ELISE ! her, eighteen, asian, sv5 is my reason to live
" oh but you got a sports car . . . "
reqs are open! ā all fem!reader ā mlist under the cut
ONE. THE GRID !
ā MAX VERSTAPPEN
ā KIMI ANTONELLI
ā CHARLES LECLERC
ā ALEX ALBON
ā FRANCO COLAPINTO
ā CARLOS SAINZ
ā OSCAR PIASTRI
ā OLLIE BEARMAN
ā GRID
TWO. THE SEASON ! (prioritizing moments)
ā RUN IT BACK
there hasn't been a female driver in formula 1 in a while. jessie d'angelo thinks its time we run it back.
ā MICS UP
you've been covering the riveting sport of formula 1 ever since you stepped foot onto the journalism scene. so much so, that the entire grid already know your shenanigans.
ā MOMENTS
a series of standalone one-shots inspired by one direction songs.
charles leclerc was a distractionā an annoyingly handsome, disgustingly cute, irritatingly gorgeous distraction. and you got pulled into it. so much so, that you have to decide if you continue on your flight to tokyo or stay in monaco.
INCLUDES: use of y/n, this is fast-paced yall, like literally this all happens in two weeks, charles being a love-struck puppy its honestly gross, reader is a boss bitch but sometimes boss bitches need love too
NOTE: hello! 4th installation of the moments series. this one is inspired by CHANGE YOUR TICKET. ngl this one was the hardest one to come up with a plot for but i got there eventually. i love this song! please do listen to it. i hope you guys like this (bcs i sure dont)
( moments | more CL16 )
The silence of a Monaco apartment at 4:00 AM is a specific kind of heavy. It's the sound of expensive air conditioning and the distant, muffled rhythm of the Mediterranean hitting the harbor walls. For most, this was the hour of deep sleep. For you, it was the hour of departure.
You stood in the glow of the open refrigerator, the cold light casting sharp shadows against the marble floor. You weren't even hungry; you were just stalling. You gripped a bottle of water, your eyes drifting to your suitcase standing like a sentry by the front door.
Inside that suitcase was your life: three camera bodies, a rotation of lenses that cost more than a mid-sized sedan, and enough black clothing to blend into the shadows of any gallery in the world. You were a ghost in the industry ā the photographer who captured the raw, ugly, beautiful moments of high-stakes sports and fashion, only to disappear before the credits rolled.
"The water isn't going to tell you to stay, you know."
You jumped, nearly dropping the bottle. Charles was leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom. He looked soft ā infuriatingly so. He was wearing nothing but a pair of grey lounge pants, his hair a chaotic nest of brown curls that you had been running your fingers through only an hour ago.
"I thought you were asleep," you whispered, though the "secret" nature of your relationship meant you were always whispering, even when you were alone.
"I can hear your brain working from the other room," he murmured, crossing the kitchen with that effortless, feline grace he had. He didn't stop until he was in your space, his chest inches from your own. He reached out, his fingers brushing the stray hairs back from your forehead. "You're thinking about the flight. The connection in Dubai. The gallery in Tokyo. You're already gone, aren't you?"
"I have to be, Charles. My name is on the door for this exhibition. If Iām not there to supervise the hanging..."
"I know," he sighed, but his hands moved to your waist, pulling you into him. "I just... I hate this part. The part where the 'weekend' ends."
Your mind flickered back to where it all started. Eleven months ago. The Monaco Grand Prix. You were there on a freelance contract for a luxury watch brand, tucked away in the corner of a yacht party you weren't supposed to be at.
He had been escaping the crush of fans and sponsors, slipping into the galley to grab a drink. You were there, hidden behind a stack of catering crates, changing your memory cards.
"You shouldn't be back here," he'd said, his voice playful even through the exhaustion of a podium finish.
"Neither should you, No. 16," you'd replied, not even looking up from your gear. "Aren't you supposed to be sprayed in champagne somewhere?"
He had laughedāa genuine, private soundāand stayed for twenty minutes. Then an hour. Then, he'd looked at you with that intense, focused gaze and said, "One weekend. Stay in Monaco for the after-parties. I promise I'll never tell a soul you were here."
One weekend had turned into a year of secret flights and burner phones.
"Change the ticket," Charles said now, his voice snapping you back to the present. He wasn't joking anymore. His eyes were dark, searching yours. "Stay for breakfast. Stay for the afternoon. I'll fly you out tonight. I'll get you to Tokyo before the sun even comes up there."
"Charles, the tabloids are already circling. Did you see the Daily Mail yesterday? They're asking who the 'mystery woman' in the back of your car was in Maranello. If I miss my flight and stay here, and a single person sees me leaving this building at noon..."
"Let them look," he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Let them wonder. Why do we care so much about what they think? Youāre a world-class photographer. Iām a driver. Since when did being happy become a PR crisis?"
"Since my career depends on me being an unbiased observer," you reminded him, though your hands were starting to slide up his arms, finding the familiar heat of his skin. "I can't be the girl on Charles Leclerc's arm and then expect the FIA to give me a paddock pass to shoot the technical bays. They'll think I'm a spy. Or worseāa distraction."
He pulled back, a hurt look crossing his face before it was replaced by a stubborn smirk. "A distraction? Me? I think you are the distraction. I haven't been able to think about my tire deg for three days because I keep thinking about what you're going to wear to that opening in Tokyo."
He grabbed your phone off the counter, his thumb hovering over the airline app. "I'm doing it. I'm clicking it."
"Charles! Don't you dareā"
You lunged for the phone, but he was faster, spinning away and holding it high above his head. He was laughing now, that breathless, boyish sound that made it impossible to stay angry.
"I'll leak some pictures maybe!" he teased. "I'll tell the world you're a terrible houseguest who steals all my hoodies."
"You wouldn't," you gasped, halfway between a laugh and a panic attack.
"I'll do it. Don't you make me," he countered, his eyes dancing. He pinned you against the counter, the phone still held aloft. "One more day. That's all I'm asking for. We'll go to that little cove in Menton where no one goes. We'll have one day where you aren't a photographer and I'm not a driver. Just... us."
You looked at the phone, then at the man who had completely derailed the "professional" life you had worked so hard to build. You thought about the 11-hour flight, the cold hotel room in Tokyo, and the months of missing each other that were about to follow.
"I'm going to lose so much money on the rebooking fee," you groaned, burying your face in his chest.
"I'll pay it," he whispered, dropping the phone and wrapping both arms around you, holding you like you were the finish line of a race heād been running his whole life. "Iāll pay anything for twelve more hours of you."
The drive to Menton was the only time Charles looked truly relaxed. He wasn't behind the wheel of a Ferrari SF-24 or a flashy Purosangue; instead, he'd opted for a nondescript, vintage Fiat 500 he kept in a private garage specifically for days like this. It was a dusty, Mediterranean blue, and it rattled over the coastal roads in a way that made you feel like you'd slipped through a crack in time.
He wore a plain white linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway, and those classic tortoiseshell sunglasses that hid the most famous eyes in Monaco. You, tucked into the passenger seat with a silk scarf tied over your hair and oversized frames, felt like a silent film star fleeing a scandal.
"See?" he said, reaching over the gear shift to squeeze your hand. "The world hasn't ended. Tokyo is still there. Your gallery hasn't burned down. And we have the sun."
"We have a very expensive sun," you teased, looking at the GPS on your phone which showed your original flight currently somewhere over the Alps. "I still can't believe I let you talk me into this."
"It didn't take much talking," he noted cheekily, downshifting as the road narrowed. "You wanted to stay. You just needed a reason to blame me for it."
He wasn't wrong.
Menton appeared like a watercolor paintingāpiles of lemon-yellow and terracotta buildings stacked against the turquoise sea. While Monaco was all chrome, glass, and watchful eyes, Menton felt like a secret kept by grandmothers and fishermen.
He parked the car in a gravel lot overgrown with bougainvillea. He didn't wait for you to open your door; he was already there, offering a hand to help you out. For a moment, he didn't let go. He just stood there in the heat, the smell of wild thyme and sea salt thick in the air, looking at you with an expression that was terrifyingly soft.
"No cameras today," he promised, his voice dropping. "Just me and the girl who's supposed to be in Japan."
You spent the morning walking through the Jardins de l'Annonciade, the steep stone paths keeping the casual tourists away. Charles walked with a certain lightness here. In the paddock, he moved with shoulders squared, a man carrying the weight of a nationās expectations. Here, he was just a twenty-something boy who pointed out every stray cat and tried to guess the variety of the lemon trees.
"I think I was a gardener in a past life," he said, stopping to inspect a particularly vibrant bloom. "Simple. No engines. Just things that grow when you give them enough light."
"A gardener with a very fast lawnmower, maybe," you joked, leaning against a stone wall.
He turned to you, his smile fading into something more contemplative. He stepped into your space, his back to the view of the bay, focusing entirely on you. "Is that how you see me? Just the speed?"
"No," you said softly, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight grit of morning stubble. "I see the man who's terrified of being still. That's why you wanted me to change the ticket, isn't it? Because if I leave, the silence in that apartment gets too loud."
The hit landed. Charles looked away for a split second, his jaw tightening before he let out a jagged breath. "It's not just the silence. It's that when you're there, I don't have to be 'Charles Leclerc.' I don't have to be the hope of Monaco. I can just be the guy who's bad at making coffee and lucky enough to have you in his bed."
He took your hand, leading you toward a hidden cove he knewāa jagged lip of rock where the water was so clear you could see the pebbles on the floor. You spent the afternoon draped over a shared towel, the sun baking the secret into your skin.
You watched him swim. He was a creature of the water, moving with a fluid strength that made your professional brain itch for your Leica. You could see the shot: the spray of water catching the light, the sheer, raw power of his silhouette against the horizon. It would be a career-defining photo.
But you didn't reach for your bag.
Instead, you watched him with your own eyes, storing the memory in a place where no editor or fan could ever find it. This was the "invisible string." This was the āOne weekend, I promise that I'll never tellā that had stretched into a year.
As the sun began to dip, casting long, golden shadows over the rocks, the reality of the 7:00 PM backup flight began to loom. The tension returned to your chest, that familiar ache of a nomad who had finally found a home but wasn't allowed to stay.
"You're thinking about the suitcase again," Charles said, climbing out of the water, his skin glistening. He sat down beside you, shaking his head like a dog and spraying you with cool droplets.
"I have to, Charles. The galleryā"
"I know, I know," he interrupted, but this time there was no smugness. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath smelling of sea salt and citrus. "But for fifteen more minutes... just fifteen... can we pretend there's no airport? Can we pretend Iām just a gardener and you're just a girl who likes lemons?"
You closed your eyes, breathing him in. "Fifteen minutes," you whispered. "I'll give you that."
But as you sat there in the fading light, both of you knew that fifteen minutes was never going to be enough. It was a band-aid on a bullet wound, a temporary fix for two people who were "hot enough to be eaten alive" by the world, but only truly safe in the quiet, stolen corners of the French Riviera.
The memory of that first weekend didn't come back to you in a linear way; it came in flashes of neon and the taste of salt.
Eleven months ago, Monaco had been a pressure cooker. The air was thick with the scent of burnt rubber and the kind of humidity that made silk stick to skin. You had been standing on the balcony of a hospitality suite, your camera heavy around your neck, feeling like a ghost in a playground for gods. You were there to shoot lifestyle content for a sponsorābasically, taking photos of people who were famous for being famous.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the cliffs on Sunday evening, the harbor had transformed into a floating city of noise. Charles had won. The "Prince of Monaco" had finally conquered his home turf, and the atmosphere wasn't just celebratoryāit was feral.
You had escaped the main deck of the Amber Lounge yacht, your head throbbing from the relentless bass and the smell of a thousand different perfumes. You climbed down a narrow service ladder into a dimly lit galley, looking for a bottle of water and five minutes of silence.
You weren't alone.
He was sitting on a stainless steel prep table, his white race suit unzipped to his waist, the sleeves tied around his hips. He looked wrecked. Not the polished, smiling version of Charles Leclerc that had been on the podium two hours prior, but a man who looked like heād just survived a war. He was holding a green bottle of juice, staring at a tray of untouched hors d'oeuvres.
"If you're here to ask for a selfie, I think my face might actually fall off if I smile one more time," he said, his voice raspy and exhausted. He didn't even look up.
"I'm here for a San Pellegrino and a dark room, actually," you replied, your voice steady despite the spike of adrenaline in your chest. "You're in my way of the fridge, No. 16."
That made him look up. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were glassy with fatigue. He scanned youānot like a driver looking at a fan, but like a person looking for an exit. He saw the two professional-grade cameras hanging from your shoulders and the "Staff" lanyard tucked into your pocket.
"A photographer," he murmured, his posture relaxing just a fraction. "Great. You can take the photo of me looking like a zombie for the morning papers."
"I'm off the clock," you said, reaching past him to grab a cold glass bottle from the cooler. You popped the cap against the edge of the table and took a long drink. "And honestly? You look more interesting like this than you do on the podium. Less like a statue."
Charles tilted his head, a small, tired smirk ghosting across his lips. "Less like a statue. I'll have to tell my PR manager that's my new vibe."
He moved over, making room for you on the edge of the prep table. It was a surreal momentāthe most famous man in the country sharing a quiet corner with a stranger while ten thousand people screamed his name three decks above.
"It's too loud up there," he said softly, looking at the vibrating ceiling.
"It's too loud everywhere," you countered.
He looked at you then, really looked at you. There was a spark of curiosity that cut through the exhaustion. "What's your name?"
You told him, and for a moment, the roar of the party felt miles away.
"Well," he said, standing up and reaching into a bucket of ice to grab another bottle. "Since you're off the clock, and I'm supposed to be at three different gala dinners tonight... how about we make a deal? One weekend. Or what's left of it. No cameras, no 'Charles Leclerc,' no 'unbiased observation.'"
You laughed, a dry, skeptical sound. "You want to hide out with a photographer? Thatās like a rabbit hiding with a fox, Charles."
"Iām a good judge of character," he insisted, his voice dropping into that persuasive, velvet tone. He stepped closer, the heat radiating off him in waves. "I promise I'll never tell. We can just... exist. For twenty-four hours. No one has to know where I went."
It was a reckless, stupid idea. It was the kind of decision that ruined careers. But looking into those eyes, seeing the genuine plea for a moment of normalcy amidst the chaos, you'd said yes.
You had spent that night in a blur. He'd smuggled you out of the harbor in the back of a teammate's tinted SUV, ducking low whenever you passed a checkpoint. You ended up at a tiny, hole-in-the-wall pasta place in the hills that stayed open late just for him. You talked until the sun started to bleach the horizon, realizing that beneath the Ferrari red and the million-dollar endorsements, he was just a boy who missed his father and loved the sound of the piano.
When he finally dropped you back at your hotel on Monday morning, the air was cool and the city was hungover.
"You're leaving for Barcelona today," he had said, leaning against the door of the car.
"And you're going to Maranello," you replied, your heart heavy in a way you didn't understand.
"Change your ticket," he'd whispered, reaching out to catch a lock of your hair. "Stay one more day. I'll show you the view from the top of the Rock at sunset."
"I can't, Charles. One weekend, remember? That was the deal."
He had smiled thenāthe first real, effortless smile you'd seen. "Rules were made to be broken, weren't they?"
You hadn't stayed then. You had gotten on the plane. But you'd left your number written on a napkin from the pasta place, tucked into the pocket of his race suit. And three days later, when you landed in Spain, your phone had buzzed with a message from an unknown number:
"The silence is too loud without you. When is our next 'weekend'?"
The transition from the salt-licked peace of Menton to the high-decibel chaos of the paddock was always like a physical blow. Two days after the "change your ticket" standoff in Charles' kitchen, you were standing in the back of the Ferrari garage, the smell of carbon fiber and expensive fuel stinging your nose.
You had your long lens attached, your face partially obscured by the camera bodyāyour favorite shield. Through the viewfinder, you watched Charles. He was in the zone, his eyes hooded as he stared at the telemetry screens, his fireproof balaclava pulled down around his neck.
To the world, he was the untouchable Prince of Monaco. To you, he was the boy who had tripped over a rug while trying to dance to One Direction in his living room forty-eight hours ago.
"The lighting in here is dreadful, isn't it?"
A voice, sharp and syrupy, cut through the roar of an impact wrench. You didn't even have to look to know who it was. Sophieāa PR "consultant" whose main job seemed to be hovering near whoever had the most followers. Three months ago, when you were just a struggling freelancer, she wouldn't have looked at you if you were on fire.
Now, she was leaning against the tool chest next to you, a practiced, pearly-white smile on her face.
"Itās manageable," you said, not taking your eye off the lens.
"You know, I saw you at the gala the other night," Sophie continued, her eyes scanning your face for any sign of a crack. "You were sitting quite close to the Ferrari table. People are starting to talk, honey. They say you've got... exclusive access."
You felt a cold prickle of sweat down your spine. They didn't want to see you happy; they wanted to see if they could use your connection to climb higher themselves.
