summary lando noticed three things about sky sports' new journalist very quickly: you dress like you're about to fire someone, you speak at approximately library volume and he would quite like you to interview him again.
warnings workplace romance, journalist/driver relationship, lots of discussion of online speculation and sexism toward female sports journalists, lando norris being incapable of acting normal around a woman in a suit. the only description is that you wear glasses, and is implied that you and lando are the same age.
notes if ur reading my kimi fic ignore im posting this instead of updating that 💔 17.9k words WHEWWW BABY anw english is not my first lanaguage so please take it easy! i worked super hard on this so if you see any mistakes tell me! tyanks <3
part 2
MELBOURNE WAS BOILING THAT LANDO HAD ALREADY DECIDED ANYONE WEARING MORE THAN ONE LAYER WAS EITHER COMMITTED TO FASHION OR FUNDAMENTALLY MISUNDERSTOOD AUSTRALIA.
By Saturday morning, he was leaning toward the latter. It had hit 35 degrees, sweat already dripping on his back as he walked through the paddock with Oscar.
They had one final debrief before FP3, half-listening to the Aussie talk about something from the engineering meeting, when a woman coming in the opposite direction caught his attention.
Not because he recognised her. Actually, because he didn’t. There weren’t many unfamiliar faces left in Formula One once you’d been around long enough.
Even if Lando didn’t know somebody’s name, he generally knew where to put them: team, media, sponsor, FIA, someone’s manager, someone’s family.
He couldn’t place her at all. Standing beside one of the Sky producers, listening while he pointed toward the television compound.
There was a laminated Sky credential hanging from her waist and a little black notebook tucked beneath one arm, so that answered one question.
The clothes created several others. The sun was shining and there was a slight breeze. Everyone in the vicinity was in linen and floral sets if they weren’t forced into their team branded clothing.
Her trousers were black and fitted before widening slightly toward the bottom, sitting beneath a corset-like waistcoat laced down the front. A white shirt was tucked beneath it, crisp enough to survive the heat somehow, with a narrow black tie hanging from the collar.
Over that was a cropped black blazer with shoulders exaggerated enough that Lando briefly wondered if she’d stolen it from an eighties businessman and attacked it with scissors.
She looked wildly overdressed for ten in the morning. She also looked very good. Lando looked away. Then, after they’d passed, looked back an extra time.
The Sky producer was still talking. She’d opened the notebook now, writing something down while nodding along. Her hair barely moved in the breeze.
“Do you know her?” Lando’s head snapped around. Oscar wasn’t looking at him as he asked, somehow made it worse. “No.”
Oscar waited a moment before glancing sideways. “Then why did you look at her twice?”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was looking at Sky.” Lando shoved his hands into his pockets and increased his pace by enough that Oscar had to lengthen his stride slightly to stay beside him. “You’re very observant today.”
“I’ve been awake for four hours.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Oscar let it go, which was precisely why Lando should have known it wasn’t actually being let go. They made it another twenty metres before Oscar asked, “Want me to go back and ask her name?”
“Shut up.” Oscar laughed, and Lando walked faster.
It wasn’t until nearly an hour later that he saw you again. This time you were inside the McLaren garage.
Lando had just climbed out of the car after FP3 when he spotted the Sky crew gathered toward the back, filming something with one of the engineers.
You stood slightly out of shot beside the cameraman, notebook open again, one hand resting over the page while you listened. Still in the suit.
Lando pulled his balaclava off and ran a hand through his hair, watching for perhaps a second too long before remembering there were several people trying to speak to him.
“Sorry, what?” Will repeated himself.
Lando listened this time, or at least made a much better attempt at it, following him toward the monitors. He managed not to look over again until he sat down.
You were gone. Probably for the best.
He had qualifying in a few hours and really didn’t need to be distracted by some woman he’d never met simply because she’d turned up to a Formula One paddock dressed like she was about to inherit a suspiciously acquired fortune.
By qualifying, he’d forgotten about her. Mostly.
There wasn’t much room for anything else once he was in the car. Melbourne demanded too much attention, and the margins were too small.
Everything outside the cockpit disappeared into braking points, steering input, tyre temperatures and whatever his engineer was saying over the radio. It came back once he was out of it.
The media pen after qualifying was the usual organised mess. Drivers being passed between broadcasters, microphones appearing from every direction.
Lando knew most of the faces without having to look properly anymore. Which was probably why he noticed hers immediately. She wasn’t interviewing anyone.
She stood behind the Sky crew while one of their reporters spoke to George, watching rather than participating. The notebook had returned. Lando was beginning to think it might actually be attached to her.
The outfit had changed, though. Of course it had.
She had ditched the blazer, leaving her in the white shirt and black tie underneath. It fitted sharply around her waist, Lando found himself looking at it for long enough that he had to make a very conscious effort to move his eyes back to her face.
Which was ridiculous.
He was twenty-five years old. He had seen women before. Beautiful women who had thrown themselves at him. Beautiful women in beautiful dresses.
Lando slowed. His press officer nearly walked into him. “Sorry.”
“You alright?”
“Yeah.” He continued walking. There was absolutely no reason to look again. He looked again.
You were smiling. That surprised him more than it reasonably should have. Thin glasses sat low enough on your nose that you had kept looking over them whenever somebody spoke to you.
Then you caught up with the group and the expression was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Interesting. Not that he cared. “Who’s the new Sky person?” The question was out before he’d properly decided to ask it.
His press officer followed his gaze. He mentioned your name in a questioning manner. Lando tried very hard to make his next question sound incidental. “She’s new?”
“To F1, yeah. Started with Sky this year.” That explained why he didn’t recognise her.
“What does she do?” His press officer looked at him now. Lando immediately regretted the question.
“What do you mean?”
“Like, is she a presenter or—”
“Journalist, I think. Some broadcast stuff. Interviews. Features.” She looked between him and the Sky crew, then back at him. “Why?”
“No reason.”
“Mhm.” She smiled and started steering him toward his next interview before he could defend himself.
Lando went. He didn’t ask anything else. He learned her surname before the end of the afternoon anyway.
He learned later that afternoon that you had spent the last couple of years covering junior categories. Not because he’d asked.
He was standing around outside McLaren hospitality waiting for someone from the team when two members of the Sky crew stopped nearby.
One was complaining about Melbourne traffic, the other about somebody losing an accreditation pass, and Lando was occupied with his phone until a name he’d become annoyingly familiar with over the last two days slipped into the conversation.
YN. His thumb stopped scrolling.
He didn’t look up.
Apparently, you’d done F2 and F3 before this. Some written work, some broadcast stuff, this wasn’t your first time covering motorsport, only your first year properly on the Formula One team.
Lando continued looking at his phone while absorbing information he absolutely wasn’t trying to absorb.
You’d worked with one of the producers before. You were supposed to be doing a mixture of interviews and features this year.
The conversation drifted into something else. Lando started scrolling again. Useful information. For absolutely no reason whatsoever.
He saw you twice more before leaving the circuit. The first time, you were walking quickly in the opposite direction with her notebook pressed against your chest, looking mildly stressed as somebody from production hurried alongside.
Lando saw you again much later, when most of the Saturday paddock rush had finally started thinning out.
He was on his way toward the exit, proud that he started the season with a pole position, but tired enough that the only things left on his agenda involved food and getting back to the hotel, when he spotted someone sitting alone on the low wall beside Sky hospitality.
He recognised the shoes first. Which was bad. There was absolutely no reason he should recognise your shoes.
Lando slowed anyway.
You’d taken the waistcoat off at some point. It sat folded beside you with your accreditation tossed on top, leaving you in the white shirt you’d worn beneath it.
The sleeves had been rolled above your elbows, and your tie had been loosened enough that the top button of your collar was undone. Your glasses were pushed into your hair.
For the first time all weekend, you looked slightly less put together. You were writing again. Not typing. Writing.
Lando had seen journalists do practically everything on their phones. Record interviews, type notes, check transcripts, photograph timing sheets, send questions to producers. You, meanwhile, seemed personally committed to keeping every stationery shop in business.
You wrote something, stopped, frowned at it and crossed out half a line. Then wrote something beside it. Stopped again. Crossed that out too. Lando’s pace had slowed enough that he was barely walking anymore.
What were you writing?
Notes from today, presumably. Questions for tomorrow. Maybe observations from qualifying. Maybe—
You looked up.
Shit.
Lando immediately became extremely interested in something across the paddock. There was nothing there. Literally nothing. A barrier. Excellent. He’d been caught staring at you and responded by staring at a fucking barrier.
Now that Lando knew you existed, you seemed to be everywhere.
He saw you outside Ferrari in the morning talking to another Sky journalist. Twenty minutes later you were near the grid.
Always in black. He wondered if you owned another colour.
He wondered several things about you, actually, none of which were particularly useful when he was supposed to be preparing for a Grand Prix. At one point you passed McLaren while Lando was standing outside with Oscar.
Lando watched you approach. There was something faintly ridiculous about it now.
He had yet to see you wear anything that wasn’t black, white, or some variation of charcoal, and somehow every outfit looked more severe than the one before it.
The thought arrived before he could stop it. The Undertaker.
His mouth twitched. Oscar noticed. “What?”
“Nothing.” Lando kept watching as you passed, notebook tucked beneath your arm. You gave someone from Mercedes a small wave further down the paddock and continued on. Oscar followed his gaze. “Her again.”
“She dresses like the Undertaker.” There was a pause beside him. Then Oscar laughed.
Lando looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing. Just interesting you’ve thought about it enough to give her a nickname.”
“I haven’t given her a nickname.”
“You just called her the Undertaker.”
“Because look at her.” They both did.
You had stopped several metres away to speak to someone from Sky, the enormous coat making you look even smaller beneath it. At least you were matching the gloomy weather above this time.
Lando couldn’t hear you. He still hadn’t heard you properly at all, actually.
In his head, the voice had begun matching the clothes. Low, probably. Serious. Maybe a bit posh. The sort of person who would stare at a driver until he regretted giving a bad answer.
You passed them before Oscar could make it worse.
Up close, Lando could see the little Sky logo on your credential and your name printed underneath it.
His eyes followed you for a moment. You didn’t notice him. Oscar did. Lando caught him looking. “Don’t.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You are.”
“I’m standing here.”
“Annoyingly.”
Oscar smiled. “You could just talk to her.” Lando scoffed and made a face, as though the suggestion itself was absurd. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know. You’ve spent two days looking at her.”
“I have not spent two days looking at her.”
Oscar began walking toward the garage. “Alright.” That was worse than arguing. Lando followed him. “I haven’t.”
“Didn’t say you had.”
Lando stopped for a fraction of a second. Then followed him inside, muttering something under his breath that made Oscar laugh again.
He didn’t speak to you that weekend. He came close once.
Winning Melbourne should have been enough to occupy him. For a while, it was.
The hours after the chequered flag came at him in pieces: the radio exploding in his ears, the team waiting beneath the podium, champagne sticking to his hair and race suit, hands grabbing his shoulders every few steps because somebody else wanted to congratulate him.
It was the first race of the season and he’d won it, survived the rain and the changing conditions and everything Melbourne had thrown at them.
By the time McLaren finally managed to steer him toward the media pen, Lando was still running on enough adrenaline that he suspected he’d feel the race in his chest until sometime Tuesday.
There were worse ways to start a championship.
The media pen was packed, louder than it had been after qualifying, drivers being moved between broadcasters while PR officers attempted to keep some kind of order.
Lando had already answered several versions of how good does this feel? before he saw Sky ahead of him.
Then he saw you. You had a microphone this time.
The notebook was still there, naturally, tucked beneath your arm while somebody from Sky spoke quickly beside you. You listened with your head slightly bowed, nodded once and shifted the microphone into your other hand.
Lando’s attention stayed there for longer than it needed to. So you were interviewing today. He didn’t know why that pleased him.
Maybe because he’d spent an entire weekend seeing you everywhere without getting close enough to have an actual conversation.
Maybe because he’d built up enough curiosity by now that hearing you ask him something about the race felt like the natural conclusion to it.
And, if there was ever going to be a convenient time for Sky’s new journalist to interview him, surely winning the Australian Grand Prix was fairly convenient.
The thought had barely finished forming when his press officer guided him forward.
For one stupid second, Lando assumed he was being sent toward you.
He straightened without thinking, wiping a hand over the front of his race suit and pushing damp curls away from his forehead as if he’d somehow become aware of what he looked like only now.
Then George, who was ahead of him was directed into your position.
Lando got the reporter beside you. Right. Of course.
He stepped toward the microphone he had actually been assigned and smiled, because he’d won a Grand Prix approximately an hour ago and it would have been slightly insane to look disappointed about anything.
“So, Lando, what a way to start the season.”
“Yeah, pretty good.”
He laughed and started answering, talking about the weather, the calls from the pit wall, the moments where he’d wondered whether the race was about to swing completely away from him.
It should have been easy to concentrate. Unfortunately, you were standing about six feet to his right.
He could hear George answering you, but not you yourself. Your voice disappeared beneath the surrounding noise every time you spoke, forcing the driver to lean slightly closer whenever you asked something.
Lando noticed that. Then immediately wondered why he’d noticed that. He dragged his attention back to his own interviewer.
The next question was about McLaren. He answered properly, spoke about the work over winter and how good it felt to reward everyone immediately. Somewhere halfway through, he heard you laugh.
His eyes moved sideways before he could stop them. You were smiling at something the other driver had said. Lando looked back at his interviewer.
“Sorry, yeah. Like I was saying—”
Excellent. World-class concentration.
He’d managed nearly sixty laps through changing conditions without putting a wheel wrong and apparently couldn’t survive a four-minute interview while one woman stood nearby.
Your interview finished before his.
Lando watched from the corner of his eye as you thanked the driver and lowered the microphone. The second the camera switched off, you passed it to someone from the crew and reached for the notebook.
Of course you did.
You opened it against your palm and began writing immediately, still listening while the producer beside you said something. A few seconds later you stopped, crossed something out, then wrote underneath it instead.
Lando smiled. He didn’t particularly know what was funny.
Maybe the fact that he’d watched you do exactly the same thing about six times this weekend.
His interviewer thanked him, and Lando turned back properly. “Cheers.”
By the time he glanced toward Sky again, you were gone.
He looked past the cameraman once, then toward the other end of the media pen as if you might simply have moved stations.
Nothing.
His press officer touched his back to move him along toward the next obligation, and Lando went without arguing. It wasn’t exactly a tragedy.
He’d won Melbourne. He was leaving Australia leading the championship, McLaren had started the year exactly the way they’d wanted, and there were another twenty-three races ahead of them.
Twenty-three weekends of the same paddock, the same media pen and, apparently, the same woman carrying that increasingly battered notebook around the world.
He’d talk to you eventually. There was plenty of time.
Monaco was the first weekend you stopped feeling entirely new.
Not comfortable, exactly. Formula One did not seem designed to let anybody become comfortable.
The paddock was too small, the schedules too tight and everything happened with the understanding that if you were three minutes late, someone else’s entire afternoon might collapse behind you. You had also, finally, stopped getting lost.
You had also, finally, stopped carrying the notebook everywhere. “You look like you’re going to court.”
You glanced down at yourself while Claire clipped your microphone pack beneath the back of your jacket. “Is that bad?”
“No. I just feel like I should confess to something.”
The suit was charcoal rather than black, which you privately thought represented enormous personal development. “You don’t have anything to confess.”
Claire secured the cable and stepped back. “Everyone has something.”
“I’m not interviewing you.”
“See? Terrifying.” You smiled and reached for your accreditation.
Monaco had been manic from the moment you arrived. More guests than usual, more cameras, more people who seemed to have acquired paddock passes despite having no obvious reason to be there.
Every available patch of space had someone standing in it, and getting from one end of the paddock to the other involved a constant series of apologies and sideways manoeuvres around celebrities, team personnel and people filming themselves walking.
You barely saw any of the drivers on Thursday. Friday wasn't much better. Lando Norris, however, had developed the mildly irritating habit of being very easy to notice.
You had known who he was before Melbourne, obviously. It would have been difficult to work in motorsport without knowing who Lando Norris was.
What you hadn't known then was that he apparently had a staring problem. You had caught him doing it several times in Australia.
Once outside McLaren when you'd nearly walked into him. Several times in hospitality.
You'd also caught him looking at you often enough that you'd started wondering whether there was something strange about your clothes that nobody at Sky was telling you.
Then you'd looked up from your notebook on Saturday evening and found him halfway down the path very obviously looking at you, only for his attention to snap toward an entirely unremarkable barrier the second your eyes met.
That had been difficult to interpret as anything else. It hadn't happened again. You had interviewed half the grid by now and somehow never him. Different schedules, different assignments, McLaren finishing their media before Sky reached them, another reporter being sent instead.
You'd crossed paths enough to recognise each other. That was it.
Occasionally there was a nod. In Miami, he had held a door open for you and you'd thanked him.
He'd said, “No worries,” like nobody had ever thanked him for anything before.
That had been the full extent of your relationship. Which was why you didn't think much of seeing him outside McLaren on Saturday morning.
You were on your way toward Ferrari with a producer when you caught sight of papaya ahead. Oscar was talking to someone beside the garage entrance and Lando was standing a little farther back.
His head turned. You noticed because it happened exactly as you approached.
His gaze went over you once. Just enough that you became suddenly aware you had spent ten minutes arguing with Claire over whether the brooch was crooked.
You resisted the urge to touch it. “Morning,” you said as you passed. Oscar answered first. “Morning.”
Lando was half a beat behind him. “Morning.”
By Sunday morning, you were dressed in charcoal rather than black for once, which several people at Sky treated like an event. One of the producers looked you up and down when you walked into hospitality. "Colour."
You looked at your sleeve. "Grey."
"Still. Progress." You ignored him and opened your notebook.
The clothes had become a joke around Sky before you'd realised anybody was paying attention to them. Someone had started referring to your Thursday outfits as the weekly funeral.
By the time the cars went to the grid, nobody was talking about your clothes anymore. Lando Norris had put McLaren on pole in Monaco.
That alone had been enough to turn Saturday evening into a small event.
The opening laps had nearly made everyone in the Sky area stop breathing on Sunday afternoon. Lando's small mistake at the start had given Charles exactly the sort of encouragement nobody in papaya wanted him to have.
You spent most of it standing just off-camera with your notebook open, writing things you could barely read later because you'd been watching the monitors instead of the page.
The final laps were worse. But the chequered flag fell and McLaren had won Monaco.
For the first time since 2008. The sound coming from the McLaren garage reached Sky before the pictures of the team celebrating properly did.
You looked up from your notes just as the broadcast cut to Lando on the radio, and for a few seconds there was no professionalism required from anybody.
You wrote NORRIS — MONACO at the top of a fresh page.
Then circled it. Twice. You had no idea yet that Sky intended to make him your problem. It took nearly an hour.
By then the podium had happened, champagne had been sprayed across half of Monte Carlo, and Lando had been dragged through enough celebrations that the adrenaline seemed to have settled permanently into his face.
You were halfway through making notes for a later segment when your producer appeared beside you. "You're taking Norris."
You looked up. "For what?"
He stared at you. "An interview, ideally. Media pen. Five minutes."
You closed the notebook, sliding it underneath your arm and followed him out.
The media pen after Monaco was louder than usual, mostly because nobody seemed ready to stop celebrating.
Mechanics were still moving through in groups, journalists were shouting to be heard over one another, and every broadcaster wanted the same drivers at roughly the same time. You took your position with Sky and checked your questions once. The cameraman adjusted his frame.
"First Norris?"
You looked at him. "Is everyone keeping track?"
"Apparently." He grinned behind the camera.
Before you could answer, the McLaren press officer appeared. And behind her, Lando.
You had seen him happy before. This was different. He looked almost lightheaded with it.
His cap was slightly crooked, hair still damp beneath it, and there were darker patches on his McLaren shirt from champagne or water or both. He had clearly smiled so much over the last hour that it had become his default expression.
He spotted Sky. Lando stepped into position while his press officer spoke briefly to your producer. You adjusted the microphone cable and waited until the cameraman gave you the signal.
The red light came on. You looked at Lando.
"Hi, Lando." He stared at you. For a moment, you wondered whether something had gone wrong with the microphone.
"Sorry?"
You moved it a little closer. "Hi."
His expression did something you couldn't identify. Then he smiled again.
"Hi." You continued before the beginning of your first interview with a Monaco Grand Prix winner could somehow become any stranger.
"First of all, congratulations. You've just won Monaco from pole, McLaren's first win here since 2008. Has any of that actually sunk in yet?"
Lando leaned toward you. You paused.
His eyebrows lifted, so you assumed he hadn't heard. You repeated the question.
This time he moved another inch closer. The microphone was already between you. You started wondering whether it was broken.
"It hasn't really," he said eventually, smiling as he glanced away for a second. "I think it'll take a while. Obviously this is one I've wanted for a long time and you grow up watching this race and knowing what it means. So to win here, with McLaren as well, it's pretty incredible."
You nodded. "Especially after the start. There was that moment into the opening phase where it looked like Charles might have an opportunity. How much did that change the way you approached the rest of the race?"
"What?" You blinked. Lando moved closer again. You moved the microphone with him automatically.
"The start."
"Yeah."
"The mistake there. Did that change how you managed the rest of it?" He answered, but you were only half-listening for the first few seconds because you were now trying to work out whether you were doing something wrong.
The cameraman could hear you, your producer hadn't intervened.
Lando was answering. Maybe Monaco was simply louder than you realised? You waited until he finished before asking the follow-up. "You looked much more comfortable after that. Was there a point where you felt you had the race under control?"
Lando dipped his head toward you again. You looked at him, eyebrows furrowing slightly.
"Sorry?" You stared for a second, then you laughed in slight disbelief.
It slipped out before you could stop it, "Do I need to shout?"
Lando immediately shook his head. "No, no. I'll come closer." He already had. That was the problem.
You were practically sharing the microphone now, Lando bent toward you while you angled it between you. Behind the camera, somebody made a noise suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. You ignored it. "Okay."
"You're just very quiet."
"I've been told."
"Have you?"
"Frequently."
That made him grin. "Maybe listen to them."
You looked at him, watching him slowly break out into laughter over his own joke.
The strange thing was that once you'd established the solution was apparently for Lando Norris to stand considerably closer to you than most drivers did, everything became easier.
He gave you good answers. Long ones too.
Long enough that your producer gestured twice for you to wrap up and you ignored him once because Lando had said something about the pressure of qualifying on pole that was considerably more interesting than your prepared question.
"So after yesterday," you asked, "when you've done what everyone keeps calling one of the best laps of your career, is there more pressure going into Sunday because everyone suddenly expects you to convert it?"
Lando nodded, still leaning toward the microphone. This time he heard you. Amazing what happened when somebody stood approximately twelve inches from your face.
"Definitely. Especially here. You know what pole means here, so if you don't win from it you're probably going to feel like you've thrown something away. But also there are so many things that can happen in Monaco that you can't control, so you try not to think like that."
"But you were thinking like that."
His smile widened. "You're meant to let me give the nice answer."
"You can give it."
"You've already ruined it."
"I asked a follow-up."
"Exactly."
You smiled, though you tried to hold it back. "So you were thinking about it?"
He looked at you for a moment before conceding. "Yeah. Obviously."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." The cameraman was definitely enjoying himself now. You could tell by the way he was refusing to look directly at either of you.
Your producer held up one finger. Last question. You shifted your grip on the microphone. "When you think back on this weekend later, what do you think you'll remember first?"
For the first time, Lando didn't answer immediately.
His eyes moved briefly toward the paddock behind you, where McLaren personnel were still wandering past.
Then he looked back.
"The team, probably. Seeing everyone after the race. The podium. Just how happy everyone was." His smile softened slightly. "And the lap yesterday. I'll remember that for a long time."
You nodded. "Congratulations again."
"Thank you." The red light went off. You lowered the microphone.
Lando didn't move. Usually drivers did.
The second an interview ended, they were already being steered toward the next broadcaster. You had learned early not to take it personally.
Lando remained standing in front of you. You looked at him.
He looked at you. Then his press officer touched his arm. He glanced toward her as though he'd forgotten she existed. "Right."
You bit down on a smile. "Enjoy the rest of your night."
He looked back at you. "Yeah. You too."
Then he was finally moved along. The cameraman waited until Lando was several metres away. "You know you can speak louder."
You turned to him. "I was speaking."
"Technically."
"You heard me."
"I'm wearing headphones."
You stared at him. He started laughing. Your producer appeared beside you with an expression you immediately distrusted.
"Why does everyone keep saying nothing like that?" He held out his hand for the microphone. You gave it to him. "Good interview."
"Thank you."
"Very intimate framing by the end." Your head snapped toward the cameraman. He immediately looked away.
"It was loud."
"Of course."
"He couldn't hear me."
"Clearly." You narrowed your eyes at both of them and reached for your notebook. Neither said anything else. That should have been the end of it.
It wasn't.
The clip went up while you were still working. Kky cut thirty-eight seconds from the interview and posted it across their socials, beginning with your question after the start and ending, unfortunately, with:
Do I need to shout?
Followed by Lando, smiling directly at you:
No, no. I'll come closer.
Someone had even left in the part where he actually did.
You found out because your phone began vibrating continuously against the table during the post-race show. You ignored it for ten minutes. Then fifteen.
Eventually, during a break, you turned it over. Thirty-seven notifications. You frowned. That was never good. Your account had grown in followers since literally a week ago, people now flooding into the comments under your recent post.
ᯓ Heartbeat, Childish Gambino
ynusername: pastries are top tier
view comments:
username: completely understand why lando is incapable of handling himself
username: @/landonorris U CANNOT HANDLE THIS
⤷ username: not even a joke he’s shown he cant
username: her outfits… #mother
You locked your phone. Then unlocked it again because apparently self-preservation wasn't one of your stronger qualities.
The clip had doubled in views. "Fantastic." Your producer looked over from his laptop. "What's fantastic?"
You turned the phone face-down. "My first viral Sky clip."
He smiled immediately. "Oh, I saw."
You stared at him. "And you said nothing?"
"I thought you knew."
"It's about Lando Norris not being able to hear me."
"Technically it's about Lando Norris repeatedly moving into your personal space because he can't hear you."
"That's considerably worse." He laughed. You opened your notebook with more force than necessary. You had spent years working toward Formula One.
Your first clip to really spread beyond the normal motorsport audience was you quietly asking Lando Norris whether you needed to shout.
Brilliant.
By the next race weekend, you had mostly convinced yourself Monaco had been a one-off.
The clip was still following you around online, unfortunately, but that was different. Social media moved quickly. In another week somebody would fall over in the paddock or swear on live television and everyone would find something else to talk about.
The fact that Lando Norris had apparently needed to stand close enough to share your microphone in order to hear you would stop being interesting eventually.
Sky had found it considerably funnier than you had.
Your cameraman still leaned theatrically toward you whenever you spoke to him. One of the producers had started asking whether he needed subtitles.
Rachel had sent you the clip twice after you'd specifically asked her not to, the second time accompanied by a screenshot of a comment calling you the quiet one with the suits.
You had decided the best solution was to pretend none of it existed.
That worked until Friday afternoon at Spain.
FP1 had ended less than twenty minutes earlier, which meant the television compound had entered its usual temporary state of chaos.
Somebody was trying to locate a missing microphone pack. Two producers were arguing about whether they had time to get Ferrari before the live segment.
A runner was moving through the room with enough coffees balanced against her chest to constitute a workplace hazard.
You were sitting at the edge of the table with your notebook open while your producer worked through the post-session assignments for the entire weekend.
“George for you,” he said, glancing at the sheet in his hand. “Rachel, you've got Charles. Oscar is going to Craig, and Norris—”
“Is YN doing Lando?” The interruption came from behind him. You looked up.
One of McLaren's media staff had appeared in the doorway, accreditation bouncing against her shirt as though she'd walked over quickly. Your producer looked toward her. “Sorry?”
“Lando. Is Y/N doing him?”
There was a brief silence. Then, for reasons you didn't appreciate considering the idea of you “doing Lando,” several people looked at you. You slowly lowered your pen.
Your producer looked between you and the McLaren representative. “She wasn't.”
“Can she?” You blinked. Rachel, sitting two chairs down, became extremely interested in her laptop.
Your producer's mouth twitched. “Apparently she can.”
The McLaren woman gave a small nod, already checking something on her phone. “Perfect. We'll bring him over after Ferrari.”
She disappeared as quickly as she'd arrived. You stared at the doorway for another second before looking back at your producer. “What just happened?”
He returned to his assignment sheet. “You're doing Norris.”
“I gathered that.”
“Excellent. We're all caught up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why?” That finally made him look at you.
“Why what?”
“Why am I doing him?”
“You're a journalist.”
“You'd already assigned him to somebody else.”
“I hadn't actually finished the sentence.”
“You were going to.”
He gave you a patient look that suggested you were becoming inconvenient. “Would you prefer not to?” That wasn't what you'd said. You looked down at the notebook again. “No.”
“Great.”
The assignments continued. You wrote NORRIS beneath RUSSELL and started adjusting the questions you'd prepared.
There was an obvious explanation. Monaco had gone well. That was all.
The interview had performed well online, which Sky liked. Lando had given you great answers, which McLaren liked.
