boy in his arms, not sparing him a second glance before reaching for the next one, pulling his daughter over and unbuckling her out of her car seat, the boys even more struck but her size and compared in Harry’s hands, looking even smaller than the last. “There she is!” His soft tone soothed her while moving her around. “Here’s my Princess!”

“Oh my god! Boggo!” Tobi couldn’t take his eyes off him as he stood up to pass her onto him at the other end of the couch, but Tobi took her gracefully and his heart melted as an inaudible sound left his lips, expression plastered with adoration.

Harry looked between them both, seeing both kids still peacefully asleep and kicked his shoes off before grabbing a drink from the mini fridge. “How are you a father? How are you someone’s dad?”

“Brother, how do you have two?”

“It’s a madness, man.” He took his spot on the sofa.

“How are you man? How you been?” Simon grabbed his hand in a handshake next to him, as the boys all pitched in their greetings. They hadn’t seen him in work for a long time, he’d filmed so many pre-recorded videos for the channels that there was no reason for him to be in, the only time they’d seen him was when he managed to meet up for a quick hour so he wasn’t feeling trapped in the house or at football, training with Ethan.

“I need to send a picture to Faith, man. She won’t believe this,” the ginger laughed, already taking a photograph to rub in the blonde’s face. She had been besotted since the minute she’d met them.

The girls had already met the babies as they obviously had less hectic schedules. When Harry had made an afternoon to go out for dinner after a meeting and training, you welcomed your girls over.

And it was a day none of you would forget:

Ellie was first. She had errands to run, but made time to at least get sitting with you for a cup of tea to see these already famous babies. “Hiii!”

“Hi! Come in! Come in!” You waved her in, seeing her little giftbag in her hands. She was the sweetest ever.

You hugged and kissed her hello, guiding her into your slightly tidied living room where her hands immediately flew to her mouth in shock and eyes well up. “I’m going to cry.”

“Don’t cry! Get a snuggle!” You placed your hands on her shoulders with a little laugh, encouraging her to go inside.

Your two little ducks sat in their Mamaroos, pouty lips on show as they slept. They might have had their dad’s pouty lips but they had your sleeping trait of having your arms above your head.

“AH! They sleep like you!” Ellie expectedly pointed out, mocking the position she’d seen many times in your nights spent together. Usually abroad, when you’d gone out and came back to freshen up but really escaped to go ‘lie down for 5 minutes’.

“I know!”

You made cups of tea and sat on the sofa, the twins not long waking up after the noise of talking they hadn’t heard since Dad left. Ellie gushed again, her heart bursting seeing their eyes open and look up at her and their Mama. “Look at them!”

“This is your Auntie Ellie,” you said in a squeaky voice, lifting each of them up, “say hi!”

“Look at that scrunch!” She quietly squealed, taking your baby boy. “Oh y/n they are the cutest faces I have ever seen,” she smiled with him on her chest, “hello little man!”

“Your Aunt Ellie and Uncle Vik will get you whatever you want so make sure to go to them when you’re asking for something,” you grinned, passing her the other one.

“I mean, I think you’re Dad will do that for you already but I promise you will get the best Christmas presents out of your other aunties and uncles,” she promised, hands holding the two close to her, keeping her warm and cuddly. She was in love.

It was so good to catch up with her, getting to gossip as girls for the first time in a long time before she began to head. She was such a good friend and you adored her endlessly. Like Vik, she had an effect that just made you naturally better yourself without even doing anything. She could always lift the mood.

“You are amazing. If you ever need anything, you know to call me. If Harry’s at work and you want to nap for an hour, I am more than happy to even watch them while you’re upstairs.”

“Thanks, El. I will really hold you to that,” you smiled lovingly at her, kissing her on the cheek with a grateful hug. “I love you.”

“I love you. Keep doing what you’re doing, you look great while doing it.”

You held your chest, emotionally watching her leave.

Another set of your favourite girls came next, Talia and Freya, together like they usually tended to do.

And it was wild.

“I’m actually so nervous, I’m literally shaking,” Talia showed you her trembling hand as they stepped through the door.

“Why are you shaking, you weirdo?! Why are you nervous?” You laughed, waiting for them to kick their shoes off to go upstairs. It was evening time, you’d just had your dinner and went upstairs to chill in bed with the twins chilling alongside you on Harry’s side of the bed.

“I don’t know! ‘Cause I just know I’m going to get all weird and emotional!” She cried.

“When you facetimed me, I was still in denial. I said to Josh, I was like ‘nope! Dolls! They’re dolls! Better still - she wasn’t even pregnant! Was all just a lie!’” Freya hugged you, laughing, swinging you side to side. “How are you, beautiful?”

“I’m ok. Tired. And being such a clinger and missing Harry?” you shared a weirded look with them, hating yourself for feeling like that. “But now you guys are here, I’m over that.”

They laughed at you, Freya grabbing their tea and Talia grabbing the biscuits before bringing them upstairs.

When you pushed open the door and let the girls look inside first, seeing those two little beings prepped up on some pillows, hands crossed and eyes open, dummies going wild, you heard a squeak leave their lips.

Talia dropped the pack of biscuits, hands going to her mouth, fingertips touching the tears leaking out her eyes and she pretended to turn around and walk away.

“MOVE! LET ME SEE!” Freya pushed past.