"I have a contract with the sponsors, Sophie. My access is exactly what's written on my badge," you lied, your voice steady. "Now, if you'll excuse me, the cars are coming out."
You stepped away, heart hammering against your ribs. This was the price of the secret. You had to endure the fake kindness and the predatory curiosity of the paddock vultures, all while pretending that your heart didn't skip a beat every time Charles looked in your general direction.
Charles headed toward the car, his helmet already on. As he passed you, he didn't stop. He didn't even look at you. But as his glove-covered hand brushed against the barrier you were leaning on, his pinky finger hooked against yours for a fraction of a second. A ghost of a touch. A promise that he was still there, even under the red suit and the carbon fiber.
You captured the shotāthe moment he stepped into the cockpitāand felt a wave of nausea. You were pissing people off just by existing in his orbit, showing them exactly what they were missing without ever saying a word.
The session ended, and the vultures began to circle again. You retreated to the media center, burying yourself in your laptop to edit the dayās takes. Your phone buzzed on the desk.
Charles: I saw you in the garage. You looked like you wanted to hit Sophie with your tripod. (4:12 PM)
You typed back, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the stress.
You: I was considering it. Sheās asking questions, Charles. The 'mystery woman' narrative is getting old. Theyāre getting closer. (4:13 PM)
Charles: Let them get close. They canāt touch us. Iām thinking about the ticket again. Tokyo is a long flight. I could come with you. I have four days before Iām needed in Maranello. (4:15 PM)
Your breath hitched.
You: Charles, you cannot fly to Japan for a gallery opening. That is batshit crazy territory. The press would lose their minds. (4:16 PM)
Charles: I'll do it. Don't you make me. ;) I'm serious. I'll wear a wig. I'll be your assistant. I'll carry your lenses. (4:17 PM)
You leaned back in your chair, looking out at the paddock where the sun was beginning to set, casting long, dramatic shadows. He was reckless. He was impulsive. He was exactly the kind of person who would blow up his entire reputation for four days in a city where no one knew his name.
And as you looked at the "Booked" confirmation for your late-night flight, you realized that the 15-minute rule was officially dead. You weren't just a weekend fling anymore. You were the girl who made him want to change the ticket, change the destination, and change the worldājust to have a few more moments of silence together.
The Nice CĆ“te d'Azur Airport is a place of transit for the wealthy, but at 11:00 PM, it felt like a ghost town. The marble floors were buffed to a mirror finish, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above. You felt small, pulling your suitcase toward the international departures gate, your heart doing a nervous rhythm against your ribs.
You had turned your phone off. You couldn't handle another message from himāanother "I'm ten minutes away" or "I'm looking at the flight tracker." If you saw his name on your screen one more time, you knew you'd drop your bags and run back to the Fiat.
You reached the security line, the air-conditioned chill of the terminal making you shiver. You handed your passport to the agent, your hands trembling slightly.
"Going to Tokyo for business?" the agent asked, his eyes flicking from your tired face to the professional photo in the booklet.
"Something like that," you whispered.
You passed through, the metal detector beeping in a way that felt like an accusation. You gathered your thingsāthe camera bags, the laptop, the heavy wool coatāand started the long walk toward Gate B22. Every footstep echoed. You felt like a fugitive.
"Change your ticket..." it played in the back of your mind, a haunting loop. "I'll take you anywhere you want to go."
You found a seat near the window, staring out at the dark tarmac where the massive long-haul jet sat idling. It looked like a beast waiting to swallow you whole and spit you out on the other side of the planet. You reached into your bag to turn your phone back on, just to check the gate change notifications.
The second the screen glowed to life, it exploded.
9 Missed Calls: Charles
14 Unread Messages: Charles
The most recent one made your blood turn to ice.
Charles: I'm at the terminal. Donāt get on that plane yet. (11:30 PM)
"No," you breathed, standing up so fast your bag slipped to the floor. "Charles, no."
You looked toward the entrance of the departures lounge. It was impossible. He couldn't get through security. He didn't have a ticket. Unless...
And then you saw him.
He wasn't wearing a wig. He wasn't wearing a disguise. He was wearing a dark hoodie, the strings pulled tight, and a pair of plain black trousers. He was walking toward your gate with a purpose that made people stop and stareānot because they recognized him yet, but because he moved like a man who was about to stop a clock with his bare hands.
He stopped ten feet away from you. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving under the cotton of his sweatshirt. He looked around at the sparse crowd of travelers, then back at you.
"Charles, what are you doing?" you hissed, rushing toward him and grabbing his arm to pull him into the shadow of a large pillar. "Are you insane? There are people here! If someone takes a photoā"
"I bought a ticket," he panted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. "To London. It was the only flight leaving from this terminal in the next hour. It got me through the gate."
"You spent four thousand Euros on a flight to London just to talk to me for five minutes?"
"I'd spend every Euro I have to make sure you know Iām serious," he said, his voice cracking. He reached out, his hands cupping your face, his palms warm and smelling of the Menton sea salt from earlier that day. "I don't want to wait for the next weekend. I don't want to be a secret anymore."
The intercom crackled to life, a monotone voice announcing the final boarding call for the flight to Tokyo.
"That's me," you whispered, tears finally blurring your vision. "I have to go, Charles. My life is on that plane."
"Your work is on that plane," he corrected, his thumbs brushing the tears away. "Your life is right here. With the guy who's bad at coffee and the Fiat that rattles."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. The world around youāthe janitors, the businessmen, the flickering flight boardsāall faded into a blur. It was just the two of you, standing in a bubble of desperate longing.
"Change it," he whispered. "One last time. Not for a day. Not for a weekend. Stay because you want to be the girl who stays. Iāll go to Tokyo with you. I'll tell the team I'm sick. I'll tell them I've gone missing. I don't care."
You looked at the gate. The agent was looking at her watch, ready to close the door. Then you looked at Charlesāthe boy who had promised never to tell, but was now standing in the middle of an international airport ready to shout it from the rooftops.
"You're going to ruin everything," you sobbed, half-laughing.
"Probably," he grinned, that beautiful, reckless light returning to his eyes. "But it'll be the best thing I've ever ruined. So... what's it going to be?"
You looked at your boarding pass, the thin slip of paper that represented your safety, your career, and your solitude. Then, you looked at the man who represented the beautiful, terrifying unknown.
With a slow, deliberate motion, you folded the pass in half. Then again. Until it was a tiny square of trash.
"I think," you whispered, "I need to go find a ticket to London."
Charles didn't say a word. He just pulled you into a kiss that tasted like victory, like salt, and like the end of a very long, very quiet year of hiding.
Outside, the jet to Tokyo pushed back from the gate, leaving the terminal behind. But inside, under the hum of the airport lights, the weekend wasn't ending. It was only just beginning.
London in the rain was a far cry from the sparkling shores of Menton. Instead of the deep turquoise of the Mediterranean, the view from the window of your small, tucked-away hotel in Shoreditch was a palette of charcoal greys and brick reds.
But as you sat on the edge of the bed, watching the steam rise from two mismatched mugs of tea, you realized youād never felt more awake.
Charles was sitting on the floor, his back against the radiator, staring at his phone with a look of profound amusement. Heād finally turned it back on.
"So," he said, popping the 'p' and looking up at you. "The team has called fourteen times. My brother thinks I've been kidnapped. And there is a very grainy photo of us at the Heathrow baggage claim currently trending on X."
You felt a momentary spike of panicāthe old instinct to hide, to delete, to disappear. But then you looked at Charles. He wasn't stressed. He wasn't calling his PR manager. He was just... smiling.
"Are we in trouble?" you asked, sitting down on the floor beside him.
"Probably," he hummed, pulling you into his side. "But itās a good kind of trouble. The kind where I don't have to whisper your name when I'm talking to my mom. The kind where I can actually take you to dinner without looking over my shoulder every five seconds."
He leaned over and grabbed your laptop, opening the folder of photos from your "secret" day in Menton. He scrolled through themāthe shots of the lemon trees, the quiet cove, the way the light hit the vintage Fiat.
"Post them," he said softly.
"What? Charles, these are private. These were for the 'never tell' promise."
"The promise changed the second you ripped up that boarding pass," he whispered, kissing the temple of your head. "Show them. Not the Ferrari driver. Show them the guy who made you stay. Piss some people off. Show them exactly what theyāve been missing."
You hesitated for a second, your finger hovering over the upload button for your official portfolio. Then, you thought about the vultures in the paddock, the "Sophie" types who only saw people as data points and clout. You thought about the year youād spent being a ghost.
You hit upload.
The caption was simple: Change of plans.
The internet, as expected, broke. Within minutes, the "mystery" was solved. The "unbiased observer" and the "Golden Boy" were officially a we.
"You know," you said, resting your head on his shoulder as the rain lashed against the window, "I still have to get to Tokyo eventually. My name is still on that door."
"I know," Charles replied, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of your shampoo. "And weāll go. Together. Iāll buy the ticket this time. And I promise..."
"What?"
"I'll never make you change it again. Unless it's to stay in bed for five more minutes."
You laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the small room. The secrecy was gone, the "weekend" was over, and the nomadic life youād led for so long had finally found its permanent destination.
It wasn't a "moment" anymore. It was your life. And as the London fog settled over the city, you realized that sometimes, the best way to move forward is to miss your flight, rip up the plan, and just... stay.
ft. norris, verstappen, albon, lawson, lindblad, piastri (fem!reader)
they say every formula 1 driver has a special bond with their racing number, a symbol of their legacy on the track. but when the dust settles and the old boxes are unpacked, theyāre about to find out that you were rocking their brand long before they ever hit the grid. turns out, great minds (and elite athletes) really do think alike.
INCLUDES: fluff, reader is a former high school athlete, this is cute me likey
NOTE: idk what to say. enjoy this!
( masterlist | more grid )
ā LANDO NORRIS
The off-season meant finally tackling the "doom pile" of boxes in the corner of the guest roomā the ones your mom had shipped over from the States months ago that you had been too busy to open. Lando, ever the "helpful" boyfriend (which usually just meant he wanted to see if there were any old photos he could use for blackmail), was currently sitting cross-legged on the floor, digging through a stack of your old yearbooks.
"Wait, is this you?" He let out a wheezing laugh, pointing at a photo of you in a middle school track uniform. "Your hair! Why is it doing that?"
"It was a humid day, Lando! Shut up," you laughed, tossing a crumpled piece of packing paper at his head. You reached into the box and pulled out a forest-green fabric, the familiar weight of your old varsity jersey hitting your palms.
As you shook it out, the fabric snapped in the air, revealing the crisp, white number printed boldly on the back.
Landoās laughter died down instantly. He went quietā a rare occurrenceā as his eyes locked onto the jersey. He crawled forward on his knees, leaning in closer like he was inspecting a piece of fine art, or maybe a suspicious engine component.
"No," he whispered, his voice going up an octave. "No way."
"What?" you asked, looking down at the jersey. "Itās just my old volleyball jersey. I told you I played."
He didn't look at your face; he just pointed a trembling finger at the giant 4 centered on the mesh material. "Youāre joking. Youāve had this for years?"
"Since junior year? Why?"
Lando finally looked up at you, his expression a mix of sheer betrayal and smug triumph. He stood up, grabbing the jersey from your hands and holding it up against his own chest. "Youāve been a No. 4 fan since you were seventeen? And you didn't tell me?"
"Lan, I didn't even know who you were when I was seventeen," you deadpanned, trying to reach for the shirt, but he spun away, holding it out of reach.
"Lies! Pure propaganda!" He started parading around the room, draped in the small green mesh. "You saw the future. You knew. You were basically wearing my merch before I even made it to F1. This is so cringe of you, honestly. So obsessed."
"It's a coincidence! It was the only size they had left that fit me!"
He stopped, turning back to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes and that lopsided grin. "Sure, keep telling yourself that. But I'm keeping this. Iām wearing it to the next debrief. I'll tell Zak Iāve finally found my replacement driver."
He pulled the jersey over his head, his messy curls popping through the neck hole, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I always knew you had elite taste, but this? This is next level."
ā MAX VERSTAPPEN
The rainy Monaco afternoon had turned into an impromptu trip down memory lane. You were supposed to be organizing the storage closet, but instead, you were sitting on the floor showing Max your old "Senior Night" scrapbook.
Max was flipping through the pages with a clinical sort of focus, his eyes scanning the photos of you on the field like he was analyzing telemetry data. He stopped abruptly on a candid shot of you mid-game, your back to the camera.
"Wait," he said, his thumb tapping the plastic sleeve of the photo. "Is that a three?"
"Oh, yeah," you said, leaning over his shoulder. "That was my number all through high school. I had to fight the captain for it, actually."
A slow, knowing smirk began to spread across Maxās face. He didn't look surprised; he looked vindicated. He closed the scrapbook with a definitive thud and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I knew it," he murmured, his blue eyes sparkling with that signature Verstappen mischief. "You were already practicing for me."
"Max, I lived in a different time zone. I didn't even know what a DRS zone was back then."
"Doesn't matter," he countered easily, his voice smooth and full of that unshakable confidence. "The universe obviously has very good taste. You chose the fastest number on the grid before I even picked it for the car. Itās quite impressive, really."
He reached out, tugging playfully on the hem of your hoodie. "So, tell me... since weāre teammates now, do you need any tips? I can show you how to properly defend a lead, although Iām sure you were already quite aggressive on the field if you were wearing my number."
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't hide your smile. "I was an All-Conference starter, actually. I think I handled the pressure just fine."
Max let out a short, appreciative chuckle, pulling you closer so your head rested against his shoulder. He looked back down at the closed scrapbook, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
"All-Conference, hmm? Well, that makes sense. Only the best for the number three," he teased, kissing the top of your head. "But if you ever want to get back out there, just let me know. Iāll be your coach. We canāt have the Verstappen-adjacent legacy looking anything less than P1, can we?"
"Shut up."
ā ALEX ALBON
The afternoon in the Albon household was usually a chaotic mix of pets, laughter, and Alex trying to convince you to play a racing sim with him. But today, the chaos had been paused for a "closet purge."
You had just pulled a faded, slightly oversized jersey from the bottom of a vacuum-sealed bag. The white mesh was a bit scratchy, and the red trim had seen better days, but the giant 23 on the front was still as bold as ever.
"Alex, look what I found," you called out, shaking the dust off it.
He trotted into the room, one of his many cats trailing at his heels. He stopped mid-step, his eyes going wide as they locked onto the numbers. He did a double-take, looking from the jersey to you, then back to the jersey.
"No. Way." He lunged forward, grabbing the shoulders of the shirt like heād found a holy relic. "Is that a twenty-three? Your varsity number was twenty-three?"
"Yeah! I wore it for four years. It was my luckyā"
"Itās the GOAT number!" Alex interrupted, practically vibrating with excitement. He immediately held the jersey up against his own chest, looking in the full-length mirror. "Weāre literally a matching set. Weāre like the Michael Jordan and LeBron James of this house."
You laughed, watching him admire the "fit" in the mirror. "I donāt know if high school soccer counts as GOAT status, Alex."
"It totally counts!" He turned around, his face lit up with that huge, genuine grin. "Think about it. Out of all the numbers in the world, you picked mine. Or... I picked yours. Itās a sign! Weāre a team. Team 23."
He draped the jersey over your head, pulling you into a tight hug and tucking his chin on top of your hair. "Iām honestly so hyped right now. Iām telling the engineers. Iām telling James Vowles. Iām telling everyone that my partner was representing the brand before I even got to Williams."
"Youāre going to be so annoying about this, aren't you?" you muffled into his shirt.
"Extremely," he whispered happily. He pulled back just enough to boop your nose. "But seriously, if you ever feel like coming out of retirement, Iāll be your biggest fan. Iāve already got the number on my car, so Iām halfway there."
He then proceeded to spend the next ten minutes trying to see if he could fit into the jersey himself, despite being significantly taller than you were in high school. "Itās a bit... cropped," he admitted, stuck halfway through the head hole, "but the energy? The energy is P1."
ā LIAM LAWSON
Liam was the king of "low-key" until he found something he could actually nerd out about. You were currently back at your parents' house for a rare break, and he was "helping" you clear out your old closet. Which mostly meant he was critiquing your old taste in shoes and finding embarrassing trophies.
"Hey, whatās this heavy bit of kit?" he asked, reaching for a dark bundle tucked away on the top shelf.
He pulled out your old varsity jacket, the wool heavy and the leather sleeves slightly creased from years of storage. He flipped it around, and his eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. Stitched into the sleeve in thick, fuzzy chenille was a large, unmistakable 30.
Liam went quiet, tracing the edges of the numbers with his thumb. A slow, genuine grin started to tug at the corners of his mouthā the kind he usually reserved for a really good qualifying lap.
"No way," he muttered, tossing the jacket over his shoulder and turning to face you. "Thirty? You were rocking thirty back in the day?"
"Yeah, since freshman year," you said, leaning against the doorframe. "It was the only one that didn't swallow me whole when I first started."