You'd asked about the race instead of trying to force a headline out of him, and perhaps his press team had simply decided you were easy to work with and weren’t going to rile him up.
Drivers had preferred interviewers all the time. Max had Erik Van Haren, maybe you were about to become that. It didn’t mean anything.
You were satisfied with that explanation right up until Lando arrived.
He came into the media pen still wearing the top half of his race suit, sleeves tied around his waist, talking to somebody from McLaren. His eyes moved across the waiting broadcasters before settling on Sky. Then on you.
His entire expression brightened, crossing over while his press officer peeled away to speak to your producer.
“Hi.” There was something irritatingly pleased about the way he said it. You adjusted the microphone in your hand. “Hi.”
Lando immediately leaned closer. You hadn't even asked him anything yet. “What?”
“I haven't started.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you doing that?”
“Doing what?” You gestured vaguely at the distance between you, or lack thereof. Lando straightened perhaps an inch. “Preparing.”
“For what?”
“You.” The cameraman made a sound behind the lens. You ignored him. The red light came on before either of you could continue, and you slipped back into work. The interview itself was easy.
Maybe easier than Monaco because you already knew what kind of answerer he was now.
Lando wandered slightly if you gave him too broad a question, but if you pressed on something specific he would usually abandon the polished version and tell you what he actually thought.
He liked making jokes when he didn't want to answer directly. He also had a habit of looking away while thinking and then coming back to you halfway through the answer.
You noticed these things because it was your job. That was what you told yourself, anyway.
When the camera went off, Lando stayed again. You were starting to suspect this might simply be something he did. “How was that?”
You glanced at him while writing a note beneath the final question. “You were there.”
“Yeah, but you're the journalist.”
“And?”
“So I'm asking for the professional assessment.”
“You survived.”
He laughed. “High praise.”
“You answered most of my questions.”
“Most?”
You looked up over the top of your notebook. “You avoided the tyre question for nearly a minute.”
“I answered it.”
“You talked about track temperature.”
“Which affects tyres.”
“You're very good at this.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn't a compliment.”
“It sounded like one.” His press officer called his name from several feet away. Lando glanced back, then toward you again. “See you.”
You nodded. “Probably.”
His smile widened slightly. “Definitely.” Then he walked away.
You watched him for about two seconds before looking back at your notebook. Your producer appeared beside you almost immediately. You didn't bother raising your head. “Don't.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“You were going to.” He smiled and walked off. You told yourself the second interview proved absolutely nothing.
The third made that argument more difficult. On Monday, you sat in the main office in London, halfway through preparing for another interview when your producer stopped beside your chair and slid a new running order across the table. “Norris has moved.”
You looked at it, your name was beside his. “I thought Tom had him.”
“He did.”
“What happened?”
Your producer's face remained suspiciously neutral. “McLaren asked whether you were available.”
You stared, but he stared back with the exact same blank face. “Why?”
“I imagine they enjoy your company.”
“They?” His mouth twitched. You closed your notebook. “Did Lando ask?”
“I didn't speak to Lando.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No, but it's the answer I'm giving.”
You sat back in your chair. Across the room, Rachel looked over. You caught her eye, she immediately smiled.
“Oh, don't you start.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“You're all unbearable.”
Rachel swivelled her chair toward you. “Maybe he just likes your interviewing technique.” You ignored her.
The fourth time, there was no attempt to disguise it.
Sky wanted ten minutes with Lando for a feature ahead of the Canadian GP, rather than the usual media pen interview. It wasn't particularly urgent, just a sit-down about the opening part of the season, McLaren's form and the championship picture.
You happened to be standing beside your producer when the reply came through. He read the message, then looked at you.
“What?” He held out his phone. You read it.
Happy to make Lando available Thursday afternoon. Can YN conduct?
You stared at the screen. Then at him. “Why are they asking like I'm a contractual requirement?”
Your producer took the phone back. “You're popular.”
“With one person.”
“That still counts.” You folded your arms. Something warm and inconvenient had begun creeping into your face.
The problem wasn't that Lando had asked.
It was that you liked that he'd asked. More than you should have.
There was something strangely flattering about knowing that, out of all the people Sky could send, he had remembered you after Monaco and the 2 minutes you had with him after FP1 in Spain, and apparently decided he wanted you back.
You tried to make it practical. Maybe he liked consistency. Maybe the interviews were useful.
Maybe, as Rachel had said, he genuinely preferred your interviewing style. All perfectly normal.
Then Thursday arrived. You were setting up in a small interview space behind the McLaren hospitality unit when Lando walked in.
He spotted you immediately. “Good.” He dropped into the chair opposite yours.
“They actually sent you.” That did not help your perfectly normal explanation. You slowly closed the notebook. “Did you ask them to?”
Lando's face gave him away before his mouth did. There was the smallest pause. Then, “Maybe.”
You stared at him. He smiled. “You did.”
“It's not a crime.”
“Why?” He leaned back in the chair, looking far too relaxed about being interrogated before the actual interrogation had begun. “Because I like your interviews.”
You waited, seeing if he’d say anything else. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?” You looked down and opened your notebook again, partly because there was nowhere else particularly safe to look.
“Right.” Lando laughed softly.
“What?”
“Nothing.” There was that word again. His grin widened. Someone from production called that they were ready. You picked up the microphone.
Lando sat forward. And, without thinking, leaned closer. You hadn't said a word yet. For half a second, neither of you spoke. Then Lando started laughing. “You do realise we're sitting in a quiet room?”
“I know.”
“You can hear me.”
“Probably.”
“So why are you over here?”
He looked down at the very reasonable distance he'd already reduced between your chairs. “I don't know.”
That answer, unfortunately, sounded genuine. You fought the smile threatening at the corner of your mouth. “Go back.”
Lando shifted his chair perhaps two centimetres. You looked at him. “That's insulting.”
“I'm comfortable here.”
The cameraman behind you muttered, “Can we start before he ends up in her chair?”
You dropped your head, laughing despite every effort not to. Lando looked delighted.
And somewhere between Monaco and the fourth interview he'd specifically asked for, it occurred to you that perhaps this wasn't only about your interviewing technique after all.
By the time Lando found your Instagram, he had already told himself three separate times that he wasn't going to look for it.
That should have been the first indication that he absolutely was.
It happened on a Tuesday night between race weekends, when there was no paddock to distract him and considerably too much time before he needed to sleep.
He had been in bed for nearly an hour, phone held above his face, mindlessly moving between videos, messages and the sort of posts he wasn't actually interested in enough to remember thirty seconds later.
Then Sky uploaded another clip from Monaco. Not even the interview.
A little behind-the-scenes reel from the weekend. Presenters walking through the harbour, clips from the grid, somebody nearly losing a microphone cover to the wind.
You appeared for perhaps three seconds near the end, standing beside a camera in that grey suit while scribbling something in your notebook.
Lando stopped scrolling. He watched the reel again.
That was ridiculous, so he immediately moved on. Then moved back. Your name was tagged.
Of course it was. He stared at it.
There was nothing strange about clicking on the profile of somebody you knew. Or, well, someone you'd met. Several times now. Someone who had interviewed you enough that you had specifically started requesting her.
Actually, if anything, it would be strange not to know what her Instagram looked like. This argument satisfied him for approximately two seconds. Then he clicked anyway.
Your profile loaded. Public. That surprised him slightly.
He had expected private for some reason, although your account wasn't especially personal once he started looking.
The first few rows were mostly work: Monaco, Miami, Melbourne, photos outside different circuits, one Sky desk shot, a picture of the paddock in Japan taken early enough in the morning that nobody seemed to be there.
There were more photographs of your clothes than of you actually looking at the camera.
Lando smiled. Naturally.
There was a picture from Miami, in your usual black clothing that was so severely out of place considering the amount of lights. Japan. Another black suit, but he did notice the small cherry blossom charms you had attached to your tie.
Bahrain. Black. Fuck, did you never boil?
He snorted quietly. "Fucking Undertaker."
This was still reasonably normal. He had met you in 2025. Looking at posts from 2025 was simply learning more about a colleague. Even 2024 could probably be defended.
Your account changed slightly as he moved backward. Less Sky, obviously. More junior paddocks. F2 garages, press rooms, airport windows, badly lit hotel desks with laptops open beside coffee cups.
You had posted photographs from circuits he recognised immediately and a few he had to think about. There were captions about delayed flights and missed trains. One photograph of a notebook completely ruined by rain with the caption:
journalism is a glorified nosiness
Lando smiled again. He hadn't known you'd been doing this for so long. He found an old post from an F2 weekend where the second picture was a photograph of a press room at nearly midnight.
Then another where you were standing on a grid with headphones around your neck, looking several years younger and considerably less severe.
Still wearing a tie, though. At least this one was red. "Of course."
He flicked to the next one. Then the next. At some point, the innocent act of checking your professional profile became something else entirely.
The junior paddock disappeared, dissipating into university posts, then photographs with friends.
Lando paused, glancing at the date. 2021. That was probably far enough.
He should leave. Instead, his thumb moved again.
There was something strangely addictive about seeing a version of you that existed before Formula One knew you. Before Sky. Before the intimidating suits had become polished enough for television.
You still dressed strangely. That seemed to be permanent.
There was a picture from what looked like someone's birthday where you were wearing an oversized blazer and tie even then, except your hair was longer and you'd paired it with trainers.
Lando looked through the carousel. You laughed in the second photograph. Properly laughing, head thrown slightly backward, eyes closed, one hand covering your mouth.
He stopped. That did something inconvenient to him.
He was used to your little smiles now. The ones during interviews when he said something stupid enough to break through whatever professional expression you had put on. He had started looking for them without really admitting that was what he was doing.
This was different. He wondered what somebody had said. 2020. He really should stop.
He continued. His phone was getting warm in his hand. It was also nearly one in the morning. There was no conceivable reason he needed to know what you had been doing six years ago.
2019. Now it was objectively stalking.
Lando knew that.
He still clicked on a photograph. You looked about eighteen or nineteen, sitting on the floor beside what appeared to be a very badly decorated Christmas tree. No suit this time. Just a jumper, jeans and glasses much larger than anything you wore now.
He smiled at the difference. The caption mentioned somebody forcing you to decorate because apparently you'd refused to participate.
That sounded right. He swiped.
The second photograph was the tree leaning visibly to one side. The third was you standing beside it with your arms crossed, unimpressed.
Lando laughed under his breath. His thumb shifted toward the screen. A heart appeared.
Red. He froze. For perhaps two full seconds, his brain simply stopped functioning. Then his entire body went cold.
"No."
He stared at the screen. The heart remained red. "No, no, no." Lando stabbed it again. White.
Unlike. Fine. Fine.
Nothing had happened. Instagram didn't send— It did. He knew it did.
Maybe notifications were delayed. Maybe you didn't have them on. Maybe you were asleep. Maybe no one—
His phone buzzed. Lando stared at the message banner.
max manytrells
He didn't open it. Another arrived.
max manytrells: mate
Lando closed his eyes. A third.
max manytrells: 2019??????
"For fuck's sake." He opened the chat.
Lando locked his phone and threw it onto the bed beside him.
That was enough. He was done. Rolling onto his side, dragged the duvet higher and made the mature decision to ignore the situation entirely until morning.
His phone vibrated again. Then twice. Then repeatedly.
Lando lasted perhaps twenty seconds before grabbing it.
His notifications were a disaster. Not his own Instagram, thankfully. Nobody could see what he'd unliked from his profile anymore.
Unfortunately, screenshots were immortal. The original fan post already had thousands of likes. He opened the replies against every instinct he possessed.
username HE WAS IN THE ARCHIVES 😭😭😭
username 2019 IS CRAZYYYYY lando what were you LOOKING FOR
username not him accidentally liking a post from SIX YEARS AGO please arrest this man
username everyone stay calm he is doing research on his favourite journalist
username lando norris discovering scrolling etiquette at the age of 25
username HE UNLIKED IT SO FAST I WATCHED IT DISAPPEAR
username lando in melbourne: who is that
lando in monaco: can you interview me
lando in june: let me investigate her childhood
He laughed harder. This was bad. Really bad.
His phone buzzed again. His stomach dropped for one ridiculous second before he saw the name.
Within five minutes, the group chat had discovered it, and Max had taken his discoveries there.
Lando put his phone face-down. He didn't want to know. He lasted another minute.
When he looked again, someone had edited an archaeologist's hat onto him. At some point between the tenth screenshot and Oscar sending him the definition of digital footprint, another thought finally occurred to him.
You. Had you seen it? Probably. Maybe. No. Hopefully not.
You weren't particularly active online during race weekends, but it wasn't a race weekend now. And someone had definitely tagged you by this point.
Lando opened your profile again before realising that was exactly what had caused the problem and immediately exited.
He contemplated messaging you. That was insane. What would he even say?
Sorry I was six years deep in your Instagram at one in the morning. Absolutely not.
Maybe: Instagram glitched. Worse.
Maybe: Nice Christmas tree. He dropped the phone onto his chest. "Jesus Christ."
The worst part was that he could already picture your reaction. You wouldn't make a big thing of it. That would almost be preferable.
You'd probably look at him over the top of your notebook with that tiny, knowing smile and say something quiet enough that he'd have to lean closer to hear the humiliation properly. His phone buzzed again.
max manytrells: are you going back for 2018 or calling it a night
Lando blocked him. Not actually. He considered it.
lando: go to sleep
max manytrells: you first
Lando stared at that message. Then checked the time. 1:17 a.m.
He had been on your profile for nearly an hour. That detail was going to the grave with him.
He locked his phone properly this time and put it on the bedside table, far enough away that he would have to physically sit up to reach it. Then he lay in the dark.
Five minutes passed. His phone vibrated once more. He ignored it. Another buzz. Still ignored it.
Then one more. Lando sat up with a groan and reached across. A new message from Oscar. This one was just a screenshot of a trending search underneath the F1 category.
lando y/n instagram
He stared. By morning, the accidental like had escaped motorsport Twitter entirely.
There were TikToks, edits. Someone had screen-recorded themselves scrolling all the way back through your account to demonstrate exactly how much effort Lando must have put in to reach December 2019.
That one had hundreds of thousands of views. And beneath it:
username: THIS TOOK ME TWO FULL MINUTES OF CONSTANT SCROLLING 😭😭😭
username: not casual. not accidental. targeted reconnaissance.
username: he knows her pre-sky lore now
username: imagine waking up and finding out lando norris has been in your 2019 instagram while you were asleep
username: she spent years studying motorsport journalism and HE spent tuesday night studying her feed
He was due to see you in less than a week. For the first time since Monaco, Lando wasn't completely sure he wanted the next interview.
Only mostly.
By the time he arrived at the circuit on Friday morning for the Austrian GP, he had decided he didn’t care about what people were posting about his stalking tendencies online.
Then he saw you outside Sky hospitality in a black double-breasted suit underneath a long leather coat trimmed heavily at the collar and cuffs, looking like the Undertaker had received a considerable clothing budget, and remembered immediately that he did.
You caught him looking. Unlike Melbourne, you didn’t look away first anymore.
You lowered the coffee from your mouth and watched him approach with a small expression that already suggested you knew exactly what he was going to hear about.
Lando slowed beside you. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
Your voice had not become any louder with familiarity. If anything, he had simply become better at hearing it.
He automatically dipped his head a little, something he no longer noticed himself doing until Oscar or a cameraman pointed it out.
You took another sip of coffee. Lando waited. Nothing. He frowned. “That’s it?”
You looked over the rim of the cup. “Was I supposed to say something else?” He knew you were enjoying this.
The tiniest movement at the corner of your mouth gave it away. “You’ve seen it.”
“I see lots of things.”
“The Instagram thing.”
That finally got a proper smile. Lando hated how pleased that made him. You lowered the cup. “Which Instagram thing?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Your laugh was soft enough that somebody passing behind him probably couldn’t hear it, but Lando could. He had become annoyingly good at hearing that too.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked backward for several steps because his schedule required him to keep moving and apparently his dignity required him to continue arguing. “It came up on my feed.”
“A post from 2019.”
“The algorithm is weird.”
“Very targeted algorithm.”
Lando pointed at you. “I’m never looking at your Instagram again.”
“You followed me this morning.” His hand dropped. You smiled into your coffee. He turned and left before you could make it worse.
The morning after his late night Instagram escapades, he realised there was been no recovering gracefully from liking a photograph from 2019 at one in the morning.
He had tried ignoring it for twelve hours, which only gave everyone else twelve hours to make it worse. By the time he came back to the hotel from MTC, there were edits of archaeologists digging through your feed, screenshots of the notification being analysed like telemetry.
So naturally, to save his reputation, he followed you instead.
You posted from Austria late Sunday evening.
landonorris liked your post.
You stared at it. There was something almost aggressively deliberate about the timing.
Not three hours later after casually finding it. Not tomorrow morning. Immediately. You opened the post, and you could see in the corner, posted 50 seconds ago.
liked by, lando, skysports, skysportsf1 and others
ynusername: inhaled red bull the entire weekend in honour of red bull ring
view comments
lando: current year. everyone stay calm
⤷ username: pin this he’s so proud
⤷ ynusername: well done
⤷ lando: thank you it’s been difficult
username: current year AND first hour we’re witnessing growth
username: oscar needs to give him a sticker chart
username: 2019 survivors rise
username: lando norris you are NOT beating the allegations
username: i know he felt relief when he saw 2025 in the timestamp 😭
username: bro checked the date seventeen times before liking
Race weekends began stacking on top of one another until you started remembering the calendar through airports rather than countries. Thursday arrival. Friday practice. Saturday qualifying. Sunday race. Monday flight. Laundry somewhere in between if you were lucky.
It should have made everyone more irritating. Somehow, Lando became easier. Easier to handle, maybe?
You had stopped being nervous about interviewing him after Monaco. There wasn’t much point when he’d apparently decided your microphone was communal property anyway.
Standing outside Ferrari waiting for Charles, you could practically feel Lando appeared beside you, accreditation swinging against his chest. "You're always here."
You continued reading your notes. "At work?"
"At Ferrari."
"Jealous?"
"No." The answer came fast enough that you finally glanced up. Lando's face was completely neutral.
You nodded toward the garage. "Charles is my favourite."
He stared at you. You lasted perhaps four seconds. His eyes narrowed. "You're joking."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He laughed, half relieved and half offended. "You're actually horrible." Charles arrived before Lando could defend himself further. You moved into position, smoothing out your clothes, expecting Lando to leave. Instead, he remained several metres behind the camera.
You knew this because, halfway through Charles explaining something about qualifying, you looked past the lens and found Lando pulling an expression so stupid you had to press your lips together.
Charles noticed. "Something?"
You shook your head immediately. "Nothing. Sorry." Behind the camera, Lando looked delighted. Charles followed your gaze.
Lando vanished, so you were sure you looked schizophrenic in front of the Monégasque. The second the interview ended, you went looking for him. You found him outside McLaren. "If you do that again while I'm live—"
"I didn't do anything."
He started laughing before you'd finished. "You nearly made me laugh in Charles's interview."
"Nearly?" You stared.
That was what he had taken from the sentence. "You're a child."
"Did you laugh?"
"No."
"You did a little." You walked away before he could see that you were doing it again.
The real problem from Lando's inability to leave you alone in interviews arrived two days later. Not from a fan account.
From an article. You saw the headline because somebody sent it to you, which was already a bad sign.
It was one of those lightweight motorsport columns that existed somewhere between actual reporting and paddock gossip, written around half a dozen observations and enough qualifiers to avoid claiming anything outright.
The title was irritating.
NORRIS'S SKY FAVOURITE BECOMES PADDOCK FIXTURE
You almost didn't open it, then you did.
The first few paragraphs were mostly nonsense about your clothes, the Monaco clip and the Instagram incident. You could tolerate that.
It mentioned the frequency of your interviews with Lando, that McLaren had reportedly requested you for several features. It called the two of you "an increasingly reliable pairing for Sky."
Whether Norris's obvious fondness has played a role in Y/L/N's growing access to the McLaren driver is impossible to know, though Sky have certainly benefited from the relaxed answers he tends to give her.
You read it twice. Then a third time.
There it was. Exactly what you had been afraid of. Not that you were sleeping with him.
Not even that you were dating him. Something almost more insulting. That the work was good because Lando liked you.
Silverstone made everything worse.
Not between the two of you, exactly. You weren't evil and was going to punish him with terrible interviews from what was posted online.
The problem was more that Lando had spent most of Sunday getting progressively less capable of behaving like a normal person.
He had won at home. That fact kept arriving in waves.
Sometimes it hit him as the radio call after the chequered flag, his engineer half shouting into his ear while Lando laughed hard enough that the first thing he tried to say came out completely mangled.
Sometimes it was the British flags thrown over shoulders in the grandstands, or the sound of the crowd when he lifted the trophy, loud enough that he felt it through the soles of his shoes.
There were races you won and races that seemed to happen to your entire body.
Silverstone was the second kind.
By the time he was finally being marched through post-race media, he had hugged so many people that he had stopped recognising who was grabbing him until after the fact.
His hair was still damp, there was champagne drying sticky along the back of his neck, and his face actually hurt from smiling. He didn’t particularly care.
Someone from McLaren was explaining the interview order beside him. Lando nodded along without absorbing much of it until he heard Sky.
Then he looked up. He knew you were doing his interview. He had asked. Again.
There wasn't even a pretence anymore. Earlier in the weekend, when McLaren media had told him Sky wanted him after the race, he'd asked who was doing it before they'd finished the sentence.
The answer had been your name, and he had said yes quickly enough that the press officer had looked at him with the tired expression of somebody who had long since given up trying to make him subtle.
So he knew you would be there. What he had not known was what you were wearing. Lando saw you before you saw him.
You were standing beside the Sky camera with your back half turned, talking to your producer while you checked something in your notebook.
Burgundy trousers, a burgundy blazer. White shirt with a brown patterned tie. A belt at your waist matching the darker leather of your shoes, sleeves pushed back just enough for several gold bracelets to sit at your wrist.
And the glasses. Large square frames, amber-brown around the edges, faintly tinted without hiding your eyes completely. Lando had seen you in enough glasses by now that the fact he immediately knew these were new should probably have concerned him more than it did.
He stopped walking. Not completely, but just enough that his press officer had to touch his arm. "Lando."
He blinked. "Yeah."
"Sky."
"I know." She followed his line of sight.
Then looked at him. Lando immediately started walking again.
The burgundy was bad enough. He had spent months privately convinced that black was simply your colour. You wore black constantly, and every variation of it had somehow given him a new reason to stare.
The long coats, the suits, the ties, the stupid glasses he was now apparently capable of cataloguing well enough to know when you'd bought a new pair. Then you'd shown up to Silverstone looking like this.
Colour. Actual colour. And not even something easy. Burgundy.
Deep enough that it changed depending on the light, dark around the lapels and warmer where the sun caught it. The trousers were wide through the leg, the blazer structured heavily through the shoulders. The whole thing should have looked severe.
It did look severe. Fantastic.
Lando rubbed his mouth with one hand as he approached. He had just won the British Grand Prix. He was a professional racing driver.
He had driven a Formula One car around Silverstone at speeds that would make most people nauseous and managed his tyres and the race and everything else while half the country screamed from the grandstands.
He could walk twenty metres and speak to a woman wearing a suit without forgetting how his own legs worked.
Probably.
You looked up, eyes found him behind the glasses.
There. That was the problem. Something about the way you looked at him made his entire brain misfire.
Not even flirtatiously, making eyes that he’d seen many women do before. You just looked at him.
Then your expression softened because you saw his face, because he was obviously still somewhere between exhilaration and disbelief, and a small smile appeared.
Lando nearly laughed at himself. “Congratulations,” you said when he reached you, so quietly that someone standing a few feet away probably would have missed it.
Lando didn’t. He rarely missed you anymore. “Thank you.” His own voice sounded a little rougher than usual.
You looked him over properly now, taking in the damp hair, the cap he'd shoved back onto his head, the stains down the front of his shirt.
"How much champagne did you get on you?"
He glanced down at himself. "Enough." Lando smiled.
His eyes went straight to the glasses again. You caught him this time. Your fingers lifted to the frame. “What?”
“Nothing.” Lando looked away quickly enough to make the answer completely unconvincing.
You tilted your head a fraction, but didn’t say anything in return. He glanced at the glasses again.
Then at the suit. He should have kept his mouth shut. Instead, "This is new."
You glanced down at yourself. “The suit?”
“The colour.”
That earned him a longer look. “Colour?”
“You normally wear black.”
“I’ve worn other colours.”
“When?” The question came out far too fast.
Your eyebrows rose slowly behind the glasses. Lando immediately understood what he had done. “Not that I’m keeping track.” He laughed, rubbing one hand across the back of his neck. “I’m saying you don’t do it often.”
“It’s burgundy.”
Lando was grinning now, he couldn't help it. The happiness from the race had nowhere to go, and somehow standing in front of you was making it spill over again.
His eyes dropped to the glasses one more time. "You look different." There. That came out before he could edit it. You went still for half a second. Not awkwardly.
Just enough that Lando heard what he'd said after it was already hanging between them. He rushed to explain. “Because of the colour.”
That somehow made the sentence worse. You repeated, “The colour,” with a softness that told him you were going to make him suffer for this.
“And the glasses,” he added, because apparently his survival instincts had abandoned him completely.
“I’m trying to understand what you mean.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I genuinely don’t.”
Lando stared at you and realised there was a small spark of amusement behind the tinted lenses. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s the problem.”
You laughed, dropping your gaze briefly to the notebook in your hand, and something in Lando’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the race.
Lando had become used to your laugh by then, but Silverstone had apparently stripped away every defence he had. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe winning at home had left him feeling too exposed to begin with.
Whatever it was, he looked at you laughing in those ridiculous glasses and burgundy tailoring and had the completely unhelpful thought that he wanted to keep you doing that for the rest of the night.
His eyes must have betrayed him. Because your smile faded slightly. Your gaze stayed on his for a second longer. Then your producer called to say that they were ready.
Then your producer called that they were ready, and the moment closed before Lando could make it worse.
You turned toward the camera and shifted the microphone in your hand. Lando stepped into position automatically, then leaned toward you before you had even spoken.
Your eyes dropped to the space he had immediately removed between you. “We’re outside.”
“I know.”
“You can hear me.”
“Maybe.”
You gave him a look over the glasses. “I can speak louder.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I can.”
“You keep saying that, but I’ve never actually seen it happen.”
Your mouth tightened because you were trying not to smile. “Maybe you should stop requesting me if it’s such a problem.”
Lando looked at you as though you had suggested something completely unreasonable. “I never said it was a problem.”
The camera light came on while you were still looking at him, which meant the first few seconds caught the exact moment you had to rearrange your expression into something professional.
“Well, Lando Norris,” you began, “British Grand Prix winner. What does that feel like?”
The words hit differently now that somebody else was saying them directly to him.
Lando’s smile came back immediately, but his answer didn’t. He looked past the camera toward the distant grandstands, where people were still moving through the circuit and flags were still visible above the barriers.
For the first time since arriving at Sky, his brain seemed to run out of things to say. “It’s…” He laughed quietly and shook his head, more at himself than anything else. “Pretty special.”
You waited. That was something you were very good at. You never rushed to fill silence just because it made television uncomfortable.
You let him think, and Lando had learned that if he tried giving you a polished answer simply to escape the pause, you would usually look at him until he gave you a better one.
He breathed out and tried again. “I’ve wanted this one for a long time. Everyone says every race is the same, but when it’s your home race, it isn’t. You come here and you see the flags, you hear everyone, and obviously there’s more pressure because you want to give them something back.”
His eyes moved toward the circuit again, and some of the emotion he thought he had already exhausted on the podium came back unexpectedly. His throat tightened halfway through the next sentence.
“To win it with McLaren and have everyone here…”
He stopped. You noticed instantly.
The microphone lowered slightly, not enough to end the interview or make the moment obvious, only enough that he no longer felt as though every breath had to be performed for the camera.
Lando looked down, rubbing beneath one eye before laughing quietly at himself. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologise,” you said. It was still your voice, still quiet, but the tone was different now. Less neutral than the one you used when interviewing him. Warmer. Softer in a way that made him look back up.
You were watching him without teasing now.
For a second, the rest of the media pen blurred around the edges. Lando could still hear people moving nearby and somebody giving another interview behind the camera, but his attention stayed fixed on your face behind those stupid glasses.
He smiled, smaller this time. “Trying to make me cry on Sky?”
“I asked how you felt.”
“Same thing.”
A little smile returned. “I can ask you about tyre degradation instead.”
“Please don’t.” That got the laugh he wanted, and some of the tightness in his chest eased.
You lifted the microphone again. “The final laps looked relatively controlled from the outside. Did they feel that way in the car?”
Lando shook his head. “Not really. Nothing feels controlled when you’re leading here. Every little noise suddenly matters. Every vibration. Every message on the radio. You start convincing yourself something’s about to go wrong.”
“Even with the gap you had?”
“Especially then,” he said. “Because you know what you’re about to lose if something happens.”
You nodded slowly. “So having something comfortable actually gives you more time to think about what’s at stake.”
“Exactly.”
The interview covered the strategy, the start, what the car had felt like through the middle stint, how much the crowd had registered while he was driving. Lando answered everything with more honesty than he probably gave most broadcasters, although that had become normal with you.