They both let a few tears slip, climbing on the bed, you watched the both of them just stare at them, reaching their fingers to stroke their little hands. It was amusing watching on the other side, now, being the host. Being the Mum.

“They’re just beautiful,” Freya frowned, gently swaying with your daughter in her arms. “Very like Harry, though.”

“So like Harry,” Talia agreed, widening her eyes with your baby boy looking up at her in her arms.

“You know what? You know . . now that you say that . . you two are the first to say that,” you closed your eyes sarcastically, fingers touching your head at the words you felt like you’d hear for the rest of your days.

They both laughed, all of you huddled in your massive bed, all snug together. “I can’t believe we’re at that stage where I’m meeting your babies. You have babies now, y/n, you are a mum,” Talia emphasised. “You’re someone’s mum.

“I know. I feel so old,” you fell back with a grin.

They stayed for a long time, not letting you life a finger once whilst they were there; you made their bottles, but the girls were eager to feed and wind them, and even offered to change them after. The afternoon was so fun, just you and your girls, laughing and gossiping in your bedroom like you used to, except you had two little tag alongs joining in. Your stomach hurt from laughter, and you even got to do more laundry, of course, the girls taking the absolute piss out of you and your new mum stuff, like when Talia grabbed your new bras from the radiator and was able to put it on her head, struggling to get a breath as it acted like a hat. You hated them so much.

Freya sat next to you with her back to your headboard and her nephew sitting against her thighs, Talia was rambling with her niece rocking in her arms, walking around the room in her heated discussion. “—but yeah. None of my business. I’m not saying anything more, karma can take its course now, not my problem!”

“As you should,” you agreed, munching on your crisps.

“This is so weird,” Freya interrupted, fiddling with the boy’s feet, fascinated by how a person could once be this tiny. “I’m never getting used to this.”

“Are they hard work?”

“They’re honestly not the worst, like they’re pretty relaxed babies half the time, I won’t lie,” you explained. “They’re not whiney and they’re good sleepers, like they sleep a couple hours at a time. As long as they’re warm and comfy, they’re content enough,” you rubbed your eyes. Faith had scared you when she’d told you about Olive and her struggles with her sleeping pattern — because she didn’t have one. She just hated sleep.

“How’s Harry holding up?”

“Guys, Harry is so good,” you sighed with jealousy, rolling your head back. “Like, scarily good. I actually want to cry at times. He’s already definitely their favorite, I’m not even kidding.”

“Shut up!”

“How?!”

“He’s so confident,” you laughed with shock. “He literally hasn’t asked — he doesn’t — he just does. He just does everything on his own, he hasn’t asked for anything! I was convinced I was gonna have to pick them up for him and hand him them, get him used on how to hold their head or getting them in and out of seats, feeding— no! Nope! Nothing! I came down the other morning, he’s watching football highlights, holding the head properly, rubbing and patting his back, getting his wind up, eating his cereal at the same time, not even lookin’ at ‘em!”

“STOP!”

“Stop, why do I want to cry?” Talia frowned, “I am so proud of that boy.”

“He has taken everyone by surprise, it’s so nice to see.”

“He literally had anxiety for nothing. He makes me nervous, like, I’m not doing things properly!”

“Shut up, they are the happiest babies I have seen. I mean, they don’t cry every time they see your face, you know? I take that as a good sign.”

You laughed at Talia, sipping your water bottle, you shook your head, “no, they definitely prefer Harry though. I’m not even exaggerating.”

They didn’t buy it. They tilted their heads, they doubted it, “and how would you know that already?”

“Girls,” you pinched your fingers together, “they know. They know. They know who has them now that they’re opening their eyes and they know who they want to see: it’s either the big blond guy, or the woman they lived inside of for 9 months who looks like she could do with 50 energy drinks or so,” you quipped. “And they want the big blond guy.”

They laughed at you, but you were serious! “Seriously! They’re used to Harry's smell, I’ve had to start spraying my clothes with his aftershave so they settle quicker! And his voice! They’ll be so calm?! Like now the way we’re talking, if they hear Harry’s voice, they start squirming like mad and kicking their feet out! They know when he’s around. I gave him them both to feed until I finished doing the washing and came back in, offered to take one and when I took her — she was crying for the longest time, would not take her bottle! I’d disturbed her peace.”

Talia and Freya sat with their mouths open, shocked to hear this news already of your already clingy babies! “No way!”

“It’s funny, they’re just attached already. I feel like Harry got that mother-baby bond before I have!”

“Yeah, but you’re the Mum, they’re gonna be obsessed with you, too,” they sweetly reassured, “I mean just look.”

Your baby girl kicked her legs when Talia turned her around to face you.

You did smile, but you knew your funny girl. “Trust me, Mumma is blown out the picture when their dad is around,” you smiled at your cheeky girl squirming for you. You kissed her cheek multiply, breathing in her scent.

You couldn’t blame them though.

“I love them so much. They are going to be thee most blessed babies with you two as their parents. Honestly.”

That pulled on your heart strings. “. . yeah.”

“They’re gonna be the cool parents,” Freya added.

“They’re gonna have cooler aunties who they’re going to run to the second their mum and dad are strict with them,” you giggled.

“And I can't wait for it.”

Faith had come down later that night, hopping the drive home would tire Olive out so she would sleep through the night.

You already know you had photos taken of all three little ones, sitting up on your sofa, Olive slipped right in between them. Your heart couldn’t take it.