Liam let out a dry, appreciative whistle. He pulled the jacket on, his broad shoulders filling out the vintage frame much better than yours ever did. "I love that. Honestly. Everyone wants the single digits, the 'number ones' and all that... but thirty? Thirty is a worker's number. It's got grit."
He walked over to you, the heavy scent of old stadium lights and laundry detergent clinging to the wool. He hooked his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans, pulling you into his space with a smirk.
"I didn't realize I was dating a veteran of the thirty-club," he teased, his New Zealand accent thick and warm. "Makes me feel like Iāve got big shoes to fill, doesnāt it? If you were out here winning championships in this, Iāve got to make sure Iām doing the number justice on the track."
"Oh, definitely," you laughed, patting the '30' on his arm. "The pressure is on, Lawson. Don't let the legacy down."
He chuckled, leaning down to press a quick, firm kiss to your forehead. "I won't. But hey, if I ever have a bad session, Iām stealing this jacket for good luck. I think itās got some of your winning energy left in the seams."
He didn't take the jacket off for the rest of the afternoon, acting like heād just won a prize he wasnāt planning on giving back.
ā ARVID LINDBLAD
Arvid was currently "helping" you organize your childhood bedroom, which mostly involved him sitting on your bed, scrolling through TikTok, and occasionally making comments about how "retro" your high school trophies looked.
"Is this like... from the early 2000s?" he teased, picking up a dusty swimming medal. "It looks so vintage."
"Arvid, Iām not that much older than you. Put it down," you laughed, tossing a stray sock at him. You reached into the back of your closet and pulled out a folded piece of heavy royal purple mesh. "Wait, I forgot I still had my varsity warm-up."
You shook it out, and as the fabric unfurled, a massive, blocky 41 stared back at both of you.
The room went silent. Arvidās phone actually slipped from his hand, bouncing onto the duvet as he stared at the shirt. He blinked, looked at the number, then looked at you like he was seeing a ghost.
"No way," he breathed, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across his face. "Is that... a forty-one? Like, actually?"
"Yeah? Why are you looking at me like that?"
He scrambled off the bed, grabbing the shirt from your hands and holding it up to the light like it was a rare artifact. "Forty-one is my number. Thatās the Red Bull junior luck right there! I didn't even know you were part of the 41-gang."
"Iāve had this since I was fifteen, Arv. If anything, you're part of my gang."
He let out a sharp, joyful laugh, immediately pulling the oversized shirt over his hoodie. It was a bit tight on him, but he didn't care; he was already checking himself out in your vanity mirror, posing like heād just stepped onto a podium.
"Okay, okay, I see you," he chirped, his eyes bright with mischief. "So what youāre saying is... you were basically the blueprint? You were out here representing forty-one while I was probably still in primary school?"
"Don't make it sound that long ago!" you groaned, though you couldn't help but smile at how hyped he was.
He turned back to you, his expression softening into something genuinely sweet, though the smirk stayed. "Honestly? Itās kind of iconic. Itās like the universe knew I was going to need a teammate who already knew how to handle the pressure of the forty-one."
He walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into a playful squeeze. "But hey, if you ever miss the glory days, I can give you some pointers on the car. You know, since I'm the 'pro' now. I'll show you how to really make that number look fast."
"Watch it, Lindblad," you warned, "or Iāll take the shirt back."
"Never!" he shouted, already darting toward the door with your jersey still on. "Itās mine now! Itās for good luck!"
ā OSCAR PIASTRI
Oscar wasn't exactly a "rummager." While anyone else might have been tearing through your old boxes like kids on Christmas, Oscar was leaning against your desk, calmly sipping a glass of water and watching you sort through a plastic bin of "High School Memories."
"Found it," you muttered, triumphantly hauling out a heavy, slightly stiff varsity jacket. The wool was thick, and the cream-colored leather sleeves had that specific vintage crinkle.
Oscar set his water down, his eyes tracking the movement as you turned it around. There, stitched in massive, intricate embroidery on the chest, was a bold 81.
The room went quiet. Not a "surprised" quiet, but the kind of silence Oscar usually saved for a particularly complex bit of telemetry. He adjusted his posture, squinting at the numbers as if checking for a typo.
"Eighty-one," he said, his voice flat but laced with a hint of an impressed hum. "Thatās... statistically improbable."
"What is?" you asked, smoothing out the fabric.
"The odds," he replied, finally pushing off the desk and walking over to you. He ran a hand over the number, his fingers tracing the outline of the '8'. "Out of ninety-nine options, you happened to pick the most sensible, high-performance number on the grid. I didn't realize you were such a visionary."
"I didn't pick it for the 'performance,' Oscar. I picked it because I was a defensive end and I liked how it looked."
"Right, sure," he nodded solemnly, though his eyes were dancing with mischief. "The universe definitely didn't have a plan there. Itās just a total coincidence that you spent four years representing the exact number I currently drive."
He reached out, taking the jacket from you and holding it up. He gave it a small, approving nod before slipping it on. It fit him surprisingly wellāstructured and sharp. He tucked his hands into the pockets, looking at his reflection in your mirror with a perfectly neutral expression.
"How do I look?"
"Like you're about to go to a pep rally in 2016," you giggled.
"I feel powerful," he deadpanned, turning back to you with a tiny, lopsided smirk. "I think this confirms it. Weāre a matched set. Iāll have to tell the team weāve found the original eighty-one. Iām just the sequel."
He walked over, wrapping his arms around you, the cold leather of the sleeves pressing against your sides. He leaned down, his voice dropping into that soft, calm tone he only used when it was just the two of you.
"But seriously... itās a good look on us. If you ever feel like coming out of retirement, I can probably find you a spare seat. Youāve already got the branding down."
He didn't take it off for the rest of the eveningā not even while you were eating dinnerā claiming he was "conducting an aerodynamic study" on the wool.
alex albon had always been your day oneā you were with him through it all. from the karting days, to the junior categories, to the big leagues in formula 1. and throughout all of that, you smiled like you had it all. but then you start pulling away, and alex notices every bit of it.
INCLUDES: use of y/n, soft angst woopsies, alex being a cutie, this is a slow burn, SUPER dramatic, like dts-level dramatic, alex being cutie
NOTE: OK HALFWAY POINT. fourth installation of the moments series. this one is inspired by THROUGH THE DARK. i love love LOVE this song sm, i listen to it whenever i feel down. and alex is a comfort driver for sure and i can definitely relate to a lot of the stuff he's gone through. NOT PROOFREAD, might be a bit messy
( moments | more AA23 )
You and Alex Albon were like two peas in a podā always together, never apart. You two never really remember how this friendship started out, because the one of the earliest memories you have is with the man.
You were lying on the grass in your backyard, chests heaving, bikes tossed to the side. You had both just ran a marathon, the trail of mess behind you the remnants of the makeshift obstacle course you two had made.
Alex had won. You said you made him win. He said he was just better than you.
You two stayed like that for a moment, babbling on about the insignificant struggles that seemed like huge hurdles when you were kids. About how that recent Math lesson made your head hurt and how Alex were going to die if he had to memorize the multiplication table.
"What do you wanna be when you grow up?" you asked, turning your head to look at him on the grass.
Alex stayed looking up at the sky, a sparkle in his eyes. You already knew the answer, but you always adored when he talked about the things he loved.
"Formula 1 driver." Alex was sure of his answer. He looked back at you from the ground, a small smile on his face. "You?"
A smile reaches your lips. "I'll be anywhere you'll be."
Alex sits up at this, a worried expression on his face. "You can't do that! You have to be your own person."
You follow suit. "You're my best friend. I'll always be there for you."
A moment of silence is shared between you two, the childhood bond only growing stronger.
"You promise to always be there on race day?"
You stick your pinky out. Alex looks at it before connecting his finger to yours. "I promise, Alex."
Years passed, but some things never really changed.
Not the way you still showed up on race days, tucked somewhere in the crowd or lingering in the paddock. Not the way Alex Albon would always find you, no matter how busy things got. Like muscle memory, like instinct.
And definitely not the way it was always you and him, side by side.
Only now, the grass had been traded for asphalt. Thpe bikes for race cars. The childish bets for real stakes, real pressure, real consequences.
But still it was always Alex and you.
You stood just behind the barriers, arms crossed over your chest as you watched him climb out of the car. There was a buzz in the air, cameras flashing, people moving quickly around him, but for a secondā
just a secondā
his eyes found yours.
And just like that, his shoulders dropped a little. The tension in his jaw eased.
You smiled. It was automatic. Practiced. Perfect.
He made his way over the moment he could, still half in his race suit, hair slightly damp with sweat. "You made it."
You let out a small laugh. "When have I ever not?"
Alex grinned at that, something soft and familiar. "Fair point."
There it was againāthat ease. That rhythm the two of you had slipped into years ago and never really left.
"You did good out there," you added, nudging his arm lightly.
"Yeah?" he asked, like it mattered more coming from you.
"Yeah," you nodded. "I mean, I couldāve driven better, butā"
"Oh, here we goā" he groaned, bumping your shoulder back.
You laughed, the sound light, effortless.
Too effortless.
Because if Alex had been looking a little closerāif he wasn't still riding the leftover adrenaline of the raceāhe might've noticed the way your smile didn't quite reach your eyes.
Or how, when he looked away for even a second, it slipped.
Just a little.
But he didn't. Not yet.
Because to him, you were still the same person who pinky-promised him in a backyard years ago. The same person who said they'd always be there.
And you were. You just didnāt say how much harder it was starting to get.
At first, it was nothing. At least, nothing worth thinking about.
People got busy. Lives shifted. Schedules didn't always align the way they used to when you were younger, when the biggest concern in your lives was who cheated in your made-up obstacle courses.
Now, Alex Albon had races almost every other week. Different countries. Different time zones. Different expectations pulling at him from every direction.
And youā You had your own life too.
So when your replies started coming in a little later than usual, Alex didn't think much of it.
You: missed you. call later? (10:14pm)
Hw' stare at his phone for a second, thumb hovering before typing back.
Alex: yeah of course :) (10:14pm)
But "later" would turn into the next morning.
You: sorry, fell asleep. long day (8:30am)
He frowned at the screen for a moment, but it was quick. Easy to brush off.
You were always busy. You always had something going on.
Still there. Still you.
Then came the shorter calls. Where you used to talk for hoursā rambling about everything and nothingā now it wasā¦
"Hey," you said, voice quieter than usual.
"Hey," Alex smiled, shifting on his hotel bed, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. "I was waiting for your call."
A small pause. "Yeah. Sorry."
"It's okay," he said quickly. "How was your day?"
"Fine."
Just that. Fine.
Alex blinked, staring at the ceiling. "ā¦just fine?"
"Yeah. Nothing much happened."
He let out a small laugh, trying to fill the space. "That's boring. C'mon, there has to be something. Did you at least beat someone at something today? I need to know you're still competitive.ā
A soft huff left you. It almost sounded like a laugh.
"Not today."
Another pause. Shorter this time. But heavier.
Alex shifted again, something unfamiliar settling in his chest. Not quite concern. Not yet.
Justā¦ something.
"You okay?" he asked, casual. Light.
"Yeah," you answered immediately. Too quickly. "I'm just tired."
"Oh," he nodded, even though you couldn't see him. "Then you should sleep."
"Yeah. I think I will."
The call ended a minute later.
Alex stared at his phone long after the screen went dark. It was fine. You were just tired.
The first time you missed a race was when it lingered a little longer than usual.
He noticed it before he even asked.
There was no message from you that morning. No good luck, no stupid inside joke to ease his nerves, no "don't mess up or I'll disown you" text you'd been sending him for years.
Nothing.
Alex told himself you were probably busy. Maybe you overslept. Maybe your phone died.
Maybeā
He grabbed his phone again, quickly typing:
Alex: you alive? (1:45pm)
The message delivered. Read. No reply.
He locked his phone, jaw tightening slightly.
It didn't mean anything. It couldn't.
You had your own life. You couldn't revolve everything around himā not like you used to, not like when you were kids making promises you didnāt fully understand yet.
Still, when he climbed out of the car later that day, helmet coming off, eyes instinctively scanning the usual spots. You weren't there.
And for the first time in a long time, Alex didn't feel that immediate sense of ease.
That quiet, grounding there you are.
Instead, there was just noise. Cameras. Voices. People. But not you.
He didnāt bring it up right away. Not when you finally replied hours later with a simple:
You: sorry, got caught up. how'd it go? (10:07pm)
Not when you brushed past it with a quick "I'll watch the highlights later."
Not when your calls kept getting shorter. Less frequent.
Not when your laughs started sounding like they were forced through something heavier.
Because every time he thought about askingā really askingā he remembered a backyard, two kids lying on the grass, pinkies intertwined.
Iāll always be there for you.
And you were still there. Justā¦ not the same way.
And Alex didn't know when "a little different" started to feel like something he couldn't ignore anymore.
Alex wasn't stupid.
It just took him a little longer to admit when something felt offā especially when it came to you.
But once he noticed it, really noticed it, it was hard to ignore.
So he tried.
It started small. A few more texts than usual.
Alex: you free later? (7:23pm)
Alex: call me when you wake up? (10:30pm)
Alex: saw this and thought of you (12:54am)
You replied. You always replied. Justā¦ not the way you used to.
You: maybe later (7:25pm)
You: iāll try (10:37pm)
You: lol (8:00am)
Alex stared at that last one longer than he should have.
lol.
That was it.
No follow-up. No rambling. No "this reminds me of that one timeā" that would spiral into a whole different conversation.
Justā
lol.
His thumb hovered over the screen before he locked it, exhaling slowly.
It was fine. You were just busy.vSo he tried harder.
"C'mon," Alex Albon said over the phone, a small grin tugging at his lips despite himself. "You can't just keep dodging me forever."
"I'm not dodging you," you replied.
Too quick. Too automatic.
Alex leaned back against the headboard, eyes narrowing slightly at the ceiling. "You kinda are."
"I'm just busy, Alex."
There it was again. That word. Busy.
He rolled it around in his head, like maybe if he understood it differently, it would feel less like distance.
"Okay," he said after a second, softer now. "Then let me come to you."
There was a pause on the other end. Long enough for his chest to tighten just a little.
"I meanā" he continued, rushing to fill the silence, "I've got a few days before the next race. I could fly out, we could hang out like we used toānothing big, justā"
"You don't have to do that."
It wasn't harsh. It wasn't cold. But it wasn't warm, either.
It stopped him mid-sentence.
"I know I don't have to," he said slowly. "I want to."
Another pause. He was starting to hate those.
"I've got a lot going on right now,ā you said, quieter this time. "It's probably not a good time."
Alex swallowed, gaze dropping to his hands.
"Right," he nodded, even though you couldnāt see him. "Yeah. Of course."
A beat.
"I justā" he stopped himself, jaw tightening slightly before forcing a lighter tone. "Let me know when it is, yeah?"
"Yeah," you said.
But it didn't sound like a promise.
He started calling more after that. At different times. Different hours. Trying to catch you when you werenāt "busy."
Sometimes you answered. Most times, you didn't.
And when you didā
"Hey," Alex said, sitting up a little straighter. "You okay? You didn't reply earlier."
"Yeah, I was just out."
"With who?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
There was a pause.
"Justā¦ people."
People.
Not names. Not stories. Not anything he could hold onto.
Justā
people.
Alex pressed his lips together. "Right."
"You sound tired," you added quickly, like you were redirecting.
"Yeah," he let out a small breath. "Long day."
"You should rest."
There it was again. That gentle push away disguised as concern.
He almost laughed.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I guess I should."
The call ended not long after.
It got to the point where Alex started noticing the pattern.
He reached. You pulled back. Every time.
Like trying to hold onto something that kept slipping through his fingers, no matter how carefully he tried.
And the worst part? You werenāt shutting him out completely.
If you were, maybe it would've been easier. Clearer. Something he could confront head-on.
But you still answered sometimes. Still showed up in small ways. Still lingered just enough to make him thinkā sheās still here. But not in the way she used to be. The next race came and went.
And again, no message. No call. No you.
This time, Alex didn't check his phone as much before getting in the car. Didnāt wait for that familiar notification to settle his nerves.
Because he already knew it wouldnāt come.
And thatā that was new.
It wasnāt until later that night, back in his hotel room, that his phone finally buzzed.
You: sorry. been busy again. hope the race went okay (9:30pm)
Alex stared at the message, something in his chest finally āfinally ācracking just enough to hurt.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. A dozen responses came to mind.
itās fine
youāre always busy now
did I do something?
I miss you
He swallowed, typing slowly instead:
Alex: yeah, it was alright (9:35pm)
A pause.
Thenā
Alex: i miss you at the track (9:36pm)
He stared at the message before hitting send.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Alex held his breath without meaning to.
And thenā
nothing.
Alex didnāt plan it.
The confrontation, if it could even be called that.
It wasnāt some big moment he built up in his head, no rehearsed lines or dramatic timing. It just... happened.
Because at some point, pretending not to notice started feeling worse than whatever answer you might give him.
He caught you on a call.
Not by chanceā he'd been trying all day.
"Hey," you answered, voice quieter than usual.