You listened too closely for him to get away with rubbish, and he had learned months ago that trying to talk around one of your questions only meant hearing it again.
Halfway through an answer about the closing laps, he caught himself looking at your glasses again.
Not your eyes. The frames first. Then your eyes behind them. He looked toward the camera for a second, forcing himself to focus. His attention drifted back anyway.
You noticed. He knew because the corner of your mouth moved, although you let him finish the answer without interrupting. When he stopped talking, you waited a beat and asked, “Done?”
Lando blinked. “Yeah.”
“You looked distracted.” Somewhere behind him, his press officer made a small sound. Lando looked at you carefully. Your face was completely composed.
There was no possible version of the honest answer that he could give while the camera was recording. “Long day.”
“Of course.” The slight curve of your mouth told him you didn’t believe him for a second.
Your producer signalled that there was time for one more question. You glanced over, then back at Lando.
“When you think about today years from now, what do you think you’ll remember first?” He considered it properly.
There were too many things to choose from. The launch off the grid. The final lap. His engineer shouting. The crowd. His family. The team waiting for him. Standing on the podium with a British flag around his shoulders.
And, inconveniently, this. You standing across from him in burgundy while he tried to get himself back together.
He didn’t say that.
“Crossing the line, probably,” he answered after a moment. “Then the radio. Everyone at McLaren completely losing it.”
You smiled. “I think most of Silverstone heard them.”
You gave a small nod, satisfied with the answer. “Congratulations again, Lando.”
“Thank you.”
The red light went out, but neither of you moved immediately.
Then the interview was over, the microphone lowered, and suddenly there was no professional reason for Lando to still be standing quite so close.
He stayed anyway. His eyes went to the glasses again.
This time, you caught him immediately and laughed under your breath. “You really like these glasses.”
Lando rubbed a hand over his face, laughing because there was no denying it anymore.
“For everything today.” You shook your head, still smiling, and Lando looked at you for a second too long again.
The humour between you quietened. Your expression shifted in response, not away from him but into something less easy to joke about. Then his press officer called his name from several metres away.
Lando closed his eyes briefly. “Of course.”
You tucked the microphone against your side and nodded toward McLaren. “Go. They’ve probably got another twenty people waiting for you.”
He glanced over his shoulder before looking back at you. “You’ll still be around later?”
The question came out before he could make it sound casual. Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Working?”
“Yeah.”
A pause followed, and then you smiled. “I’m usually working at my job, Lando.”
He laughed at himself and started backing away. “Right. See you.”
ᯓ London Bridge, Fergie
liked by, landonorris, skysports, skysportsf1 and others
ynusername: home race win always holds a place in your heart. congratulations to everyone at mclaren 🇬🇧
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lando: unbiased reporting
The heat had already made the paddock unbearable by Friday morning at the Hungaroring.
By the time you reached Sky hospitality, you had abandoned most of the darker layers you normally relied on.
You were stood near the production desk while someone worked through Thursday's content for the Hungaroring when a request came back from McLaren.
Your producer skimmed the message. "They'll give us Norris for ten after practice."
Someone behind him asked, "Who's got it?"
Your producer looked across the room. "YN."
Another producer, barely looking up from his laptop, laughed. "Of course. Send his favourite and we'll get twenty."
Several people smiled. It was obviously a joke. You had heard versions of it before. Usually you would have rolled your eyes and continued working.
This time, you felt something tighten unpleasantly beneath your ribs. Your producer noticed your expression a second too late. "I'm joking."
"I know." He paused. You looked back down at the notes in your hand and added, quieter, "It's fine."
It should have been fine. Nobody there thought you were bad at your job. By Sunday evening, nobody was particularly interested in the joke anymore.
McLaren had just won its 200th Formula One Grand Prix.
You had spent the latter part of the race adding arrows and notes around the number in your notebook because it was impossible to talk about the win without talking about what it meant to McLaren itself. When Lando crossed the line, the garage seemed to erupt all at once.
Hungary was different. There was pride in it.
ou read over the questions once, then closed the notebook as the cameraman adjusted his position.
You knew Lando was coming before you saw him. Someone from McLaren appeared first, speaking briefly with your producer, and then Lando rounded the edge of the media area still carrying the unmistakable afterglow of a win.
His smile found you before he properly reached Sky. That had become normal enough that you barely registered it anymore. What you did register was the way he slowed once he got close.
His eyes travelled from your shoes to the beige trousers, over the waistcoat and checked blazer, then finally returned to your face.
You waited. Lando stared at you for another second.
Then, with complete seriousness, he asked, “Who are you?”
You glanced down at yourself, briefly checking whether something genuinely was wrong. “What?”
“Where's the Undertaker?”
The cameraman behind you made a noise. You looked back at Lando. He had already realised. It happened beautifully.
The amusement disappeared from his face first. Then came the tiny widening of his eyes, followed by the expression of a man who had just watched his own sentence leave his mouth and desperately wanted it back. You lowered the microphone.
“The what?”
Lando shook his head immediately. “No.”
Your producer, standing behind the camera, had already turned away because his shoulders were starting to move. You stared at Lando. “Did you just call me the Undertaker?”
“I didn't call you—” He stopped because even he apparently recognised there was no point attempting that defence. His hand went over his mouth for a second before dropping again. “I used to.”
That was somehow worse. “You used to?”
“In Melbourne. And in China, and then when you came to Bahrain in black….”
You had forgotten every question in your notebook. “Why?”
Lando was fighting laughter now. You could see it building despite the obvious knowledge that laughing would only make you more offended. “You wore black every day.”
You blinked. “And?”
“And you looked…” He hesitated.
You narrowed your eyes. Unfortunately, Lando was incapable of leaving danger alone once he had found it. “Like you were going to kill someone.”
The cameraman broke.
A laugh escaped behind the lens, immediately followed by your producer giving up whatever pretence of professionalism he'd been clinging to. Lando was laughing now too, shoulders shaking while he looked anywhere except directly at you.
You remained perfectly still. Months.
He had apparently looked at you for the first time in Melbourne, watched you walk around the paddock in black tailoring and decided, privately, that you were the Undertaker.
You slowly looked down at yourself, then you looked back at him. “And now?”
Lando's laughter eased. His eyes ran over the outfit again.
You could practically see him thinking. You should have stopped him, instead, some terrible part of you wanted to know. He considered you for a few seconds before saying, “Accountant.”
You hit him with the microphone.
Not hard enough to hurt, just enough for the foam cover to bounce lightly against his upper arm. Lando recoiled dramatically, laughing harder. “What?”
“Accountant?”
“You asked.”
You stared at him over your glasses. Lando's smile widened until there was no possible way you could maintain the glare without laughing yourself. You looked away first.
You could already imagine how the clip would look once Sky cut it down: Lando admitting he'd privately called you the Undertaker since Melbourne, you discovering this information in real time, then hitting him lightly with the microphone when he decided beige apparently made you an accountant.
It was funny.
You knew it was funny.
You rubbed a thumb along the microphone handle and tried to get your face under control while the cameraman wiped at his eyes. Lando was doing no better. Every time he looked at you, he started again, which made you laugh, which made him worse.
The whole thing took long enough that somebody from McLaren eventually asked if you were actually going to conduct the interview.
Fuck.
You had given them more. Not more proof of anything romantic, because there was nothing to prove. But more material.
More reason for somebody to look at an interview you had researched, prepared and fought for time to conduct, then decide the most important thing about it was the way Lando Norris smiled at you while answering.
Lando nodded and visibly tried to rearrange his face into something more appropriate for a historic McLaren milestone. You raised the microphone.
He leaned toward it automatically. Your eyes dropped to him. Then you quietly told him, “You can hear me.”
“I know.”
“So why are you already over here?”
He glanced down at the space between you as if he had only just realised he'd closed it. “Habit.”
The cameraman made another small sound. You decided not to engage. The red light came on.
Professionalism, finally.
"Lando, McLaren's two-hundredth Grand Prix victory. You've spoken a lot about the history of this team, but does being the driver who delivers a milestone like that feel different?"
The shift was subtle enough that anyone watching probably wouldn't have noticed.
Lando did.
You saw it in the tiny pause before he answered.
"Yeah, definitely." His eyes stayed on you for half a second longer than usual before he glanced toward the McLaren personnel behind the camera.
"Obviously you know the number going into the weekend, but you try not to think about it too much because you've still got to actually win the race. Then afterward, seeing everyone and knowing what it means to the team, it's pretty special."
Normally, you would have let that breathe and followed the part about knowing the number beforehand.
Instead, you moved to the question already written beneath it. He continued to give you good answers as you asked about the final stint. The pressure. The championship implications.
The interview was still good. You were not punishing him by making it bad, and you were too proud of your work to become deliberately stiff simply because you'd suddenly become uncomfortable with everything surrounding it.
But you removed yourself from it.
His eyes kept returning to you, searching your expression every time he finished answering as though there was something there he was trying to work out. The happiness from the win hadn't disappeared, but the easy grin he'd arrived with had faded into something more cautious.
You hated that you noticed. You hated more that some part of you wanted to fix it.
The red light went out. Normally the end of the camera created more space between you professionally and less everywhere else.
Today, you lowered the microphone and immediately turned toward your producer.
"Do you need anything else from me before Ferrari?"
He looked briefly surprised by how quickly you'd asked. "No. You're good for about ten."
"Perfect."
You reached toward the small table beside the camera and picked up your notebook, already opening it to the page where you'd left your Ferrari questions.
Lando didn't move. You kept your eyes on the notebook.
His press officer was standing several feet away, waiting for him to move onto the next broadcaster. Usually that was enough. Drivers didn't linger after interviews because nobody had the time.
Lando lingered. "YN." You looked up.
His brows were slightly drawn together now. He wasn't smiling anymore, and that somehow made you feel worse than if he'd looked annoyed.
"You alright?"
There was something almost irritating about how quickly he had picked up on it.
You had worked with people for years who couldn't tell the difference between you being exhausted and you being furious.
"I'm fine." His expression didn't change.
"Did I do something?" The question came quietly enough that you nearly missed it beneath the media pen noise.
Your stomach tightened. "No."
Lando watched you for another second. "Because you were fine before."
"Go. You've got about fifteen more interviews."
Lando didn't laugh.
"Right."
You hated that too.
He took one step away before stopping. "I'll see you later?"
The summer break sat between the words in a way neither of you acknowledged.
This was the last race before several weeks apart.
Usually the answer would have been obvious. He always found you later. Outside hospitality, in the media centre, somewhere near the paddock exit when you were both finally finished.
You looked down at your notebook instead. "I've got a lot to finish tonight."
The attention would have been easier to dismiss if it had only been about the clothes.
People liked the suits, they found the glasses, they made accounts identifying ties you had bought second-hand years ago and somehow tracked down the exact coat you had worn in Austria.
Your follower count rose every weekend, and Sky had started tagging you in more of the paddock content because the engagement was noticeably higher whenever they did. That part was strange, but not unpleasant. The interviews were what mattered.
You loved that. You loved the work more than you had expected to love the paddock itself.
There was something deeply satisfying about sitting down after a session with half a page of notes, hearing a driver say something interesting and being allowed to follow it rather than watching a producer point frantically at the clock.
The quality of the interviews had improved because the people around you had begun trusting you. That mattered.
Which was why the attention around Lando began bothering you at exactly the point everyone else seemed to find it funniest.
You shook your head and returned to your laptop, although your phone was sitting face-up beside it and kept lighting every few seconds.
It was still funny then.
Rachel had sent you a link while you were still at the paddock that Sunday evening, trying your best to wrap everything up before the summer break. It was a compilation, nothing malicious, but that almost made it worse.
lando norris getting the yn treatment for five minutes straight
A shot you hadn’t even known existed of Lando walking toward Sky, spotting you and visibly smiling before he reached the camera. Then another clip. A McLaren press officer asking something off-camera. Your name audible in the response. Then Lando saying, "Yeah, perfect."
You frowned. You had never seen that one. The comments were predictable, so you didn't even bother opening them.
username: honestly sky know exactly what they're doing because he obviously likes her and gives her better interviews
username: i'd send her too if it gets them more access to a championship contender lol
username: must be nice being able to walk into mclaren because the driver fancies you
username: send the girlfriend and suddenly he remembers how to speak
Your thumb stopped.
Girlfriend. You stared at the word longer than it deserved.
There was nothing particularly vicious about it. The account probably didn’t mean anything by it. Half the comments were laughing emojis and people arguing over which of your interviews had been the funniest.
Sunday evenings had a strange sense of completion to them, especially once the live broadcast finished and you could finally sit down without somebody calling your name from across hospitality.
Summer break.
Instead, you were still at Sky nearly two hours after you needed to be.
Your blazer had been abandoned over the back of a chair. The tie remained because undoing it somehow felt like admitting how tired you were, although the top button of your shirt had surrendered sometime around six.
The notebook beside you was nearly full. You flipped another page. A note beside one of the strategy questions reminding yourself to check something after the break.
The article was still sitting somewhere in your browser history, even a month after it had come out.
You had spent the better part of the past weeks trying to tell yourself you didn’t care. That had worked spectacularly badly.
Saving the document and started gathering your things. You were folding the blazer over your arm when somebody stopped outside the open hospitality door.
You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. That was irritating too.
There were hundreds of people in the paddock and somehow you had learned the rhythm of one person’s footsteps well enough that your shoulders tightened before he said anything.
Lando leaned around the doorway.
He had changed out of team kit at some point. Dark trousers, trainers, a sweatshirt despite the lingering warmth outside. His accreditation was gone, probably abandoned with the rest of his workday, and his hair looked like he had showered since you last saw him.
He looked tired. His eyes moved around the mostly empty room before settling on you. “You’re still here.”
You kept folding the blazer. “So are you.”
“I was looking for you.”
That made your hands pause.
You draped the jacket over your bag instead. “Why?”
Lando stepped inside, although not far. There had been a point several weeks ago when he would have simply taken the nearest chair without asking.
Now he remained near the doorway as though the distance you had created during the interview was still there between you. His expression was harder to read without the usual smile. “You disappeared.”
“I’ve been here.”
“That’s not what I meant.” You zipped the laptop compartment and avoided looking at him.
There were several ways out of this conversation. You could say you were tired.
You could tell him you had an early flight. You could point out that McLaren had probably planned some celebration and he should be there instead of standing in Sky hospitality trying to decipher your mood.
Lando had no intention of letting you continue.
He moved further into the room and stopped opposite the table rather than sitting down. “You were weird with me after the interview.”
You glanced up. “That’s tactful.”
“You know what I mean.” You hooked the strap of your bag over the chair and exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t the interview.”
“Then what was it?”
There was no accusation in his voice yet, mainly confusion. Lando simply looked like someone who had spent several hours trying to work out what he’d done wrong.
You looked past him toward the empty doorway. “Have you seen the article?”
His eyebrows drew together. “What article?” Of course he hadn’t.
You almost laughed, although there was nothing funny about it. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It clearly does.”
“Lando.”
“No, because you’ve barely looked at me since we finished filming, and now there’s apparently an article I’m meant to know about.”
His frustration had started showing now, not loudly, just in the way his words came faster.
You pulled your phone from the table, opening it, walked around the table and held the phone toward him. The longer he read, the less confused he looked. By the time he finished, his jaw had tightened. He looked up. “This is bullshit.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you care?” The answer came quickly enough that you almost reacted to it before reminding yourself he genuinely didn’t understand.
You took the phone back from him and locked it. “Because you get to call it bullshit.”
Lando frowned. “So do you.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
You put the phone into your bag with more care than necessary. “Because nobody is going to read that and decide you only won today because I like you.”
You continued before he could interrupt, because if you stopped now you suspected you would lose the nerve to explain it properly.
“If people think you like me, it’s funny. They make jokes about you having a crush and everybody laughs because you’re Lando Norris. You already have a career. You already have a reputation here. Nobody gets to take anything away from you.”
Lando was listening now. Completely. You looked down at the edge of the table and ran your thumb across it. “For me, it becomes something else.”
He didn’t say anything, and you were grateful enough to continue.
“They don’t watch the interview and think I got a good answer because I asked a good question. Or that Sky gave me longer because I’ve shown them I can handle it. They think you gave me a good answer because you fancy me, ir that you specifically request for me.”
Lando’s gaze dropped briefly. That hurt in a way you had not expected. Because it was true. He had asked.
You saw the realisation arrive before he said it. “I do ask for you.”
“I know.”
“I thought—” He stopped and rubbed a hand across his jaw, searching for the right version of the sentence. “I thought that was a good thing.”
“So did I.” That was the most honest thing you had said all day. His eyes came back to yours.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
You hated how exposed the admission made you feel. That every time McLaren had asked whether you were available, every time your producer had looked across the room and said Norris wants you, some part of you had liked being chosen.
That was precisely why the article bothered you so much. “I like doing your interviews. They’re good interviews.”
Lando leaned one hand against the back of the chair opposite you. “I don’t understand how me liking your interviews is a problem.”
“Because you’re not asking for Rachel. You’re not asking for Craig. You’re asking for me, and everyone knows it.”
“So I stop asking.” The immediacy of it caught you off guard.
There was no sulking in his expression. No attempt to argue that everyone else should simply ignore it. He had heard the problem and gone straight to the part he could control.
You rubbed your forehead. “I don’t want you to think I’m blaming you.”
“You are a little.”
“I’m not.”
“You showed me an article about me asking for you and then explained why me asking for you is making your job harder.”
You picked up your blazer again, then put it down almost immediately because your hands needed something to do and the movement was not helping.
“I worked for years before I got here, Lando.” You regretted the sharpness immediately, but not enough to take the question back.
“I covered junior series nobody watched. I wrote pieces that got barely any clicks. I’ve interviewed people standing beside portable toilets because that was the only quiet place in an F3 paddock.”
Your voice softened as the frustration wore into something closer to exhaustion. “And I love it. I love that Sky trusts me with this now.”
Lando exhaled slowly.
You could see him replaying the last few months now. Probably a dozen other tiny things neither of you had thought twice about while they were happening.
He pushed away from the chair. “Okay.” You waited. He nodded once, more to himself than to you. “I’ll stop.”
Something inside you dropped. It was exactly what you had needed him to say.
You hated hearing it. “Lando—”
“No, it’s fine.” He wasn’t angry, although his tone had become more careful. “You don’t want McLaren asking for you every time. I’ll tell them not to.”
“I don’t want you to never talk to me again.”
His eyes flicked to yours. That sentence had come out far too quickly. You tried to correct it. “I mean professionally. I’m not saying you need to avoid me.”
His mouth moved slightly, not quite a smile. “Professionally.” You knew exactly how that sounded. You also knew you could not fix it without making the entire conversation worse.
You reached for your bag instead. “I just need people to know who I am here without you being attached to every conversation about me.”
Lando nodded, there was no argument this time. Then, quietly, “You’ve already got that.”
You looked at him. He shifted one shoulder. “People know who you are.”
The sincerity of it hurt worse than the article had. You smiled, although it came out small. “Not enough.” For a second, he looked as though he might disagree.
Then he let it go. You finally picked up your blazer and folded it over your arm. “You should go celebrate. It’s your two-hundredth win.”
“McLaren’s.”
“You drove the car.” That got something from him too. The conversation died slowly where normally, one of you would find a reason to extend the conversation.
Lando shifted his weight and looked at you. “So I’ll see you after the break.”
You nodded. “Zandvoort.” There was something strange about putting a race name on it. Several weeks.
You had spent months seeing him almost every weekend and now there would be nothing until the end of August.
The summer break was exactly what you had wanted. Three weeks without cameras, paddocks, interviews or people dissecting every time Lando Norris looked at you.
By the time you reached the hotel, you were already beginning to suspect you were going to hate it.
summary — as the 2024 season closes and the 2025 season begins up, you and kimi try to keep yourselves grounded with the little time he has left.
warnings — teen parenthood, career pressure, seperation anxiety, fear of public exposure
notes — just to clarify, there is no description for reader except for the fact that you dye your hair and you are born in italy. whether that means you decide that reader is italian by nationality or ethnicity is up to you. just for reference you've dyed your hair here.
once again, the reception to the last post has been really motivating and means so much!! thank u for continuing to read and sharing ur thoughts!!
my friend seraj and his sister currently live in palestine. his sister was injured by a gunshot to her head, resulting in a skull fracture. their donation goal is really close to being hit, so if you have anything to spare, it would really mean a lot. https://chuffed.org/project/123284-serajs-fundraiser
m&m masterlist
You returned to Bologna with four days remaining before Kimi’s Monza appearance.
The session had been scheduled for months, but once Mercedes confirmed it publicly, every detail became another reason for strangers to treat the weekend as a test of whether he deserved the seat they did not know he had already signed for.
Even though it was still summer, you had a mandatory school meeting on Friday morning to discuss the assessments you had missed during the previous term.
While you would have loved to miss it, your teacher had used the word mandatory twice in the email and underlined the time, which made pretending not to have seen it impossible.
Kimi suggested that you come to Monza on Thursday night anyway and return to Bologna after the session.
He made the proposal while sitting on the floor beside Nora, helping her pull a sock over the head of a stuffed rabbit, as though adding several hours of travel and a toddler to your school meeting were a minor scheduling inconvenience.
“You want me to miss a meeting about the school I keep missing?” you asked.
“You wouldn’t miss it. You could come back Friday morning.”
“With Nora?” Kimi hesitated just long enough for you to know he had already planned the next part. “She could stay with my parents.”
The suggestion was reasonable. Veronica and Marco had offered before he had even mentioned the session, and Nora loved staying at their house, where Maggie followed her everywhere and Veronica allowed her to eat pieces of fruit in every room.
Still, guilt rose in your chest before you could consider the practical side.
It would mean another night in which someone else changed their plans for you, another morning rushing back to school half-awake and another example of Kimi’s career expanding while the people around you quietly absorbed whatever it displaced.
“I’m staying here,” you said.
Kimi continued adjusting the sock on the rabbit, although his movements became more precise in the way they did whenever he was disappointed and trying not to show it. “It’s my first proper Formula One session.”
“I know.”
“I wanted you there.”
You locked your phone and placed it beside you. “And I want to finish school without every teacher looking at me as though I’ve already made a mess of my entire life.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“I know it isn’t, Andrea. I’m explaining why I’m staying.”
He finally looked up. “You could still do both.”
“I’m always trying to do both.”
The answer came out sharper than you intended. Kimi’s expression closed slightly, and you immediately hated the distance it created, but you were tired of every part of your life being treated as movable simply because he could not be.
You knew Monza mattered.
You knew he had dreamed about climbing into a Formula One car at his home race since he was small. Knowing did not make your own obligations disappear.
After a moment, you nudged his knee with your foot. “I’ll come on Saturday. I’ll watch every second of Friday from home.” Nora lifted the stuffed rabbit, now wearing one sock on its head and another around its middle. “Pretty.”
He rolled his eyes, but the disappointment had softened. You leaned over to kiss his cheek, holding his jaw. “You know I would be there if I could.” He smiled against your skin as though he had won something.
liked by, ynusername, f1, georgerussell63 and others
mercedesamgf: Monza. Kimi. FP1. 🇮🇹 A very special Friday ahead.
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username: putting an italian in the mercedes at monza before announcing him is EVIL work
username: “a very special friday” okay so they’re not even pretending anymore
username: let the child complete one lap before you hand him lewis’s seat
⤷ username: he has completed many laps actually that is generally how racing works
username: if he goes p5 in fp1 toto is announcing him before lunch
⤷ username: if he crashes people will act like he personally destroyed mercedes
⤷ username: why would you say that
username: can you just announce his seat its pmo
On Friday morning, you positioned yourself on the sofa twenty minutes before the session, although the television was muted almost immediately after the pre-show began discussing whether Kimi’s age made him fearless or dangerously inexperienced.
Nora climbed beside you, dragging a blanket and one of her wooden blocks, then stood with both hands pressed against your leg. “Babbo?”
“Soon.” Nora seemed satisfied with that answer and dropped onto the cushions. You took a photo her facing the television and sent it to Kimi, who was already inside the garage.
He reacted with a heart before disappearing from the chat. The camera found him several minutes later, standing beside the Mercedes with his helmet tucked beneath one arm while Bono spoke to him. To anyone watching casually, Kimi looked calm.
His expression was controlled, his answers short and his posture still, but you knew the signs that television commentators did not.
He rolled his shoulders once before putting on his helmet, flexed his fingers against the fabric of his gloves and pressed his tongue briefly against the inside of his cheek.
Those were not signs that he lacked confidence. They were the small physical rituals through which he kept fear from becoming visible.
Nora pointed toward him as the mechanics lowered the car. “Babbo.”
Kimi’s first lap was cautious enough to make the commentators talk about building confidence.
The second was faster, and by the time he began pushing properly, which caused you to lean forward without noticing, one elbow resting on your knee as his name climbed the timing screen. A purple sector appeared beside it, followed by another.
You were still smiling when the car snapped away from him. The crash happened too quickly for you to understand what you were seeing until the Mercedes had already rotated across the circuit.
One moment it was moving through Parabolica with the same stability as the lap before, and the next it had disappeared into the barrier, the impact erupting through the television speakers with a crack of carbon fibre and metal.
Pieces of the car scattered across the gravel as the red flag appeared on-screen.
You were standing before you realised you had moved. The camera remained fixed on the wrecked Mercedes, one wheel hanging at an angle while the commentators spoke over one another, trying to explain the loss of control and the force of the impact before anyone had confirmed whether Kimi was moving.
Nora looked from the television to you. “Broke?”
You found the remote and lowered the volume, although your fingers slipped against the buttons. “Yes.”
You called Kimi despite knowing he couldn't answer. The line rang until it disconnected, so you tried Marco and then Veronica, receiving nothing from either of them because they were probably doing exactly what you were doing.
Watching a screen and waiting for somebody closer to the circuit to tell them what the pictures could not.
On television, marshals moved toward the car. The top of Kimi’s helmet was visible, but the camera angle did not show whether he was trying to climb out, and the commentators had stopped speculating long enough for the silence to become worse than their voices.
Nora had climbed down from the sofa and was now standing beside you, one hand clutching the fabric of your jeans. “Babbo?”
“He’s okay,” you said, bending to stroke her hair. You had no evidence for the promise, but there was no version of the truth you could give a one-year-old while the car remained against the barrier. “He’s okay.”
When the camera finally showed Kimi walking beside a marshal, helmet removed and shoulders held rigid beneath his race suit, you sat down so abruptly that the cushions shifted beneath you.
He looked shaken, but he was upright. He was alive. The relief was strong enough to make you dizzy, though it did nothing to stop your hands from trembling.
You understood why he could not call. He would be taken to the medical centre, examined, questioned by the team and pulled into a debrief about the exact moment he had lost the car.
Every procedure existed for a reason, and none of them included allowing him to leave immediately because you had spent half a minute believing you might have to explain the crash to their daughter.
Nora climbed onto the sofa and pushed a wooden block into your hand. “Help.” You reached over without sparing a glance.
You managed to build a tower while the session restarted. You stacked the blocks badly, Nora knocked them down with increasing enthusiasm and every few seconds you checked the phone lying beside you.
Twenty-seven minutes passed before Kimi’s name appeared on the screen.
His video opened from a quiet room at the circuit. The top half of his race suit had been pulled down around his waist, and a red mark was beginning to appear along his collarbone.
He looked more embarrassed than frightened, which immediately made something hot and angry rise through your relief.
“I’m okay,” he said. Kimi frowned when he saw your face. “Are you crying?”
You touched your cheek and realised it was wet. “You just crashed into a wall at more than two hundred kilometres an hour and you’re asking me why I’m crying?”
“It wasn’t—”
“Do not say it wasn’t that bad.”
“I was going to say I’m fine.” He looked away from the camera, jaw tightening. “I lost the rear. I pushed too much on that lap, and the tyres weren’t ready.”
“I don’t care why.”
“I do.”
“Of course you do, because you’re thinking about the car.”
“I’m thinking about everything.”
“You sound embarrassed.”
“I destroyed Lewis’ car after ten minutes, YN.” The frustration in his voice was real, but so was the disbelief in yours. "The television showed me the car before anybody said you were alive."
“I couldn’t call from the medical centre.”
“I know that.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” It was not a cruel question, but it landed like one.
Kimi sounded frightened and defensive, caught between knowing there was nothing he could have done differently after the impact and wanting to fix your fear as though it were another technical problem.
You understood the helplessness beneath his tone and still could not make yourself forgive it immediately.
Nora sat on the floor beside the sofa, placing wooden blocks into a plastic cup. When Kimi’s voice carried through the phone, she looked up and said, “Babbo.”
His entire expression softened. “Ciao, stella.”
“Broke.”
Kimi attempted a weak smile. “A little.”
You shook your head. “Don’t joke.”
“I’m trying to make her feel better.”
“She’s fine.”
“And you aren’t.”
“No, Andrea. I’m not.” The sounds outside the room on his end continued faintly, doors opening, footsteps and voices moving through the corridor while the world at Monza carried on as though yours had not stopped for nearly half an hour.
Kimi rubbed one hand over his face before saying, much more quietly, “You knew racing was dangerous.”
You stared at him. The words were technically true, which made them worse. “I knew it when it was only you.”
Kimi went still.