“I literally want to cry. Why am I crying here?”

Faith held both in her arms, knees tucked up on the sofa in your living room, the room dimly lit and you had the TV playing on low in the back. Faith was awestruck, heartfelt more than ever as she held her best friend’s little ones, overwhelmed with love and adoration. “You should be so proud of yourself, y/n. You did amazing and you’re doing amazing caring for them. They are so freakin’ content, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe they’re here! It feels like just yesterday you were telling me you were pregnant!”

“The time dragged at the time but it went in so quick at the same time,” you agreed, bouncing the Mamaroo Olive had stolen and was watching the TV in.

“Isn’t it crazy this is who was in your belly for those 9 months?”

“Sooo crazy.”

“They’ve already grown so much from the hospital, haven’t they?”

Oh yeah, so . . Faith and Behzinga might have been one of the first people of your friends to have met the two, but it was kind of a repayment thing, because you and Harry had been one of the first to have met a Olive when she was born, and . . well, you wanted Faith and Ethan to be one of the first to meet them.

‘Smashers mate, absolute smashers,’ Ethan peaked down at the two infants in their hospital cots, unable to pick them up as it felt like they were getting wheeled out every 10 seconds, but with his finger in one of their hands, he was mind blown at the pair of them. They were over the moon for the both of you, squeezing the living daylights out of you both the minute they stepped foot in your room.

‘You smashed it, you are Wonder Woman,’ Faith stroked your hair back from next to your bed, in disbelief at your birth story and how you managed to do it. You were God in her eyes.

She’d immediately let out a few tears before she’d even come up, touched you’d asked for them to come visit while you were all still in hospital. She cried with pride seeing you in bed, still exhausted after a few days but still smiling, and then she cried seeing Harry standing by the two newborns in the cot, unbelieving these were her best friends little ones. ‘Oh she is just gorgeous!’

‘Carbon copies mate, swear down,’ Ethan looked over at Harry, who nodded with a subtle smirk.

Faith stroked their hat-covered heads, looking back at you, ‘trust me, this is all you hear from now on’.

‘I love you, man. Biggest congrats.’

‘I love you too, man, thank you, thank you.’

“She is small, isn’t she?” Faith observed. “Not like my Olive.”

“She is, and she’ll probably always be small. I think Harry already has this protective streak over it, he always goes for her first and would rather him carry her than me,” you said with a little smile, putting your suspicion out there.

“Already protective of his baby girllll,” Faith grinned, smiling down at them both. “Did he take you by surprise?”

“He’s taken everyone by surprise, he’s taken himself by surprise. I have never seen this man so soft and so gentle,” you suddenly felt your eyes fog, unable to talk about your partner in such sense because it did overwhelm you every time. Words could not even describe the proudness you had for that man. You were besotted.

Just seeing him talk to them in the morning or kissing their little cheeks obsessively, snuggling them into his neck in the mornings for their morning cuddle — you could cry with love every time.

Faith stayed for an hour or so, enjoying your little baby bubble with you as she got to bond with her new niece and nephew. Like most people, she became quickly obsessed with the Lewis twins.

It was also fun getting to relate with someone for once, and reflect on past struggles:

“—yeah, Ethan wouldn’t come near me.”

“No, Faith. I have never seen Harry so uncomfortable in all his life when I even instigated anything of the sort. Even when Valentine’s Day passed, he was in the mood more than ever but the minute I was in our room –just sitting down on the bed!– he just stopped and shook his head and went ‘I can’t do this’.”

“How frustrating!”

“I was like ‘shut up! You can! It’s normal!’ but then he came over and was like ‘no I really can’t, that’s just wrong, y/n,’ and had to walk away! Went downstairs and got a beer!”

She laughed, knowing that struggle. “It’s so annoying.”

“And I can understand his point of view but come on now! He’d keep coming back and then walk off, I was like ‘grow up’ and he was like ‘y/n! My kids are in there!! My baby boy is in there! My baby girl! They’re right there! They are right here! They can hear us right now! They’re just waiting there! No!’” you mocked how he’d spoken about your bump that night. “I mean at the start it was fine, he could do it with a little bump, he was like a bloody shagging machine! He was alllll over that pregnancy glow!”

“The pregnancy tits, you mean.”

“Oh yeah, the pregnancy tits were a hit with him, like,” you agreed. But then it got to 7 months and it felt to him there was a bit of third-wheeling going on and it took him some convincing to get him on board. “The amount of times I caught that boy looking at me like some freak. That look of discomfort.”

“Like ‘what did I do to her?’” She made you laugh.

“Honestly! ‘You look like you’re about to explode’, bestie what you mean? I’m 35 weeks pregnant, I am.”

Faith laughed at you, her little jumps from chuckling sending your baby boy to raise his arms in his sleep, causing Faith to hold her heart and snuggle her cheek close to him. “I love him so much. I love her so much too,” she snuggled your girl after, her heart as soft as cotton in her Lewis sandwich. “Do you miss being pregnant?”

“Sometimes.” You looked at the yoga ball that’d been collecting dust these last couple weeks. Just a couple weeks ago, you’d been sitting on it in a pair of thongs and one of Harry’s t-shirts, trying to ease the discomfort as you both sat watching your Netflix show, of course, Harry watching and laughing at you more than he was the TV series. If fed up was a picture, it’d be the one he’d taken of you to send to every group chat he was in.