"Hey," Alex Albon replied, sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees. "You busy?"
A pause.
āNot really.ā
Not really.
He nodded to himself. āOkay. Good.ā
Silence settled between you both, thin but stretched.
Alex exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. āCan I ask you something?ā
āā¦You just did.ā
There it was. That hint of deflection. Light. Almost playful.
Almost.
He let out a small breath through his nose. āYeah, alright. Smartass.ā
You hummed, but it didnāt quite sound like amusement.
Another pause. He didnāt fill it this time.
āGo on,ā you said after a second.
Alex swallowed, suddenly aware of how careful he had to be. Like one wrong word and youād slip even further away.
āYouāve beenā¦ different.ā
He kept his tone even. Gentle. Not accusing. Just honest.
Silence. Longer this time.
āIāve just been busy, Alex.ā
He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tighteningā not in anger, but in something closer to frustration.
āOkay,ā he nodded. āYeah, youāve said that.ā
You didnāt respond.
āSo help me understand it, then,ā he continued, softer now. āBecause I donāt think itās just that.ā
Another stretch of quiet.
He could almost picture you on the other endālooking away, picking at something, anything to avoid the weight of the conversation.
āIām fine,ā you said finally.
And there it was.
The word heād been waiting for.
The one that never meant what it was supposed to.
Alex let out a quiet breath, gaze dropping to the floor.
āSee, thatās the thing,ā he murmured. āYou keep saying that.ā
No answer.
āYou donāt sound fine,ā he added, more carefully this time. āYou donātā¦ act like youāre fine.ā
āI said I am.ā
It wasnāt sharp. But it was firmer than before.
A line.
Alex paused, absorbing it, choosing his next words like they matteredā because they did.
āIām not trying to push you,ā he said quickly. āI justāā he stopped, exhaling. āYouāve been pulling away. From me.ā
The last part came out quieter than he intended. Honest. Unfiltered.
And for a secondā just a secondāhe thought you might actually say something real. Something that explained everything. But insteadā
āI havenāt.ā
A beat.
āYouāre just overthinking it.ā
That one stung more than he expected.
Alex leaned back slightly, blinking at the ceiling. Overthinking.
Right. Because apparently noticing the way your best friend of years slowly disappeared piece by piece was justā overthinking.
āOkay,ā he said after a moment.
Too easily. Too quickly.
The shift was subtle, but it was there. Not cold. Justā¦ quieter.
āI wonāt push, then.ā
There was a pause on your end.
āā¦Okay.ā
Neither of you spoke for a few seconds. The kind of silence that didnāt feel comfortable anymore.
āIāve gotta go,ā you said suddenly.
Of course you did.
āYeah,ā Alex nodded, even though you couldnāt see him. āYeah, alright.ā
Another beat.
āTake care of yourself, yeah?ā he added, softer now.
āI will.ā
The call ended.
Alex sat there for a while after. Phone still in his hand. Screen long gone dark. Something in his chest feltā¦ off. Not broken. Not yet. But strained. Like a thread pulled too tight, threatening to snap if he tugged on it any harder.
So he didnāt. He said he wouldnāt push. And he meant it. But that didnāt mean he stopped noticing.
And it wasnāt that you didnāt notice. You noticed everything.
Every missed call. Every message you left unanswered just a little too long. Every time Alex Albon said your name like he was trying to reach for something just out of grasp.
You noticed.
You justā didnāt know what to do about it.
Your phone buzzed again on your bed. You didnāt check it. You already knew who it was. You always knew.
Instead, you stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the faint cracks youād memorized over the past few weeksā months, maybe. Time had started to blur in a way that made everything feel both too fast and unbearably slow at the same time.
You were tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep could fix. The kind that sat heavy in your chest. The kind that made even the smallest things feel like too much.
Answering messages. Holding conversations. Pretending. Especially pretending.
You turned onto your side, finally reaching for your phone.
The screen lit up.
Alex
missed call
missed call
missed call
Your thumb hovered.
God. He wasnāt even doing anything wrong. That was the worst part.
If he had been distant firstā if he had given you a reason, something to push againstā maybe this wouldāve been easier to understand.
But he wasnāt.
He was trying.
You could feel it in every message. Every call. Every careful word he chose when he spoke to you now, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile.
And maybe he wasnāt wrong.
You opened the messages.
you okay?
havenāt heard from you today
call me when you can, yeah?
Your chest tightened. You could reply. You should reply. It would take two seconds.
yeah, Iām fine
Thatās all he wanted, right?
Reassurance. Something simple. Something easy.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.
You stared at the screen.
And stared.
And staredā
until it started to blur.
A sharp breath caught in your throat, and you quickly locked your phone, tossing it back onto the bed like it burned.
Too much.
It was all justā too much.
You sat up, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, willing everything to just stop for a second.
The thoughts. The pressure. The constant weight sitting on your chest like it refused to lift.
You used to be better than this. You used to be the one who showed up. The one who stayed. The one who kept things together when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
You were the one who promised.
Iāll always be there for you.
Your chest tightened even more at the memory. Because you were still here. Werenāt you?
Your phone buzzed again.
You flinched.
This time, you forced yourself to look.
Alex callingā¦
Your breath hitched.
For a second ājust a secondā you almost answered.
Your thumb hovered over the screen, heart pounding a little too loud in your ears.
You could hear his voice already.
āHey. You okay?ā
Soft. Careful. Like he always was with you.
And maybeā maybe if you just answeredā maybe youād finally say it.
That you werenāt fine.
That you didnāt know what was wrong, just that everything felt heavy and exhausting and wrong all at once. That you were trying, but it didnāt feel like enough anymore. That you were scared if he saw you like thisā really saw youā something between you would change.
Or worseā that it wouldnāt.
Your thumb moved.
Hovered.
Pressedā
Decline.
The ringing stopped. The room fell quiet again. Too quiet. You stared at your phone, chest rising and falling unevenly.
āIāll call him later,ā you whispered to no one.
You always said that.
At some point, Alex stopped trying as hard.
Not in a way anyone else would notice. Not in a way you could easily point to and say there, thatās different. But you felt it.
The messages didnāt come as often anymore. No more call me when you wake up. No more random pictures sent at odd hours just to make you laugh. No more triple texts when you didnāt reply.
Now it wasā
hope your dayās going well
race this weekend
talk soon
Simple. Easy. Safe.
You stared at your phone longer than you should have. Thumb hovering over the screen, like it used to be his.
talk soon.
You almost laughed.
Because when had āsoonā become something soā¦ uncertain?
Across the world, Alex Albon sat in another hotel room, phone resting face-down beside him.
He still thought about texting you. That hadnāt changed.
Still saw things that reminded him of you. Still caught himself starting messages he never sent.
But every timeā he hesitated. Not because he didnāt care. But because he did.
And he didnāt know how to reach you anymore without feeling like he was pushing against something that wouldnāt give.
So he stopped pushing.
Back home, the silence settled in ways you hadnāt expected.
At first, it felt like relief. Less pressure. Less guilt for not replying fast enough, for not having the energy to keep up with him the way you used to.
But then it lingered.
You found yourself checking your phone more. Noticing the absence of his name lighting up your screen. Scrolling back through old messages you hadnāt had the courage to open in weeks.
Your chest tightened. Because it wasnāt supposed to feel like this. You were the one pulling away.
So why did it feel like something was slipping through your fingers?
Your phone lit up.
For a secondā just a secondā your heart jumped.
But it wasnāt him. Of course it wasnāt.
You swallowed, locking your phone again, pressing it face-down against your bed.
āJust busy,ā you muttered to yourself.
Thatās what you told him. Thatās what you told yourself.
Days passed. Then weeks. And somewhere in between, you stopped expecting his messages. Which somehow made it worse.
It wasnāt until you heard it from someone else that everything shifted.
āYouāre going this weekend, right?ā
You blinked, looking up. āGoing where?ā
āThe race,ā they said, like it was obvious. āYou always go.ā
Your stomach twisted.
You opened your mouth to answerā
Iāve got a lot going on right now.
Itās probably not a good time.
The words sat at the tip of your tongue. Familiar. Easy. Safe.
But then a memory.
Grass beneath your back. A pinky hooked with his. A quiet, certain voice.
You promise to always be there on race day?
Your chest tightened.
āā¦Yeah,ā you said before you could stop yourself. āIāll be there.ā
The paddock felt the same. Loud. Busy. Alive in a way that always used to energize you.
Now it just felt overwhelming.
You wrapped your arms around yourself as you walked through, trying to ground your breathing, trying not to think about how long it had been since youād been here.
Since youād seen him.
You told yourself you could do this. Just show up. Just smile. Just be the same.
On the other side of the garage, Alex Albon adjusted his gloves, only half-listening to the voices around him.
Another race. Another weekend.
Routine. Familiar. Manageable. Until his eyes lifted. And landed on you.
For a second, everything else faded. The noise. The movement. The people.
Gone.
It was just... you.
Standing there like youād always been there. Like nothing had changed. But something had. He could see it. Even from here.
In the way you held yourself. The way your shoulders seemed just a little heavier. The way your smileā when it finally reached himā feltā¦ different.
Your breath caught the moment you realized he was looking at you.
Of course he found you. He always did.
For a second neither of you moved.
And then Alex started walking toward you. He stopped a few steps in front of you. Close enough. Not close enough.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Up close, it was worse.
Because now there was no distance to blur the detailsā no space to hide behind. You could see it clearly: the way his expression softened the moment he looked at you, the flicker of something searching just beneath it.
And himā he could see it too.
The tiredness you couldnāt quite mask. The way your smile came a second too late.
"Hey," Alex Albon said finally, voice quieter than you remembered.
Your throat felt tight.
"Hey."
God. It sounded normal. Too normal. Like you hadn't spent weeks avoiding him. Like nothing had changed.
A small breath of a laugh left him, more exhale than anything. "Youāre here."
You nodded quickly. "Yeah. Of course I am."
Of course.
The word lingered between you. Alex studied you for a second longer than usual. Not obvious, but enough.
"You've beenā¦ busy," he said, carefully.
There was no bite to it. No accusation. Just something gentle. Something that almost made it worse.
You forced a small smile. "Yeah. You know how it is."
He hummed softly. He did know. And he also knew that wasn't the full truth.
"You look tired," he added after a moment.
Your stomach dropped.
"I'm fine," you said, automatic.
There it was again. The word you kept hiding behind.
Alex didn't respond right away. Didn't challenge it, either. Just nodded slowly, like he was filing it away somewhere.
"Right."
Silence settled in again. Not empty. Not comfortable. Justā¦ full.
You shifted your weight, glancing around like you needed somethingāanythingā to latch onto that wasn't him.
"It's been a while since Iāve been here," you said, gesturing vaguely. "Kinda forgot how hectic it gets."
"Yeah," Alex replied, but his eyes didn't leave you. "You used to handle it better."
The words were light, but they hit heavier than they should have.
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "Guess I'm out of practice."
Or maybe you were just tired.
Another pause. Longer this time. You could feel it building now. That pressure in your chest. The one you'd been pushing down for weeks, pretending it wasn't there.
Not here. Not now.
"So," you said quickly, clapping your hands together onceā too bright, too sudden. "You've got a race to focus on. I won't distract you."
There it was. The out.
You took a small step back. Alex frowned slightly.
"Heyā"
"I'll be around," you added, already half-turning. "Just, you knowā go do your thing. Iāll catch you after."
You didn't give him time to respond. Didn't give yourself time to hesitate. You just walked away.
"Hey."
His voice stopped you. Not loud. Not sharp. Just firm.
You froze. Your back still turned to him. Your heart started pounding, loud enough you were sure he could hear it.
Slowly, you turned back. Alex had stepped closer. Not too close. But closer than before. Enough that it felt harder to breathe.
"You don't have to do that," he said.
Your brows furrowed slightly. "Do what?"
"This," he gestured lightly between you. "Act like I'mā¦ I don't know. Someone you need to be polite around."
Your chest tightened.
"I'm notā"
"You are," he said gently.
Not accusing. Just certain.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because what were you even supposed to say to that?
His expression softened a little more, something almost careful settling in his eyes.
"You don't have to pretend with me," he added, quieter this time.
And thatā that almost did it.
For a split second, everything cracked.
The noise around you faded. The walls you'd been holding up for weeks wavered, fragile and thin. Your throat tightened, eyes stinging just enough to scare you.
Because if you let it happenā if you let even a little bit slipā you didn't know if you'd be able to stop.
"I'm not pretending," you said quickly. Too quickly. Your voice almost gave you away.
Alex noticed. Of course he did.
His gaze sharpened just slightly, like he'd finally caught onto something real beneath everything youād been saying.
"Heyā¦" he started, softer now. Careful.
You shook your head immediately.
"No, it's fine," you forced out, taking another step back. "Really. I'm justātired. That's all."
That word again. Tired. You clung to it like it could explain everything without actually saying anything.
But Alex didn't look convinced. Not anymore.
You felt it. That look. That knowing. And it scared you.
"I should go," you said abruptly.
Before he could say anything else. Before he could see too much. This time you didnāt wait for him to stop you. And Alex didn't chase you. He just stood there watching. Because for the first time he wasn't just noticing that something was wrong. He was sure of it.
You tried to keep walking. Tried to make your steps sound normal. Tried to keep the shaky breath in your chest quiet. Tried to act like everything was fine.
But it wasn't. Not even close.
The minute you turned the corner out of the paddock, your legs gave out a little. You stopped, pressing your hands to your face.
One, two, three deep breaths.
Not working. Not even close.
"Hey."
That voice. Calm. Certain. Soft.
You didnāt even need to look. You knew it was him.
"Alexā¦" Your voice cracked before you could stop it.
He appeared next to you, not rushing, not grabbing, just steady. Arms at his sides. Eyes on yours.
"You donāt have to do this alone," he said.
Your hands fell from your face, shaking slightly. You wanted to deny it. You wanted to say, Iām fine. Really. But the weight in your chest didnāt lie.
"I can'tā" you whispered, voice breaking. "I can'tā keep pretendingālike everything's okayā I'm not okay, Alex."
And that was it. The dam broke.
Tears came, uncontrolled, hot and fast. Your whole body shook as you tried to shove the emotions down, but there was no holding it back anymore.
Alex didn't say anything. Didn't judge. Didn't speak. He just stepped closer, slowly, gently, and wrapped you in his arms.
"Shhh," he murmured. Soft. Grounding.
And for the first time in weeksā monthsā you let yourself lean into him. Let yourself collapse. Let yourself cry on the one person who had always been your anchor.
"Iā I didnāt want to bother you," you hiccuped, burying your face in his chest. "I didn't want toā¦ I didn't want to drag you downā"
"You're not dragging me anywhere," he said firmly, hands rubbing small circles along your back. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
The words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, something safe and certain in the middle of the chaos inside your chest.
"I justā¦ I felt like everything was too muchā¦ and I kept telling myself I could handle it, but Iā¦ I canātā¦"
"You don't have to handle it alone," he whispered against your hair. "Not ever. Not with me."
And for the first time, it didnāt feel like pretending.
It felt like relief. It felt like home.
You clung to him tighter. He didn't pull away. He didn't try to fix it. He just held you. Steady. Patient. Warm.
And slowly, the weight on your chest started to lift. Not completely. Not instantly. But enough to breathe again.
"You'll be okay," he said softly. "I'll help you. We'll go through this together."
"Iā¦ I don't know if I can," you whispered, voice tiny.
"I know," he said, gentle but certain. "That's why I'm here. And I'm not leaving."
You buried your face further into his chest, letting the tears fall, letting the darkness that had been clawing at you slip away little by little.
And in that quiet moment, in the middle of the chaos and the paddock noise around you, there was just the two of you.
Two day-ones. Two people who had survived everything together.
And you knewā even if it was hardā he would never let you face it alone.
The next morning, you woke up with Alex still in the room. Not sleeping on the floor, not rushing off to the paddock like he usually did. Justā¦ there. Quiet. Present. Warm.
You blinked a few times, half-expecting it to be a dream, but the subtle scent of his cologne and the soft rise and fall of his chest told you it wasnāt.
"Youā¦ stayed?" you asked softly, voice hoarse from crying.
He hummed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Didn't think you'd let me leave, did you?"
You let out a tiny laugh. It sounded fragile, but genuine. "I... guess not."
He shifted closer, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. "You don't have to hide from me anymore. Not ever."
"I know," you whispered. And for the first time in weeks, it didnāt feel like you were just saying it to convince him. You believed it.
Over the next few days, the two of you fell back into rhythm. Slowly. Carefully.
He sent those random, silly photos again, just to make you laugh. You answered without hesitation, sometimes with emojis, sometimes with the ridiculous commentary he loved. At the track, you weren't hiding behind tired smiles. He could see you, really see you, and you let him in.
One evening, after the race, he nudged your shoulder as you both leaned against the railing overlooking the pit lane.
"You remember the pinky promise?" he asked, half-teasing.
You laughed softly, nudging him back. "You mean the one where I promised to always be there on race day?"