You had never allowed yourself to put the thought into words. Before Nora, every crash had meant fear for Kimi, and that fear had already been difficult enough.
Now there was somebody else attached to the possibility of losing him, somebody who had watched the television and asked whether her father’s car could be fixed.
“I knew what could happen to my boyfriend,” you continued, struggling to keep your voice steady. “I never thought about how I would explain it to your daughter.”
Kimi’s gaze dropped. Nora raised the plastic cup toward the screen, unaware of the silence she had entered.
“Babbo, look.”
He lifted his eyes again. “Very nice, stella.” You watched him try to divide himself across the call.
Kimi was the driver who needed to return to a debrief, the father making sure his daughter was not frightened and the boyfriend who had no idea what to say to a girl who had just admitted that every crash now carried a second kind of terror.
He was eighteen, despite the contract and the cameras and the fact that Mercedes had trusted him with a Formula One car, and the right answer did not appear simply because people expected him to behave like an adult.
“I have to go,” he said eventually. “They need me.”
You nodded because there was nothing else you could do.
“I’ll call later.”
“You always say that.”
His face tightened. “I will.”
31 AUGUST 2024 — 9:00 A.M.
The Mercedes announcement appeared while you were attempting to brush Nora’s hair. Your phone began vibrating against the dresser and didn't stop, each notification blending into the next until it sounded like something trapped beneath the screen.
Nora twisted away from the brush. “Done.”
“We've done one side.”
“Done.”
Gently holding her between your knees and divided another section of hair. “Two minutes.”
“Done!"
Kimi had messaged at six that morning, apparently having forgotten that neither you nor Nora considered sunrise an appropriate time for conversation.
liked by, ynusername, kimi.antonelli, f1, and others
mercedesamgf1: A new chapter begins in 2025.
George Russell and Kimi Antonelli will race for the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team. Welcome to Formula One, Kimi. 🏁
Tap the link in our bio for more on our 2025 line-up. 🔗
view comments
kimi.antonelli: A dream since I was a child. Thank you to everyone who believed in me. Let’s get to work.
⤷ ynusername: LETS GET TO WORK HELL YEAHHHHH
username: THEY ACTUALLY DID IT
username: eighteen years old and replacing lewis hamilton. no pressure!
username: after yesterday’s crash too. mercedes have nerves of steel.
⤷ username: the contract was obviously signed weeks ago please stop acting like toto woke up this morning and decided based on vibes
username: george russell and a teenager. what is this lineup 😭
username: KIMI ANTONELLI FORMULA ONE DRIVER
username: he turned eighteen SIX DAYS AGO
username: born in 2006 and driving for mercedes in 2025. i need to sit down.
liked by, giulialouise, kimi.antonelli, olliebearman and others
ynusername: cant believe he had this birthday than became a f1 driver lord you cherish others more than me
view comments
kimi.antonelli: we went to almafi for my bday we had a great time
⤷ ynusername: yea but when we came back for ur actual one you didnt even let me touch the wine
giulialouise: i can say i know a f1 driver
classmate1: girl ur a wag now
⤷ ynusername: im sooo geeked am i the youngest wag ever?
classmate2: dont forget us when ur rich and famous
⤷ ynusername: trust me I WILL FORGET my day ones
Notifications multiplied faster than you could clear them. Messages arrived from family members, school friends and people you had not spoken to in years, including a girl from primary school who sent her a photograph of Kimi at eight years old wearing a paper crown at your birthday party.
Then the first unfamiliar follow request appeared. It was followed by three more, then six, then enough that the notification banner stopped displaying individual names.
You finally opened Instagram. Your account had always been private, with just over four hundred followers collected from school, karting, family and people you vaguely knew through friends.
Sixty-three requests were waiting when you first refreshed the page. The number increased to ninety-one before you could close it.
The first account was a Formula One fan page. The second was dedicated entirely to edits of Kimi. The third had no profile photograph, followed twelve thousand people and had already sent you a message asking how long you’d had been together.
You closed the app, but the phone continued vibrating in your hand.
Kimi called before you could message him. The video opened on a corridor at Monza, with people in Mercedes clothing moving behind him and voices carrying from a nearby media area. He had clearly stepped away for only a minute. “You saw the announcement?”
“Yes.”
“How bad is it?”
You turned the phone toward the requests. “They found my account.” Kimi’s expression changed immediately. “Don’t accept anyone you don’t know,” he said.
You turned the phone back toward yourself. “I know how Instagram works. We’ve already been through this.”
“I’m trying to help.” The answer came too quickly, revealing the frustration beneath his concern. You looked away while Kimi immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Someone called his name from the other end of the corridor. Kimi glanced over his shoulder before returning his attention to you, already divided between the conversation and the people waiting for him. “I have to go.”
“Of course.”
“YN.”
“What?”
“I’ll call after everything finishes.” You almost laughed, and Kimi heard it in your silence.
“I will,” he insisted. After the call ended, you began going through years of tagged photographs.
By evening, more than three thousand requests were waiting. Kimi’s announcement had passed a million likes, while fan accounts produced edits from childhood footage you had never seen and news pages assembled timelines of his career.
Some accounts began doing the same with you, zooming in on old photographs and attaching arrows to details that had once been ordinary.
You locked the phone and placed it face down on the bed, but the vibration continued against the mattress.
Nora played on the carpet nearby, fitting wooden shapes into the wrong holes and becoming offended each time they refused to go through.
She had no idea that the world now knew her mother’s name or that thousands of people were trying to enter an account filled with traces of her life.
In the reflection of the dark phone screen, you looked younger than you wanted.
You thought about the women you had seen around the paddock, all of whom appeared polished even when dressed casually, as though somebody had taught them how to walk through a garage without looking lost.
They spoke eloquently without needing to search for words, recognised when cameras were pointed at them and attended dinners or sponsor events as though those places had always belonged to them.
You still needed your father to explain forms you did not understand. You had a Spider-Man beanie folded inside your drawer and schoolwork waiting on the desk.
The previous night, you had been studying while Kimi prepared to be announced as Lewis Hamilton’s replacement, and that morning you had spent ten minutes arguing with your daughter about pigtails.
Someone online had called you pretty. Another person had described you as ordinary. A third predicted that Kimi would leave you once he realised what kind of women Formula One could offer him.
You read that comment three times before closing it.
Kimi called from the hotel that night. The public excitement had exhausted whatever polished composure he had carried through the interviews, leaving his hair untidy and his shoulders slumped against the headboard.
He studied you for several seconds before asking, “What did you read?”
“Nothing.”
“YN.”
You shifted the phone away slightly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters if you’re upset.”
"They think I look like a child."
Kimi frowned. “You are seventeen.”
“It’s different.” He looked genuinely confused, which frustrated you more than disagreement would have. Kimi had entered karting environments since childhood and been told that he belonged there.
Even when people questioned whether he was ready for Formula One, nobody doubted that he belonged in racing. You had no equivalent certainty.
“The women there look older,” you said. “They look like they know how everything works.”
“Some of them are older.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Then what is?”
You picked at the skin beside your thumbnail, trying to explain the fear without making it sound like an accusation. “They’re going to look at me and wonder why you’re with me.”
“Who is?”
“Everyone.”
“I don’t care what they think.”
“You’re going to meet people, Andrea. Older people who know how to behave at races and don’t have school on Monday or a toddler sleeping in their parents’ house.”
The silence that followed felt ugly as soon as the words existed. Kimi shifted upright, no longer slumped against the headboard. “You think I don’t know what my own life is?”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“You think I’m going to arrive in Formula One and forget that you and Nora exist.”
“I didn’t say that either.”
“You meant it.” You lowered your eyes because denying it completely would have been dishonest.
Kimi leaned closer to the camera. When he spoke again, the defensiveness had softened into something more careful.
“I know you have school, but I still have school work too. I know we still live with our parents. I know Nora wakes up at six, throws food on the floor and thinks every Mercedes belongs to me. None of this will become new information because I’m driving in Formula One.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “Because I don’t know what answer you expect. But these are things we solve together. I’m with you because you’re you.”
You stared at him. “That was terrible.”
“I know.”
“You’re awful at this.”
His mouth softened into a tired smile, and despite yourself, you felt the tightness in your chest loosen slightly. “You wore a Spider-Man hat to meet Toto,” Kimi continued. “You didn’t care what anybody thought then. I don't care about those other supposed women I'll meet. I love you, YN.”
“You’re stupid,” you said. A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Kimi smiled properly, satisfied that he had managed to pull you away from the comments even if only for a moment.
“You knew that when you became my girlfriend.”
“I was twelve. My judgement was undeveloped.”
“It still is.”
“I’m aware.” Nora called from the carpet, holding one of the abandoned hair bands in her fist. “Mama, help.”
You lifted her onto the bed, and Nora immediately crawled into your lap and leaned toward the phone. “Babbo.”
Kimi’s whole face softened. “Ciao, stella.”
Nora pressed one finger against the screen. You laughed, and after a second Kimi did too. The follow requests continued climbing while you spoke, but Nora remained hidden behind the closed door of your account.
SEPTEMBER 2024
The first thing you did with an entirely child-free Saturday afternoon was stain the bathroom sink pink.
Nora had left after lunch with Maggie and Kimi’s parents, wearing her yellow sandals, a cardigan you had packed despite the lingering summer heat and a solemn expression that suggested she had been personally inconvenienced by the entire arrangement.
Veronica had promised they would bring her back after dinner, Maggie had already planned an afternoon involving the park and an unreasonable amount of ice cream.
Kimi had stood in the doorway waving until the lift closed as though their daughter was leaving the country rather than spending five hours with people she saw several times a week.
For the first ten minutes after they left, the apartment had felt unnaturally still. There were no cartoons murmuring from the television, no plastic wheels scraping across the floor and nobody calling for one parent while sitting directly beside the other.
You had walked through the sitting room twice, picked up three toys without meaning to and finally announced that you were going to dye your hair.
That was how Kimi ended up sitting on the closed toilet lid, his knees apart and his elbows resting on them, while you stood before the mirror in his old black T-shirt with a towel draped around your shoulders and hot-pink dye smeared across both gloved hands.
He had been there for almost forty minutes, despite contributing nothing beyond reading the instructions aloud in an exaggeratedly serious voice and repeatedly pointing out places you had already covered. “You missed a bit.”
“I did not.”
“You did. At the back.”
You tried to turn your head far enough to inspect it in the mirror and succeeded only in pulling a dyed section of hair across your cheek. “Where?”
Kimi lifted one hand vaguely. “There.”
“That means nothing.”
“Near the middle.”
“My entire head has a middle.”
He leaned forward as if this were a mechanical problem requiring closer examination, his expression narrowing into the same concentration he brought to simulator data and steering-wheel settings.
He had arrived in Bologna the previous evening and would leave again on next Monday for Baku, which meant there were at least a week and a half between him being yours and him belonging once more to airports, briefings and whichever hotel Mercedes or Prema had booked for him.
His suitcase remained open in the bedroom because he insisted there was no point unpacking for such a short visit, although half its contents had already migrated across your room.
One of his hoodies hung over the back of a kitchen chair, his charger had replaced yours beside the bed and a pair of socks lay abandoned near the sofa.
He arrived like weather, spreading through every room before anyone could stop him. “I can do it,” he said, reaching for the brush.
You moved it away from him. “You absolutely cannot.”
“I drive cars.”
“You have crashed several of them.”
He gave you a wounded look, but settled back onto the toilet without arguing further. There was something strangely familiar about having him there while you did something pointless and slightly reckless.
Before Nora, before doctors’ appointments and conversations with your parents that had made the air in every room feel too heavy to breathe, you had spent entire afternoons doing very little together.
Kimi would lie across your bed while you attempted makeup you had seen online, complain when you asked him to choose between two nearly identical colours and then become offended if you ignored his answer.
You had been children who believed boredom was a problem and time was endless. Since Nora’s birth, an empty afternoon had become something to organise properly, as though wasting it would be ungrateful.
You had nearly suggested that you go somewhere once Nora left. You could have walked into the centre, eaten lunch without cutting anyone else’s food or sat through a film that did not include animated animals.
Instead, Kimi had found the box of dye on the bathroom shelf and asked whether you were actually going to use it.
You had bought it three weeks earlier, hidden it behind a packet of cotton pads and spent every morning since then deciding that bright pink hair was either the best idea you had ever had or a sign that you should not be allowed to make unsupervised choices.
“You’re going to hate it,” you said, working the dye through another section.
“I won’t.”
“You haven’t seen it.”
“I saw the box.”
“The woman on the box is professionally lit and probably wearing a wig.”
Kimi glanced at the picture balanced beside the sink. “You’ll look better.” You met his eyes through the mirror, suspicious less of the compliment than of how easily he had offered it. “You don’t need to say that.”
“I know.”
“You’d tell me I looked good if I shaved my eyebrows.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“You once said my fringe looked nice after I cut it myself.”
“It did.”
“It was crooked.”
“I liked it crooked.” He smiled, satisfied rather than embarrassed, and reached forward to catch the edge of the towel before it slipped from your shoulder.
His fingers brushed your neck as he tucked it back into place, the gesture so casual that neither of you acknowledged it.
Your relationship was full of touches that had lost the ceremony they once carried: his hand finding your waist when he passed behind you, your feet pushed beneath his legs on the sofa, his chin resting briefly on the top of your head while you checked something on your phone.
Kimi picked up the instructions again. “It says twenty-five minutes.”
“From when?”
“Application.”
“Yes, but from when I started applying it or when I finish?”
He scanned the page. “It doesn’t say.”
“That feels important.”
“We can do thirty.”
“And if all my hair falls out?”
“Then I’ll buy you a wig.” You turned slowly toward him, dye brush still in hand. “You’re very calm about the possibility of me becoming bald.”
“You’d still be pretty.”
“There you go again.”
“And easier to dry.”
You flicked the brush toward him before remembering what was on it. Kimi jerked backwards, one hand flying to the front of his white T-shirt while a narrow streak of pink landed across his forearm.
For a second you both stared at it. Then you began laughing, not delicately or apologetically, but hard enough that you had to grip the edge of the sink while Kimi examined the mark with the grave disbelief of somebody assessing serious damage.
“This is new,” he said.
“It’ll wash off.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It’s hair dye, not poison.” He rubbed at the streak with a damp piece of tissue, which only spread the colour into a pale pink cloud.
You laughed harder, and when he looked up at you through the mirror his annoyance lasted perhaps two seconds before his mouth twitched.
He caught you around the hips when you attempted to step away, careful to keep his stained arm from your shirt, and pressed his forehead against your side until you stopped moving. “You did that on purpose,” he accused.
“I absolutely did not.”
“My life was fine before I came into this bathroom.”
“Then go.”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be teasing. You looked down at him, and Kimi loosened his grip without removing his hands from your waist.
He had been away for most of the previous week, and although you spoke every day, calls had a shape real life did not. They fit into gaps between obligations.
You propped him against the sugar jar while preparing Nora’s dinner, or he called from the back of a car with someone waiting for him at the other end.
You saw each other’s faces but rarely had each other’s full attention.
Even arguments became compressed because one of you had to leave, and affection was reduced to things spoken quietly just before hanging up. “You could be doing something more exciting,” you said.
“I don’t want to.”
“You’re watching me dye my hair in a bathroom that smells terrible.”
“Yes.”
“You have a very sad life.”
“I know.”
His thumbs moved once against your waist, and you looked back at the mirror before the softness of the moment could make you uncomfortable.
You had been together long enough that you should have been immune to him, yet sometimes Kimi looked at you with such uncomplicated attachment that you felt fourteen again, suddenly aware of every part of yourself and unsure what to do with your hands.
It was easier when you were joking.
It was easier when Nora was present, filling the spaces between you and giving your attention somewhere obvious to go. You picked up another section of hair and smoothed dye through it. “Are you nervous about Baku?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not nervous.”
You looked at him in the mirror. “You’re a shit liar.” Kimi lowered his gaze to the instructions, folding one corner between his fingers. He disliked admitting fear before races because naming it seemed, in his mind, to give it authority.
You had learned not to push too hard. You had also learned that nervousness in Kimi rarely looked like panic; it looked like restless hands, repeated questions about departure times and an inability to leave any object where he had first placed it.
“It’s important,” he said eventually.
He did not need to explain. You set down the brush and turned to face him properly. “You don’t have to prove Mercedes right every weekend.” “I know.”
“No, you know because people keep saying it. That’s different.”
His mouth tightened slightly. “If I drive badly, they’ll say I’m not ready.”
“They already say that.”
“Exactly.”
“And if you win, some of them will still say you’re not ready. Then you’ll drive another race, and they’ll find something else. You cannot organise strangers into liking you.”
“I don’t want them to like me.”
“You want them to think you deserve it.” Kimi did not answer. You reached out and pressed one gloved fingertip against the centre of his forehead, leaving a bright pink mark above his eyebrows. His eyes widened. “YN.”
“That one was on purpose.”
He stared at you, then reached for the box of dye. You moved first, trying to squeeze past him into the hallway, but he caught you before you reached the door.
The next minute dissolved into laughter, threats and you attempting to protect your half-dyed hair while Kimi held the box above your head.
He could have overpowered you easily if either of you had been taking it seriously, but he was laughing too much, his grip loose enough for you to twist free before returning to wipe the pink dot from his forehead with the corner of the towel. You only made it worse.
You stopped eventually because the timer on your phone began ringing from beside the sink. Kimi released you but remained standing close, his hair disordered from where you had pushed at it and his forehead still faintly pink.
Your cheeks hurt from laughing. The bathroom looked worse than before, with dye on the sink, the floor and possibly the side of the bath.
But for several minutes you had forgotten school plans, the Mercedes seat, Baku and the collection of future absences already accumulating between you.
Kimi looked at your reflection, then at the vivid colour coating your hair. “I like it.”
“It isn’t finished.”
“I still like it.”
You rolled your eyes, but smiled as you pulled on the shower cap. Kimi sat back down on the toilet lid while you began cleaning the sink, offering advice you did not ask for and passing you tissues only after you had already reached for them yourself.
You had a few hours before Nora came home, before the apartment returned to its usual noise.
There was nowhere else you wanted to be, although you would have denied it if he asked.
NOVEMBER 2024
By the time Nora turned two, she had developed enough opinions to make planning her birthday almost impossible and not enough patience or vocab to explain any of them properly. She wanted strawberries, but not if they had been cut.
She liked balloons until one moved unexpectedly near her face, at which point she regarded the entire bunch as a personal threat.
When you showed her pictures of cakes, Nora pressed her finger against a photograph covered in pink icing and tiny white bows, announced, “Berry,” and refused to look at anything else.
That became the theme mostly by accident: strawberries, red gingham ribbons, little bows tied around the paper cups and a cake you had ordered from a bakery near your school after accepting that attempting to make one yourself would end with you crying over buttercream at midnight.
The celebration was held at Kimi's home on the afternoon of 21 November because there was more room there than at yours, although by the time both families arrived with presents, coats and dishes of food nobody had been asked to bring, the sitting room felt smaller than it had before.
By half past one the house was overflowing. Aunts and uncles greeted each other loudly over one another, cousins disappeared upstairs almost immediately, and every flat surface slowly accumulated trays of food despite you insisting all week that they already had enough.
Your grandmother kissed Nora's cheeks so many times the toddler eventually wriggled away with an indignant, "No!" while one of Kimi's uncles declared, for at least the fifth time, that she had his eyes. Another relative immediately disagreed.
You had spent the morning taping paper strawberries to the walls while Nora followed you with a roll of ribbon trailing from one hand, and Kimi had been placed in charge of inflating balloons until he became distracted trying to balance three of them against the ceiling with static.
He had returned from his final stretch of simulator work late the previous evening and fallen asleep with one arm across your stomach before you had managed to ask whether he had packed the shirt you wanted him to wear.
In the morning he appeared in it anyway, slightly creased and buttoned incorrectly at first, his hair still damp from the shower while Nora sat on the kitchen counter eating the strawberries intended for the table.
“She has had six,” you said, catching Kimi handing her another one while he believed your back was turned. “She asked.”
“She says ‘please’ to anything she wants because you taught her it always works.”
“That is what please is for.”
“That is not what please is for, and she is going to be sick before anyone gets here.”
Nora looked between you while chewing, her cheeks rounded around the fruit and one sock already missing. “More, please.”
Kimi reached toward the bowl again, only for you to slap the back of his hand without enough force to hurt him. He looked offended, but he did not attempt to argue when you moved the strawberries to the top of the refrigerator.
Instead, he lifted Nora from the counter and carried her toward the sitting room, whispering something into her hair that made her twist around to stare accusingly at you. “Do not turn my daughter against me on her birthday,” you called after them.
“Our daughter,” Kimi corrected from the other room. “And she already knows what you did.”
The party itself began noisily and remained that way. Maggie arrived wearing a paper crown she had bought for Nora and another tucked into her handbag for herself, while Kimi’s parents brought a wooden dolls’ house that required far more assembly than the box had suggested.
Kimi's younger cousins immediately volunteered to help build it, only to spend ten minutes arguing over the instructions before one of his older uncles quietly took the screwdriver from them and finished half of it in under five minutes.
Meanwhile, your aunt kept insisting everyone take more food, despite nobody having finished what was already on their plates.
Nora moved from one adult to another with the confidence of somebody certain that the entire room had gathered because she had personally summoned them.
She allowed everyone to admire her dress, which was pale pink with tiny embroidered strawberries along the collar, but became furious when you tried to fasten a matching clip into her hair.
The clip lasted less than a minute before Nora removed it and pushed it into Kimi’s hand for safekeeping, and he slipped it into his pocket with the same solemnity he used when an engineer passed him equipment.
The day did not feel grand enough to account for two whole years. You kept expecting some visible dividing line to appear between the baby Nora had been that morning and the child she would become after the candles were blown out.
But the afternoon passed through ordinary disturbances: dropped cups, wrapping paper trampled beneath shoes and Maggie arguing with Kimi about whether he had eaten one of the decorative strawberries from the cake.
Nora opened her presents in no sensible order, becoming so attached to a small fabric rabbit from your mother that she resisted every attempt to persuade her toward the larger boxes.
When Kimi finally lifted her onto his lap in front of the cake, she held the rabbit beneath one arm and stared at the two candles with immediate suspicion. “Hot,” she warned him.
“Yes, they’re hot,” Kimi said, keeping one hand around her waist while you crouched on the other side of the table. “You blow them out, but you don’t touch them.”
Nora nodded with exaggerated seriousness, waited until the first line of the birthday song and blew before anybody reached her name. Only one candle went out. She gasped, delighted with herself, and began blowing repeatedly while everyone continued singing around her.
Kimi laughed close to her ear and helped direct her toward the remaining flame, though Nora claimed the success entirely as her own and clapped with both hands once the second candle disappeared.
You watched her lean forward to inspect the thin trails of smoke and felt the familiar disbelief of seeing time made physical.
Two years earlier, Nora had been a warm, furious weight placed against your chest while you lay exhausted beneath hospital lights, relieved more than anything else that the waiting was over and frightened by how little you understood about what came next.
Now Nora knew where the spoons were kept, demanded specific songs in the car and called Kimi from one room to another simply to show him something she had dropped. There had been no single moment when she stopped being a baby.
It had happened gradually, in clothes becoming too small and words becoming clearer, until you looked at her and realised you were raising someone who already possessed a life inside her that neither parent could control.
Kimi caught you staring and leaned across Nora to brush a smear of icing from the corner of your mouth. “Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I am not crying at a birthday cake.”
“You cried last year.”
“I had slept for four hours.”
“You cried when she turned six months.”
“That was different.”
“How?” You looked toward Nora, who had pushed two fingers into the cake while everyone was distracted and was now licking icing from them beneath the table. “She keeps getting older.”
“That is normally what happens.”
“You are deeply irritating.” Kimi smiled and rested his knee against yours beneath the table. The gesture was small enough to escape everyone else’s attention, but you felt the pressure remain while the room moved around you.
He understood what you meant, even when he answered badly. The previous year he had still been moving through the categories beneath Formula One, and the Mercedes seat had existed only as a possibility so distant that neither of you had dared to fit your lives around it.
By Nora’s third birthday, he would have completed almost an entire season as a Formula One driver. The thought made the next twelve months seem simultaneously enormous and frighteningly brief.
Once the cake had been cut and Nora had consumed enough icing to become unnaturally energetic, Kimi disappeared into the hallway with her new dolls’ house instructions while you stood at the kitchen sink rinsing plates.
You found him twenty minutes later sitting on the floor beside his father, surrounded by panels and tiny wooden screws, with Nora repeatedly attempting to move pieces they had already attached.
He was arguing that the diagram had been printed incorrectly, Marco was arguing that his son simply had not read it properly and Nora was tapping a wooden roof against Kimi’s shoulder while saying, “Babbo, house,” with increasing impatience.
You remained in the doorway for a moment, watching him surrender the instructions to his father before pulling Nora into his lap.
In public photographs, particularly the newer ones now appearing beneath Mercedes articles, Kimi had begun to look older than he did at home.
Team clothing sharpened him somehow; cameras caught him concentrating, his expression serious and his shoulders held with the awareness that he was being observed.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor with a paper crown slipping sideways over his hair and a wooden wall balanced against one knee, he looked exactly eighteen.
The contrast was becoming harder for you to reconcile, because both versions were real and only one of them belonged wholly to you.
Later that evening, after the families had left and Nora had finally surrendered to sleep with the fabric rabbit trapped beneath her chin, you and Kimi sat together on the kitchen floor because neither of you had the energy to clear space at the table.
There was leftover cake between you, eaten directly from the box with two forks, and the paper decorations shifted faintly whenever the heating came on.
Kimi had removed the crown but retained a line of silver glitter near his temple, while your pink hair had been pulled into an untidy knot that stained the pale collar of your sweatshirt whenever you leaned backwards against the cupboards. “She had a good birthday,” Kimi said, reaching past you for a strawberry embedded in the icing.
“She will remember none of it.”
“We have pictures.” You glanced toward the sitting room, where the unfinished dolls’ house stood beneath the window with its roof leaning against the sofa.
Kimi scraped icing from the edge of the box and offered it to you from his fork. You accepted it before thinking to refuse, then rested your head against his shoulder while you listened to the quiet of the apartment.
It was the kind of quiet that only arrived after Nora had spent an entire day filling every room with herself, leaving her absence almost as noticeable as her presence. “She’s two,” Kimi murmured.
“I noticed.”
“I mean properly two.”
“That is generally how birthdays work.” He nudged you with his shoulder in retaliation, and you smiled into the fabric of his shirt.
kimi.antonelli: thats such a bad angle of our decorations
giulialouise: did you guy my gift
ynusername: yesss she's obsessed
Your phone vibrated once beneath the desk and then again before you had decided whether it was worth risking your teacher noticing.
Kimi had been in Brackley since the previous afternoon, completing simulator work and meetings for a season that still felt distant to you even as more of his weeks began disappearing into it.
He usually messaged her from corridors, parked cars and meeting rooms five minutes before someone expected him elsewhere, so it was easy to assume the interruption would be a complaint about food or a photograph of something unremarkable that he had decided Nora needed to see.
You were halfway through preparing dinner when the intercom sounded. Nora sat in her high chair dragging a spoon through yoghurt while you attempted to rescue pasta from boiling over, and you nearly ignored the first buzz because nobody had warned you they were coming.
The second was longer. When you pressed the button and asked who it was, Kimi’s voice answered through a layer of static.
“Me.”
You stared at the intercom. “You’re in Abu Dhabi.”
“I’m downstairs.”
“You cannot be both.”
“YN.” Something in his voice made you open the door without another question.
Several minutes later, he stepped out of the lift with a suitcase behind him, a mask covering the lower half of his face and his hood pulled over hair that had flattened strangely during the flight.
He looked exhausted rather than seriously unwell, but his eyes were dull and the skin above the mask carried the pallor of someone who had spent too long beneath airport lighting.
Nora recognised him before you had finished processing his presence. “Babbo,” she shouted, twisting around in her chair so quickly that the spoon dropped onto the floor.
Kimi stopped in the doorway. His expression softened immediately, but he remained where he was instead of crossing the room. “Ciao, stella.”
Nora lifted both arms, expecting to be collected. When he did not move, her face tightened with confusion.
“He’s sick,” you explained, taking the suitcase handle from him before he could object. “Babbo has germs.”
“No,” Nora said firmly.
“I agree, but unfortunately nobody asked us.”
Kimi removed his shoes and washed his hands before approaching, though he still resisted Nora’s demand to be picked up.
He crouched several feet from her chair and let her show him the yoghurt coating her fingers while you returned to the stove, glancing over your shoulder every few seconds to make sure he had not collapsed.
“What happened?” you asked.
“I’m ill.”
“I understood that from the plague costume.”
“They didn’t clear me to race.” His final Formula Two weekend had already been uncertain because his responsibilities with Mercedes had consumed increasing amounts of the year, but he had wanted the last round. You knew that without him saying it.
He had spent weeks speaking about Abu Dhabi as though it were something to complete properly, a final line beneath the part of his career that had carried him toward Mercedes. Instead, his body had removed the decision from him before he reached the car.
“You flew home like this?”
“I was allowed to fly.”
“That was not my question.”
“I didn’t want to stay there and watch.”