Faith didn’t want to leave you, but you reassured her you would see her sooner than later and could Facetime once you put the little ones to bed for the night. Your 20 Facetimes calls throughout the day hadn’t changed.

“I am so excited for them all to be best friends.”

“Me too.” You squeezed her tight, feeling like you could fall asleep, “I love you lots, save journey home, please.”

“Of course. I don’t drive like my racer man,” she smiled as you kissed a sleeping Olive’s head.

“At least your one drives, mine is still full on Passenger Princess,” you playfully rolled your eyes, stroking the baby’s hand.

“Goodnight lover. Thank you for having us over, I feel honored,” she smiled gratefully, “I will be letting the babies know that ‘til their old and grey: me and Ethan were one of the first to meet them,” she teased, opening her car.

You laughed, nodding along, “yeah.”

Yeah . . . how did you tell her someone had actually beating her to it? You didn’t think you could.

“—IF I FIND OUT FOR ONE SECOND, ANYONE OUTSIDE FAMILY HAS SEEN THOSE TWO WROETOSHAW DESCENDANTS, I WILL FLIIIPPP THAT HOSPITAL UPSIDE DOWN.”

Sitting sore in your hospital bed, trying not to spill your cup of tea in hand, Freezy’s pixelated face made you laugh as he rushed to get his shoes on.

He had to be the first. Of course he did.

Harry smiled from his chair in the corner, hands shoved in his pockets as he heard the famous voice echo through the speaker.

Cal was like lightning on his way to that hospital. It felt like by the time you and went downstairs to grab yourself a coffee, you just sat down to a hesitant knock at your door. “Hello? Can I come in?”

Waving him in eagerly, you looked at him last your coffee cup like he was insane. You didn’t think Cal had ever knocked on your door ever in your life, and you lived with him for 5 years. “Yes?!”

He walked straight to the cot, hands over his mouth, as if seeing the babies would end any doubt in his brain that convinced him they weren’t real and your whole pregnancy had been a hoax, and turned away at first glance. “Nah . . . nah!”

You heard the excitement in his voice, and he clasped his hand with Harry’s hand and swung him in a tight hug, getting him in a sort of headlock that forced Harry to laugh. “My guy,” he shrieked, “my guyyy!”

Tell you something, there was nothing cuter than seeing someone you looked up to as an older brother completely melt but also stress over how to hold your kid.

“BOG! BOG! BOG! BOG, WAIT! WAIT!”

“Freezy you actin’ like he’s tryna throw a spider on you,” you watched him freak out.

“Shhh! Just hold your arm out!”

“WAIT, BRO!”

“Bro, Faith and Ethan are gonna get them first before you if you don’t take them!”

“. . give me them.”

It was weird seeing someone you’d grown up with hold your kid. Freezy was your older brother in every way but biologically, he was someone you tried to follow and went to for a lot considering he was older and did have wisdom despite being such a fucking idiot at times, but it was weird with him not being part of this circle now. He was always supposed to be the one to get married and have kids first, but here you were, watching him hype himself up to hold your baby instead.

“Bro, this is how I felt lookin’ after you two when you first moved here,” he said, looking up at the both of you, babygirl in his left arm and baby boy in his right. “Oh my god.”

Harry was so amused, standing in front of him, shifting on his feet in, he found it surreal seeing one of his bestest friends meeting his children. Again, an older brother to him, someone he ran to everything for, who raised a part of him in his youth — and he was teaching him how to hold his kid. “How do you feel?”

“Honored, bro. Truly. Thank you,” he smirked, unable to look away from them for anymore than 10 seconds.

“You deserve it,” you playfully rolled your eyes, telling him what he wanted to hear, “Uncle Freezy.”

“Uncle Freezy,” he beamed, “Uncle Freezy was the first to hold you out your hundred aunty and uncles, and he was there with ya Mum for her 2nd scan with you lot so don’t ever forget that,” you laughed at his passive-aggressiveness. “Your Daddy deadbeat.”

“Hey, allow it man, allow it,” Harry stood from the doorframe.

“Bro, I love these guys,” he said after just 5 minutes. “I want a pic and I want it framed for my flat, bro. I love them. I’m hooked, why are they so fucking cute? I thought they were gonna be ugly and I was gonna have to lie to you guys.”

Now that . . that sent Harry into an explosion of laughter. Freezy laughed with him because he knew it was true and he would have been the same had it been roles reversed, which kinda proved just why they were friends. “I love you guys. I’m proud of you both. Imma be over a lot more now, get me a key cut.”

“You had a key cut, you lost it?”

“So get me another one?”

“Fucking get it yourself!”

He tutted, huddling closer in the baby sandwich, “don’t curse in front of my godchildren.”

“Godchildren?!”

“HEY NOW YOU PROMISED—”

“Ok, ok! I did, I did, yeah,” you admitted.

He stalled. “Wait . . . wait for real?”

You looked at Harry, the one who had first planted the idea in his head to be the one to tell him. You had no objection, you probably would have picked him whether he’d asked or not. “Of course, man. I wasn’t playing.”

“Swear down you bastard—”

“I swear! I swear!” Harry held his hands up, laughing at him.

He fell silent, “. . I think I want to cry.”

“You deserve it, Freezy,” you awed at him, “if you can keep us alive, you can keep those two alive.”

“Man, I love you guys. Thank you,” he smiled down at them both, “but don’t come for me when I use your kids for clout.”