He smirked. "Yeah, that one. Think it still counts?"
You linked your pinky with his automatically, smiling wider than you had in weeks. "Always counts."
He squeezed lightly. "Good. Because I'm still here too. Day one, remember?"
"Day one," you echoed, letting the words wrap around you like comfort.
Later, when the paddock emptied and the sun dipped low, you found yourselves sitting on the same patch of grass you'd once lain on as kids. Helmets tossed aside, bikes replaced with race cars, but some things never changed.
Alex draped an arm around your shoulders, and you leaned into him. No words were needed. No promises had to be spoken.
Because here, in the quiet aftermath of everything, it was clear: some bonds arenāt broken by distance, by silence, or even by fear. Some bonds justā¦ wait. And when the time is right, they find their way back.
You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of him anchor you. And for the first time in a long while, it felt safe to breathe.
ft. norris, piastri, verstappen x fem journalist!reader
abu dhabi 2025 is just around the corner. the top 3 are in the hot seat. and all that's in your head is... food?
INCLUDES: mentions of food, utter chaos, set in the 2025 season, hence 2025 abu dhabi...
NOTE: yeah... idk what to say... just enjoy ig...
( idiot asks | mics up )
The room is exactly what anyone would think it would be.
It is the final press conference before Abu Dhabi and the championship is on the line. Cameras are lined up, flashing intermittently, journalists packed shoulder to shoulder like they're afraid to miss a single breath.
And yet, you're bored.
You lean back slightly in your chair, microphone resting loosely in your hand as another question about 'race pace' and 'season consistency' floats across the room. It's not that it isn't importantā it is. It's just... been asked. A hundred different ways.
Up in front, the top three sit in a neat row on the couch:
Lando Norris in the middle, already slouched, arms crossed like he had already done this a million times.
Max Verstappen to his right, composed, unreadable, ready to get this over with.
Oscar Piastri to his left, posture straight, expression a bit too calm.
You glance down at your phone, scrolling through your notes app. Then you look back up and raise your hand.
There's a split second where the moderator hesitatesā because they know.
You were known to not take press conferences seriously. You hated it just as much as the drivers did and usually only showed up but never asked. In fact, you'd join in on gossiping to the drivers about how stupid and redundant certain questions were.
It eventually came to a point where you made it your mission to make these conferences fun for the drivers rather than more annoying that it already was. So, when the moderators shaky eyes and the drivers tired ones found your upstretched hand in the air, while one sighed the other three internally cheered.
"Last question," the moderator says cautiously. "Go ahead."
You sit up, eyes glinting with mischief. Lando perks up immediately, read for whatever bullshit you were about to spew. Max smirks, a boost of energy slowly pulsing through him. Oscar just tilts his head, already curious.
"Alright," you say, voice light, mock seriousness paralleling every other reporter in the room. "Lando, Max, Oscar, you know the drill."
There's a ripple through the room once they figure out who you were. A few stifle laughs. Some shift in their seat.
"Let's say," you continue, "the championship battle this weekend was a meal... what would it be?"
There's a beat. Thenā
"Messy," Lando says immediately into his mic. "Likeā like a burger that's too big to eat properly. Stuff falling out everywhere. You don't know where to start."
You snort softly. "That tracks."
Max blinks a few times to think before answering. "Steak."
"Care to elaborate?"
Max shrugs, a grin on his face. "You know what I'm talking about."
You laugh, nodding along. Then Oscar adjusts in his seat, voice even.
"Tasting menu."
You shift your attention to him, intrigued. "Oh?"
"Small portions. Very precise. Everything matters."
For a moment, no one speaks. It landsā clean, intentional. Then Lando turns, incredulous. "That's so pretentious."
Oscar turns to him, mouth agape. He blinks a few times in shock at his teammate's cheshire grin. "You said messy burger."
"Well yeah, because it's realistic."
You press your lips together, fighting a smile at the chaos you have just started. This was slipping out of control exactly like you wanted it too.
"Alright," you say, moving on before they start arguing like an old married couple again.
"Next question," you say. "Who here is most likely to overcook under pressure?"
Lando gasps like you've personally attacked him. "That's targeted."
"You're sitting right there," you point out.
Max answers immediately. "Him."
"Absolutely not," Lando fires back. "Youā"
"You just said messy burger."
"Because it is!"
Oscar leans forward slightly, voice calm. "You did panic in Brazil."
Lando turns so fast the couch shifts. "I did not panic."
"You said 'this is fine' four times."
"That doesn't mean I was panicking!"
You laugh, fully this time, your head dropping before you can stop it.
Right. Professional. You straighten quickly, clearing your throat.
"Okay. Right. If your race engineer was a kitchen appliance, what would they be?"
"Microwave," Lando says. "Fastā"
"Loud," you cut in.
He points at you. "Exactly. Loud. Beeping all the time."
Oscar nods. "That's accurate."
"Oven," Max says. To which you sigh in return. "Of course it is. Why?"
"Reliable." You pause for a second, thrown off by the sincerity. Yet again, it wasn't like Max was known to have a bad race engineer anyway.
"Air fryer," Oscar answers. You squint at him then shake your head, glancing briefly towards your phone.
"I don't think your race engineers are going to thank me for this."
You keep going. "Okay," you say, flipping through your notes like you're still following something structured. You're not.
"Be honest, whose driving style is most like instant noodles?"
Lando doesn't even hesitate. "Him."
"At least I win," Max replies instantly.
You snort. "Oh, that'sā okay, wow."
Oscar leans forward slightly. "Instant noodles are efficient."
"You're supposed to be neutral," Lando says, facing his teammate like he has just been betrayed.
"I am."
"You're not."
You open your mouth to respondā
"Alright," the moderator cuts in, voice tighter now. "Let'sā uhā keep the questions focused on the race, please."
The room shifts. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone to call it out. But you feel it.
You pause, microphone hovering just below your lips.
There it is. The moment where you're supposed to pull it back. Ask something safe. Respectable. End it properly.
You glance up at the front. Max is already looking at you, eyebrows raised. Lando looks personally offended. Oscar just looks... curious. Like he's waiting to see what you'll do.
You exhale softly.
"...Right," you say, nodding once like you're about to behave.
You don't.
"So," you continue smoothly, like you weren't just warned, "if you had to sabotage one of these two using only foodā"
A few laughs and groans break out immediately. The moderator inhales sharply. "We'll move on toā"
"Let her finish," Max says quickly, leaning into his mic.
The room stills. You blink. Lando shifts slightly in his seat, thenā casual as anythingā adds, "it's fine."
Oscar tilts his head, glancing briefly toward the moderator before speaking, voice calm. "I'm interested in the answer."
There's a very long beat. The moderator hesitates, clearly weighing options that no longer existed.
"...Okay," you say lightly, like this is still under control. "Go on then. Sabotage."
Lando grins immediately. "Spicy food. Like, ridiculously spicy."
"Wouldn't work," Max says.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
Oscar hums softly. "Undercooked chicken."
You freeze. "...I'm sorry?"
"Undercooked chicken."
There's a ripple through the room. Half laughter, half disbelief.
"That's not sabotage," you say, staring at him. "That's attempted murder."
Lando recoils. "That's evil."
Max laughs and Oscar just displays a sheepish grin.
And just like that, the room is gone again. Not physically. The cameras are still there. The journalists, the weight of a championship weekendā all of it still exists. But it fades to the background.
You glance briefly towards the moderator. They look like they've just accepted defeat. You bite back a smile.
"That's all my questions."
"Aw, come on," Lando says immediately, leaning closer to his mic. 'That's it?"
You blink at him. "You have a race to get to."
"And?" he shrugs. "You can do more."
You let out a quiet laugh. "This is why I shouldn't encourage you."
Max tilts his head slightly, glancing at you. "You're stopping now?"
You look at him, narrowing your eyes. " You were the one who looked like you wanted to leave five minutes ago."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Max smirks at this. You shake your head, trying not to smile wider.
Oscar shifts slightly in his seat, leaning just a fraction closer to his microphone. "You skipped dessert questions."
You pause. "Ok, noted for next year."
"Next year?"
Lando turns toward him. "What does that even mean?"
hey... just wanted to ask WHO you guys wanted me to write about. currently have smth in the drafts for max and made me realize that i ONLY write abt max... so yeah...
arvid lindblad has spent years pretending the girl he's been in love with is just his best friend. that becomes significantly harder when she starts dating his friend. especially because arvid is only now realizing he probably should've asked first.
INCLUDES: idk its cute and arvid being stupid and yeah and cool
NOTE: hey... another one inspired by jessie's girl... hey... no but fr this one was the original longer plot i had in mind but didn't end up pursuing for ollie's blurb inspired by this song. ofc, glee versions are superior and i will forever stand by that. also love arvid yup. enjoy!
Arvid Lindblad had always thought he could handle pressure. He was used to racing at impossible speeds, to reacting before anyone else, to keeping his mind sharp under stress. But watching you with Kimi Antonelli was nothing like a race. This was chaos without rules, a corner he didn't know how to navigate.
It started small. A touch here, a glance there. He told himself he was imagining things. When you laughed at Kimi's joke and leaned into him slightly, Arvid only noticed because his chest ached for no reason he could name.
Then came the hand. You hadn't even held Kimi's hand on purpose, really. It had just slipped, brushing his as you walked through the paddock. Arvid had nearly collided with a stack of tires, fumbled his own water bottle, and muttered something about "focusing on the track," even though he wasn't on a track.
Next was the hug after Kimi's win. It had been celebratory, lighthearted. You lifted off the ground with ease in Kimi's arms, hair brushing his shoulder, laughter spilling into the warm afternoon. Arvid clapped along with everyone else, a forced grin plastered on his face, but the tightness in his stomach made it impossible to breathe normally. He could feel his pulse in his ears.
He tried to tell himself it was nothing. Kimi was a friend, after all. A good friend. Someone he trusted. Someone who had always been there. It wasn't like heā¦ cared. It wasn't like this broke him into a thousand little pieces.
Then came the race weekend where you had sat next to him on the folding chairs, scrolling through your phone while Arvid tried to concentrate on the data in front of him. He had leaned over, jokingly warning Kimi: "Careful, she's high maintenance."
You had gasped.
"No, I'm not!"
Kimi had laughed, looking between the two of you, clearly entertained.
And Arvid had felt itā the acute, sharp, impossible longing he had been denying for yearsā spike like a brake pedal slammed too late.
Another day, another moment: the mechanic, grinning as he glanced between you two. "You're like siblings."
Arvid nearly choked. The world tilted.
"Absolutely not," he muttered, voice tight.
You nudged him gently. "Don't worry. I'd never claim you as family."
Relief? No. Only the tiniest relief that he could still mask his feelings with jokes.
But every small smile you shared with Kimi, every careless brush of hands, every quiet laugh that wasn't for himā it all piled up. A montage of missed chances and internal screaming that no one noticed. No one could. He had always been the teasing, flirty, confident one. Everyone assumed he was joking. That was easier than admitting the truth: he had been in love with you for years.
And now Kimi was not just a friend. Now Kimi was the person who held your attention, who made you smile, who occupied the space he had never dared to claim.
Arvid's chest tightened, a silent, relentless pressure that no amount of sarcasm or bravado could relieve. He fumbled through conversations, overexplained harmless things, accidentally bumped into walls, poured too much water into a bottle, tripped over his own feet. A casual observer would have thought he was just Arvid being Arvidā funny, awkward, endearing. But inside, he was quietly, catastrophically breaking apart.
Every race weekend became a test of endurance unlike anything on the track. He measured every laugh, every glance, every word, every touch, and it hurt. It hurt because he had the chance once and didn't take it. It hurt because he had watched the person he loved grow closer to someone else. It hurt because he had no idea how to stop himself from noticing every little thing, even as he joked through it.
And yet, even amidst this silent spiral, he waited. Patiently, nervously, hoping that somehow, sometime, the moment would come when he could finally say something real.
The breakup came quietly. No shouting, no anger, no tears. Just a soft acknowledgment, the kind that settled in the space between words. Arvid had been walking past the paddock building when he overheard you tell Kimi, "I think we're better as friends." And Kimiās calm agreement.
Just like that, the world shifted, and he realized he had been holding his breath for years he didnāt even know he was waiting.
He stepped out from behind the corner before thinking, before planning, before rehearsing words.
"Arvid?" you said, turning instantly. His heart thudded like the first time he had ever sat behind a steering wheel, only worse.
"So," he began, and the words tumbled awkwardly from him, unpolished, raw. "Since you're single nowā"
"You had years," you said simply, eyes sharp and steady.
And he knew it. Every lost moment, every hesitation, every laugh he had pushed asideā it had all been his own fault. He exhaled slowly, a quiet surrender.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I know."
A pause stretched, heavy with everything that had been left unsaid. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that had nothing to do with racing and everything to do with the fact that this was the moment that had eluded him for so long.
"But," he said finally, careful now, steadying himself, "if you're free next weekendā¦"
You raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
"I'd like to stop being stupid."
For the first time in years, Arvid felt the thrill of speed in something other than an engine, something other than the track. He felt it here, in the quiet collision of hope and relief and anticipation. And when you rolled your eyes, sighed, and muttered, "God, you're lucky I like you," he laughedā not cocky, not teasing, not nervous. Just real.
And after all those years of fumbling, pretending, and missing his chance, Arvid Lindblad finally felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
ollie bearman had everythingā the car, the dream, the career. but the one thing he wished for but never had, was you. and he hated it.
INCLUDES: reader is arthur leclerc's girlfriend, sorry we compare careers here but i love the both of them ok pls dont kill me, slight angst
NOTE: inspired by jessie's girl (the glee version again) !! this was originally supposed to be another set of drivers but i switched to ollie bcs the damn lacy edits have gotten to me again man. also im kinda wasted writing this so pls bare w me
( masterlist | more OB87 )
Ollie Bearman was in Formula 1. Arthur Leclerc was not. And that should have been enough.
He had the seat, the career, the fame, the experience. He was in every media day panel and in every post-race interview. He had casual conversations with world champions and raced wheel-to-wheel with the greats. He lived the life he always dreamed of, high at the top, only getting better.
Arthur never made it to Formula 1. He could have if time allowed him. He didn't have Lewis Hamilton's phone number saved in his phone, nor did he talk to Fernando Alonso every weekend before a race. He wasn't the one who flew private planes with the other rookies, nor laughed beside a four-time world champion during a driver's parade.
Ollie had everything Arthur wanted. Everything but the girl.
"Fuck, I'm so stupid. What if I never walk again." You sit up from the hospital bed, grimacing at the pain in your ankle.
Ollie sat in front of you on a small stool, looking at the bandages wrapped around your foot. "Ok first of all, you're being dramatic. It's a sprain."
You look up at Ollie with pursed lips, he meets your eyes with a certain tenderness that you always found comforting. "Second of all, you're not stupid. You got excited, it happens."
You groan in embarrassment, covering your face with your hands. "I can't believe I'm sitting in a hospital room because of my boyfriend."
Ollie's eye twitches at this, "Who didn't pick up, by the way."
You place your hands on your lap, slumping in the bed as you look at the Brit. "Hey, he's probably busy on the sim."
So? Ollie wanted to say out loud, but refused.
You were at home when you got the news that Arthur would be competing in more endurance racing for the rest of year. Happy for him, you started jumping up and down and landed on your foot wrong, resulting in you spraining your ankle and calling your best friend at 8 in the morning.
You insisted that you were fine but by the time Ollie got there, your ankle was swollen and he knew better than to leave you in pain. So he drove you to the hospital to get properly treated.
"Thanks, Ollie." You turn towards him, a smile on your face as he leaves the apartment keys on the table. "You didn't have to do all that, you know."
He smiles back. "Anything for you."
You see his reply as friendly, Ollie's heart skips a beat.
"You wanna go to Qualifying later? I could scrounge up a spare pass."
You shake your head politely, "No, thanks. I'm waiting for Arthur to get here for tomorrow."
Just as fast as it sped up, Ollie's heart shattered once more. Arthur, right.
It wasnāt supposed to bother him this much. You and Ollie were childhood best friends and always in the same circles. You'd been at every single one of Ollie's races in the lower Formulas and tried your absolute best to watch as many as you could now that he was in Formula 1. You were his friend first. Youād been there the whole timeā before the call-ups, before the pressure, before Arthur ever made a move.
Ollie had every chance. Every moment. Every excuse to say something. But he didnāt. Too focused. Too careful. Too convinced he had time. After all, Ollie was the reason you were in the Prema garage all the time in the first place.
But Arthur? Arthur didnāt wait. He just said what he felt and you picked him.
Now Ollie was racing in front of the world while silently choking on the fact that the guy still stuck in his shadow had the one thing he didnāt.
He saw you at the race the next day. You were wearing his team colors, in his garage, with his hat on, and shouting his name from the pit lane. But no matter how loud you screamed for Ollie Bearman, the sound of your laugh resonated louder when you talked to Arthur Leclerc.
Ollie won, he had podium, he had the champagne, but he didn't have the look of love in your eyes whenever you looked at him. He didn't have his hands on your waist as the crowd screamed when he popped the champagne.