You lowered the heat beneath the pasta. Kimi had straightened, but the effort appeared to cost him, and when he reached for the suitcase you moved it beyond his hand. “Go to bed.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You look haunted.”
“I slept on the plane.”
“You look like you died on the plane.” He glanced toward Nora, who was listening intently despite understanding only fragments of the conversation. “Don’t say that.”
“She thinks death means when her tablet battery runs out.”
“Still.” You pointed toward the hallway with the wooden spoon. Kimi muttered something beneath his breath but obeyed, pausing only to tell Nora that he would see her later.
She protested immediately, repeating “Babbo bed” as if the solution were obvious, and you promised she could visit after dinner if she maintained a safe distance.
Kimi slept for nearly four hours. You checked on him twice while telling yourself both times that you were only retrieving laundry from the bedroom.
The first time, he was still wearing his sweatshirt and lying diagonally across the bed with one hand resting near his face. The second, he had pulled the blanket over his head.
His suitcase remained unopened beside the door, still bearing airline tags from a journey that had not ended the way he wanted.
When he woke, Nora was already in her pyjamas. You allowed her to sit near the foot of the bed after Kimi assured you he no longer had a fever, though you kept the window slightly open and placed a box of tissues between them like a border.
Nora studied him with concern before offering the fabric rabbit from her birthday. “For Babbo,” she said.
Kimi accepted it and rested the rabbit against his chest. “Thank you.”
“Babbo sick,” Nora informed you.
“Yes, Babbo is sick.”
“Medicine.”
“He had medicine.”
“More.”
Kimi looked toward you. “She’s very strict.”
“She gets it from me.”
“I know.” You sat beside the bed with a bowl of soup he insisted he did not want, waiting until his refusal weakened into resignation.
He ate slowly while Nora arranged three stuffed animals in a line beside his feet.
Once she had lost interest and returned to the sitting room, Kimi leaned against the pillows and stared at the soup rather than you. “I should have been there,” he said.
“You’re ill.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t choose it.”
“I know that too.”
You folded one leg beneath yourself. “Then stop answering as though I’m telling you something stupid.”
His mouth tightened. Illness made him more irritable than usual, stripping away the discipline he carried around engineers and leaving behind the boy who hated missing anything. “It was my last F2 race.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t even finish the season.”
“You finished enough of it for Mercedes to put you in Lewis Hamilton’s car.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“No, the point is that you wanted to say goodbye properly, and now you can’t. You’re allowed to be angry about that without turning it into proof that the entire year was incomplete.”
He looked at you then, the tension in his expression easing slightly. You reached across to place the back of your hand against his forehead, more because you wanted to touch him than because you expected useful information from the gesture.
His skin felt warm but no longer frighteningly hot. “You came home early,” you said. “That is not the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”
“I could make you ill.”
“You have been doing that emotionally for years.” A tired laugh escaped him before he could suppress it. He caught your wrist and kept your hand against his cheek, closing his eyes for several seconds while you traced your thumb beneath the edge of his eye.
It was not the reunion either of you would have chosen. He smelled faintly of medicine and aircraft air, while you had yoghurt on your sleeve and had spent the evening preventing Nora from entering the bedroom every three minutes.
Still, he was home. The last race was gone, but so was the distance between you, and for once his schedule had returned him sooner rather than taking him away.
DECEMBER 2024
Your date began nearly forty minutes late because you could not decide whether your boots made the outfit look deliberate or absurd, and Kimi had made the mistake of telling you they looked “fine.”
“Fine is what you say about the weather,” you called from upstairs. “Nobody wants their outfit to be fine.” Kimi stood in the hallway beneath the stairs, already wearing his coat and checking the time with increasingly obvious movements of his wrist. “I said they looked good first.”
“You said, ‘They’re fine, can we go?’ ”
“Because we have a reservation.”
“Restaurants continue to exist after seven-thirty.”
“Our table might not.”
“Then you can explain that your girlfriend was having a crisis.”
“I think they’ll know when they see your hair.” You appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Kimi’s gaze travelled up before settling on your face, and whatever answer he had prepared disappeared. The bright pink dye had been refreshed two days earlier, leaving the colour vivid from root to end, and Maggie had helped you shape it into loose, full waves that fell past your chest.
Against the white headband and the clean cream of your coat, it looked even brighter, almost luminous beneath the hallway light.
It was fastened high at your throat with oversized buttons and fell just past your hips, concealing most of the fitted knit top underneath.
Kimi continued staring. “Well?” you asked, descending the stairs carefully because the boots were less stable than you had pretended when buying them.
“You look beautiful.” The response came quickly enough to satisfy you, although you still examined his expression for signs of fear. “Do I look like a snowman?”
“No.”
“A Christmas decoration?”
“No.”
“A nurse from the future?”
His mouth twitched. “A little.” You stopped on the final step and turned around.
“I’m joking,” he said immediately, catching your wrist before you could climb back upstairs. “You look amazing. Come here.”
You allowed him to draw you down beside him, though you maintained an offended expression while he reached toward the collar of your jacket.
One of the large buttons had been pushed through the wrong loop, causing the fabric to sit unevenly across your shoulder.
Kimi fixed it with the quiet concentration he brought to small practical tasks, smoothing the collar once he finished and tucking a pink curl free where it had caught beneath the wool. “There.”
You glanced down at the button before looking back up. “Better?”
“Much.” He leaned in automatically, intending to kiss you, but you planted a hand against the middle of his chest and stopped him just before your faces met. “Absolutely not.”
Kimi blinked. “What?”
“Lip gloss.” You gestured to your lips.
“I’ll survive.”
“You won’t. It’ll end up all over your face and then you’ll complain that I made you look ridiculous.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You complained for four days about pink hair dye on your arm.”
“That stained.”
“This stains too.”
“Not if it’s quick.” Before you could protest again, he gripped the sides of your face gently and kissed you anyway. It lasted no more than a second before you laughed and pushed him away with both hands. “Kimi!”
He looked at you innocently. “What?”
You sighed dramatically, reached into your handbag for the small mirror you always carried and held it up in front of him. A faint sheen of rosy gloss had transferred neatly onto the centre of his lips. “There.”
Kimi studied his reflection for a moment before shrugging. “Looks good.”
Rolling your eyes, you wiped the gloss from his mouth with the pad of your thumb before he could walk out of the house wearing it, though you were smiling too much for your annoyance to feel convincing. “You’re wearing the jumper,” you said, looking at him. “You told me to.”
“I didn’t think you listened.”
“I listen.”
“You packed three black shirts for Amalfi after I told you to bring something white.” Kimi slid his hand beneath the coat and rested it against your waist.
“Can we go before you find another problem?” You considered keeping the argument alive for another minute, then rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Fine.”
Nora had been collected by Marco and Veronica earlier that afternoon, and the house carried the temporary stillness that always followed her departure.
Her cup remained beside the sink, one small shoe had been found beneath the sofa after she left and a half-completed drawing waited on the coffee table.
You checked the contents of your handbag twice before remembering you did not need wipes, snacks, spare socks or the collection of objects usually required to leave the house with a toddler. Your bag felt suspiciously light.
You walked into the centre rather than taking the car because the streets were crowded before Christmas and Kimi insisted it would be faster. Bologna had turned gold beneath the seasonal lights.
Long strands stretched between the buildings, their reflections trembling in shop windows and across the wet patches left by an earlier rain.
The porticoes trapped the warmth from restaurants and the smell of roasted chestnuts, coffee and sugar, while people moved around you carrying bags, bouquets and awkwardly wrapped presents.
Your pale outfit made you visible in the darker winter crowd even before anyone noticed your hair.
You moved closer beneath his arm, letting the cape fold partly around both of you as you continued along the crowded street.
The afternoon had already darkened into evening, but shopkeepers had left their doors open and music drifted out whenever someone entered. You passed a toy shop where an elaborate wooden kitchen occupied the window, and both of you slowed without meaning to. “No,” you said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking about Nora. She already has a kitchen!”
“She has half a kitchen. It’s missing the sink.”
“It isn’t missing the sink. That version has a sink because it costs twice as much.”
Kimi continued looking through the glass. “She likes washing things. We could get it for her birthday next year.”
“She turned two last month.”
“I said next year.”
“You are planning a gift eleven months early while making me come to dinner without her so that we can have time as a couple.”
He turned away from the window reluctantly. “I can do both.” You hooked your hand around his elbow and pulled him onward before he could decide to enter. “Tonight, you are not buying our daughter a second kitchen.”
The Christmas market occupied a square several streets away, arranged in rows of wooden stalls beneath strings of small warm lights. You had visited it every year with your parents, but the familiarity felt different with Kimi beside you and no pushchair to manoeuvre through the crowd.
You could stop wherever you wanted without calculating whether Nora was cold, hungry or seconds away from demanding freedom. You sampled pieces of chocolate from one stall, debated buying a jar of honey neither of you particularly liked and spent too long looking at hand-painted ornaments.
You noticed the strawberry first. It was carved from wood, painted glossy red and tied with a narrow green ribbon, no larger than your thumb. “That’s Nora,” you said.
“It’s a strawberry.”
You lifted it from the display. “She’ll recognise it.”
“She thinks tomatoes are apples.”
“She’s learning.” Kimi waited until you paid for the ornament, then moved two stalls farther and purchased a tiny red race car with gold wheels. You watched the seller wrap it. “You’re a hypocrite.”
“This one is for me.”
“You’re putting it on Nora’s section of the tree.”
“There is no Nora section.”
“The bottom half is the Nora section because she removes everything we put there.”
Kimi accepted the little paper bag from the seller and slipped it into his coat. “Then I’ll put it higher.” You bought hot chocolate from a crowded stall near the edge of the market.
The drinks were thick enough to be eaten with spoons, and you carried yours carefully while Kimi balanced his and a warm pastry dusted with sugar.
He had asked whether you wanted one, you had said no, because you had dinner booked and because you enjoyed believing yourself more restrained than you were. Less than a minute later, you tore a corner from his. Kimi looked down at the missing section. “You said you didn’t want one.”
“I wanted one bite.” He moved the pastry away when you reached for it again. You followed, attempting to take another piece while keeping your chocolate level, until Kimi trapped your wrist against his chest. “Ask nicely.”
“You are withholding food from the mother of your child.”
“You refused your own.”
“I didn’t know yours would be good.”
“They came from the same tray.”
You looked up at him. “Please.” Kimi released your wrist and held the pastry near your mouth with an expression of exaggerated patience.
You took a deliberately larger bite than before, leaving powdered sugar across your lower lip. He stared at it for a moment, then wiped it away with his thumb before placing the thumb into his own mouth.
The gesture was so casual and intimate that you became abruptly aware of the people around you. “You’re disgusting,” you said, although your face had warmed.
Being with Kimi had never become as polished as strangers might imagine from photographs. He was affectionate without ceremony, often at moments when you had not prepared yourself for it, and then completely oblivious at others.
He would remember the exact bracelet you had admired months earlier and forget that calling an outfit “fine” might start an argument. Your relationship survived through a mixture of long familiarity and selective patience.
The restaurant was small and warmer than you expected, tucked beneath one of the older porticoes with fog beginning to gather along the lower edges of its windows.
Your table stood against the wall near the back. A candle burned between two glasses, and the menu had been folded into thick cream paper that made the evening feel more formal than either of you knew how to behave.
Kimi pulled out your chair with such obvious concentration that you looked at him suspiciously. “Who told you to do that?”
“No one.”
“Your father?”
Kimi sat opposite you. “I know how dates work.”
“You have dated one person.”
“That still counts.”
You opened the menu to hide your smile. “Barely.” For the first part of dinner, you sat across from each other and attempted to behave as though this arrangement were normal.
Kimi kept stretching one leg beneath the table until his foot rested against yours.
You stole from his starter after declaring yours better, then discovered his was in fact better and continued stealing.
The couple beside you were speaking in low voices, while somewhere behind the kitchen doors plates clattered and someone laughed loudly enough to reach the dining room.
When a group entered and cold air moved through the restaurant, Kimi frowned toward the door, picked up his glass and relocated to the empty chair beside you without asking. “What are you doing?”
“It’s cold.”
“You wanted to sit beside me.”
“I can do both.” He settled with his thigh pressed against yours beneath the table and looked over the dessert menu as though no further discussion were required. You could have objected, but his presence beside you felt more natural.
You had always been terrible at maintaining polite distance. Even before you were dating, Kimi had crowded into your space to look at your phone, stolen half your pillow and sat close enough for your shoulders to overlap despite entire benches remaining empty.
You discussed school first because you had received the result of your French assessment that morning. You had earned one of your strongest marks of the year after weeks of believing the school meeting had confirmed you were slipping beyond recovery.
Your teacher had written excellent improvement beneath the final answer, a phrase you claimed was patronising while keeping the marked paper carefully protected inside your folder. “You should be proud,” Kimi said.
“I am.”
“You sound angry.”
“She said, ‘This is much more like your old work.’”
“That sounds good.”
“It means she expected me to fail.”
Kimi smiled and reached beneath the table for your hand. “You did well.” The sincerity beneath the words prevented you from dismissing them. You threaded your fingers through his and let your joined hands rest between your chairs. “Thank you.”
He told you about media training afterwards. Mercedes had begun preparing him for the questions that would follow him into the season, most of which involved Lewis Hamilton. How did it feel to replace a seven-time world champion?
Was he ready for the pressure? Did he believe he deserved one of the most valuable seats on the grid after only a limited Formula Two campaign?
Kimi had been taught ways to redirect the wording, to avoid comparisons without appearing defensive and to repeat that he was grateful for the opportunity.
“They asked me the same question six ways,” he said. “Then they showed me videos and asked what I did wrong.”
“What did you do wrong?”
“I looked annoyed.”
You leaned closer. “Can I see your media face?”
“What?”
“The face you make when someone asks whether you’re good enough.”
Kimi straightened slightly and arranged his expression into something composed but empty. “I’m extremely grateful for the trust Mercedes has placed in me, and I’m focused on preparing as well as possible for the season.”
You stared at him. “That was horrifying. You sounded like a hostage.” Kimi broke first, lowering his face as laughter escaped him. You joined him, leaning against his shoulder until the waiter arrived with your main courses and found you trying unsuccessfully to recover.
After dinner, while you were still considering whether you had room for dessert, Kimi removed a small box from the inside of his coat and placed it beside your plate. Your eyes narrowed. “We agreed on Christmas presents after Christmas.”
“It isn’t your Christmas present.”
“It is the twentieth of December and you have produced jewellery packaging.”
Kimi pushed the box closer. “Open it.” Inside lay a fine silver bracelet with a small star charm suspended from the centre. It was delicate and understated, the metal catching the candlelight whenever you moved the box.
You had admired something similar months earlier while walking through a shop with Maggie, then forgotten about it almost immediately. You touched the charm with one fingertip. “How did you know?”
“You sent me a picture.”
“I send you pictures all the time.”
Kimi lifted the bracelet from the box. “Give me your hand.” He fastened it around your wrist, bending close while he struggled briefly with the clasp. You watched his fingers, noticing the faint pink mark that remained near one cuticle from helping you refresh your hair.
Once the bracelet was secure, he turned your wrist so the star settled against your skin. “It’s for London,” he said.
You looked up. “London is two months away.”
His certainty should have irritated you, but the bracelet had softened you too much. You leaned into him, resting your head against the shoulder of his cream jumper. “Thank you.”
“You like it?”
“I love it.”
Kimi kissed the top of your pink hair. “Good.”
When you eventually left the restaurant, the streets had thinned and the cold felt sharper. You slipped your hand into Kimi’s coat pocket because you had forgotten gloves, and he folded his fingers around yours inside it.
You collected Nora shortly before midnight. Veronica opened the door wearing a dressing gown and immediately told you that you were late, though she smiled when you apologised.
Nora had fallen asleep in the cot in Kimi’s bedroom with her fabric rabbit tucked beneath her chin and one foot uncovered. You removed your boots before entering, leaving them beside the door, while Kimi gathered Nora carefully from the bed.
She stirred against his shoulder but did not wake fully. Her hand closed around the collar of his coat, and Kimi adjusted the blanket around her legs before carrying her downstairs.
You followed with Nora’s overnight bag and the paper ornament from the market, the new bracelet moving lightly against your wrist.
Kimi arrived at your parents’ house at nine-twenty on the morning of Saint Stephen’s Day, carrying enough luggage to suggest he had been evicted.
Hearing the buzzer while standing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and Nora’s cup in the other, you had been attempting to make scrambled eggs while Nora sat at the table in red Christmas pyjamas, feeding pieces of toast to the new wooden giraffe despite repeated explanations that the giraffe could not eat.
The house remained untidy from the previous day. Some of Nora’s presents that were unopened were brought home, so torn wrapping paper had been gathered into an overflowing bag near the door, unopened chocolates covered one end of the table and several toys already appeared to have lost essential pieces.
Kimi had told you he would arrive after lunch.
When you opened the door, he stood on the step in a grey sweatshirt beneath his coat, one duffel bag hanging from his shoulder, a smaller suitcase beside his feet and two paper shopping bags balanced in his left hand.
His hair was flattened beneath a beanie, and the cold had reddened the bridge of his nose. “What happened to after lunch?” you asked.
“I woke up early.”
“Why do you have a suitcase?”
“I’m staying.”
“You can't announce that while standing on my doorstep.”
“I messaged you.” You reached into the pocket of your hoodie and checked your phone. There was a message from eight minutes earlier.
kimi: coming now
Nora heard his voice from the kitchen and appeared in the hallway with toast clutched in one fist. “Babbo!”
Kimi’s attention left you the moment Nora appeared. He set the bags down and crouched as she came rushing across the tiles, her footed pyjamas turning the run into a series of determined little stumbles.
He caught her beneath the arms before she could fall, lifted her high enough to make her squeal and pressed his face into her stomach while she laughed and pulled at his beanie.
“Ciao, stella,” he murmured, lowering her against his chest.
He carried Nora inside as though the luggage had ceased to exist, leaving you to collect it from the doorway. “You could help.”
“My hands are full.”
“Oh, of course. Let’s leave the girl you got pregnant to carry everything.”
Kimi looked back at you over Nora’s shoulder, completely untroubled. “It’s one suitcase.”
“And a duffel bag.”
“Training things.”
“You are not training in my parents’ living room.”
He waited until you had dragged both bags inside before stepping closer.
Nora remained balanced on one hip, still trying to pull off his hat, while Kimi caught you by the waist with his free arm and drew you against his side.
“I’m staying until your parents come back.”
You stopped struggling with the duffel strap. Your parents wouldn't return until January. You had expected him to spend Saint Stephen’s Day with you, perhaps stay the night and then disappear back into whatever his family had planned for the remainder of the holiday.
“You’re staying here?”
“Yes.”
“The entire time?”
“That is normally what staying means.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but Kimi only leaned down and kissed the side of your head, his mouth catching against the loose pink hair near your temple before he turned toward the bags.
“My mother packed food.”
One contained containers labelled in Veronica’s handwriting, while the other held pastries, fruit and a small wrapped parcel you suspected had been added at the last moment.
A note had been taped to the largest container: Heat properly. Do not let Kimi tell you two minutes is enough.
You read it and looked at him. “Your mother sent you here.”
“She didn’t send me.”
“She packed enough food for a siege.”
“She knew I was coming.”
“You planned this with everyone except me.” Kimi’s expression remained calm in the maddening way it did whenever he believed an argument had already been decided.
He shifted Nora higher, then reached out and hooked two fingers into the pocket of your hoodie, tugging you back toward him when you tried to walk past. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“You brought laundry. That isn’t a surprise.”
“I’m still staying.”
Nora, having listened to none of the actual disagreement, patted his cheek. “Babbo stay.”
Kimi looked at you over your daughter’s head. “She agrees.”
“She also believes giraffes eat toast.”
“Maybe she knows something.”
You attempted to maintain your annoyance, but he was standing in your hallway with your daughter clinging to him, enough food for several days and a suitcase he had packed because he had chosen to spend the rest of the holiday with you.
You reached up and removed his beanie before Nora could stretch it beyond repair, smoothing his flattened hair back with your fingers. “You could have asked.”
“You would have said I didn’t need to.”
“That doesn’t mean you stop asking.”
Kimi bent and pressed a quick kiss to your mouth. “Can I stay?”
“You’re already inside.”
“That sounds like yes.”
“It sounds like you’re annoying.” He kissed you again, longer this time, until Nora pushed one small hand between your faces and objected to being trapped in the middle.
You laughed against his mouth and stepped away. “Fine. Stay.”
“I knew you’d say yes.”
“Carry your own luggage.” Within ten minutes, his charger had appeared beside the sofa, his sweatshirt hung over the back of a chair and his beanie had been placed on Nora’s head.
He settled into the house with the same certainty he always carried into spaces where you lived, as though belonging there required no discussion.
You complained while moving his shoes out of the centre of the hallway, but the sight of his things spreading through the rooms loosened something in your chest that had remained tight since your parents left.
Breakfast had gone cold during his arrival. Kimi reheated the eggs despite you claiming you no longer wanted them, then sat at the table with Nora between you.
He had eaten at his parents’ house before coming but still took toast from your plate and opened one of the pastry boxes. “You brought those for us,” you said.
“I am us.”
“You already ate breakfast.”
“That was an hour ago.” He reached across you again, this time for the jam, and you caught his wrist before he could retreat. “Ask.”
“Please.”
“That was suspiciously easy.” Kimi turned his hand inside yours and linked your fingers instead of reaching for the jar. “Please give me the jam.”
“You could get it yourself.”
“I like when you do things for me.”
“You like being lazy.”
“I like you.” The answer was delivered with such irritating simplicity that you had no response ready. You passed him the jar and tried to hide your smile by taking a drink.
Nora watched him tear a pastry in half. “Mine.”
“You have toast,” Kimi said.
“Mine, please.” He gave her the larger half without hesitation. You pointed your fork at him. “This is why she thinks please is magic.”
“It worked.”
“It should not always work.”
“Then stop giving me things when I say it.”
“You rarely say please.”
Kimi bit into the smaller half and smiled around it. “Please stop complaining.”
You kicked him lightly beneath the table. His knee knocked against yours in response, then remained pressed there while he continued eating, the contact absent-minded and familiar.
After breakfast, you video-called your parents. Your mother answered from a living room in their home country crowded with relatives, morning sunlight falling across the floor behind them.
The phone travelled through several hands before you managed to speak to either parent properly.
Nora was asked to display each Christmas present again, despite having shown most of them the previous day, and responded by carrying the phone toward the tree until the picture became a blur of branches and red pyjamas.
Kimi remained outside the frame at first, clearing plates and pretending not to listen. He passed behind you twice, touching the back of your neck on the first pass and bending to kiss the top of your head on the second. Your aunt heard his voice and immediately demanded to see him.
“Come here,” you said, catching the hem of his sweatshirt when he tried to avoid the camera.
“I’m cleaning.”
“You have moved one plate.”
“It still counts.” You pulled until he dropped into the chair beside you.
Rather than remaining neatly in his own space, Kimi slid one arm around the back of your chair and leaned against your shoulder while Nora climbed into the narrow gap between you.
“There he is,” your aunt said, “The famous one.”
Questions followed from several directions: Was Kimi eating properly? Had he spent Christmas with his parents? Was London cold in February? Would you really attend a Formula One event? When were you bringing Nora to visit them?
Kimi kept his arm behind you throughout it, his thumb moving idly against your shoulder whenever he lost track of the conversation.
At one point, an older relative asked something that made your mother immediately tell her to stop. Kimi looked between the faces on-screen. “What did she ask?”
“Nothing.”
“YN.”
“She asked when we’re getting married.” His eyebrows rose, but before he could answer you leaned toward the phone and replied rapidly that you were teenagers, Kimi had not yet completed a single Formula One race and nobody was allowed to plan a wedding while you still needed permission slips signed by a parent at school.
He looked toward the phone, where three relatives appeared to be waiting with open interest, and tightened his arm around your shoulders when you attempted to move away.
“Not yet,” he said.
The response produced enough noise that you nearly ended the call. Your mother covered her face, your aunt began speaking over everyone else and somebody farther from the camera clapped.
Kimi looked delighted with the disturbance he had caused. “You’re unbearable,” you muttered. He turned his face toward you and kissed your cheek, doing it deliberately within view of the camera.
The noise became worse. You shoved at his chest while trying not to laugh. “Stop giving them content.”
“You told them I refused.” The call lasted nearly an hour.
Watching him lean toward the phone, serious about greeting people he had never met properly, softened the remains of your annoyance about his arrival.
He kissed you quickly, then returned his attention to the phone before you could retaliate. When the call finally ended, Nora had grown restless from being indoors.
The winter sun had strengthened beyond the windows, although the air remained cold enough that you could see your breath when you opened the back door to check the temperature.
“We should take her out,” Kimi said, coming up behind you and slipping both hands beneath the hem of your hoodie to rest against your waist. His palms were cold enough to make you flinch. “Your hands are freezing.”
“That’s why I’m warming them.”
“Use your own body.”
“I prefer yours.” You tried to peel his fingers away, but he rested his chin on your shoulder and held on. “She’ll refuse the pushchair.”
“We’ll use the trike.”
“She’ll refuse the coat.”
“Then you negotiate.”
“Why me?”
“She likes you more.”
“That’s not true.” Kimi lifted his head and looked toward Nora, who was standing near the tree pulling at the hem of the beanie he had placed on her. “Nora, coat?”
“No.”
He looked back at you. “See?”
It took twenty minutes to leave the house. Nora rejected her first pair of socks, demanded the yellow shoes that no longer suited the weather and became offended when you zipped her coat fully beneath her chin. She fought the beanie but relented when the earmuffs were put on top.
She then refused the trike and insisted upon the pushchair, leaving Kimi crouched in the hallway attempting to unfold it while you packed wipes, water, snacks and the fabric rabbit into a bag. “You say short,” you told him, “and then you decide we should go somewhere else.”
“I don’t.”
“You took us out for coffee in October and we came home four hours later.” Kimi secured the bag beneath the pushchair, then caught you around the hips as you passed and pulled you briefly between his knees. “We’re going around the neighbourhood.”
“You said that in October too.”
He pressed his mouth against your stomach through the jacket before standing. “Trust me.”
“That has never ended well.”
You lasted twelve minutes around the neighbourhood before Kimi suggested walking toward the centre. The streets on Saint Stephen’s Day carried the peaceful disorder of a city recovering from Christmas.
Most shops remained closed, their shutters lowered behind decorated windows, while the cafés that had opened were crowded with families escaping houses full of leftovers.
Church bells carried across the rooftops, and the air smelled faintly of smoke, cold stone and coffee whenever a door opened beneath the porticoes.
Nora sat upright in the pushchair with the rabbit tucked beneath one arm, pointing at every dog you passed and calling each one Milo, the name of Maggie’s dog.
Kimi corrected her the first three times before surrendering. “Milo,” Nora announced as a small terrier crossed the street.
“That one is not even the same colour,” you said.
“Milo.”
“Maybe Milo has many forms,” Kimi suggested. He pushed the pushchair with one hand and slipped the other into the pocket of your coat. His fingers found yours inside it and threaded through them, drawing you closer until your shoulder rested against his upper arm. “You have your own pocket.”
“This one is warmer.”
“That’s because my hand is in it.” You walked close enough that your shoulders touched whenever the pavement narrowed. You had left your hair loose beneath a dark wool hat, the pink ends bright against your coat.
Kimi tugged lightly at one strand whenever it blew near his face, pretending to move it aside before catching it again. After the third time, you turned and tucked it deliberately beneath the collar of his coat. “Now it’s your problem.”
Kimi looked down at the pink hair trapped against his chest. “I don’t mind.”
“You’ll complain when it gets in your mouth.”
“I’ll survive.” You looked up at him, and he bent to kiss you beneath the shelter of the portico.
It was quick because you were walking and because Nora had begun twisting around in the pushchair to see why you had stopped, but Kimi followed your mouth for another second when you pulled away. “Keep walking,” you murmured.
“You stopped.” You finally stopped at a café after Nora recognised pastries through the window and began chanting “cake” with growing urgency. Inside, the windows had fogged from the contrast between the cold street and the crowded room.
You found a small table near the back, removing Nora’s coat while she attempted to reach the display. Kimi ordered coffee for himself, tea for you and a small plain cake you intended Nora to share. She did not share.
Nora placed both hands around the plate and frowned whenever either parent moved a fork toward it.
Kimi eventually distracted her by pointing outside, stole a piece and immediately passed half to you beneath the table. “You’re teaching her betrayal,” you whispered.
“She took the whole cake.”
“She’s two.”
“You use that excuse for everything.” Kimi held the stolen piece near your mouth. When you leaned forward to take it, he moved his fingers at the last moment and kissed you instead.
You pulled back, chewing the small corner you had managed to bite. “You’re twelve.”
“You still fell for it.”
“I expected food.” Nora turned back and noticed part of the cake missing. Her gaze moved from the plate to Kimi’s mouth, where a crumb remained near his lip. “Babbo cake.”
Kimi swallowed. “No.” You covered your mouth to conceal your laughter. Nora pointed accusingly. “Babbo cake!”
“Maybe Mamma ate it.”
“Mamma good.”
You sat straighter, delighted. “You heard her.”