“—is Faith annoyed? Did you send it to her?”

“She hasn’t opened it yet,” Ethan laughed as the boys all settled in their seats, work on pause. “So you introducing us?”

Harry leaned back in the couch, getting comfy as he smiled with his drink in his hand, “so boys . . this is Penny,” he pointed to his baby girl, “and this is Ted. Or Teddy.”

“Oh my days,” Tobi clutched his heart.

“Hi Penny! Hi Teddy!”

“Penny and Teddy,” Vik smiled, looking down at them both. “Adorable.”

“Doesn’t your Mum have a phobia of pennies?” Josh laughed, baby Penny’s hand wrapped around his finger.

“Yes. Don’t even get me started, she was on a mission trying to get y/n to change her mind.”

The boys laughed, still endorsed by the babies as they took turns in passing them onto each other, giving everyone the chance to bond with the baby bogs. “Harry, they’re so like you, man.”

“D’you think so?” He scratched his hair.

“Are you joking?!” Simon said, “man, even I used to think all babies looked the same but these are wroetoshaw decendants! Are you mad?”

Harry clapped his hands, laughing. “Thank you man, thank you, I take it as a compliment.”

“Dominant load.”

Harry looked at Ethan, brow twitching confusingly, “jesus christ.”

“I can see some of y/n in them,” Josh noticed, “they might look more like her as they get older. Next to you, though,” he chuckled. Twins.

“How do you hold them? I don’t know what I’m doing?” JJ drew attention back to him, awkwardly cradling the infant, “am I doing Lion King style?”

Harry laughed, fixing Penny in his hold so he could see her sat up, fussing too much when she was laying down, wanting to see around her. JJ’s heart did melt a little, seeing how small she was, meanwhile the boys were all still shocked just watching Harry maneuver the being in his hands, holding the dummy between his teeth when it fell out of her mouth.

“She’s small, man.”

“She is small. She’s always gonna be small compared to him,” he sat back down, scratching his brow bone as he watched her little tiny body slightly rise and fall with each breath she took. “Little legs and little lungs, but she is healthy.”

“Harry you’re such a dilf right now.”

“Brother, I am never getting over the sight of you walking through that door with the two carriers and baby bag over your shoulder,” Tobjizzle laughed, hitting his arm. Harry smiled, bouncing his foot as the boys proceeded to inspect. JJ was holding Penny Lion King style, out in front of him, baffled he was holding his friend’s kid.

Ethan took Teddy next, humming with excitement, “big boy. First boy.”

Simon tutted, “man I know, first boy you fucking cheat.”

“Don’t be bitter! Don’t be bitter, just get better, my friend!”

They laughed, Ethan being extra careful as he took him from Tobi, forgetting what it was like having them this small. “Hello, fella. Hello handsome.”

Yeah. Ethan needed a son now.

“D’you want to bring them over to SideCast?” Josh asked, nodded to the set just 10 steps away, but they still needed to shoot and didn’t mind the babies being there, they just had to get it done.

“Nah bro, wait! She’s chillin’, she’s chillin’,” everyone looked at JJ, who now had the babygirl tucked into his arm, sitting up against the couch in her soft, pink babygrow. It was the funniest sight. “She’s chillin’.” He showed off.

Harry laughed. She looked pretty comfy sitting there.

“Oh no, oh no, what’s wrong my G? What’s wrong?” Ethan switched arms with Teddy, but looked to Harry as a signal to see to him, and the dirty-blond reached to pick up the whimpering boy in his arms and stood up.

“What’s wrong, eh? What’s up, my boy?” His sweet voice soothed his ears, the warmth of his dad’s embrace familiar and his scent reassuring him he was safe so long he was here. “What’s the matter?”

Ok, even the boys kind of melted at Harry’s gentle tone, awestruck at him ever so slightly bouncing the baby as he walked. “I think he’s hungry to be fair.”

“Can I feed him?!” A voice asked behind the crew, and it was their camerawoman, Kirsty, who’d been dying for a little cuddle the moment she saw the three of them come in.

“Course! Of course!” Harry didn't hesitate, kneeling to pick up the changing bag. “Do you guys want to bring them over to SideCast?” He motioned for JJ to move Penny.

“Bro I can’t lift her.”

Harry looked at him baffled. He’d just shown him? “Alright, Ethan you bring her over.”

“Boss I . .” he nervously laughed, “I can’t—I don’t—”

“Bro what’d you mean?! You have a child yourself?! You-you-you done this!—”

“I FORGET HOW! I'M SCARED!”

“Just pick her up?!” He slipped Theo onto Kirsty.

“I CAN’T! What’d you—” he did attempt, but he just couldn’t. That intimidation washed over him all too well and it was like when Olive was just born all over again, needing Faith to be the one to pick her up the first few times so he could copy. “I can’t.”

“You’re not gonna break her,” Harry wrapped his big hands round the infant, fingers supporting the bottom of her head, he scooped her up in the air. “Are you still chillin’?” His soft tone returned as he spoke to the baby, “are you chillin’ my darlin?” Holding her out from him as her legs squirmed upward, identical eyes staring back at him, he couldn’t resist, stepping over things on the floor, he kissed and kissed her little face, bringing her close to his chest.

“Harry, are you obsessed?” Vik smiled.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that mad?” Josh lifted a brow, “you fuckin’ hated kids and now you have some.”