He had the seat, the headlines, the future every young driver dreamed of.
But none of it mattered when you were in the garage with someone elseā someone heād beaten a hundred timesā and still lost to in the only way that mattered.
welcome to chicken shop date! where you take the world's hottest stars on the most awkward dates. today's menu consists of mid chicken, soggy fries, and a sarcastic max verstappen.
INCLUDES: fast-paced dialogue, many cuts, not a full-block thing, max being max, so a lot of sarcasm, pretty much torturing the guy, reader loves it tho
NOTE: inspired by chicken shop date by amelia dimoldenberg! a second driver has hit the series. new f1 season means new shit and i'm back heh woops. this has been sitting in my drafts since last year and decided to go for it. hope you enjoy and pls do comment which other drivers you want me to write about in this format!
( masterlist | more MV1 )
The sound of the fryer buzzes in the background and the whir of the drinks machine fills the space. A four-time world champion sits in front of you, two boxes of grease taking up the middle space.
He hasn't touched his food yet, probably suspicious that the wings might not be Michelin-star level. You, on the other hand, are already plotting how to make him as uncomfortable as possible.
"Four-time world champion," you begin, sipping your drink like it's champagne. "King of Red Bull. Professional radio complainer."
Max narrows his eyes at you. "Complainer?"
You pitch your voice higher, doing your best impression of him mid-race: "Why is it always me that has the problem?!"
The cameraman coughs to hide their laugh. Max just stares at you like he's deciding whether walking out would void the fake date contract.
"That's not complaining," he says finally. "Thatās communication."
"No," you counter, leaning forward with a smirk. "That's crying."
There's a long pause. You sip your drink again. Victory tastes like flat soda.
You decide to turn the pressure up. "So, what's your go-to romantic move? Flowers? Candlelight? Whispering āDRS openā at the right time?"
His expression is pricelessā somewhere between disbelief and existential dread. "That'sā¦ not how DRS works."
"Imagine it," you say, eyes shining. "Date night. Dim lighting. You lean in and whisper, āDRS enabled.ā Instant romance."
Max puts his head in his hands, muttering something in Dutch that you're pretty sure translates to āwhy am I here.ā
"This is the worst interview Iāve ever done," he groans.
You lean back in your seat, a satisfied grin on your face. "Good luck. We have an hour left."
You take a bite of a fry, a small smirk resting on your lips. You make intense eye contact with the man in front of you who only narrows his eyes in return. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely." You nod in delight, smile breaking out even wider than it was.
"You invited me here just to make fun of me."
"That's not true."
Max raises an eyebrow. You pause, chewing slowly.
"...It's mostly true."
He exhales through his nose, half amused despite himself. Finally, he opens the box of wings and you immediately lean forward.
"Oh, so now you trust the chicken?"
He looks up at you through his eyelashes, piercing blue eyes staring into yours. "I'm hungry."
You raise your brows, a surprised look on your face. "That's the most vulnerable you've been this entire interview."
Max rolls his eyes at this, reluctantly taking a small bite out of the chicken.
"So," you say casually, twirling your straw. "Youāre very competitive."
He shrugs. "I guess."
"In racing, yes. But what about inā¦ other areas?"
Max narrows his eyes slightly. "What does that mean?"
You lean forward, lowering your voice like youāre about to reveal a secret. "If we were datingā"
"Weāre not."
"āhypothetically," you continue smoothly, "and another guy walked in here and started flirting with meā¦"
Max takes a bite of his wing, completely unfazed.
"I would let him."
You blink.
"Youād let him?"
"Yes."
"That was very quick."
He shrugs again, reaching for his red bull. "Itās hypothetical."
You tilt your head, studying him like a particularly stubborn experiment.
"So you wouldnāt be jealous at all?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
"No."
You lean closer across the table. "What if he was taller than you?"
Max doesn't even look up from the food. "Most people aren't.
"Okay," you continue, undeterred. "What if he was faster than you?"
That finally makes him look up. Max lets out a short laugh.
"That's... unlikely."
You sit back in your seat with a satisfied smile.
"So you are competitive."
"No," he says, pointing a fry at you. "You're just trying to start something."
"Me?" you say innocently.
"Yes."
You grin.
"I think you're jealous."
Max shakes his head, though there's a small smile threatening to appear now. "I'm not jealous."
"Defensive, then."
"No."
"Insecure?"
"No."
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Youāre very annoying."
You beam.
"Thank you!"
"Okay," you start. "Let's say we're racing. Final lap. I'm right behind you."
"That wouldn't happen." He immediately quips, the thought of it making him scoff.
"Pretend it does."
He rolls his eyes. "Fine."
"You're in P1," you continue. "I'm about to overtake."
"That's... unlikely."
"And suddenly," you say dramatically, "I say on the radio: āMax, please let me pass. Itās for romance.āā
Max stares at you. You stare back. There's a beat in the room before he answers. "I'd crash the car."
Your face falls flat, looking at him like you were done. "That's... aggressive."
"That's racing."
You shake your head in mock disappointment.
"Okay," you start. "Last segment of the date."
Max raises an eyebrow. "There are segments?"
"Of course. This is a professional production."
"You've spent the last forty minutes making fun of me."
"That is the production."
He exhales through his nose, but there's a faint smile on his face again.
You straighten up slightly. "Right. Lightning round."
He groans immediately. "No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Too late."
You point at him like a game show host.
"Favorite teammate."
"Daniel."
"That was suspiciously fast."
"Because it's correct."
"Okay, fair," you admit. "Next question. Hardest driver to race against."
He shrugs. "Everyone."
"That's a diplomatic answer."
"I'm being nice for your show."
You blink in confusion. "What show? This is a date."
"I regret saying that already."
You grin, clearly thrilled.
"Ok, final question of the lightning round."
He braces himself.
"If we were both in a race and the prize wasā¦ another date with meā¦ would you try to win?"
Max looks at you with that flat Verstappen expression again, then he shrugs. "Depends."
kimi antonelli was always behind youā in the standings, in the starting grid, in your mirrors. everywhere you looked, the curly-headed mop was always there. but while you had a scowl on your face, he enjoyed every moment.
INCLUDES: soft rivals to lovers, SOFT RIVALRY OKAY, reader is a RED BULL driver, use of y/n, set in 2025 but definitely not an accurate timeline, profanity, kimi being a cutie, imagine seb and lewis type rs, this one is not as slow as the max one swear, inaccurate depictions of media day and the press conferences
NOTE: inspired by ONE WAY OR ANOTHER. i think this is my favorite idea out of all of the oneshots in this series. i hope i was able to do it justice. kimi is a cutie (and is talented as hell) and i claim him as my second pick of the rookie litter. congrats to kimi for canada podium! not proof read
( moments series | more KA12 )
People are usually haunted by nightmaresā scarring images that keep them up at night, their mind playing tricks on them. Some perceive these as spiders, drowning, losing a loved one. You, on the other hand, are haunted by a singular curly-headed, brown-eyed, Italian who so happened to go by the name of Kimi Antonelli.
You and Kimi weren't exactly Rosberg and Hamilton in terms of rivalry, more 'he pushed me, I pushed him back, he pushed me off the track'. The both of you would never go out of your way to deliberately throw each other off, but if it happened then you wouldn't exactly be apologetic about it either.
This rivalry had been going on ever since the both of you were teammates in Formula 2. While Kimi raced under the Mercedes Junior Programme, you raced under the Red Bull Junior Programme. This called for the development of two very talented, very fast, and very competitive drivers. You finished fifth in the standings and Kimi was right behind you in sixth. And that's how it always wasā even until now.
The teams make their way out of the gridā signifying the countdown to your debut Formula 1 race. Your eyes flicker to your side mirror, spotting the annoyingly familiar Mercedes of your former teammate. You qualified P15ā not the best start. Kimi, of course, qualified right behind you. He seemed to notice your gaze and stuck his hand out from the top of his halo, waving at you before locking his gaze back in front of him. You roll your eyes at this from under your helmet, only gripping your steering wheel tighter as the red lights start to bounce to life.
This was what you had always dreamed off. And before you knew it, it was lights out and away you did go.
As you cross your first corner, you spot a car coming from behind. You give space out of etiquette, then freeze when you notice car number 12 slip right in front of you. You weren't about to let him have this, not when you were always slightly better than Kimi in everythingā qualifying, points, wins.
You were stuck behind Kimi for a few laps, but you were tailing him like your life depended on it. Kimi might have successfully overtaken you, but you weren't about to go down without a fight. You were practically taunting him through his mirrors, taking in every move he made as he bounced around the track defending you. And he enjoyed every moment of it.
Coming up to the chicane, you slightly take your foot off the throttle. Not enough to back off but enough to make Kimi think that you were. He takes the bait, defending the usual racing line. And that's when you put your skills to good use. You go late on the breaks, hugging that outer line as much as physics would allow it, and the car twitches. Kimi jolts in surprise, not expecting the risky move so early on in the game. But then he scoffs onceā not in anger, but in recognition. He should've known you would do thatā you always did.
You were already pastā risky, bold, barely within track limitsā but past. You glance at your mirror, noticing the Mercedes get smaller as you push your car to its fastest.
You were going to finish ahead of him again and you wouldn't have it any other way.
"Good first race," he greets, a shimmer of mischief in his eyes. "You beat me."
You look at him and quirk your eyebrow, expression deadpan. "I always do."
He breaks out into a larger grin before leaving towards the media pen. You shake your head at his antics, sighing unsurprised. You and Kimi were always like thisā playful, rivals, next to each other. You were both polar opposites in terms of personality: Kimi was boyish, bouncy, always had a smile on his face. You were relaxed, quiet, masking no emotions. When the both of you were teammates in Formula 2, the media dubbed you as the 'modern day Seb and Kimi'ā where he was Seb and you were the iceman himself.
Of course the beauty of Kimi RƤikkƶnen was the fact that he only ever broke down his walls for Sebastian Vettel himself. And this dynamic was perfectly mirrored with you and your former teammate.
As you made it into the media pen, you are quickly directed to the long line of journalists and news reporters ahead. People asked about your feelings towards your debut race, the strategy you used to get to P4 from P15, almost kissing the podium, being the only female driver in Formula 1. All of which were questions you already knew the answers to, prompting you to reply with simple answers that satisfied the question but left them wanting more.
"What can you say about that divebomb move you did on Kimi in Turn 1? That was pretty risky, especially for your debut race."
You blink slowly, pursing your lips as you ponder on the question. "It was risky but calculated. You do what you have to do to be ahead."
The journalist nods at your answer. "Speaking of, are we going to be seeing more of the rivalry you and Kimi have? Or is that something we left back in F2?"
As the mic is pointed back to you, you shrug your shoulders. "I don't know. If he's still as good as he was in Formula 2 then we will."
And before the reporter could ask any more questions, you nod your head curtly and walk away.
Another race week, another round of media obligations. If you weren't a rookie and scared to be sacked barely ten races in, you would probably have already called in sick today to avoid as much of it as possible.
You could appreciate the good questionsā the ones about tire strategy, mentality going into the race weekend, initial feelings as you embark on your second ever F1 race. But you could not care less for the stupid onesā one time in F2, someone asked you what your teammate smelled like. You could assure them that you weren't going to be that close to Kimi for you to get a whiff of his perfume.
The Italian only giggled at the question, and when he was asked the same he simply shrugged and replied: "Like apples."
Your perfume was raspberry.
The sea of reporters were already sat down by the time you made it into the room. Your initial plan was to be as late as possibleā less time, less questions asked. Of course, you didn't account for the fact that your manager would be banging on your door before your alarm even went off.
The only spot left was on the far-end of the couch next to Maxā you weren't complaining. As you sat down, you place the microphone on your lap and the circus begins. You honestly zoned out for a while, the reporters going for Max and Lewis first until a question was brought to your attention.
"Kimi, we've seen since Formula 2 that you've always finished behind Y/Nā does this frustrate or motivate you?"
You're brought back to the room at the mention of your name, eyes scanning for the reporter through the brim of your hat.
"Well..." You look to Kimi once he starts talking. The both of you share a look that causes you to smirk lightly and him to smile small. You lower your head at this, fidgeting with the wire that was connected to your microphone.
"It definitely motivates me," he starts, looking back towards the reporter. "I don't think I've ever been frustrated at this fact."
You look up once again, one eyebrow raised at your rival's answer. He looks back at you with a cheeky smile, the same one he always gives you after a question is thrown about the both of you.
Max and Lewis only looked back and forth between the opposite ends of the couch. They didn't really know what was happening, nor do they fully understand the dynamic, but they found it entertaining nonetheless. The reporters did the same, entranced in the child-like tension that comfortably fit in the middle of you and Kimi. They probably even forgot that two world champions were sitting right in the middle of the couch.
"We were in the same car in F2 but it was clear who handled it better," Kimi adds on, tone as if he was stating the obvious. "I mean... she finished ahead of me in the standings so who's surprised."
The sea of reporters chuckle at this, captivated by the rookie's charm. You swear you even heard Max mumble 'just like you and Seb' to Lewis as they both had grins on their face.
The same journalist picks up the microphone, stretching a hand towards you. "Y/N? Anything to add?"
You blink twice before bringing the microphone to your lips, a small smirk settling onto your face. The crowd seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of what you were going to say. Even Max and Lewis did the same.
"Kimi said it best," you start. "He's good, but I'm better."
Fifth race of the season and Kimi was still hot on your tail. The cheeky banter that the two of you had was still prevalent at every media day. Kimi saying you were good at defending, you saying Kimi was good at attacking. It was a back and forth of snarky comments yet respectful compliments on the other's drivingā something the media found absolutely entertaining.
You and Kimi almost crashed in Qualifying and the paddock buzzed with eagerness to see what would happen. While you stormed off towards Kimi's car to confront him, the Italian only looked at you with a smirk on his face. His eyes shimmered at your anger, finding the insults you were throwing him amusing.
You had managed to snag P8 on the starting grid, Kimi still behind you in P7. Which is why the both of you were chasing each other for most of the race. It's like the rest of the drivers didn't even matter, because the only person you were fighting was each other. If you led, Kimi would overtake you. If Kimi led, you would fight back.
It's lap 55 and the both of you were still playing tag in your cars. This game starts to irritate you, especially when you were so close to the end of the race. Kimi was in front of you. You almost kissed his rear wing a few times which caused a few angry radio messages from the man himself. He was defending like crazy, not giving you the space or time to do anything about the position you were in.
Until he slows down. Which catches you off-guard, until your eyes narrow. You knew exactly what game this guy was playing.
"Brilliant," you mutter under your breath, trying your best not to just push him off the track due to sheer annoyance.
You were now side by side the Mercedes of driver number 12, heading into the part of the track that is crucial towards who could take the lead between the two of you.
The both of you were going insanely slow, trying your hardest not to be the leading car when the both of you reach the DRS zone. You're getting radio messages from the team telling you to stop what you are doing to avoid a penalty. Toto was probably aging 5 years due to this stunt his rookie was pulling.
"Y/N, there's a car behind the both of you. I suggest you get on with it."
You hear the radio message loud and clear, but you didn't budge. The both of you were going 120 in a 200 zone, posing a great risk to the other drivers who were coming up behind you two.
"Fuck it." You push your foot on the pedal, now in front of Kimi. He reacts to your throttle and goes quick as well, only barely skimming your rear wing.
He was going fast, and you knew that you could play this to your advantage to get DRS. And you did exactly that. Because as soon as you could tell that Kimi had faster pace than you, you take your foot off the throttle and watch as he leads once the both of you reach the DRS zone.
"DRS available, Y/N. That was risky. Never do that ever again."
You smirk victorious at the radio message, immediately opening up your DRS and passing the Italian with ease.
"All in a day's work."
You go on to finish the race in P5, Kimi staggering behind you in P6.
The garage buzzes with post-race exhaustion. Youāre perched on a fold-out chair, helmet off, hair a mess, wrists wrapped in cooling packs. Your race suit is unzipped halfway, the navy blue fireproofs clinging to your skin uncomfortably. Someone left a fan on nearby, but itās doing little to cool the heat radiating off your back.
You close your eyes for a second. Just a second. Untilā
"Didnāt think Iād see the great Y/N Y/L/N icing her wrists like a rookie," a familiar voice teases.
Your eyes crack open to find Kimi Antonelli leaning against the doorframe, still in full race gear. He hasnāt even unzipped his suit yet, cheeks flushed from the heat and eyes practically glowing with mischief. The blue Mercedes hat sat atop his head, doing little to calm down the curls he hid underneath.
You scoff, too tired to play alongā though the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. "You were in front of me for a long time today. Nice job."
He grins. "Yeah, until you decided to pull that DRS crap."
You chuck a balled-up cooling wrap at him. He dodges it easily, like heās used to you trying to hit him with things. "You started it."
"Had to win over you somehow." He shrugs, finally stepping inside. He squats in front of you like youāre the car heās inspecting.