Kimi looked betrayed, though Nora eventually forgave him after he bought a second cake to take home. You resumed walking with the box secured beneath the pushchair, though Kimi complained that the outing had become financially irresponsible.
By early afternoon, Nora’s energy began to collapse. Her observations became less frequent, her head tilted toward one shoulder and the rabbit slipped from beneath her arm twice. Kimi slowed the pushchair and kept glancing down until her eyes finally closed beneath the edge of her hat.
“We should go home,” you whispered.
“She’s warm.”
“I know, but she’ll wake up if we stay out too long.” You turned back through quieter streets. Without Nora’s commentary, the walk changed.
Kimi continued pushing with one hand while the other returned to your pocket, your fingers folding together automatically. You leaned into his side, and every few minutes he lowered his face to your hair or pressed a kiss against your temple without interrupting the conversation.
You spoke quietly about the months ahead: his training schedule in January, your birthday, London and the practical question of how often you could travel once the season started. “I can’t come to every race,” you said.
“I know.”
“I mean really know. Not say you know and then become sad when I miss three in a row.”
“I won’t become sad.” Kimi looked ahead toward the pushchair, his thumb moving slowly over the side of your hand. “I know you can’t come everywhere.”
You squeezed his fingers inside the pocket. “I want to. That isn’t the same as being able to.”
“I know.” You studied his profile for a moment, searching for the quiet resistance that usually followed whenever your schedules forced you apart. This time there was only disappointment, honest but accepting.
You moved closer and pressed your mouth against his shoulder through the wool of his coat. Kimi glanced down at you. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” He stopped walking long enough to bend and kiss you properly, one hand remaining on the pushchair while the other held yours inside your pocket. You smiled against his mouth before pulling him onward, conscious of Nora sleeping only a few feet in front of you.
You would spend much of the following year learning the difference repeatedly. Formula One would offer you more money, more opportunities and access to countries you had never imagined visiting, but it would also make your time together conditional.
For the moment, however, you were walking home beneath the winter porticoes with your daughter asleep in front of you, Kimi’s hand tucked into your pocket and the remains of your kiss still warm against your mouth.
Your school schedule would not bend because Kimi missed you. Nora’s nursery could not relocate to a paddock, and both families had already arranged too much of their lives around helping you.
When you reached the house, Nora remained asleep. Kimi carried her upstairs while you brought in everything else. You followed him into the bedroom and watched him remove Nora’s shoes with careful, slow movements.
He unzipped her coat without lifting her fully from the bed, then placed the rabbit beside her face. Nora shifted once and caught his sleeve in her hand. Kimi stayed bent over the bed until her fingers loosened.
Downstairs, you found him standing in the kitchen examining the food his mother had packed. “We should eat lunch.”
You reheated lasagne after consulting Veronica’s note and arguing about whether the foil should remain on the container. Kimi insisted he understood ovens. You reminded him that he had once placed a plastic lid beneath the grill.
He claimed it had been labelled badly. By the time lunch was ready, you had opened a bottle of sparkling water, put music on from your phone and filled the kitchen with the warm smell of tomato, cheese and herbs.
You ate at the table while Nora slept upstairs, your conversation expanding into the comfortable nonsense that rarely survived phone calls. Kimi told you which Formula One drivers had sent him Christmas messages and which had used identical wording.
You showed him photographs from your home country that your cousins had posted, including one of your father attempting to repair an outdoor light while three relatives offered contradictory instructions.
The afternoon unfolded without the need for an itinerary. When Nora woke, flushed from sleep and briefly confused by finding Kimi still in the house, you brought the unfinished dolls’ house into the centre of the sitting room.
It had technically been assembled since her birthday, but several shutters remained unattached, one piece of decorative trim had fallen from the roof and the furniture was still inside a box because every attempt to arrange it ended with Nora throwing the pieces into unrelated rooms.
Kimi sat on the rug with a screwdriver while you opened the furniture packets. Nora positioned herself between you as supervisor, removing screws from the small dish where Kimi placed them and hiding one beneath her leg. “Where is the last screw?” he asked.
You checked the packaging. “You had four.”
“I know. There are three.”
Nora stared at him with absolute innocence. Kimi held out his hand. “Nora.”
“No.”
“You have it.”
“No!”
You could see the small metal edge beneath Nora’s pyjama trousers. “Maybe it disappeared.” Nora finally shifted, and the screw rolled onto the rug. Kimi picked it up while you laughed.
“Traitor,” he told Nora. Once the shutters were secured, you attempted to decorate the interior. You placed a tiny bed upstairs, a table in the kitchen and two chairs near it.
Nora watched carefully, then moved the bed into the kitchen, placed one chair on the roof and pushed the table through a window. “Beautiful,” Kimi said.
Nora placed the fabric rabbit inside the upstairs room, where it occupied nearly the entire space, and clapped with satisfaction. Kimi leaned back against the sofa and drew you between his knees, resting his chin against your shoulder while you watched Nora continue rearranging everything.
In the early evening, after Nora managed to work tomato sauce into her hair with the concentration of somebody completing a difficult task, Kimi took her upstairs for a bath while you cleared the kitchen. By the time you joined them, the bathroom was warm with steam and the floor around the tub was already wet.
Kimi sat on the closed toilet lid with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, one hand steadying Nora whenever she leaned too far over the side while the other held a plastic cup she had apparently appointed him to refill.
Nora was surrounded by foam and bath toys, her curls darkened against her forehead and her cheeks pink from the heat. Every few minutes she poured water over the same rubber duck, then looked toward Kimi as though waiting for professional approval.
“You missed a bit,” you said from the doorway, nodding toward the faint orange streak near Nora’s temple.
You crossed the room and knelt beside the tub, dipping your fingers into the water before smoothing Nora’s hair away from her face.
Kimi’s knee rested against your shoulder, and when you leaned closer he placed one hand lightly at the back of your neck, more absent-minded affection than help.
Nora objected as soon as you reached for the shampoo, so Kimi distracted her by making the duck “talk” in a voice that was so flat it sounded vaguely threatening. You laughed hard enough to splash water over his socks, and when he looked down at the darkening fabric you raised your eyebrows.
The bath ended only when Nora tried to stand. Kimi caught her under the arms, wrapped her in a hooded towel, and dried Nora’s hair while she sat between his knees in clean pyjamas.
He then settled back against the headboard with her tucked across his chest and her bottle held loosely in both hands. One of her fingers hooked through the drawstring of his sweatshirt as though she needed to anchor him there.
Kimi began reading in the same quiet, almost monotonous voice he used for everything from text messages to engineering explanations, but Nora listened as though he were performing for an entire theatre.
She pointed at the pictures, interrupted to name the animals and occasionally turned a page before he had finished. When the final page ended, the room had gone completely quiet except for Nora’s breathing.
Eventually, you came back to ease Nora from Kimi’s chest while he untangled the blanket beneath her. Your hands met near Nora’s shoulder, fingers brushing before Kimi caught yours briefly and squeezed.
The gesture lasted only a second, but it carried the ease of repetition; you had put Nora to bed together so many times that the work had become a language neither of you needed to explain.
Downstairs, the sitting room looked thoroughly inhabited. The dolls’ house occupied the centre of the rug, cups stood abandoned on the table and Kimi’s suitcase remained open near the stairs because he had searched it for dry socks after the bath.
The Christmas tree still glowed in the corner, its lower branches almost bare after weeks of Nora removing anything within reach. You switched off the main light, leaving only the tree and a lamp near the sofa.
Kimi lay back beneath the blanket and lifted one side without asking. You joined him, fitting yourself against his chest while his arm settled around your waist. His body was warm beneath the sweatshirt, and the slow rise of his breathing moved you slightly with each inhale.
For several minutes you watched the lights change against the dark windows, neither speaking because there was nothing urgent enough to disturb the quiet. “We should take it down,” you said eventually.
Kimi looked toward the tree. “Now?”
“My parents will be back in January, and if we leave it until then my mum will say I was waiting for her to do it.”
“You were waiting for her to do it.”
“I was considering my options.” You shrugged.
He tightened his arm around you. “We can do it tomorrow.”
“You leave things until tomorrow and then tomorrow becomes February.”
Kimi kissed your temple and made no effort to move. “The tree looks nice.”
“It looks half robbed.”
“That’s Nora’s decorating.”
“That is exactly why it needs to come down.” You pushed yourself upright, dragging the blanket with you until Kimi was forced to sit as well.
He complained under his breath but followed you to the tree, taking the storage boxes from beneath the stairs while you began removing the ornaments from the upper branches.
The work immediately became more complicated than it needed to be. Kimi wanted to place everything into the nearest box; you insisted the glass ornaments needed wrapping and the wooden ones should be stored separately.
He accused you of inventing categories. You accused him of trying to destroy Christmas. “You drive a Formula One car and somehow cannot wrap a glass bauble in tissue.”
“I can wrap it.” You took it from him and rewrapped it properly. Kimi watched with exaggerated patience, then reached around you to take the next ornament before you could stop him.
His chest pressed against your back, his chin settling briefly near your shoulder as he reached higher into the branches. “You’re in the way,” you said.
“I’m helping.”
“You’re using me as a ladder.”
“You’re shorter.”
“That doesn’t make me furniture.” He lowered the ornament into your hand, then kissed the side of your neck where your hair had fallen forward. You shivered and turned to look at him.
Kimi smiled when he got your attention and kissed you properly this time, one hand resting at your waist while the other still held a length of tinsel. You sighed against his lips, rising onto your toes to pull him closer.
He kissed you with the patient familiarity of somebody who already knew the exact angle at which you would tilt your face, lingering until the arm looped around your waist tightened and the tinsel slipped from his other hand onto the floor.
You bit his lip before pulling back and taking the tinsel from the floor. “Now help.”
“I was helping.”
“That did not help.”
“It improved morale.” You worked slowly after that, passing ornaments between you and pausing often enough that the task took twice as long as it should have.
Once the branches were bare, you removed the lights together. Kimi stood behind you, guiding the cable over your shoulder while you unwound it from the lower branches.
At one point it caught around both your wrists, and you laughed when he tried to pull free and only tightened it further. “Stop moving.”
“You’re the one moving.”
“I’m fixing it.” By the time the tree was folded and carried toward storage, the sitting room looked strangely larger. A few needles remained on the rug, pale rectangles marked where presents had sat and the corner by the window appeared empty without the lights.
You stood with your hands on your hips, taking in the room. “It looks sad.” Kimi came up behind you and wrapped both arms around your waist.
“You wanted it down.” You turned in his arms and pushed lightly at his chest. “You are terrible at comfort.”
“I’m here.” You looked at him for a moment, then tucked yourself against his chest and let his arms close around you again.
The tree was gone, the room dimmer without it, but Kimi’s suitcase still lay open near the hallway, Nora slept and the house no longer felt empty.
Christmas had ended, but he was still there, holding you in the space it had left behind.
ᯓ Boy's a liar — PinkPantheress
liked by, ynusername, isackhadjar, georgerussell63 and others
kimi.antonelli: she chose the song
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username: the matching pyjamas with the whole antonelli family 🥹
username: wait yns hair baby pink for christmas this is so pretty
username: i knew kimi didn't have enough swag for pinkpantheress
username: kimi holding that glass in a sheet mask like somebody’s exhausted aunt
username: the family photo is so cute omg
username: not the giant dessert table. italian christmas does not play
username: whoever gave her the pink rose knew exactly what they were doing
ynusername: you ate half the sweets before anyone arrived
kimi.antonelli: no proof
summary — what's harder, having to handle a toddler with no sense of awareness, or stepping into lewis hamilton's shoes? for kimi antonelli, he'd rather lock himself up in his room than choose.
warnings — teen parenthood, academic pressure and feelings of insecurity.
notes — there is no description for reader that you are born in italy. whether that means you decide that reader is italian by nationality or ethnicity is up to you. omg.... the reception of the last post means so much 🥹 i hope u guys like it and english is not my first language so please take it easy!
my friend seraj and his sister currently live in palestine. his sister was injured by a gunshot to her head, resulting in a skull fracture. their donation goal is really close to being hit, so if you have anything to spare, it would really mean a lot. https://chuffed.org/project/123284-serajs-fundraiser
m&m masterlist
The call was scheduled for four in the afternoon. By three-forty, your father had checked the internet connection twice, your mother had moved the drying rack out of the background, and Kimi had sent six messages asking whether you were ready.
You sat at the dining table with the laptop open in front of you. Nora was on your lap because every attempt to place her in the high chair had been met with immediate outrage. She had one fist wrapped around the end of your braid and was chewing it thoughtfully.
Your parents sat on the sofa behind you. They had agreed they would remain in the room but let you answer for yourself unless you needed help. This had been your father’s phrasing. Your mother’s version had been that they would stay close in case Mercedes attempted to intimidate you.
Kimi joined first from England. His camera came too close to his face. You frowned. “Why are you holding the phone like that?”
“I’m not holding it.”
“Then why can I see inside your nose?” Kimi moved backward. Nora recognised him immediately.
“Babbo!”
His face softened. “Ciao, stella.” Nora slapped both hands against the keyboard. The screen shook. “Nora, no.”
“Let her speak,” Kimi said.
“She’s trying to end the call.”
“She misses me.”
“She sees you every day.”
“On a screen.” You looked away before the guilt could settle properly. A second square appeared. Toto Wolff joined from an office in Brackley, wearing a white shirt and the expression of someone who had already attended too many meetings that day. “Hello.”
You straightened.
“Hi Mr Wolff.” Kimi’s eyebrows furrowed as he pulled the camera closer to him. Toto waved his hands, “You don’t have to call me that, YN. Toto is okay.” You nodded, as Toto then greeted your parents.
Your parents greeted him from behind you. Kimi attempted to speak at the same time, but Toto continued.
“And hello to Nora.” Nora stared at the unfamiliar man on the laptop, then she hid her face against your chest. “She’s shy,” you said.
“She wasn’t shy two seconds ago,” Kimi complained.
“She doesn’t know him.” Toto’s mouth twitched. You had been nervous all day.
You had imagined lawyers appearing on the call. Contracts. Warnings about publicity.
Perhaps someone from Mercedes explaining exactly how much damage a teenage girlfriend and a hidden baby could do to the image of their carefully developed future driver.
Toto glanced down at something on his desk. “I wanted to speak to you directly because the decisions Mercedes makes concerning Andrea’s career will also affect your life and Nora’s.”
You looked toward Kimi’s square on the screen. He had gone still. “You are not employed by Mercedes,” Toto continued. “And this is not an interview. I would simply like to understand your circumstances and what support is already in place.”
You nodded slowly. He asked about school first. You explained that you attended a liceo scientifico in Bologna and intended to graduate. You did not yet know what you wanted to study afterward. “Languages?” Toto asked.
“Maybe something to do with natural sciences. Or translation.” Kimi made a face. You turned toward his square. “What?”
“Nothing.” You bit the inside of your cheek. The conversation moved to Nora. Her health. Her childcare. Your arrangements when Kimi travelled. Whether you felt supported by both families.
“Yes,” you said immediately. Your parents had never once made Nora feel like a burden. Neither had Marco nor Veronica. They made space, adjusted schedules, kept nappies and spare clothes in both houses. Your mother knew which songs settled Nora fastest.
Marco had installed stair gates before Nora had even learned to crawl. Veronica kept photographs of her granddaughter in every room.
That almost made the guilt worse.
Every hour they gave you was an hour they had surrendered because of a decision you and Kimi had made. “Do you feel Kimi is doing his share when he is home?” Toto asked.
“Yes,” Kimi answered. You kicked the leg of the table.
“I asked YN.”
“I was helping.”
“You weren’t.”
Toto waited. You adjusted Nora against your lap. “He helps.” Kimi looked pleased. “When he remembers things,” you added. His expression fell.
“What do I forget?”
“Appointments.”
“I remembered the doctor.”
“I reminded you.”
“That still means I remembered.”
“You forgot her shoes last time you took her out.”
“She was in the pushchair.”
“It's December.” Toto removed his glasses and rubbed one eye. From the sofa, your mother murmured something. You turned. “Mama.” “What did she say?” Kimi asked.
“Nothing.”
“I heard my name.” Toto put his glasses back on.
“What would make things easier for you, YN?” The question caught you off guard. You had expected him to ask what Mercedes required from you. Not what you required from them.
You looked down at Nora’s hand curled around the drawstring of your sweatshirt. “Knowing where he is going to be the night before he leaves.”
“I tell you,” Kimi said.
“You tell me after somebody else tells you.”
“That isn’t my fault.”
“You don’t check.”
“I check.”
“You sent me your October schedule in November.”
“It was still useful.”
You stared at him. Toto looked between your screens. “Is this a frequent disagreement?”
“No,” Kimi said.
“Yes,” you said.
Your father stood and disappeared into the kitchen. His shoulders were shaking. Toto told you Mercedes could arrange for relevant schedules to be shared with you directly once they had been finalised.
Not every change could be prevented. Motorsport remained unpredictable. Tests moved. Simulator sessions appeared. Flights were delayed.
But you should not have to depend entirely on Andrea remembering to forward an email. “That is unfair,” Kimi said.
“It’s accurate,” Toto replied. They discussed privacy next. You did not hesitate. “Nora stays private.”
“Of course.”
“No photographs. No videos. No Mercedes posts.”
“That will be respected.”
Kimi added, “People don’t need to know she exists.” Toto’s expression became more serious. “We can protect information internally. We cannot guarantee that something will never become public.”
You had already considered that. There were too many people who knew. Family. Friends. Teachers. Neighbours. Doctors. Other parents. Karting families who had watched you and Kimi grow up together.
Secrets did not become safer as the person at the centre of them became more famous. “For now,” you said, “we don’t tell them.”
“For now,” Toto agreed. Nora suddenly leaned forward and slapped the keyboard. A collection of letters appeared in the meeting chat.
nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
Kimi smiled. “She agrees.”
“She wants you fired,” you said.
“That is unlikely,” Toto replied. “She does not yet have the authority.” The call lasted forty-three minutes. When it ended, you closed the laptop and remained sitting at the table. Your father returned from the kitchen. “Well?”
You exhaled. “He was normal.”
Your mother raised an eyebrow. “You thought he would have horns?”
“I don’t know. He’s very tall.”
“He was sitting down.”
“You could still tell.” You gestured towards your shoulders, “Ginormous, no?”
JANUARY 2024
liked by mercedesamgf1, veronica_antonelli and others
kimi.antonelli: happy birthday to my favourite person even though she is mean to me every day
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ynusername: remove the third photo
⤷ kimi.antonelli: no
⤷ ynusername: i hate you
⤷ kimi.antonelli: ❤️
olliebearman: you’ve posted the same childhood photo for four years
⤷ kimi.antonelli: it’s a good photo
⤷ ynusername: i have no front teeth
⤷ kimi.antonelli: exactly
username: wait is that his girlfriend?
username: they’ve known each other forever omg
username: the girl in slide 2 is the same one from that old karting video
username: “favourite person” okayyyyy
username: jesus FUCK she's beautiful
username: whoaaa this is many photos for a "friend"
On the first morning of February, Nora refused to eat grapes. She sat in her high chair wearing one sock and banging the heel of her spoon against the tray. “Cut,” she demanded.
“They are cut,” you said.
“Cut.”
“They’re already small.”
“Babbo.”
Kimi took the bowl from you and began cutting each grape into four pieces. “You are encouraging her.”
“She can choke.”
“She's manipulating you.”
“She’s one.”
“She knows what she’s doing.” You shook your finger at the girl in the high chair. Kimi’s phone began vibrating across the kitchen counter. Then his father’s in the other room.
You picked Kimi’s phone, seeing notifications from Twitter. The same red breaking-news graphic appeared across nearly every application. You read the headline once.
Then again. “Lewis Hamilton is leaving Mercedes.” Kimi stopped cutting. “What?” You turned his phone toward him, walking towards him.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke. Kimi took the phone from her and read the statement in silence. Nora banged her spoon again. “Grapes.” Kimi returned automatically to cutting them.
Opening up Instagram, the first thing on your timeline was a photo of Lewis’ in front of Maranello. “He looks so cool.” It was already everywhere. You lowered his phone, “There’s going to be an empty seat.”
Kimi kept his attention on the grapes. “Yes.”
“At Mercedes.”
“I know where Lewis drives. He's not called Mr Mecedes for nothing.”
“Your name is going to start appearing everywhere.”
“Amore.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Stop moving the plate. I’m going to cut myself.” You pulled your hand away. By lunchtime, his name was already there. You read the comments while Kimi wiped grape juice from Nora’s hands.
MOTORSPORTWEEK.COM
Mercedes F1 names Anontelli as 'first option' to replace Hamilton.
by Taylor Powling 1/02/2024
Mercedes Formula 1 boss Toto Wolff has revealed Andrea Kimi Anontelli the side's "first option" to replace Lewis Hamilton should Max Verstappen be unattainable.
view comments:
username: He’s seventeen. Absolutely no chance.
username: Let him develop normally instead of throwing him into Hamilton’s seat.
username: The kid probably still lives with his parents.
username: not a clean swap between lewis and carlos?
username: where is carlos going then
You looked around his parents’ kitchen. “They think you’re too young.”
“You think I’m too young.”
“You forgot your passport last month.”
“That has nothing to do with driving.”
Nora dropped a piece of grape onto the floor and pointed at it. “Gone.”
Kimi nodded solemnly. “Gone.” You looked at both of them.
The internet was debating whether Andrea Kimi Antonelli possessed the maturity to replace the most successful driver in Mercedes history.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli was currently crawling beneath the table because his daughter had thrown fruit under it.
By March, you had learned to hate Sunday evenings. Kimi came home when he could. Not every week. Sometimes not even when you had planned it.
A delayed flight could erase an evening. A last-minute simulator session could take away a morning. An extra debrief could mean he arrived after Nora had gone to sleep and left before she properly woke. You knew it was not his fault.
That did not make it easier. Your parents never complained.
Your mother rearranged shifts without announcing it. Your father collected Nora from nursery when you had an exam. They woke in the night when Nora cried, even when you told them not to. You were already up trying to study.
Nora had a drawer in their bedroom. A toothbrush beside theirs. A particular cup she refused to drink from unless your father handed it to her.
They had never made her feel unwanted. They had never once called her a consequence. They never told you that you made a mistake.
Sometimes that kindness sat so heavily inside you that you could barely stand it. When Nora developed a fever on Sunday night, your mother offered to stay awake with her.
“You have school tomorrow.”
“I can do it.”
“YN.”
“She’s my daughter. You have work.”
“And you have an exam.”
“I can do it.” Your mother studied you for a moment. You knew she understood. This was not about whether your mother was tired. It was about you needing to prove you could take responsibility for the life you had chosen.
Your mother kissed the top of your head. “Wake me if you need me.”
You did not. You sat beside Nora’s cot through most of the night, checking her temperature too often and scrolling through medical websites until every harmless symptom appeared life-threatening. At four in the morning, Nora finally slept.
At seven, you left for school. You fell asleep during history, your head lowered gradually until your cheek rested against your folded arm and the teacher’s voice disappeared completely.
The bell woke you. “YN, could you stay behind?” Heat rushed into your face, watching as your classmates packed their bags and slowly began to empty the room.
You waited until the classroom had emptied. The teacher sat on the edge of her desk. “Is Nora all right?”
You nodded. “She had a fever.”
“And you stayed awake with her?”
“She’s fine now.”
“That was not my question.” You looked down at the open notebook in front of you. The final line of your notes trailed into nothing. Your teacher sighed. “You've missed two assignments this term.”
“I’ll finish them.”
“And your grades have fallen.”
“I said I’ll finish them.”
“I am not trying to punish you.” It already felt like punishment. “Andrea has a career,” the teacher said carefully. “You also need to think about yours.”
The words were meant kindly, but that made them worse. Andrea had a career. Andrea’s absences were training. Andrea's missed lessons were accommodated because he was building something. Every flight took him closer to the future he had spent his entire life planning.
Your absences looked like failure. His life was moving forward. Yours appeared to have stalled. “What do you want to do after graduation?” the teacher asked.
“Natural Sciences.”
The answer came quickly enough to sound prepared. Two weeks earlier, you had said journalism. Before that, teaching. By summer, you would decide you wanted to study communications because it sounded broad enough to delay choosing anything more specific.
The teacher nodded. “Then we need to make sure those options remain open.” You left the classroom with a list of missing work and a headache building behind your eyes.
Kimi called during lunch. You declined it. He called again.
By the middle of April, you could tell how Kimi’s weekend had gone before he said anything. If he called immediately after leaving the circuit, it had gone well.
If he sent a message saying later, it had gone badly. If he sent nothing at all, it had gone badly enough that he was still pretending it had not. That Sunday, your phone rang before you had even finished bathing Nora.
You answered with one hand while trying to stop Nora from drinking bathwater with the other. "Hello?"
"I finished second." Kimi sounded breathless, even through the phone. You smiled despite yourself.
“I know.”
"You watched?"
“I watched the timing.”
"That isn’t watching."
“I had homework.”
"You always say that."
“Because I always have homework.”
Nora slapped both palms into the water. “Babbo!”
"I’m here," Kimi said immediately.
You put the phone on speaker and balanced it against the soap dish. “Say congratulations.” Nora stared at the phone.
“Again.”
“That is not congratulations.”
"She means do it again."
Nora scooped water into a plastic cup and poured it over her own stomach. Kimi began talking through the race. Every overtake. Every restart. Every moment he thought the tyres were gone and every moment they came back.
APRIL 2024
F2: ANTONELLI EARNS FIRST SERIES VICTORY IN SILVERSTONE DOWNPOUR
Apr 06, 2024 4:02pm UTC
Andrea Kimi Antonelli claimed his maiden Formula 2 race victory in the Silverstone Sprint Race, managing the toughest of conditions and multiple Safety Car restarts en route for a memorable win.
The PREMA Racing driver had an eight-second advantage at the chequered flag, able to control things from the front throughout in his finest performance of his rookie season so far.
READ MORE: Hadjar takes pole at Silverstone after spin for Championship leader Aron
view comments:
username: oh he is NOT helping the allegations
⤷ username: what allegations
⤷ username: the “toto is putting him in the mercedes next year” allegations
username: he’s 17 please let him breathe
⤷ username: he seems to be breathing fine from the podium
username: there are grown men in this championship with three seasons of experience and he’s already doing this
username: of course. he is italian, 17, called kimi and mercedes have been hyping him since he was 11. this was engineered in a lab for discourse.
username: he still makes rookie mistakes
⤷ username: because he is a rookie
username: exactly so why are we discussing him replacing lewis hamilton 😭
⤷ username: because toto named him the favourite dumbass
⤷ username: toto also thinks max will move to mercedes. MAX. TO MERCEDES.
The more his results improved, the less ordinary his name became.
At school, boys who had never spoken to you before began asking whether you thought he would get the seat. Not how Kimi was. Not whether he was enjoying Formula Two.
Whether he would replace Lewis Hamilton. One of them stopped beside your desk during break. “Does he know yet?”
You kept writing. “Know what?”
“If Mercedes are choosing him.”
“Why would I tell you?”
The boy laughed as though you had made a joke. “No, but seriously.”
“Seriously, why would I tell you?” He left looking offended. Your friend Giulia watched him go.
“You should start charging.”
“For what?”
“Information.”
“I don’t have any.”
“You know more than them.”
“I know he sleeps with two pillows and complains if hotel eggs are too wet.”
“That is valuable insider information.” You smiled. Then your phone vibrated. A notification from an account you did not follow. Your own name sat inside it.
You stared at the post. It had twelve likes. That was practically nothing, right? Barely anybody had seen it. You locked your phone, practically slamming it on the table, causing Giulia to notice. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing face.” You showed her. Giulia read the post twice. “That’s so creepy.”
In July, Kimi won in Hungary. It was not his first important victory. You had watched him win since they were children.
Regional races. National championships. European championships. Races where the trophy was taller than he was. Where he came home furious because the margin should have been larger.
But Formula Two was different. There were television cameras waiting before he climbed from the car.
There were reporters at the barriers, hundreds of people who had learned his name without ever meeting him. Standing in your parents’ living room, watching him cross the line.
The commentator shouted over the engine noise. Nora shouted because everybody else was shouting.
Your father came in from the kitchen holding a dish towel. “Did he win?”
“Yes.” He nodded with exaggerated seriousness. On the television, Kimi climbed from the car, the helmet making him older than he actually was. For half a second, he simply stood there.
Then the team reached him, hands striking his shoulders and pulling him into hugs. The mic was muted as they celebrated, but you could see Kimi shaking with laughter.
Her throat tightened. Nora pointed at the screen. “Babbo.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “Babbo won.”
liked by, aylin.alaoui, f1, mercedesamgf1 and others
formula2: ANDREA KIMI ANTONELLI WINS! 🇮🇹🏆 A commanding drive gives the 17-year-old his first Formula 2 Feature Race victory.
view comments:
mercedesamgf1: That winning feeling 💪 Congratulations, Kimi!
username: MERC COMMENTED OH ITS OVER
username: fuckkkk that seat handover is going to hit like a truck
username: he just won his first f2 feature race and you people are already putting him in the mercedes factory
username: toto put the contract away RIGHT NOW
⤷ username: no actually take it back out
username: That was mature. Managed the gap, handled the restart, didn’t cook the tyres.