“I think I still do hate kids, I just don’t hate my own.”

“Oh my god, please tell me you got that. Please tell me you got that,” Behzinga looked to the crew who had the cameras and mics rolling for the next set up. “HAHA! Yes!”

“Fuck’s sake,” your man laughed, looking at them shamefully. But not really.

When the boys got seated, Harry, Tobi, Ethan and Simon at the table, Vik and Zerkaa and JJ to their left on the couch still (with Kirsty who was still on aunt duties) they decided to shoot.

“How has the first few weeks of fatherhood actually been? Can you tell us about the birth? You’re still yet to tell us how it went. It was just kind of . . ‘congrats bog! Omg, ahhhhh!’” Simon mimicked the celebrations he got over the last few weeks as he changed the topic. “How’s Y/n? How’d she do? How’s she keeping?”

Harry thought back to that day, sighing embarrassingly, reflecting on how the day went and hung his head low. Facepalming even. “So.”

“We know bits but tell us the full story,” Simon proceeded playfully. He knew full well what he wanted out of him and Harry hated having to explain it all over again to other people. “. . you fainted.”

“I–I fainted, yes.”

“Twice.”

“Twice,” he drummed his fingers on the desk, the room already filled with loud cackles and shrieks, even the crew were giggling behind the cameras, catching the slightly red blush taking the blond’s cheeks. “But you–you don’t—”

“Why’d you faint twice?! Are you joki—”

“WHAT’D YOU MEAN why’d I faint? Why wouldn’t I?!” Harry's high-pitched tone sassed, hitting the desk as they laughed more.

“What did you do?! What happened?!”

“Boys, you don’t understand, Ethan can’t even back me up on this ‘cause his Mrs got the c-section, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” the man chuckled, watching his buddy stressfully rub his eyes.

“So . . I was there in the room, labour started, wasn’t as long as what some women go through, so I’ve heard,” he remembered how the contractions just seemed to keep coming all of a sudden. “Bro . . I’m light-headed as it is. I just remember her squeezing my hand and getting told to push and push and nothin’ was happenin’ for a minute and I was getting ready for them to say ‘scrap this, we need to do a c-section’, like I was still rooting for a c-section! I was convinced!” He exclaimed. “And then, all of a sudden, the midwives are saying keep going, keep going. I’m watching y/n the whole time, I’m not taking my eyes off her, I’m watching her break out in a sweat, clenching her teeth, moaning the entire time and then the nurse goes ‘I can see the head’, and then I start to freak out. I freeze for 0.1 seconds, and then she tugs me down . . . and I just . .” he zoned out rethinking it, revisualizing you and your efforts with your legs propped up on that hospital bed. “I fucking hit the deck!”

He couldn’t even think so much over the laughter that bounced off the walls, taking it as the boys screamed with amusement, banging the desk, laughing into the mic.

“Laugh all you want! You’ll understand when it’s your turn and your fuckin’—” he couldn’t even defend himself, for the boys weren’t listening, stomachs hurting at the thought of him. “I was traumatised! I was traumatised!” His squeaky voice made it even funnier. “I hit the fucking floor and I remember my Mum going ‘Harry! Harry!’ ‘n I was just lying there, getting pulled up off the floor.”

“You just fell flat?”

“Bro, my fucking knees just gave out on me. I went down like a pile of bricks in this room! Nurses just trying to deliver a fucking baby!”

He was so funny without even trying. “I wake up, my Mum’s holding me up under my arm, I look in front of me again, I see Teddy come out and I just hit the fucking floor again! I hit the fucking floor again!”

Everyone was laughing so hard, it actually went silent. Majority were gasping for breath, high-pitched sounds coming from the back of their throats, their stomping of feet and slapping of legs filled the room. Harry pulled his hair down his face, awkwardly ruffling it, he didn't know what else he could say.

He let them have their moment, leaning his cheek on his hand, amused himself. “I mean I saw them both come out, that's all that matters, right?” That just sent them into another fit of gigs.

“So you were just overwhelmed?”

“Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting that when I looked down there. Not to degrade my lady, that’s not what I’m saying, she wasn’t a horrific sight! But it was an experience I could never be prepared for. Ever! And even she said she doesn’t think she’d be able to watch.”

“I think it’s like . . when you’re watching — if you watch someone break their leg . . you’re gonna squirm, you’re gonna feel sick because you can just imagine that pain and put yourself in that position. I think it’s the same, you’re just watching this person’s body go through the most brutal pain that like, our brains can’t even comprehend.” Simon gave a good explanation.

“Yeah! Yeah, exactly! Plus, I’m hearing all these words and phrases leading up to her labour, talking about what to do if there’s a load of blood, if she rips?! Did you know a woman can rip?! ‘Cause I didn’t!!”

“Women are mad tings. We are blessed to have them on this earth,” Tobi shook his head in disbelief.

“Literally,” Ethan agreed, others nodding their heads.

“Big up, Y/n,” Vik called, and the boys might have laughed but they agreed, and they applauded you, smiling proudly. “Yes! Big up, Y/n! Go you girl.”

“Superwoman.”

“Yeah, superwoman,” JJ nodded.

“What was her labour like? Was she on her own when her waters broke?”