You blink at his wording. You hate that your chest tightens a little, a swell of butterflies threatening to spill in your stomach. His tone softens, eyes flickering briefly to your hands. "Seriously though. You okay?"
You narrow your eyes at him. For a moment, heās not teasing. Not pulling the rival crap you both have always stuck to since you were in Prema. You shrug. "Just sore. I've had worse."
He stays crouched a beat longer before standing, stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic groan. "Well, sore or not, weāve got rookie PR in ten. Donāt forget to act like you hate me."
You roll your eyes. "I donāt have to act. Youāre exhausting."
Kimi winks. āAnd yet, you keep chasing me.ā
You scoff again but canāt help the grin that slips. "Need I remind you that you're always behind me?"
He shakes his head at your words, turning on his heel. You grab your hat and fall into step beside him as you both head toward the paddock media tent.
"Next time I slow down for DRS, you're going to have to thank me for the free position."
You roll your eyes at his words, adjusting the hat on your head. "I still despise you, Antonelli."
"I know. You've said that since last year."
It was media day yet again and the press conference that came with it was routineā one of those long, slightly tedious panels where all the drivers are lined up behind nameplates, small mic stands individually distributed while trying not to say anything too controversial.
But of course, you and Kimi couldnāt help yourselves.
The sweet interaction you both had behind closed doors last week was long forgotten as the new week rolls around. A fresh set of snarky comments and huffed comebacks rally between the both of you, not caring about the situation you were currently in.
Youāre seated two spots apart, with Ollie between you. He looks increasingly alarmed with every back-and-forth exchange. Isack, seated on Kimiās other side, is trying to hide his laugh behind his water bottle.
"Y/N, what did you think of Kimiās defensive driving last weekend?" one reporter asks, already smiling like she knows exactly what answer sheās going to get.
You raise an eyebrow, your tone dry. "Defensive driving? More like dangerous driving. He almost brake-checked me into next week."
Kimi huffs dramatically, leaning over in front of Ollie. "Maybe if you werenāt so glued to my rear wing all the time, you wouldnāt have to worry about it."
You blink, then tilt your head. "That's why I'm normally in front of you. You're too slow"
Thereās a beat of silence then several muffled laughs. Someone lets out an audible, āGod.ā
Ollie glances at the moderator helplessly. "Are we allowed to separate them?"
The moderator tries to push forward, but the tension on your side of the panel is unmistakableā sharp enough to cut through the usual PR fluff.
And then, finally, someone asks it.
"Y/N. Kimi. With all this... whatever this isā are you two actually rivals, or is there something more going on here?"
The question lands with a heavy pause. Everyone stares. Charles almost chokes on his water. Lando turns to Oscar like did they just say that?
Your hand tightens slightly around the mic. You glance at Kimi, whoās already grinning like the devil. He raises one eyebrow.
"Well?" he prompts, clearly enjoying the chaos. "Are we rivals?"
You stare at him for a beat. Then smirk, voice monotonous. "Weāre not friends, if thatās what youāre asking."
Kimi nods, all mock-serious. "Yeah. She just likes yelling at me, and I like overtaking her."
You roll your eyes at his comments.
Someone in the room coughs out a laugh. The moderator tries, and fails, to move on.
Max mutters something to Charles, whoās very obviously trying not to burst into laughter. Lewis just leans back, watching the two of you like youāre the most entertaining part of his day.
And thatās how the moment endsā no answer, no clarification. Just you and Kimi sitting in your chairs, pretending nothing happened, as if you didnāt just throw the entire room into confused, romantic-tension-filled chaos.
The press conference rolls on, awkward laughter still lingering from the last question. The moderator tries to redirectā asks a question about tire strategy for the upcoming street circuit. Kimi answers smoothly, then itās passed to you.
āY/N, are you confident in your tire management heading into the race weekend?ā
You nod, keeping your tone cool. "Confident enough to keep my car ahead of Kimiās... again."
Kimi lets out the most dramatic sigh. "You say that like you donāt spend every lap checking your mirrors for me."
You donāt even look at him this time. "What can I say? Youāre hard to ignore when you're that close and that annoying."
Ollie audibly groans. "Oh my god, will one of you just say it?"
Everyone turns to look at him. He throws his hands in the air. "Youāre not rivals. You're flirting. This is so much worse than I thought."
Lewis nods from two seats down beside him, arms crossed. "Iāve raced against Seb and Mark. This is different. This isā¦ soft."
Fernando deadpans, "Yeah. Seb never smiled like that when Mark shoved him off the track."
Lando leans forward, mic dangerously close to his mouth. "Just blink twice if you're in denial."
Kimi only shrugs, smile tugging at his lips. "I donāt deny anything. Sheās the one who keeps pretending Iām not her favorite opponent."
You roll your eyes, but youāre biting back a smile. "Opponent is the key word there, Antonelli."
George speaks up from the far end, sounding thoroughly done.
"No, see, this is what weāre talking about. That? That tone? Thatās not āopponentā talk, thatās āI-know-his-star-sign-and-how-he-takes-his-coffeeā talk.ā
The room erupts in laughter. Teasing the youngest in the grid proved to be entertaining. Even the moderator gives up, leaning back with a sigh as the press completely loses control.
One reporter manages to recover enough to ask: "Soā¦ any final clarification? Rivalry orā?"
You and Kimi answer at the exact same time.
"Rivals."
"Something more."
Everyone gasps like theyāre in a high school cafeteria.
You blink, slowly turning your head toward him. Kimi just flashes you that boyish, smug smile.
"What?" he says innocently. "You said it yourselfā Iām hard to ignore."
The press conference ends with the moderatorās desperate attempt to bring order and the sound of thirty cameras still clicking. You and Kimi stand from your spot behind the table, still pretending everythingās normal even though you basically declared war and something else entirely on live TV.
You're barely five steps into the hallway behind the media room when a hand tugs on your sleeve.
"Okay. Stop. You. Youāre not going anywhere."
Itās Lando, planted dead center in the corridor like a traffic cone in papaya. "You two need to talk. Or confess. Or kiss. Or crash. Honestly, I donāt care anymore, but this 'are-they-or-arenāt-they' is draining. Entertaining! But come on, man."
Oscar appears right behind him, arms folded. "Yeah. Iād say 'get a room' but apparently youāve got likeā¦ a whole media room watching instead."
George leans against the wall, ever the instigator. "This is honestly more tense than when Lewis threw that hat at Nico."
Kimi just blinks at them. "Youāre all very dramatic."
You deadpan. "You literally fake-yawned during my answer so Iād look at you."
Max walks by eating something from catering. "Youāre both unhinged. If I have to hear "Iām always ahead of him" and 'I'm better than her' one more time, Iām crashing you both out myself."
Lewis appears like a wise dad whoās so done. "Look. I love a good rivalry. Keeps things interesting. But thisā this is a rom-com in race suits. Either admit you like each other or weāre making a group chat intervention."
Liam gives you a pointed look. "Donāt even try to act cool. Iāve seen you soft-launch him on your story."
Your eyes widen. "That was his helmet."
"Exactly."
The hallway fills with groans and mock outrage as Kimi chuckles beside you, fully basking in the chaos. You glance up at him, exasperated, but the grin on his face is all boyish charm and zero apology.
He leans just a little closer, voice low. "Told you weāre not subtle anymore."
You shake your head, muttering, "Youāre insufferable."
He winks. "But you like it."
And yeahā maybe you do.
Race day and you're already on edge.
Maybe it's the press conference shenanigans. Maybe it's Kimi's stupid, smug, post-conference hallway wink. Or maybe it's the fact that everyone on the grid suddenly decided to become certified couples therapists.
Whatever it is, you helmet feels tighter, the air feels heavier, and you could hear your heart beating in your chest.
"Y/N, radio check. How are we feeling?"
You don't respond immediately, just adjusting your grip on your steering wheel. Kimi's car is beside you on the grid, just one position below you. He was waving at an engineer, bouncy as ever, and you don't know if you want to kiss him or crash him.
Before you knew it, the five red lights go out and you slam your foot on the pedal.
You get a clean launch but Kimi had a faster reaction. The two of you are alongside each other into Turn 1 and you already hated it. You squeeze tighter on the inside, taking a sharper line. He pulls back ahead by Turn 3 and you continue to chase.
Every time he turns, you follow. You're not racing the others anymoreā you're locked into car number 12 like it's personal. Like the entire race is just you and him.
Eventually you get past him as he zooms into the pit lane. But that doesn't stop the knot to form in your chest.
Your grip on the steering wheel tightens with every turn. The car hums like it always does but your brain is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere behind you. Somewhere in a black and blue car.
"Antonelli is 0.4 behind you."
You could practically feel him through your mirrors, like a phantom chasing your tail. He had been right there for five lapsā patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And you hate that a part of you has started to drive more for him than for the points.
Something had shifted. It wasn't just racing anymore, wasn't just banter and cheeky smirks and toeing the line. He looked and talked to you in the press conference like you were the only one in the roomā he always does. And now it's messing with you.
You're faster, betterā you know this. But your head's too loud. Your heart even louder.
You brake too late into Turn 9. The rear of your Red Bull twitches and your instinct kicks in. You overcorrect, unsettled by the snap, but the grip vanishes from your rear tires.
You spin.
It's no catastrophic, but it's dramatic. Smoke kicks up as your car hurtles into the wall, sending bits of debris scattered all over the track. You weren't hurt, but you weren't moving either. The engine stalls.
You sit still, breathing hard. Helmet still on, grip like a death lock on the wheel.
"Are you okay?"
You don't bother to reply, just slumped in your seat. Stupid emotions buzzing around in your head like it would explode. You see the marshals wave the red flag and you see the Mercedes you were running from slow down as it passes you. Slow enough that you could tell he was looking. Slow enough that you knew he was debating on jumping out.
You swallow and flick the switches, trying your best to get the engine to fire back. It doesn't.
"Yeah," you finally reply. "Justā yeah."
Your engineer tells you to kill the car. Your brain tells you to scream.
You make your way out of your car, and the world feels a little too loud.
You quickly take your race suit off as you whiz past the pit lane, not even bothering to stay for the entire race. You throw your hat on, wanting to get away from the paddock. Away from the cameras and the pitying eyes.
But Red Bull is Red Bull. There's no hiding in the world champion's garage, not with the interns side-eyeing you and the engineers pretending not to notice the tension bleeding off you like smoke.
You slump down into one of the chairs. Your arms are crossed, foot bouncing, eyes locked onto nothing. Every time you blink you see the moment againā the oversteer, the snap, the runoff, his car.
You were not okay.
And apparently your teammate could tell.
You didn't even notice that you had been glued to the exact same spot for a long time until you catch Max slide into the chair in front of you. The race had ended.
"Want to tell me what that was?"
You blink at him, jaw tight. "Was a mistake. I messed up."
"Well, yeah," he deadpans, adjusting his hat. "But that's not what I meant."
You don't respond. Already not liking where this was heading.
"You and Kimi." He leans forward, lowering his voice. "What's going on?"
You scowl, slumping even more into your seat as if that would hide you from Max Verstappen's stormy-eyed gaze. "Nothing's going on."
"Right. That press conference on Thursday would say otherwise."
You scoff. "Whatever happened in that press conference was utter bullshit and you know that."
"Do I?" Max raises an eyebrow, leaning back into his seat. "Because the way he looked at your replay after the race..."
You snap to look at him, cursing yourself internally for being too eager to know. Max notices this and sighs, "He didn't leave until he saw you get out. George told me he would've gotten out if Toto didn't yell at him not to."
You look back to your spot on the floor, unable to reply.
"He almost swerved too. Dropped down to P11."
Silence hangs between you. A million thoughts raced through your mind and your heart felt like it was going to fall out of your chest.
"You think I threw away points for a boy?" You finally build the courage to look at him.
Max just shrugs, "I think you forgot you were racing everyone else."
You exhale shakily and thank the heavens that Max doesn't push. He just stands up and gives your shoulder a pat. "Sort your head out, Y/N. You're better than this."
As he walks away, you catch sight of the familiar sight of curls and blue lingering near the entrance of the hospitality.
And you decide right then and there that you were going to do this for yourself. No more distractions.
Kimi Antonelli has always been good at bouncing back. Always smiling, able to shake things off, easy to just be.
But lately? Not so much.
You've been quiet. Not coldā but distant. Professional, like he was just another driver on the grid now and not the one you used to glare at from across the room with a sly smirk. You still greet each other but only because you have to. You haven't looked at him longer than two seconds since your crash three weeks ago. And Kimi? He's losing his mind over it.
But it's not like he doesn't know why.
You spiraled after that crash, everyone could tell. He saw it in the way you avoided any form of media, in the way you hid from the paddock, in the way Max helped in pulling you aside, in the way you sat at the next press conference like you were building a brick wall between you and everything elseā especially him.
And what did that get Kimi? Messing up.
He locks up into Turn 3 during Q2, tires screeching. He almost scraps the car, giving Toto the time of his life behind the monitors. He even misses the apex in Q3ā not once, but twice.
"P15, Kimi," his engineer radios, voice tight. "You okay?"
Kimi stays silent for a beat before finally replying, "Yeah."
He jumps out of the car with a blank expression. He pulls off his gloves with more force than necessary and walks right past the media pen without saying a word. Their PR managers try to call him back, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even look back.
You were the complete opposite.
You pass by on your cool-down lap, securing P4. He watches your car cruise down the pit lane from the garage and the worst part? You don't even glance his way.
Kimi finally feels it. The horrible ache in his chest that maybe this rivalry doesn't feel like a rivalry anymoreā just an ending he didn't ask for.
Kimi is finally forced into the media pen for some last-minute interviews. He answers bluntly, no emotion behind his voice as he stares into the void behind the camera. Some interviewers even started to get irritated with the lack of answers, but before they could probe any more, Kimi walks away from the crowd and heads back to the hospitality.
You saw it all. The way his eyes held no spark behind him, the way his voice continued to be flat whenever he talked. You saw the articles and the videos of people trying to piece things together. The timeline from your crash three weeks ago to Kimi's horrendous qualifying session.
You had just seen a clip of Kimi's interview and something in your chest achesā sharp and undeniable.
"Alright, what's going on?"
You flinch slightly at the voice. Max stands a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wasn't angryā but he wasn't casual either.
You quickly pull your headphones off, discreetly turning off your phone and facing the screen down. "Nothing. I'm fine."
Max quirks an eyebrow. "That's not what your face says."
You roll your eyes at his probing. "Seriously, Max. I'm just tired."
He doesn't move. Still watching. Still knowing.
"You've been off for weeks," he says finally. "You barely talk anymore and you look like you're fighting ghosts every time you're in the car."
You look down at your hands, twiddling your thumbs.
"It's not a big deal," you murmur. "Just... dumb stuff."
He scoffs slightly. "If it was dumb, it wouldn't be getting to you this bad."
You don't respond. You know he's got you
Max walks over and takes the seat across from you, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "It's about Kimi, isn't it?"
You hesitate but your silence said enough.
"I saw the interview," he adds, voice quieter. "Kid's a wreck."
Your lips twitch into something bitter. "He should be."
Max frowns at that. "So what happened?"
You take a deep breath, leaning back into your seat. "I told myself that if I cut him out, I'd drive better. That he was a distraction."
He nods slowly. "And?"
"I almost crashed last weekend."
He sighs, confirming everything he's already pieced together.
"He's still distracting me. Even when I ignore him."
Max leans back in his seat, thinking. "Listen, Iām not gonna play therapist. But it doesnāt go away by pretending itās not there. And itās not weak to care about people. Even... annoying curly-haired Italians."
You huff out a quiet laugh despite yourself. "Heās so annoying."
Max smirks. "He likes you."
Your head snaps toward him. "Whatā"
"He likes you," he repeats. "Like... likes you. The whole paddock sees it."
You stay quiet for a second too long.
"And George told me."
Your eyebrows furrow at this information. "Since when do you talk casual to George?"
Max puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, he's not great but I'll do anything for you. You're like my little sister."
You smile at this, grateful for the support your teammate had.
Max tilts his head. āSo... do you like him?ā
Your fingers twist in your hoodie sleeve. "I donāt know what I feel when heās around. But when heās not... everything feels worse."
Max nods once, like thatās enough.
"Then maybe donāt fight it so hard," he says, standing. "Racingās hard enough. Donāt make it harder by pretending you donāt care."
You watch as he starts to walk away, and just before he disappears out the door, he calls over his shoulder:
"Ohā and if he hurts you, Iāll punt him into next week."
You grin. "Thanks, Max."
He just raises a hand in acknowledgment, walking out the door like he just saved your life.
Despite Max's advice, you couldn't find the courage to talk to Kimi about it. So for a month, you both ignored each other like the plague and your races just went south from there.
You both would barely qualify in Q3 anymore and you wouldn't be able to make it out of a race without clipping the wall. Kimi was just as bad, getting into bad crashes every other week.
It was horrible. But the two of you didn't do anything about it.
Now it was race day, lap 43, and despite the distance created between you two for the past weeks, that didn't mean he still wasn't behind you through every corner.