⤷ username: Careful, complimenting him is illegal now.
username: The bigger question is whether one more year in F2 teaches him more than a year beside Russell.
⤷ username: A year beside Russell in a struggling Mercedes with the British press analysing every breath sounds like an educational form of torture.
The meeting took place in the middle of July, on one of those humid English afternoons that made the air outside feel heavier than it had any right to.
Kimi had come straight from the simulator, his hair was still flattened from the headset, and the back of his shirt clung slightly between his shoulder blades as he followed Toto down the corridor. “Good session?” Toto asked.
Kimi shifted his backpack higher. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I lost time in the last sector.”
“You found it on the final run.”
“Not enough.”
Toto opened his office door. “You can explain why in a moment.”
Nothing unusual about that. He had meetings there constantly. Performance reviews. Development plans. Technical briefings where adults used words such as trajectory and progression as though they were not discussing a teenager’s entire future.
He stepped inside expecting more of the same. James Allison was seated near the window. Bradley Lord stood beside the table, phone facedown in front of him.
Kimi slowed. Three people. That was less normal. “Come and take a seat, Kimi,” Toto said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. He lowered his backpack beside it.
He noticed the folder on the desk before anybody spoke. It was plain black, the Mercedes logo in one corner. His heartbeat changed, his heart practically jumping out of his chest.
Fuck, he was about to be fired. The thought landed so quickly that everything else followed behind it in a rush.
They probably realised that he couldn’t keep up between his life at home and driving. Everything he worked for was about to go down the drain. Every session, his blood sweat and tears was about to disappear in a single second.
Kimi rubbed his palms against his trousers beneath the desk. It would be okay. Probably.
He could go back to school properly. He could spend more time at home. He had already missed Maggie’s birthday and half of Nora learning to speak in full sentences. Maybe this was the universe giving him an opportunity to stop missing things.
His heartbeat climbed into his throat. “Is something wrong?” he asked. Toto leaned back slightly. “What do you think this meeting is about?”
Kimi looked at the folder again. “I don’t know.” His words came out quickly, slightly jumbled together. “Am I in trouble?”
“We would like you to drive for us in 2025.”
For one second, Kimi understood every word individually but not together. “Huh?” He stared at Toto. Outside the window, someone crossed the courtyard carrying two coffees.
The ventilation hummed overhead. James shifted slightly in his chair. “Drive?” his voice came out slightly breathless.
Toto’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “The Formula One car, yes.” James smiled, clearly amused. Kimi looked at the folder again. There had been years of preparation for this. He had imagined this conversation.
Sometimes it happened after a championship. Sometimes Toto called him personally. In the better versions, Kimi accepted with calm confidence and said something that proved he belonged in the room.
He did neither. “You’re serious?”
“Yes,” Toto said. Kimi laughed once. Not because it was funny, because his body had run out of sensible responses. Kimi placed his fingertips against its edge but did not open it yet, already feeling his hands had started trembling.
Toto’s amusement faded. “We have discussed the risks,” he said. “Your age. The limited preparation time. The pressure that will come with taking Lewis’s seat.”
Kimi nodded, though his thoughts had already jumped somewhere else. Bologna. You sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor with schoolwork spread around.
Nora trying to colour on the pages. His parents. Your parents. The kitchen table. Twenty-four race weekends.
The happiness hit first. Then everything it would change followed close behind. “How much will I be gone?”
Bradley and James exchanged a glance. Toto answered without softening it. “A great deal.”
Kimi’s thumb moved over the edge of the folder. “More than now?”
“Yes.”
“Brackley too?”
“Simulator work, engineering meetings, media commitments, sponsor days. There will be periods when you can return to Bologna. There will also be times when you cannot.” Kimi stared down at the contract. Toto allowed him a moment.
James leaned forward.“You don’t have to answer this second.”
Kimi’s head lifted. “I do.”
“Kimi—”
“I want it.” His voice came out firmer now. The fear had not gone anywhere. Neither had the questions. But underneath both was the same certainty he had carried since he was small enough to need help climbing into a kart. “I want the seat. I’m not throwing away my shot.”
Toto watched him for a moment. “We know.”
Kimi finally opened the folder, his name sat at the top of the first page. Andrea Kimi Antonelli.
Underneath it, in dense black text, was the future he had spent years chasing. He read the first few lines without absorbing any of them. Then he laughed again, quieter this time, and covered his mouth with one hand. James smiled. “It has reached him.”
“Shut up,” Kimi murmured.
Toto leaned back. “A very mature response from our future Formula One driver.” Kimi lowered his hand, still staring at the page. “I thought you were going to ruin my life.”
Bradley glanced at the contract. “Technically, we may still be about to make it considerably more complicated.”
That brought you and Nora straight back into his mind. Kimi looked at Toto. “When can I tell them?”
“Your parents and YN can know. Nobody else until the announcement.”
“I want to tell her in person.”
Toto nodded. “Then tell her in person.” Kimi looked down at his name once more. His heart was still trying to break out of his chest. Only now, for an entirely different reason.
He returned to Bologna on Friday evening. You were sitting on the floor of your bedroom, surrounded by papers. Nora was beside you colouring directly across a worksheet you had needed to submit on Monday.
Kimi stopped in the doorway, his footsteps loud enough that you looked up. “You’re late.”
“My flight—”
“Was delayed. I know.”
Nora saw him. “Babbo!”
She stood too quickly, stepped on a crayon and fell backward onto her bottom. There was one silent second. Then outrage, as tears bubbled up in Nora’s eyes.
He crossed the room and picked her up. “You’re okay.” Nora buried her face against his neck.
You gathered the crayons, speaking without looking up. “You said you had something to tell me.” Kimi held Nora with one arm, trying to keep his hands from trembling as his heart had begun racing again. He had faced Toto more calmly than this.
You looked at him, your head turning in confusion. “What?” He glanced toward the open door. “Are your parents home?” You shook your head, standing up to put Nora’s crayons away.
He couldn’t wait anymore. “I got the seat.” You went still. Nora had found the zip on Kimi’s jacket and was pulling it up and down.
Your eyebrows furrowed. “You got it?” He nodded. “Actually? For next year?”
“Yes.” You covered your mouth, and he could see the exact moment you understood. It wasn’t rumours or articles anymore. It was him. Andrea was going to be driving for the team. Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
“Oh my God.” Kimi smiled. You crossed the space between them and threw both arms around him. Nora was trapped between you and immediately protested. “Down!”
Neither listened. “You got it,” you said into his shoulder, your hand reaching up to lace your fingers through his hair.
“You’re going to drive for Mercedes.” He nodded in response, his arm tightening around your waist. You laughed through your tears, Kimi leaning forward to kiss your forehead. Nora pushed both hands between your faces. “Mama.”
“I’m here.”
“Down.” Kimi placed her on the floor, immediately picking up a crayon and walked away. You wiped beneath your eyes. “You’re going to be in Formula One. When did you find out?”
“Wednesday.”
Your face changed. “Wednesday?”
“I wanted to tell you here.” His other hand went up to cup your jaw. “I wanted to tell you to your face.”
You shook your head. “You are so annoying,” you slapped his arm, Kimi catching your wrist and pulling you back towards him, your lips meeting.
It wasn’t neat at all. Kimi was still holding your wrist between you, your hand was trapped against his chest, and he nearly stepped on one of Nora’s crayons when you pulled him closer by the front of his jacket.
He caught himself against the edge of your desk without breaking away. You smiled against his mouth. “What?” He asked, barely pulling away.
“You almost fell.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I recovered.”
“Formula One reflexes?”
“Exactly.” You laughed, and he kissed you again before you could make fun of him properly. This one was slower. His hand loosened around your wrist and slid into yours instead, your fingers fitting together while his other remained against your jaw.
Your free hand found the back of his neck, brushing through the hair flattened from hours of travelling.
Kimi had spent the entire flight imagining this. Finally being back in your arms, watching you be completely engulfed by him. “I love you,” he whispered against your lips.
Your fingers tightened at the back of his neck. “I love you too.” The words came out softer than everything else had.
Kimi kissed you once more, then rested his forehead against yours. His thumb moved over your cheek, wiping away the dampness beneath your eye before you could pretend it wasn’t there.
They travelled to Brackley at the end of August.
It had been a hassle convincing their families to let them travel by themselves, but they had eventually managed it.
They had also brought Nora’s push trike: a cream three-wheeled contraption with a canopy, footrests and a long handle that allowed an adult to steer while Nora sat in front pretending she was doing it herself.
Kimi had spent ten minutes at the airport insisting he could collapse it without instructions. You sighed, eventually pushing him out of the way to do it yourself.
Now you pushed Nora across the Mercedes car park while Kimi carried the changing bag. You wore baggy jeans, old trainers and a red-and-blue Spider-Man beanie pulled low over your hair. Kimi looked at it as you approached the entrance. “You wore that?”
You looked down at your clothes, shrugging. “It’s cold!”
“You own other hats.”
“I like Spider-Man.” You bent down to Nora, wiping the girl’s mouth from the crumbs in the car. “Your Babbo is bullying me.”
Nora twisted around in her seat. “Big.”
“Yes,” you said, straightening the canopy where it had folded in on itself. “Very big.”
“Babbo work?” Kimi looked up at the building.
“Next year.”
You glanced at him. “You already signed the contract. You can say yes.”
“It still feels illegal.” A woman from the communications team met them inside.
“Morning, Kimi.”
“Morning.”
She turned to you. “You must be YN.”
You stopped pushing, “You know me?” You pointed at yourself.
The woman smiled. “We’ve been briefed.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It was mostly about confidentiality and dietary requirements.” You looked at Kimi.
“What did you tell them?”
“That you don’t eat pork.”
“And?”
“That Nora likes bananas.” The woman gestured toward the reception area, where a bowl of fruit sat beside the coffee machine. Nora immediately pointed. “Banana.”
Kimi looked smug. “See?” The woman picked up a banana and handed it to you. You took it and peeled it, passing it to Nora, who accepted it happily. Kimi folded his arms. “See? The banana information was useful.”
“She understood one word.”
“More than you.” They signed in. Nora was given a temporary visitor sticker, which Kimi pressed onto the front of her yellow cardigan. She immediately peeled it off and stuck it to the handlebars of her trike. “That lasted well,” you said.
“She doesn’t want to be tracked,” Kimi replied. They passed a display car on the way through reception. Nora sat forward so quickly that the straps caught her.“Babbo!”
“Not Babbo,” you said.
“Babbo car.”
Kimi crouched beside the trike. “Not mine.” Nora tapped the Mercedes badge.
“Babbo.”
“All Mercedes cars belong to him now,” you explained.
“That is not how it works.”
“You should tell her that before she tries to take George’s.” They passed through the first set of doors. People greeted Kimi as they walked. Most managed to keep moving, but some obviously slowed. One engineer glanced at Kimi, then at Nora, then back at Kimi. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Kimi said.
The engineer took another two steps before turning around. “Is that—”
“My daughter,” Kimi said.
“Right. Yeah. Of course.”
Kimi waited, not really continuing the conversation. The engineer appeared to realise he had stopped in the middle of the corridor for no reason. “She’s—very small.” You pressed your lips together. “She’s a toddler,” Kimi said.
“Yes. That would explain it.” He walked away.
You waited until he was out of earshot, before leaning over to Kimi. “Very small.”
“He panicked.”
“He works with Formula One cars and a baby frightened him.”
“She isn’t a baby,” Kimi said. Nora had managed to pull one shoe halfway off. You pointed at her. “She cannot be trusted with footwear.”
Nora tugged at the buckle across her waist. “Walk.” You bent down to open her buckle to let her out. The girl climbed down, took three determined steps toward the car, then stopped and looked back at the trike. “Ride.”
“You just asked to walk,” you said.
“Ride.”
Kimi lifted her back into the seat. “She changed her mind.”
“She does that every thirty seconds.”
“She’s flexible.”
“She’s difficult.”
Nora looked up at you. “No.”
Kimi pointed at her. “See? She disagrees.”
“She’s defending herself.”
“She’s one.”
“She has legal representation now.”
They were still talking when George came around the corner with someone from engineering. He spotted Kimi first. “Hey.”
Then his gaze moved to you, then to the little girl sitting in the trike between them, one shoe missing and a banana in her hand. George slowed. Kimi gestured toward you. “This is YN.”
“Hi.” George smiled and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
“And this is Nora.”
George looked down at the little girl sitting between them. Nora looked back with equal interest, slowly chewing her banana as though she had all the time in the world to decide what she thought of him.
“Hi, Nora.” She offered no response, so George crouched until he was closer to her height, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. “Good banana?”
Nora studied him for another second before holding it out. George’s hand moved instinctively, but you stopped him with a warning shake of your head. “Don’t take it. She’ll scream.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he said, although he had quite clearly been considering it. Nora extended the banana farther, her small arm reaching across the space between them. “Take.”
George leaned back slightly. “Thank you, but that’s yours.”
“Take,” she repeated, more firmly this time. Beside you, Kimi folded his arms, watching with the solemn interest of someone observing an important experiment. “She has chosen you.”
“Why does that sound threatening?”
“Because if you take it, she’ll want it back.” George glanced up at you for confirmation. When you nodded, he looked back at Nora and carefully pinched the very end of the banana between two fingers.
Her face fell immediately. “Mine.”
“There it is,” you said. George released it at once. Nora clutched the banana protectively to her chest, glaring at him as though he had tried to steal it rather than followed her direct instructions.
Kimi nodded in approval. “You passed.”
“That was a test?”
“Everything is a test.” George stood again, looking mildly bewildered by the encounter, then turned his attention to the push trike. Up close, it looked even more elaborate: cream-coloured, with a padded seat, a canopy and enough straps and attachments to resemble a small vehicle in its own right.
“That’s impressive.”
“It turns into a normal tricycle later,” you explained, resting one hand on the steering handle. “When she can actually steer.”
“Steer,” Nora announced around another bite of banana. You looked down pointedly at the handle you were holding. “Of course you do.”
George smiled, but his gaze soon drifted back towards Kimi. There was still that faint hesitation in it, as though he had known the facts before today but had never been required to arrange them into a real timeline. “So, she’s almost two?”
“Two in November,” Kimi said.
“And you’re—”
“Eighteen next week.”
George paused. You knew exactly what calculation he was doing. Kimi did too. They had both seen it happen often enough: the brief silence, the eyes shifting between the three of them, the attempt to count backwards without making it obvious.
“You can ask,” Kimi said.
George looked faintly embarrassed at being caught. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
He let out a breath, abandoning the attempt to pretend otherwise. “How old were you when she was born?”
“Sixteen.”
“And YN?”
“Fifteen,” you answered.
George looked at you, and the same quiet disbelief returned to his face. “Right.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve said that twice.”
“Sorry. I’m trying not to ask something stupid.”
“You can ask something stupid,” Kimi assured him. “Everyone does.”
George pushed his hands into his pockets while he considered his options. He could have asked about their parents, school, money or the thousand other things people usually wanted to know. Instead, he settled on, “Do you sleep?”
“No,” you answered.
“Yes,” Kimi said at exactly the same time.
You turned to him. “When?”
“Sometimes.”
“You fell asleep sitting up last Christmas.”
“That was comfortable.”
“You were holding a spoon.”
Kimi frowned as though the spoon was irrelevant evidence. George, however, had already made his decision.
“I’m going to trust YN’s answer.”
“Everyone always does,” Kimi muttered.
“Because I’m usually right.”
“You aren’t.”
Nora pointed her banana towards you. “Mama.”
George laughed, and you gave Kimi a satisfied look. “Three against one.”
Kimi stared at his daughter with exaggerated betrayal. “Traitor.”
The teasing made the situation feel ordinary for a moment, but George’s attention shifted back to you. You looked younger standing beside Kimi than you had in the photographs Mercedes had shown him.
Perhaps because you were dressed for travel rather than the paddock, one hand steering a toddler’s trike while the other held Nora’s missing shoe.
“And you’re still at school?”
“Yes.”
“How does that work?”
“Badly.”
Kimi looked at you, and you gave a small shrug. There was little point pretending otherwise simply because George had asked politely. “It does,” you said. “I go to school, Nora goes to nursery, and our families help. Kimi comes back when he can.”
“When I can,” Kimi repeated, more quietly. The words were almost identical, but something in his tone changed their meaning. George seemed to notice. His expression lost some of its amused curiosity. “How often is that?”
“It depends,” you said. “Sometimes every weekend. Sometimes not for two weeks.”
“And next year?”
The question settled between them. Nora kicked her remaining shoe against the footrest, producing a soft, repetitive thud. You adjusted the canopy even though it did not need adjusting.
They had discussed 2025 in kitchens, bedrooms and late-night calls, but they still had no answer that sounded solid when spoken aloud.
Kimi eventually looked at George. “We’re still working that out.” George nodded, accepting that there was nothing else to say. “I suppose twenty-four races makes ‘I’ll be home for dinner’ a bit difficult.”
“Apparently they don’t schedule the championship around nursery,” you said.
“Bit inconsiderate.”
“I said the same.”
Kimi pointed at him immediately. “See? He agrees with me.”
“I agreed with YN.”
“Why does everyone do that?”
“Pattern recognition,” George replied. Before Kimi could defend himself, Nora reached towards George’s lanyard. He lowered it so she could inspect his pass, watching as she turned the laminated card over between sticky fingers.
“She likes you,” Kimi said.
“She likes laminated plastic,” you corrected.
“I’ll take it.”
Nora studied the photograph, then looked up at George’s face. Her eyes moved between the two with great concentration.
“George.”
His eyebrows lifted. “She knows my name?”
Kimi turned to you. “You taught her?”
“No. She’s seen him on television.” That seemed to please George far more than it should have. Nora tapped the photograph on his pass. “George.”
“Yes,” he said encouragingly.
She pointed at him next. “Tall.”
You covered your mouth, but not quickly enough to hide your laugh. George glanced down at himself as if checking whether the assessment was accurate.
“Also correct.”
Beside them, Kimi muttered, “She didn’t say that about me.”
“You aren’t tall,” you said.
“I’m taller than you.”
“So is Nora in that seat.”
George looked between them, visibly entertained now. Their arguments had the easy rhythm of something practised over years, each answer arriving before the other person had fully finished speaking. “How long have you two known each other?”
“Since we were four,” you said.
“Five,” Kimi corrected.
“I was four.”
“I was five.”
“That is what I said.”
“No, you said we.” George nodded slowly, as though another part of the situation had just explained itself. “I see why your families were worried about letting you travel alone.”
He excused himself a few minutes later, once the engineer waiting for him had checked the time often enough to become noticeable. Nora, however, had grown attached to his pass and closed both hands around it when he tried to stand. “I need that,” George told her.
“No.”
“I won’t be allowed into work.”
“No.”
George looked helplessly at Kimi. “She makes a compelling argument.”
“She’s very anti-employment.” You gently loosened Nora’s fingers from the lanyard and fastened her back into the trike. By then, the banana had been reduced to a sticky smear across Nora’s hand and part of her cardigan.
“Say goodbye.”
Nora waved enthusiastically. “Bye, George Tall.”
George had already taken two steps when he stopped and turned around. “Was that English?”
“No,” Kimi said. “That was personal.”
Lewis found them later near the heritage cars. Nora had abandoned the trike again and was crouched beside one of the tyres, fascinated by the dark rubber and the lettering around its edge.
Kimi stood behind her with one hand hooked firmly into the back of her cardigan, ready to pull her away from anything expensive.
Her mouth opened. Kimi tugged her backwards just before she made contact. A laugh came from behind them. “Good reflexes.”
Kimi turned and smiled when he saw Lewis approaching. They greeted each other with a brief hug before Lewis’s attention moved to Nora, who was now twisting in Kimi’s grip in an attempt to return to the forbidden tyre.
“So this is the famous Nora.”
“She isn’t famous,” Kimi said immediately.
The speed and seriousness of the answer changed Lewis’s expression. He understood what Kimi meant without needing the boundary explained. “Not outside this building,” he corrected gently.
Kimi relaxed and released Nora’s cardigan once she had turned her attention elsewhere. You stepped forward. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Lewis smiled at you, warm without being overwhelming. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“You too.”
Nora walked over, took one look at Lewis and hid behind your leg. She pressed her cheek against your jeans, gripping the fabric while she peered at him from the safety of half-cover. Lewis crouched a few feet away rather than approaching her. “Hi.”
“She was speaking to George,” Kimi said.
“Maybe she prefers George.”
“She does not.”
Lewis glanced up at him. “You sound offended.”
“I am.”
You ran your hand lightly over Nora’s hair. “This is Lewis.”
Nora peeked out a little farther. “Lewis.”
“That’s me.”
Recognition did not make her any less cautious, but the jewellery did. Her gaze dropped to Lewis’s hands, fixing immediately on one of his rings. “Jolie.”
Lewis held his hand out, palm angled so she could see it without needing to come too close. “You like that?” Nora slowly emerged from behind your leg. She reached towards the ring, then stopped to look up for permission. “Gentle,” you reminded her.
Nora touched it with one finger. Once she had established that it was real, her attention moved towards the bracelets around his wrist. Lewis glanced at you. “How many languages does she speak?”
“None properly.”
“Everything properly,” Kimi argued.
You ignored him. “She asks for milk in one language, bread in another, and then screams in a third.”
Lewis smiled as Nora carefully pushed one of the beads along his bracelet. Kimi watched her with suspicion, ready to intervene if she attempted to claim the jewellery as she had claimed George’s pass.
“She has expensive taste,” he said. Once Nora had finished inspecting his bracelets, Lewis straightened. “How was the journey?”
“Fine,” you said.
Kimi looked at you. “You were sick on the plane.”
“I wasn’t sick.”
“You had the bag.”
“I felt sick.”
“So the journey was not fine.”
“I did not throw up. Therefore, it was fine.” Lewis’s gaze moved between them, amused by how quickly a simple question had turned into a factual dispute. “How long have you been correcting each other?”
“Fourteen years,” Kimi said.
“Thirteen,” you corrected.
Lewis nodded. “That answered the question.”
He asked you about school next, but not in the distracted, polite way adults sometimes did before returning to Kimi. He stayed focused on your answer. “What are you studying?”
“I’m in high school. It’s something called liceo scientifico.” You tucked Nora’s loose hair behind her ear as the toddler began circling Lewis, apparently having decided that he was safe enough to investigate from every angle. “I’m thinking about translation after. Or maybe natural sciences.”
“Thinking?”
“I changed my mind.”
“About translation?”
“About everything.” Kimi opened his mouth, but you recognised the movement and elbowed him before he could answer on your behalf. Lewis laughed. “You knew he was going to speak for you.”
“He always does.”
“I’m helping,” Kimi protested.
“You aren’t.”
“What were you going to say?” Lewis asked him.
“That last month she wanted to be a journalist.”
You gestured towards Kimi as if he had just proved your case. “See?”
“And the month before that?”
“A teacher.”
“I was twelve.”
“It still counts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Lewis’s smile softened when he looked back at you. “You’ve got time.” You glanced at Nora, who had completed another lap around him and was now heading back towards Kimi. “People keep saying that.”
“You do.”
“They also say I need a plan.”
“You need options,” Lewis said. “A plan can change.”
Kimi looked pleased to have someone supporting his position. “That is what I tell her.”
“No, you tell me to make a spreadsheet.”
“Spreadsheets are useful.”
Nora reached Kimi and raised both arms. “Up.”
He lifted her automatically, settling her against his side with the ease of someone who had performed the movement thousands of times. She immediately began playing with the zip on his Mercedes jacket, pulling it up and down while Kimi continued listening.
Lewis watched them for a moment. Something in the sight seemed to bring him back to the part of their situation that was harder to joke about. “Were you scared?” he asked.
Kimi’s hand paused against Nora’s back. “When?”
“When you found out.” Kimi looked at you. The question belonged to both of them, and for once, he did not answer first.
“Yes,” you said. Lewis waited, leaving enough room for Kimi to decide whether he wanted to add anything. “Very,” Kimi admitted.
“What did you do?”
“He sat on my bathroom floor,” you said.
“I was thinking.”
“You asked if I was sure twelve times.”
“I needed confirmation.”
“I had taken three tests.” Lewis smiled faintly, but he did not turn the conversation into a joke. “And after she was born?”
Kimi adjusted Nora higher against him. Her fascination with the zip had started to fade, and she was leaning more of her weight against his chest. “Still scared.”
“More,” you said. Kimi glanced at you, but you only shrugged. They both remembered those first nights too clearly to pretend otherwise.
“You checked whether she was breathing every ten minutes.”
“You did too.”
“I was normal about it.”
“You woke me up because she sneezed.”
“It sounded strange.”
Lewis nodded solemnly. “So neither of you was normal.”
“Exactly,” Kimi said, far too pleased to have received a ruling in his favour. You frowned at him. “Do not team up with Lewis Hamilton against me.”
“I’m not against you,” Lewis assured you. “I’m staying neutral.”
“You agreed with him.”
“Temporary alliance.” Nora, now comfortable enough to become destructive, reached for the earring in Kimi’s ear. He caught her wrist before her fingers could close around it. “No.”
“Mine.”
“It is attached to me.”
“Mine,” she repeated, unconvinced by the legal technicality.
Lewis laughed. “How does racing fit around all this?”
“It doesn’t,” you said. Kimi looked at you, and you saw the brief flicker of hurt before he could hide it. You continued before he misunderstood.
“We make it fit. Our families help, and we have schedules. Then his schedule changes, and everybody gets angry.”
“Next year will be harder,” he said.
Kimi nodded. “I know.”
“No,” Lewis replied, not unkindly. “You know it on paper.”
Kimi went quiet. Nora had stopped pulling at his jacket and rested her head against his shoulder. One of his hands moved automatically over her back, his fingers brushing the soft yellow cardigan in slow, absent strokes.
Lewis looked at her before continuing. “Twenty-four race weekends. Simulator work, sponsors, media. Days when you think you’re finished and then somebody adds another three meetings.”
Your expression changed. “That is what I keep saying.”
Kimi’s jaw tightened, though this time it was not because he disagreed. He understood what they were telling him. He simply did not know what he was supposed to do with it.
“I can’t not take the seat.”
“Nobody said you should,” Lewis replied. “But don’t tell yourself that wanting it means you’re not allowed to admit what it costs.”
Kimi looked down at Nora. She was almost asleep now, one fist curled into the material near his collar. When he answered, some of the certainty had left his voice.
“I know what it costs.”
Lewis held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once. “Good.”
The seriousness might have lingered if Lewis had not noticed something on Kimi’s shoulder. He reached out and peeled off the visitor sticker Nora had apparently transferred there at some point during the morning.
“You’ve also had this on you for at least an hour.” You laughed as Kimi stared at the sticker in Lewis’s hand, looking personally offended that nobody had warned him sooner.
summary — between bottles, exam schedules and sleepless nights, you and kimi learn how to navigate how to raise a child barely younger than yourselves.
warnings — teenage pregnancy, academic stress, post partum depression, mentions of underage sex
notes — just to clarify, there is no description for reader except that you are born in italy. whether that means you decide that reader is italian by nationality or ethnicity is up to you. english is not my first language and this is my first fic ever, so please take it easy!
m&m masterlist
APRIL 2022
You had taken three tests. The first sat on the edge of the sink. The second had fallen onto the bathmat when your hands started shaking. The third was still clutched between your fingers, although there was no reason to keep staring at it. The answer had not changed. Two lines. Three times.
From outside the locked bathroom door, Kimi knocked again. “Amore?”
You didn't answer. His trainers squeaked against the hallway floor as he shifted his weight. He had arrived ten minutes earlier still wearing his Mercedes junior jacket, his hair flattened strangely on one side from the helmet he had worn during training.
You had sent him one message—come over please—and then ignored every question he asked afterward. “Open the door.” You stared down at the test. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
There was a pause. “What does that mean?” You closed your eyes. Of course that was the sentence he focused on.
You unlocked the door and stepped back before he could push it open. Kimi entered quickly, looking around as though he expected to find somebody injured. His eyes moved from your face to the sink, then to the test in your hand.
He stopped. For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
You had imagined this moment repeatedly since taking the first test. In every version, Kimi reacted loudly. He shouted, denied it, accused you of making a mistake. In the worst versions, he left.
Instead, he became completely still. His backpack slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor. “Is that—”
“Yes.”
He looked at the tests again. “All three?”
“No, Kimi. I bought three tests for decoration.” Usually, he would have said something back. He might have flicked your forehead or told you that you were being annoying. He did neither.
He lowered himself onto the closed toilet lid, missed the edge slightly and had to catch himself against the sink. You watched him sit there with his knees apart and his hands hanging uselessly between them.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“Kimi.” Your voice came out exasperated.
“I know.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “Sorry. I know.”
You leaned back against the bathroom door. Your legs felt unsteady, but sitting beside him seemed too intimate when you were not sure whether either of you could breathe properly. He looked fifteen.
That was a stupid thought. He was fifteen.
He still had a healing scrape across his chin from falling off his bicycle the week before. He had a chemistry test on Monday that you knew he had not studied for. His father still had to remind him to put his wet towels in the laundry basket.
Kimi looked at your stomach and then immediately looked away. “How long?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t know exactly.”
“Did you—have you been to a doctor?”