Harry’s face was a picture. Shooting the boys side eye, they already began to laugh at his dramatic effect of his next story. “Was she on her own?” He dramatically asked. “Fucking right she wasn’t. I fucking wish. I fucking wish she was with anyone other than me ‘cause I was no help at all. I couldn’t even drive,” he began. “My Mum was gone - we had her over for the week ‘cause Y/n was struggling and we took precaution in case it meant the babies were coming but we didn’t actually think they would. But they did.” He said obviously. “But I’d paid for her to stay in a hotel with my Dad ‘cause our guest rooms aren’t finished yet so they weren’t there,” he briefly explained. “Three in the fucking morning.”

“NO!”

“Oh my word.”

“It wasn’t even as bad, we weren’t even asleep! We were both up ‘til 2:30, sitting downstairs, just talking, just sitting up, you know one of those nights? And we were laughing! It was normal! And then we were like ‘right, we need to go to bed, s’almost three’, I’m putting my mug in the sink, Y/n grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and starts talking to me again — boom. Just comes out of her, standing there in our kitchen.” He mimicked the silence you both had. He remembered standing there, his eyes widening almost out of his head as you could only watch with your mouth open in fear. And then you looked to each other and copied each other’s expressions. “I lost it bro, I have never been so disorderly in my life. I needed my Mum to be there. I rang her like 50 times in the span of a minute, shouting down the phone, ‘MUM! MUM! QUICK! QUICK! COME OVER! Y/N’S WATERS BROKE, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO—’ meanwhile y/n’s just stood there still, not even moved. She’s waiting on me to keep my cool so we can make a move.”

“That’s mad bro, I never think of these things when I think of that stuff, like . . I wouldn’t know what to do in that situation, I’d be like ‘right Talia, phone your ambulance,’” Simon had the boys laughing as he gave his input.

“My heart rate was a rollercoaster from then onward, man. Up and down, up and down, I stole the fuckin’ gas they give in the hospital suite,” he confessed, “your Mrs gets this gas for pain relief, it’s basically just like laughing gas — bro, I was stealing this shit off y/n, I had her passing that to me like we were hitting a spliff,” he laughed, remembering the little nervous giggles between you both when you thought of what you were in for.

The boys all laughed, touched to hear these life-long memories Harry had made and found humour in looking back on, it was nice to hear as his friends but also reassuring in other ways, knowing they could still be funny moments in serious times. Honestly, they could have heard him ramble forever about all the different stories he had so far with fatherhood, still baffled this was his life now but greatly reassured it hadn’t changed him that much, if at all.

He might be a dad, but he was still the immature youngster out of them.

“D’you want to hold him?”

“What?! So he can spit up over me next?! Piss off!”

“Olive did it on me! Go on!” Harry grinned, hovering his son over Ethan.

“Shove off, bro! I can’t stand that milky breath!”

Harry laughed, done playing around and sat in his seat again, giving a solid pat on the boy’s back as he held him over his shoulder, laughing at a comment from Josh.

“—and now you got your two sidekicks for the rest of your days, two happy, healthy babies,” Tobi brought them back to their convo to end, holding his microphone.

“Yes sir.”

“And a wonderful mother who’s doing good?”

“She’s amazing man. She was made for this,” he grinned subconsciously at the mention of you, “she’s insane. And you know what? I haven’t stopped laughing these past few weeks, I don’t know why. I thought we’d be stressed the fuck out, trying to get in a routine and shit but bro, she been killing me, it’s fucking jokes,” he began to laugh himself, “we don’t know what we’re doin’.”

“Brother you’re killing it, that warms my heart to hear. Congrats my guy. I know we keep saying that but you deserve it. The both of you are smashing it.”

“Thanks, man,” Harry fist-bumped him wholeheartedly.

“We’ll go for a pint soon,” Ethan promised.

“Bro, my Mrs will have to come, she needs it more then me,” he chuckled, swapping Teddy for Penny to help get her wind up.

Ew. Now he was seeming clingy. Were you two always like this?

“Yeah bro, we should go to dinner,” JJ stated, “all of us, mum and dads night off,” he laughed.

Simon tickled Teddy’s sock-covered foot with a finger, seeing if he would react or not. “What ‘dad things’ are excited to do next?”

“Ermm. I’m excited for a lot of things. I can’t wait ‘til their like, old enough to do things and remember them. Like I can’t wait to go to a farm, man,” he boringly confessed, “or that first holiday, I can’t wait to take them swimming. Can’t wait to take them to Guernsey.”

“Can’t wait for a kick about?”

How could he forget that? “Yeah. I’m excited to put them in kits, I can’t lie,” he said like a loser. “Can’t wait to bring them to the charity match?!” That was a good one. “Yeah, I’m excited for a lot. I don’t want to wish it away though. Soon enough I’ll be doing the school run like ‘noo, where’d all the time go?’” he smiled. “I just want to enjoy them now . . . before they’re assholes asking for my money ‘n shit,” he snuggled his face into his sweet, innocent baby girl.

“Good answer, mate,” Behz applauded. “Enjoy it, dads.”

“You got any other advice out there to the new dads out there?”

Harry thought.

“Ermmm. No.”

Another laughing fit occurred, Simon and Zerkaa shaking their heads, JJ rolling his eyes. “Come on bro!”

“Wh–I got nothin’! I don’t know what I’m doing!” Harry defended. “I’m winging this shit ‘til the rest of my days! Are you mad?”

“Blood never changes,” Ethan mumbled into his mic.