“No, Kimi. I just found out forty minutes ago!”
“Oh.” He went silent again. You picked at the edge of your thumbnail, watching the blood pile up at the edge.
The bathroom suddenly felt far too small. It was the same bathroom where you had cut your own fringe at eleven and cried until your mother fixed it. Kimi had laughed when he saw you the next day. You didn't spoken to him for an entire lunch period.
Now there were three positive pregnancy tests beside your hand soap. “What are we supposed to do?” Kimi asked. His voice cracked halfway through the question.
Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”
“You must have thought about it.”
“I found out forty minutes ago,” you repeated. “I spent twenty of those minutes waiting for you.”
“I came as fast as I could.”
“I know.”
“Does your mom know?” You shook your head rather than answering.“Your dad?” Another head shake. “My parents?”
“Kimi, nobody knows. I told you first.” You voice came out exasperated, hands reaching to pull your hair back. That seemed to make it worse. He bowed his head, pressing his palms against his eyes.
You finally slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor opposite him. Your knees almost touched. His backpack lay between you, one strap twisted underneath it. “What if they hate us?” you whispered.
“My parents?”
“All of them.”
“They won’t hate us.”
“You don’t know that.”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know. Kimi... this is a recipe for them to be so... so mad at us.” He reached across the space between you. His fingers found yours, cold and slightly damp.
“I’m sorry,” he admitted. That was the first useful thing he had said. You looked at him properly. His face had gone pale. He kept swallowing, like he might be sick.
“I’m scared,” you said.
“Me too.”
“You’re not supposed to say that.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. Something better.”
Kimi stared at you helplessly. “I’m trying.” Another silence settled between you. Downstairs, the front door opened. Your mother called your name. Both of you jumped.
Kimi squeezed your hand hard enough to hurt. “We have to tell her,” you said.
“Now?” He glanced toward the bathroom door, “Maybe we should work out what we’re saying first.”
“My mother is going to notice that we’ve locked ourselves in the bathroom.” You shook your head, standing up now.
“We can say you’re ill.”
“She’ll come inside.”
“Then I’ll leave.” You stared at him, Kimi’s eyes widening as he realised what he said. “No— Not leave like that. I mean leave the bathroom. To give you privacy.”
“You are not making me tell her alone.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You just said you were leaving.”
“I meant—” He stopped and looked down. “Sorry.”
Your mother called your name again, closer this time. "Kimi's shoes are in the hallway, is he in the house?” The doorknob moved, the two of you looked at each other.
For one ridiculous second, you were twelve again, caught hiding in the bathroom trying to nurse a burn on Kimi’s arm after he had accidentally broken a lamp in your bedroom.
Then you looked at the three tests on the sink. Nothing was ridiculous anymore. “Mama,” you said, barely loud enough to hear. “Can you get Dad?”
The doorknob finally stopped moving. There was silence on the other side. Your mother’s voice changed immediately. “What happened?”
“Please just get him.”
“Enough. Open the door.” You looked at Kimi. He nodded, though he appeared seconds away from fainting.
Your father did not shout for locking yourselves in the bathroom. You almost wished he would.
Shouting would have been easier than the silence that filled the living room after you placed one of the tests on the coffee table.
Your mother sat beside you, one arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders. Your father remained in the armchair across from you, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
Kimi sat at the far end of the sofa. He had moved there after your father entered, as though physical distance might make the situation look slightly less terrible.
It did not. “How long have you known?” your father asked.
“Today,” you said.
He looked at Kimi. “Today,” Kimi repeated quickly. “She told me today.”
“And your parents?”
“They don’t know yet.”
Your father nodded once, but you couldn't read his expression. That frightened you more than anger would have.
Your mother had cried when you told her. Quietly, at first, so quietly that you did not even realise at first. Then she covered her mouth and went into the kitchen for several minutes.
When she returned, she sat beside you and asked if you were in pain. She had not let go of you since. “We need to arrange a doctor’s appointment,” your mother said. “Before anything else.”
You nodded. “And then we will discuss everything properly. All of the options. Nobody is making any decision tonight.”
Your father stood. Kimi stood at the same time. They looked at each other. Kimi sat down again.
“I’m calling your father,” your father told him.
“I can call him.”
“No.” Kimi’s face turned red. You reached across the sofa and caught the edge of his sleeve. Your father noticed, his jaw tightened, but he did not tell you to let go.
The Antonellis arrived thirty-five minutes later. Veronica entered first. She crossed the room without removing her coat and went directly to you, crouching in front of you.
“Are you all right?” You started crying. You had not cried while taking the tests. You had not cried while telling Kimi or your parents.
But Kimi’s mother touched your cheek and asked if you were all right, and suddenly you could not answer. Veronica pulled you into her arms.
Across the room, Marco looked at his son. Kimi looked down. “You knew?” Marco asked.
“An hour ago.”
“And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Marco nodded slowly. “Good.” Kimi lifted his head, startled. “That is the minimum,” Marco added. “Don't look relieved.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Kimi,” Veronica warned. He fell silent. The adults talked for nearly two hours. You and Kimi barely spoke. Decisions moved around you without landing anywhere. Doctors. School. Racing. Your ages. Your futures. What you wanted. What Kimi understood. What neither of you understood.
At one point, your father asked whether Kimi recognised how much of this would fall on you physically. Kimi said yes too quickly. Your father asked him to explain. Kimi couldn't. His face burned as four adults watched him struggle for words.
“I know it’s different for her,” he eventually said. “I know I can’t—I can’t act like it’s happening to both of us in the same way.” You looked at him, but he kept his eyes on your father. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
“You cannot promise things simply because they sound right,” your father replied.
“I’m not.”
“You're fifteen.”
“I know.”
“You have school, racing. You are barely home now.”
“I know.”
“You don't know.” Kimi’s hands curled into fists against his knees. Marco placed one hand on his shoulder. It was not comforting enough to excuse him, only enough to keep him from answering defensively. Your mother spoke before the argument could grow. “Nobody is deciding tonight what the rest of their lives will look like.”
She looked at you. “Tonight, you sleep. Tomorrow, we will see the doctor.”
Then she looked at Kimi. “And you go home with your parents.” Kimi’s head snapped toward you. You understood the panic immediately.
He thought you were being separated. “Mama—”
“Only tonight,” your mother said. “You both need to speak to your own families. You will see each other tomorrow.” Kimi still looked uncertain. You reached for his hand again.
“Tomorrow,” you told him. He squeezed your fingers.
“Tomorrow.”
NOVEMBER 2022
You could confidently classify the night of the 20th to the morning of the 21st as the worst night of your entire life. Nothing could possibly be as gruelling or exhausting as this.
An English exam was not this bad. Falling in front of everyone you knew and lying there for a few seconds while hoping you might die of embarrassment was not this bad.
Being caught cheating on a maths test in seventh grade had not been this bad, and your mother had refused to speak to you for almost two days after that.
You had gone into the hospital believing that once the contractions became unbearable, the baby would arrive shortly afterward. That seemed fair. There should have been some sort of exchange.
Once the pain reached a certain level, your body should have accepted that you had suffered enough and released the baby.
Instead, every time someone checked you, they announced another number as though you were supposed to find it encouraging.
By the time you were finally told you could start pushing, you had been awake for most of the night, your hair had escaped the braid your mother had done for you, and you had lost whatever small amount of dignity you had entered the hospital with.
Kimi still had all of his dignity, which seemed deeply unfair.
He had spent most of the night sitting beside the bed in grey sweatpants and a Mercedes hoodie, drinking apple juice and looking increasingly ill.
By nine in the morning, the room had changed. There were more people moving around. Equipment had been brought closer to the bed.
Your father and Marco had been sent outside, partly because there was not enough space and mostly because you had decided there were limits to what either of them needed to witness.
Your mother stayed. Kimi stayed too, despite looking as though he might faint every time someone used a medical term. You had considered telling him to leave.
But you wanted him beside you, but you also wanted him to stop moving, breathing loudly, asking questions or looking frightened because his fear was making your fear worse. “You’re shaking the bed,” you snapped.
“My leg isn’t touching it.”
“I can feel it.”
Kimi pressed both feet flat against the floor. “Sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry.”
He looked down, pursuing his lips. “Okay.”
“And stop agreeing with everything I say.”
“All right.” You glared at him. He looked helplessly at your mother, who turned her face away to hide a smile.
The pushing stage was less like the dramatic rush you had expected and more like being repeatedly told to perform the most exhausting task of your life while everybody insisted you were nearly finished.
The midwife said the baby was close. Then she said it again. And again. You were beginning to suspect that close had no actual medical meaning. “I can’t,” you cried after another contraction.
“Yes, you can,” your mother said.
“I actually can’t.” The midwife told you that you were doing very well.
“You get paid to say that to everyone!"
“Yes,” the midwife said calmly. “But I am also saying it because it is true.”
Nora Antonelli was finally born at 10:38 a.m. on 21 November 2022. She was placed immediately against your chest and covered with a warm blanket while the medical team continued checking you both.
You stared down at her. Nora was small, red-faced and crying furiously. And she was…kind of ugly. God, were you terrible for thinking that?
You had expected a tiny, perfect baby with smooth cheeks and wide, curious eyes. Nora looked deeply offended, slightly squashed and furious to have been removed from wherever she had been living for the past nine months.
You waited for the feeling. The enormous, overwhelming rush of motherhood everyone online had described. You had watched TikToks where women cried while explaining that the moment their baby was placed on their chest, the entire world changed.
Reddit posts described instant love so powerful that nothing else existed. You had even checked Mumsnet, which you had regretted almost immediately because the women there appeared to disagree about everything except the fact that birth was miraculous.
They described relief. A blessing. A feeling unlike anything else. You did feel relieved. You were relieved that Nora was out. Relieved that the pushing had stopped. Relieved that people were no longer telling you to breathe as though you had forgotten how.
But there were no butterflies, no music, and sudden certainty that you knew exactly what you were doing.
There was only a warm, slippery ugly baby crying against your chest while you tried not to look as confused as you felt.
You studied Nora’s face carefully. Were you supposed to say something? Hello seemed too formal. I’m your mother felt obvious.
You had imagined this moment so many times during the pregnancy, but none of the versions had included how exhausted you would be or how strange it would feel to look at the person who had been inside you and realise you were now expected to know her.
You tried not to let any of this show on your face. Then you turned your head, seeing Kimi was crying openly. He was fully crying, his mouth pressed tightly together as though that might stop it.
He wiped his face against the sleeve of his hoodie, apparently believing that would hide what was happening.
It did not.
His eyes were red, his cheeks were wet. His hair was sticking up at the back, and one of his hands was still clenched from where you had nearly broken his fingers.
You stared at him. He looked down at Nora, his face changing again. You watched him stare at her as though she were the most astonishing thing he had ever seen. Of course he got the instant magical feeling.
He had not even done anything. You had spent the entire night suffering, and Kimi had drunk apple juice, held one leg for twenty minutes and cried when the baby arrived.
“She’s so small,” he whispered. Nora cried harder, Kimi looking up in alarm. “Why is she doing that?”
“She’s a baby.”
“Is she hungry?”
“She’s been alive for thirty seconds.”
“That doesn’t mean she isn’t hungry.” You shut your eyes briefly. When you opened them again, he was still staring at Nora. You still did not feel like somebody’s mother.
You felt like yourself. Exhausted, sore, irritated, who had somehow been handed a baby and told she belonged to you. The midwife adjusted the blanket and asked whether you wanted to try feeding her.
Your stomach dropped. “Now?”
“If you feel ready.” You looked at your mother. She moved closer, immediately understanding the fear in your face. “You don’t have to know how,” she said softly. “They will show you.”
That nearly made you cry. Not because it was beautiful. Because you were so relieved that somebody had finally said you were not expected to already know. Nora fussed.
You became frustrated and immediately felt guilty for becoming frustrated. The midwife calmly adjusted your position and reminded you that both you and the baby were learning.
Learning.
You looked down at Nora again. You were not supposed to know her yet. Nora did not know you either. You had met less than five minutes ago.
Maybe the enormous rush would come later. Maybe it would happen that evening, or the following week, or quietly in pieces rather than all at once.
The midwife eventually asked whether Kimi wanted to hold her. His face went blank. “Now?” You turned your head toward him. “What if I do it wrong?”
“You will.” Kimi stared at you. Your mother touched his shoulder gently. “Everyone does at first.”
That did not seem to comfort him. He moved into the chair beside the bed anyway. The midwife showed him exactly how to position his arms and support Nora’s head. Kimi listened as though she were explaining a complicated race procedure.
He nodded after every sentence, he held out his arms, Nora placed against him. His entire body became rigid, shoulders rose almost to his ears. “Relax,” you said.
“I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re being held at gunpoint.”
“I don’t want to drop her.”
“You’re sitting down.”
“You keep saying that like babies can’t fall from chairs.”
“Kimi.”
Nora moved slightly, causing Kimi to freeze. “Why did she do that?”
“She moved.”
“Is her neck okay?”
The midwife smiled. “Her neck is fine.”
“Completely?” You groaned. Kimi looked down again. Nora’s eyes remained closed. Her face had begun to soften now that she was no longer screaming. One tiny fist rested beside her cheek.
Her hat had slipped over one eyebrow. Kimi lifted one finger and carefully pushed it back. “Hi,” he whispered, the room becoming quiet.
You watched him swallow, looking away quickly because, annoyingly, that was what finally did it.
Not butterflies. Not some enormous wave of divine motherhood. Just Kimi sitting beside you, sixteen years old and terrified, holding your slightly ugly baby as though she were made of glass.
Love, perhaps—but new and frightened and unfamiliar. The sort that did not feel like flying. The sort that felt like something had wrapped itself tightly around your ribs and intended to stay there.
You wiped your face. Kimi looked up immediately. “Why are you crying?”
You glared at him through tears. “Because I just gave birth, dumbass.”
ᯓ super shy — New Jeans 🔒
liked by, kimi.antonelli, veronicaantonelli, and 183 others
ynusername: 21.11.22 🤍
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giulialouise: she's so tiny....when can i come see her?
⤷ ynusername: her lungs arent tiny
kimi.antonelli: 🤍
The first night home, none of you slept. Nora cried at one in the morning. Then at two, then at 2:15 when Kimi had only just closed his eyes on the mattress your parents had placed beside your bed.
He sat up so quickly he struck his head against the bedside table. You, already holding Nora, stared at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
Your lips pursed, pointing at his forehead. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m not.” Kimi touched his forehead and looked at the small streak of blood on his fingers. Nora continued crying. From the hallway, your mother called, “Do you need help?”
“No,” you called back.
“Yes,” Kimi said at the same time. You glared at him. “What?” he whispered. “We need help.”
“I can feed her.”
“You said you don’t know why she’s crying.”
“I know more than you.”
“I know that.” Your mother entered before either of you could continue. She took one look at Kimi’s forehead, your expression and the screaming baby.
“You,” she told Kimi, “bathroom.”
“I’m fine.”
“You're bleeding onto my carpet.” Kimi stood, accepting his defeat. “You,” she pointed directly at you, “move over.”
The two of you were trying to be good parents in the way frightened children could be good parents: you loved Nora immediately and knew almost nothing else.
Everything had to be taught to you. How to support her head. How warm the bath should be. How to tell whether she had a fever. How to sterilise bottles. How to fold the pushchair without nearly losing a finger.
You called your mothers constantly. Sometimes from the next room.
FEBRUARY 2023
story replies
⤷ olliebearman: she knows you’re slow there
⤷ kimi.antonelli: blocked
You returned to school gradually. At first, you attended three mornings a week while your mother stayed with Nora. Then four. By the time Nora was five months old, you were expected to follow almost the same schedule as everyone else.
Almost became a dangerous word. You had extensions. You had missed work. You had teachers who told you not to worry and teachers who reminded you that final deadlines still applied.
You had friends who sent photographs of notes and friends who stopped inviting you because you always said no. You sat at the kitchen table trying to finish an essay on I Promessi Sposi.
Your schoolbook lay open beneath a muslin cloth. A bottle cooled beside your pencil case. Nora sat strapped against your chest, making small offended noises every time you stopped moving.
She refused to fall asleep in the crib downstairs, so desperate times for desperate measures. Your phone buzzed. You accepted without looking at the screen, knowing already who it was. “What?”
"Hello to you too."
“I have four hundred words left.”
"Of what?"
“My essay.”
"The one from last week?"
“Yes, Andrea.”
"You said you finished it."
“I lied.” Nora began fussing. Kimi’s face appeared on the laptop screen, grainy beneath the hotel-room lights.
"Is she tired?"
“No, she’s performing experimental opera.”
"Give her to me.'
You stared at him. “Through the screen?”
"I mean show her to me."
“She can’t see you properly when she’s like this.”
"Try." You adjusted the laptop, turning so Nora was facing the screen. Kimi leaned closer to his camera. "Ciao, mia stella."
Nora stopped crying long enough to stare at the moving shape on the screen. Kimi smiled. "See?"
Then Nora screamed louder. You immediately moved the laptop back. “You made it worse.”
"How?"
“I don’t know. Your face upset her.”
"My face doesn’t upset her."
“She has good judgement.”
Kimi looked offended. "What does that say about your judgement then? You like this face."
You returned to your essay, swaying slightly in the chair. “It means I have terrible judgement.”
For a while, he watched you type. "Do you need help?"
“You can help by taking her for six hours.”
"I’m in England."
“Yes. I’ve noticed.” The words came out sharper than you intended, Kimi falling quiet. You kept typing. After a minute, he said, "I come home Thursday."
You stopped typing. “What time?”
"Late."
“How late?”
"I don’t know yet."
“You never know.”
"I just found out."
“I didn’t say it was your fault.”
"You said it like it was."
Nora started crying again. You shut your eyes. “I have to go.”
"Amore—"
“I have to finish this.” You ended the call before he answered. Ten minutes later, a message appeared.
liked by kimi.antonelli, giulalouise, olliebearman and 141 others
ynusername: six months of nori 🥹🤍 she can sit up, steal food and recognise the sound of her grandma coming through the front door
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kimi.antonelli: she said babbo yesterday
⤷ ynusername: she said ba
⤷ kimi.antonelli: beginning of babbo
giulialouise: she also said ba when she saw a banana two days ago
⤷ kimi.antonelli: jealous people in these comments
By summer, Kimi had become extremely skilled at leaving.
He was not good at it. He simply did it often. He packed racing equipment, chargers, passports and clothes while Nora crawled between his feet.
You sat on the bed, pretending to study and watching him check the same compartment of his suitcase three times. “When are you back?”
“Monday night.”
“You said Sunday.”
“My flight changed.”
“Again? Why didn’t you tell me?” You sighed, using a hand to push your hair back. “I’m telling you now.” He brushed off.
“Because I asked.”
Kimi zipped the case. “I found out this morning.”
“And you forgot?”
“I was training.”
“You could message after training.”
“No, I can’t.”
“You message Ollie.”
“That’s different.”
You closed your book. “How?”
“He sends me stupid things. I answer when I finish.”
“So you can answer him but not me.”
“That is not what I said.” Nora sat beside the suitcase and began pulling socks from the outer pocket. Kimi exhaled through his nose. “Why are we arguing?”
“I’m not arguing.” You held your hands up.
“You are.”
“I asked you a question.”
“In an argumentative way.”
You stood. “Fine. Go.”
“I am going. I have a flight.”
“I know.”
“Come on amore.”
“What?” Kimi looked at you, waiting. You crossed your arms. He glanced at Nora and finally noticed the growing pile of socks. “Stella.”
She grinned at him and pulled out another. Kimi crouched beside her. “No. Those stay inside.” Nora immediately threw one behind her. You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Kimi looked over his shoulder. “You’re encouraging her.”
“She agrees with me.”
“She cannot understand you.”
“She understands that you’re annoying.” Kimi gathered the socks and shoved them back into the suitcase. Nora removed one again. He caught her around the middle and lifted her. “Okay. You’re coming with me.” Nora squealed.
“You’re not taking my baby to Belgium,” you said.
“Our baby.”
“She was mine when you forgot to tell me about your flight.” Kimi stood with Nora balanced against his chest.
“I didn’t forget you.” Your expression changed before you could control it. The joking disappeared from his face as he noticed your expression. “I didn’t,” he said more quietly.
You looked down. Kimi crossed the room and stopped in front of you. Nora reached out and caught a section of your hair. “Ow.” Kimi untangled her fingers carefully, replacing it with his own. “I’ll call when I land.”
“You’ll forget.”
“I won’t.”
“You always say that.”
“Then I’ll set an alarm.”
You looked at him again. “That’s worse.”
“Why?”
“You need an alarm to remember me?” Kimi stared at you. You stared back. Then he groaned and dropped his forehead onto your shoulder. “You make everything impossible.”
“You’re stupid.”
“You knew that when you agreed to be my girlfriend.”
“I was twelve. I had bad judgement.” Nora patted the back of Kimi’s head.
He lifted his face. “See? She’s comforting me.”
“She thinks you’re furniture.”
He kissed Nora’s cheek, then yours. You turned your head at the last second, so his mouth caught the corner of yours. His hand came to cup your jaw leaning in for a proper one.
“Call when you land,” you repeated, your breath tickling his lips slightly. A huff of amusement slipped out of his mouth, “I will.”
Kimi kissed you anyway, quick this time, before Nora wedged one small hand between your faces. You moved her hand away, taking his lips one more time.
You felt his breath stutter a little in his chest, and then he relaxed into it, the hand holding your jaw pulling you in closer like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.
“Go, Andrea.” He handed Nora back reluctantly, then dragged his suitcase toward the door, no doubt his dad already waiting by the door downstairs.
ᯓ what is love — TWICE
liked by, kimi.antonelli, olliebearman and 300 others
ynusername: seventeen!!!!!! unfortunately you remain the same annoying person i met when i was four. happy birthday kimi 🤍
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kimi.antonelli: you made the cake ugly on purpose
⤷ ynusername: i made the cake while holding your child
⤷ kimi.antonelli: our child and no you didnt do either of those things my mom made that cake
⤷ ynusername: she became yours again at midnight and i was in the kitchen when she was making it so
olliebearman: happy birthday old man
⤷ kimi.antonelli: you are older than me
⤷ olliebearman: spiritually you are 46
21 November 2023
liked by kimi.antonelli, veronicaantonelli and 292 others
ynusername: our girl is one 🤍 one whole year of nori laughing at nothing, refusing to sleep, stealing my food and waiting at the door when she hears her babbo’s car. we love you more than you’ll ever understand.
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kimi.antonelli: my favourite person
⤷ ynusername: wow
⤷ kimi.antonelli: one of my favourite people
⤷ ynusername: too late
giulialouise: happy birthday nora!!! 🤍🤍
olliebearman: happy birthday small antonelli
⤷ ynusername: she has a name
⤷ olliebearman: happy birthday small yn
⤷ ynusername: worse
DECEMBER 2023
Marco offered to tell Toto for him. Kimi refused before his father had finished speaking. “I’ll do it.”
“You have avoided doing it for a year.”
“I wasn’t avoiding it.” Marco looked at him. Kimi adjusted the cuff of his Mercedes jacket. “I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you were avoiding it.” They stood in the corridor outside Toto’s office. Kimi had asked for a private meeting two weeks earlier, then considered cancelling it every day since. Mercedes did not know about Nora.
A few people around the junior programme knew Kimi had serious family commitments. They knew he has a girlfriend, but nobody had asked for details.
Nora had been born after his racing season ended, and Kimi had missed nothing important enough to cause questions. That had made hiding her easy at first. Then every month made telling them harder.
He had convinced himself he would do it before the next test. Before the next season. Before Nora was six months old. Before her first birthday. Now she was one, and Toto Wolff still did not know that one of his junior drivers had a daughter.
Marco lowered his voice. “You tell him everything. Do not try to make it sound better.”
“I know.”
“I know you would not intend to. That is not the same thing.” Kimi looked away. The office door opened. Toto’s assistant smiled at them. “He’s ready.” Kimi’s stomach dropped.
Marco entered behind him but did not sit until Kimi did. Toto looked from one Antonelli to the other. “You asked to speak privately.”
“Yes.” Kimi had rehearsed the explanation in Italian and English. He had practised in the mirror. He had written down the important points on his phone.
You had told him not to begin with I need to tell you something because that made it sound as if he had committed a crime.
Now Toto sat opposite him, waiting. Every prepared sentence disappeared. Kimi gripped his knees. “I have a daughter.” Toto did not react immediately. Kimi continued before he could be asked.
“Her name is Nora. She turned one last month. YN—my girlfriend—became pregnant last year. We were fifteen.” Toto looked at Marco.
“My wife and I have known from the beginning,” Marco said. “As have YN's parents.”
“And Mercedes has not,” Toto replied.
“No.”
“Why?”
Kimi answered before his father could. “Because I was scared.” Toto turned back to him. “Of what?”
“That you would think I wasn’t serious. Or that I was irresponsible. That you would drop me.”
“Were you irresponsible?”
Kimi’s face burned. “Yes.” The honesty seemed to surprise all three of them. He swallowed. “But Nora is here. YN and I are raising her with our parents. I haven’t missed anything for racing.”
Toto leaned back in his chair. “Is YN safe?”
“Yes.”
“Is she well?”
“Yes. Mostly. School is difficult sometimes.”
“What does she want?”
Kimi hesitated. “In relation to what?”
“Her education. Her future. Your daughter. You.”
“She wants to finish school. She doesn’t want to stop.”
“And childcare?”
“Our parents help. Mostly her mother when YN is at school. My mother too. I take Nora when I’m home.”
“How often are you home?”
Kimi looked down. “Not enough.”
Toto was silent for a moment. “Does YN agree with how you have described the arrangement?”
“Yes.” Marco shifted slightly beside him. Kimi corrected himself. “I think she does.”
“You think?”
“We talk about it.”
“Do you listen?” Kimi’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. Toto did not rescue him.
Kimi thought about the calls you ended early. The assignments completed with Nora strapped to your chest. Every time he arrived home with a suitcase of dirty clothes and expected you to be happy simply because he had returned. “I’m trying,” he said.
“That was not the question either.”
Kimi’s hands tightened against his knees. “Sometimes.” Toto nodded once. He did not look angry. Kimi almost preferred anger. This felt like an evaluation, and Kimi had no lap time to defend himself with.
“Your daughter does not make you less committed to racing,” Toto said. “But becoming a father does not automatically make you responsible either. It gives you another responsibility. Whether you meet it is up to you.”
Kimi nodded. “This will not excuse poor preparation. It will not excuse missed communication or arriving exhausted because you attempted to solve everything yourself.”
“I understand.”
“And racing cannot become an excuse for leaving every unpleasant part of parenting to YN.”
“It isn’t.”
“You are away more than she is.” Kimi fell silent. Toto continued. “She has already experienced consequences you have not. Physically. Socially. At school. At home. You continue along the career path you chose as a child. Her path has changed completely.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Kimi looked at Marco. His father did not help him. Kimi forced himself to meet Toto’s eyes again.
“I’m learning.” That answer appeared to satisfy him more than the others. Toto folded his hands on the desk. “You are not the first driver to have a family. You are simply much younger than most of them.”
Kimi waited. “But I should have been informed.”
“Yes.”
“A year ago.”
“Yes.”
“If there had been an emergency during a test or a race weekend, we would not have known the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” Kimi nodded, staring at a point on the desk. Then Toto asked, “Do you have a photograph?” He looked up.
“What?”
“Your daughter.” For the first time since entering the office, Marco smiled. Kimi pulled out his phone too quickly and nearly dropped it. He opened his photographs.
There were hundreds. Nora asleep. Nora eating. Nora sitting in the middle of Kimi’s open suitcase. Nora wearing his cap backward. Nora on her birthday with both hands buried in cake.
He selected the birthday photograph. “She looks more like YN,” Kimi said.
“That is probably fortunate.”
Kimi glanced at his father, who looked suspiciously amused. Toto handed the phone back. “We will need a proper discussion about your schedule, emergency contacts and what support is appropriate. Support does not mean Mercedes raises your child for you.”
“I know.”
“It also does not mean you hide major parts of your life because you are afraid of disappointing people.” Kimi slipped the phone back into his pocket, nodding instead of answering.
“I would also like to speak to YN.” His head lifted immediately.
“She has school.”
“Then we arrange it around school.” Kimi nodded slowly. Toto looked at him for another moment. “You thought I would remove you from the programme?”
“Yes.”
“Because you have a daughter?”
“Because of how old we were.”
“How old you still are.”
Kimi looked down again. Toto’s voice softened, but only slightly. “You are allowed to be frightened, Kimi. You are not allowed to use fear as a reason to avoid difficult conversations for an entire year.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” The meeting ended twenty minutes later. Outside the office, Kimi stood in the corridor and exhaled so hard that his shoulders dropped. Marco checked his watch. “You need to call her.”
“She’s in class.”
“You told her you would call immediately.”
“I’ll message.” Marco gave him a look, but he shrugged, “If her mom found out I called her during school your grandaughter would be left without a father,”
Kimi looked back at the closed office door. He had spent a year believing that telling Mercedes would end everything. Now there would be meetings, new schedules and questions neither he nor you knew how to answer.
Nothing had been fixed. Nothing had disappeared. But the secret was no longer sitting on his chest.
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