“What advice you got for the two, what you sayin’ to them?” Simon nodded to his children.

Harry’s face twisted with thought, looking up to the ceiling, he wondered, still rubbing circles on Penny’s back. “I’m sayin’ . . . don’t do anything I’ve ever done. Ever.”

He didn’t know why they were trying not to laugh again, being serious in his words, he looked around curiously, “what? I think that’s pretty good, no?”

“That is the best advice, Harry, yes. Don’t be like your father,” Tobi was walking off set, patting his shoulder, wondering on earth who gave this guy two kids.

“It’s as well like . . they ain’t got no evidence of you in your younger days . . or anythin’,” Ethan casually mumbled.

Harry’s face dropped.

Unimpressed even, he could only look at the camera, take in his words, and accept his fate.

But hey . . at least he had you to go through it all with.

[wroetojaw]

SIDEMEN BRUTALLY RANK MORE YOUTUBERS | H. Lewis

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

summary: cozy day in with your boyfriend and watching the sidemen

tags: fluff, w2s x reader

warnings: slight cursing (not really)

a/n: instead of doing my literature essay I completed this story hope you guys enjoy!! more stories and stories about other youtubers are coming soon! ⋆｡˚

-

“Welcome to MoreSidemen, where the Sidemen, talk badly, about other youtubers” Simon says as the others cheer jokingly.

You giggle quietly while watching the video, leaning back into your boyfriend’s arms. Harry said you were one of the people they ranked and asked if you wanted to watch it with him. And, of course, you agreed because who wouldn’t. You watch Harry as he gets up from the couch to go get a snack.

"You look good in this video by the way," you complemented him as your eyes wandered back to the screen. "I reckon I look good in every video, don't know what you mean..." He remarked. You rolled your eyes and playfully shoved him when he sat back down next to you only to be grabed by the waist and pulled closer to him.

"They are our friends, so don't take any of these seriously," Simon continues with a disclaimer, knowing how the internet would react if he didn't. "Maybe not for much longer if I get ranked last for any of the nice ones." You say, half-accusingly glaring at Harry. He puts on a guilty look and shrugs.

"Which Youtuber would you most want backing you up in a fight, we have seven people." The said seven people then popped up at the bottom of the screen. It was you, Deji, Theo Baker, Callux, Danny Aarons, Randolph, and Calfreezy. “Oh shit, it’s my girlfriend oh no,” Harry says, putting his hands in his face. The guys laugh at him and Vik says, “someone’s sleeping in the dog house tonight.” "Bro you better watch what you say."

"Who'd you want most", "Well Deji has got to be number one", "Yea Deji number one," they say in agreement. "Hey! What about me," you say, turning around to pretend to punch Harry. He ducks out of the way and says, "Come on Y/N, he's literally a professional boxer". "Yeah well...I can throw a punch too." You grumble, turning back around to face the television.

"...Theo's up there because he's pretty w..." You hear your boyfriend say in the video. "I could take him down," you mutter. "I know you could okay Y/N," he says as he kisses the top of your head. The guys continue discussing their rankings, not once mentioning you at all. "Okay now hold on a sec, because I personally think Y/N could pack a punch you know, I feel like she's got the temper enough to take a bitch down." Simon reasons with the group.

"Remind me to give Simon a big hug the next time we see him." You say gleefully, happy someone finally recognized your strength. "Yeah, I agree. I think she has the ride-or-die kind of mindset because she will fight for you and what-not, god I love her." Harry says. You look up lovingly at him and kiss his cheek.

"So we're going Deji, Theo, Danny, Lux, Y/N, Freezy, Randy," they say as they list out their rankings. "Are we sure about Freezy and Randy?" Tobi asks, to which Harry responds, "Y/N loves getting into fights so yeah..." You glare at Harry, unsure if it was a compliment or not. "You know she's actually mad strong. The other time she accidentally turned around and elbowed my stomach and it had a huge bruise for a week," Josh added. "Does that mean you're just weak then?" Simon says. The lads just laughed and before Josh even tried to defend himself, Simon already started talking about the fan's rankings.

"Randy's third? And Danny's six?" Simon says in disbelief. "No way I think Randy and Danny swap," Harry says, he looks down the lists and sees you've been ranked at sixth. "Wait no way they voted Y/N as last. Guys have you seen her during our challenges, she would take a bitch down," Harry continues. You thanked him for 'defending your honor' and gave him a big smooch on the lips.

They continued to disagree with the fan rankings, but you honestly couldn't care less anymore. Knowing that your boyfriend thought you were tough and could hold your own was enough for you. You begin to dose off as the video continues playing, hearing Harry chuckle every now and then when his friends make a joke, as he combs your hair unconsciously.

However, one of the questions you hear as you fall asleep catches your attention. "Which youtuber is the most attractive?" You sit up, curious about what would be their rankings. The rest of boys in the video look at Harry, thinking that he would instantly say his girlfriend, but boy were they wrong. "Number one Callux," Harry says immediately. You both burst out laughing as he continues to try and correct himself, in the video, realising his girlfriend was also in the list. You pretended to act offended as Harry 'apologises profusely', peppering kisses all around your face. You couldn't help but giggle at your boyfriend's adorableness.

Laying back down in your boyfriend's arms as he wraps them tightly around you, with the video playing in the background, you look up at Harry, wondering how did you get so lucky and how much you love your life.