Your Red Bull is barely in front. Kimi's Mercedes eats at your slipstream like its oxygenā still constantly in your mirrors, constantly on your nerves.
You tried to focus, but he was always there. And unless you decided to push him off, there was nothing you could do.
He lunges into Turn 7 and you don't give way. Your cars go wheel-to-wheel, leaving no room for each other within the track. Kimi tries to edge ahead on the outside. You squeeze him in retaliation, not enough to send him off but enough to send a message.
But he doesn't back off. He jerks the car forward with one final push and all hell breaks loose. Your front wing clips his rear and you swear you can hear the groans of both Christian and Toto all the way from the pit wall.
The contact is light but enough to shatter your wing and blow his tire. Both cars spin in tandem like a devil's tango, red and blue tangled in smoke and weeks of unspoken words. The crowd screams, marshals scramble, radios go haywire.
Everything is chaos. Everything except the burning in your chest.
You slam your fists on your steering wheel as your car comes to a halt on the gravel.
"Y/N, you okay?"
You don't reply. Instead, your eyes drift to the rundown Mercedes beside you. You see Kimi unbuckle his belt and take his helmet and balaclava off. He stood next to his car, posture stiff, eyes locked on your car.
You rip your helmet off and glare at him through the smoke and dust. And for the first time ever, there's no playfulness in the way you look at each other.
Just fury and heartbreak.
You say nothing. He says nothing. The marshals move in, but it's too lateā the silence between the two of you has said it all.
You walk into the hospitality suite still in your race suit, helmet under your arm, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
The room goes silent. No one knows what to say.
Your crash replay is already looping on the TVā Red Bull and Mercedes in slow-mo carnage. And not the cars the media expected either. The wing clipping, the tire bursting, the spinā you staring at Kimi like youāve never known him at all.
Max is already there. So is your race engineer, Christian, your performance coach. The air is thick.
Max looks up, stress just as prominent on his face. "What the hell was that?"
You freeze, one foot still halfway in the doorway.
"You want the PR-friendly version or the one where I say I finally lost it?" you bite.
"You're not helping your case either way," he says calmly, but not coldly. Max is firmā older, sharper, not your rival but someone whoās been through every form of paddock chaos. "Look, I get it. You two have history. But this? This was emotional. Not smart."
Your fists clench around your helmet.
"It wasnāt just emotional. He pushed, I pushed back."
"Thatās not racing. Thatās a vendetta."
Your jaw ticks.
Your engineer tries to pivot. "Weāll review telemetry, see where we can defend the move if the stewards come calling."
But the conversation feels background now. Your eyes flick up to the TV againā frame paused on Kimi staring at your car in the runoff. Helmet on, shoulders tight, and no approach. No apologyā just space.
Too much of it.
Meanwhile, Kimiās being led into a side room. He's still in his race suit, lips pressed in a thin, unreadable line. Totoās already giving him a look thatās somewhere between concern and disappointment.
"You need to tell me that wasnāt personal."
"It wasnāt."
"Then explain the body language." Toto nods toward the replay. āShe looks at you like she wants to kill you. And you just stand there.ā
Kimiās hands curl into fists.
"I didnāt go for a dive bomb. I stayed on the racing line."
"And she didnāt back out either."
He doesnāt answer.
Toto sighs. "You two want to destroy each other, fine. But donāt destroy the cars too. We canāt afford that kind of emotional chaos on track again."
Kimi just stares down at the floor, jaw tense. Because he knowsā this isn't just about todayās race.
Media day rolls around once again. The room is packedā cameras, reporters, too many eyes.
Youāre seated on the far end of the lineup. Kimi is three chairs away. Thatās by designā someone in PR clearly didnāt want another headline.
But even with two drivers between you, the tension is unmistakable.
Max is next to you. Landoās between you and Kimi. George looks like heās bracing for impact.
A reporter clears their throat. "Y/N, letās start with you. Thereās been a lot of talk about the collision last weekend. Do you still stand by your actions on track?"
You blink once. Then twice. You lift the mic, voice perfectly neutral.
"I stand by the fact that I raced. The telemetry shows that much."
Kimi doesnāt look at you. You donāt look at him either.
The reporter nods, but presses, "Do you regret the result?"
You hesitate. A beat too long. Max subtly shifts in his seat like heās ready to shut it down for you.
Finally, you say, "I regret that it ended the way it did. Not that it happened."
The next question is for Kimi. "Kimi, same topic. Anything to say about your part in the incident?"
Kimi grips the mic.
"I raced her the way she raced me," he says simply. "I didnāt intend for it to end in a crash."
"But it did," the reporter counters. "And some fans are saying this has gone from playful rivalry to something... dangerous."
Silence. Another reporter cuts in, sensing blood.
"Which brings up the bigger questionā are you two actually rivals? Or is there something else going on here?"
You finally glance at Kimi. He glances back. It's not playful now, not teasing. Itās tired, frustrated, wounded.
You speak first.
"Do you think this way because I'm a female?" you start, voice monotonous. "Carlos and Oscar crashed last week but I don't see anyone else questioning if they fuck behind closed doors."
Kimi says nothing. Carlos raises his brows. Oscar shifts like he wants to disappear. Max? Max exhales through his nose like heās had enough.
Then Kimi, after a moment, says, "We were teammates once. Thatās all."
You nod. "And now weāre not."
Another mic is raised but Max leans forward into his own and calmly says, "Can we move on, please?"
Media day goes by faster than you had anticipated. All thanks to Max being the best older brother figure and flicking off the questions that didn't matter. The night was slowly coming, the sunset casting the sky orange and you were still in an empty hallway with your backpack slung over your shoulder.
You hear the footsteps before you see him. The sound of boots on the concrete echoing through the hallway. You donāt need to look up to know itās him. You just close your eyes and sigh.
"Kimi, donātā"
"Iām not here to fight,ā he says, voice quiet. Almost uncertain.
You finally glance over. Heās not in his race suit anymoreā just a plain black team hoodie, hair still damp from the post-race shower. He looks young. Tired. Like this whole thingās been eating at him too.
You scoff, eyes looking away. "Youāre always here. Thatās the problem."
Silence.
"I thought thatās what you wanted."
You blink, caught off guard.
"I gave you space," Kimi says, stepping closer, hands in his pockets. "Because every time I got close, you flinched. Or ran. Or crashed into me." A weak laugh, but it dies quickly.
"So I stopped chasing."
That word. Chasing. He looks down, then back up. His eyes meet yoursā tired but steady.
"But I never stopped wanting to."
Your breath catches.
"Iāve always been behind you, Y/N," he says, voice softer now. "On the track. Off the track. I chased because I liked being near you. I liked the way you drove, how you looked at me when you overtook me like you planned it since Thursday." He pauses.
"I like you. That didnāt change. I just... backed off because I thought it was better for you."
You blink rapidly, heart pounding. The silence between you stretches wide and raw. He doesnāt step closer, doesnāt touch you. Just lets it hang there in the airā waiting.
You finally whisper, "So what now?"
He shrugs, but his voice cracks just slightly. "I donāt know. But Iām still here."
You meet his gaze, and this time you donāt flinch. You look at him, eyes soft but unreadable. The words stick in your throat, burning like adrenaline at lights out.
He steps back slightlyā not away, just enough to show heās leaving the choice to you.
And you do something you donāt expect.
You take one step forward. Let your fingers graze the strap of your bag. And you say, just above a whisperā
"Then donāt stop."
You walk past him slowly, your shoulder brushing his. You donāt turn around. You donāt have to.
You were sure the others noticed it too. The tension was warmer, banter almost coming back full force.
Lap 68 of 70. The tension is high, your focus even higher. Your Red Bull dances through the corners, tires screaming, engine hummingāyou're in P1, with Kimi right on your rear wing.
Itās poetic, almost. The two of you again. No one else in sight, just the ghost of your shared past trailing behind you.
Your race engineerās voice crackles through the radio. "Two laps to go. Kimiās got DRS. Donāt do anything stupid."
You donāt reply. You donāt need to. This wasnāt about stupid moves anymore. It wasnāt about payback or proving anything.
Kimi moves up on your inside into the braking zone of Turn 6. You see him in your mirrorsā calculated, clean. He isnāt divebombing, isnāt pushing you wide like the both of you used to. Heās asking. Testing.
You defend the cornerā not aggressively, but fairly. A line drawn in respect, not in battle. He backs off, just a touch, but heās still there. You both know heāll try again. Maybe on the next straight.
Lap 69. You feel him edge closer, the Mercedes getting tow after tow. This time, he takes the outside. You could shove him wide, close the door, cut the apex like you always used to.
But you donāt. You give him space.
You brake early enough to let him choose the line. You even adjust your throttle just slightlyā not enough to throw the race, but enough to say I trust you to take it from here.
He does. He slips past, clean as ever. For once, it doesnāt sting.
You chase him for the rest of the lapā not because youāre angry or trying to steal the lead again. But because thatās how itās always been. You and Kimi. Push and pull. First and second. Side by side, even when you're not.
Final corner. Youāre right on his gearbox, but you donāt make the move. Because he earned this one. And because youāll get him back next time.
Across the finish line: Kimi P1, you P2.
The checkered flag waves in a blur of black and white as you cross the finish line, just seconds behind the silver Mercedes in front of you.
But it wasnāt just the result that had your heart poundingā no, it was him. It was Kimi.
Youād fought each other hard. Clean lines, aggressive braking, zero hesitation. But not a single corner was dirty. Not a single move crossed the line. It was the first time in a long while where it didnāt feel like war. It felt like racing.
And there he is. Standing beside his car, helmet already off, curly hair flattened against his head, cheeks flushed from the heat. Kimi turns when he hears your footsteps, and for a second, neither of you says anything.
Then he smiles. Not the smug one. Not the teasing one. Justā¦ soft. Honest.
You walk up to him and hold your helmet against your hip. "Nice win," you say quietly.
He looks at you like heās trying to memorize this moment. "Nice race," he replies. "You pushed me."
You smirk faintly. "I always do."
A beat of silence. The air shifts. He opens his mouth, maybe to say more, but the media start swarming. Max claps you on the back. Charles yells something from the pit wall. Someone hands you water.
But Kimiās still looking at you.
Before he disappears into the chaos, he leans in just slightlyābarely audible over the noise. "I missed that. You and me. Like this."
Your chest tightens, but your eyes soften. "Me too."
Max stays standing next to you, a brotherly smile on his face. "You did well, kid."
You smile back. "Thanks, Max."
"And I'm glad you're both good now."
Your eyes slightly go wide at the mention of the Italian, ears turning red. Max notices this and smirks, "No PDA in the garages. And you better not tell him our strategies."
The podium celebrations are over. Your race suitās half unzipped, champagne still drying on your skin as you walk down the paddock lane toward the team hospitality. Your boots echo against the pavement, the crowd a dull buzz behind you.
Beside you, Kimi walks with his hands holding his helmet. Thereās a comfortable silence between you nowā no jabs, no standoff tension. Just the lingering heat of a good fight and the electric charge of something that still hasnāt quite been said.
You side-eye him, the corner of your mouth lifting.
"So?" you ask, bumping his shoulder lightly with yours. "You finally happy you finished in front of me?"
Kimi glances over, slow and smug in the way only he can pull off. "Nah."
You raise an eyebrow, turning slightly to face him. "No?"
He lets out a breath thatās halfway between a laugh and a sigh, eyes forward now as you both keep walking. "Iām only getting started."
Your step falters just slightlyā just enough for him to notice. He grins, because of course he does.
You roll your eyes, but you canāt hide the way your lips tug upward. "Cocky."
"Confident," he corrects, flicking his gaze toward you. "Youād know something about that."
You hum under your breath, trying not to let the warmth spread to your cheeks. "Guess weāll see what happens next race."
Kimi slows just a little so heās behind you for a step or two. āIāll be right there," he says. "Chasing you."
You donāt say anything, not yetā but your smirk grows just a little wider. You go up to him and plant a kiss on his cheek, running off with a giggle towards your hospitality, leaving him dumbfounded and red in the middle of the paddock.
You're happy. Because for the first time in a while, you want him to.
Lap 71 of 72. The desert track shimmers in the heat, and the Red Bull at the front of the train is holding her own. You.
And heās behind you again. Kimi Antonelli. The same boy who used to haunt your mirrors, your dreams, your everything.
The same boy you once fought like hell. The same boy you gave space to. The same boy you once let win.
But not today.
Your tires are worn, your fuel lightās flashing, and your team is begging you to bring it home safely. But you can hear Kimiās car closing in, hear his engine roar on the main straight like heās trying to rewrite the ending again.
He sends it. Late on the brakes into Turn 9. You cover him off. He goes outside in Turn 10. You tighten the line.
Lap 72. Final lap. Heās still right there. The Mercedes dips and weaves behind your Red Bull, looking for a gap, looking for permission. But this timeā you don't give it.
Not out of bitterness. Not out of pride. But because this oneās yours. You earned it.
You hit every apex. Every throttle input is perfect. Youāre on the limit, dancing with the car, chasing glory.
And as you round the final corner, Kimiās still behind. Close. Always close. But behind.
You cross the finish line. You took the gold this time, and god did it taste good.
Your breathās still heavy when you climb out of the car. Mechanics swarm you, hugs and shouts and celebrationā your first win. Champagne-worthy. History-making. Redemption, in its purest form.
You glance sidewaysā and there he is. Kimi. Helmet off, curlier than usual, grinning like the idiot he is.
He walks up and bumps your shoulder with his. "Happy now? You finally finished ahead of me again."
You scoff, shaking your head, a tired smile on your lips. "You say that like I ever stopped."
He smirks. "I know. I was just giving you time to catch up."
You roll your eyes but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. He leans in just enough so only you can hearā
"Iām proud of you."
He pecks you on the cheek then steps away, letting you take the middle step on the podium where you belong. The crowd cheers and the teams holler.
you loved it the first time so he's back for more. welcome back to chicken shop date! where you take the world's hottest stars on the most awkward dates. today's reoccurring menu consists of the same crisp chicken tenders, the same greasy fries, and a now-comfortable oscar piastri.
INCLUDES: fast-paced dialogue, many cuts, not a full-block thing, funny car jokes (please laugh), they don't really eat, osco is now finally biting back, this one is longer i promise, reader is a ferrari fan, ferrari slander teehee, the team not the drivers, obviously
NOTE: inspired by chicken shop date by amelia dimoldenberg! you guys loved the first one and i definitely felt it was too short, so i made another because why not
PART ONE: CHICKEN SHOP DATE
( masterlist | more OP81 )
"You're back," you start, blinking at the man in front of you. The air still smelled like grease and chicken and the table you sat at months ago stayed the same. The only difference was the fact that Oscar Piastri no longer sat at the edge of his chair in regret. Instead, he sat up and looked at you with a cheeky grin, hands already finding their way to his drink. "Ready for this second date?"
Oscar lets out a breathy chuckle, looking down at his lap to hide the smile. "Not really."
You smile wider at this, nibbling at a fry. "Good."
"So how's life been since the last date?"
Oscar clears his throat at the question, raising his eyebrows in thought before looking back up at you. "Good, actually."
"I heard you're leading the championship now," you say, raising both eyebrows with a grin. "Some could say I'm your good luck charm."
Oscar only smiles at this, shaking his head in disbelief before picking up a tender. "They'd be liars."
You narrow your eyes at the Aussie, accusingly pointing a fry towards him. "You're lying."
"Do you have any pre-race rituals?"
Oscar looks up at you from his box, a thinking frown appearing on his face. "Not really."
You stop chewing, blinking in confusion. "So I haven't changed your life... at all?"
"Not positively."
You look at him with pursed lips, a comedic silence coming between the both of you.
"Good to know."
"Do you usually eat here?" Oscar asks, eyeing the food you were eating.
You wipe your mouth with a napkin, swallowing your food before looking back at him. "No. Why? That good?"
"No," Oscar shakes his head, "That bad."
You choke on your food, looking around at the empty shop. "You can't just say that."
"I didn't mean the food."
Oscar tilts his head with a teasing grin. Meanwhile, you give him a blank stare.
"Funny."
"I saw you're a big Ferrari fan." Oscar directs the conversation. You glance at him, impressed.
"How'd you know that?"
"Instagram." He shrugs as he says it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"How's the Tifosi experience?"
You blink at him. "My head hurts just thinking about it."
Oscar laughs at this. You only blankly stare at him in return, throwing a half-eaten fry in his direction.
"You're part of the headache. Stupid McLarens."
"You won F2 and F3. You think you'll win F1?"
Oscar sets down his drink, pursing his lips. "Definitely."
You purse your lips as well, tilting your head sarcastically. "You think you'll do that with your current team?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Oscar blinks in confusion. You only raise two eyebrows at him like he knows exactly what you mean, taking a bite out of the tender you were holding.
"Check the stats."
"The stats are fine?"
"Why did you come back?"
Oscar shrugs. "Part of my contract."
You stare at him with cold eyes. He only stares back like he was serious about his reply.
"That wasn't part of the script."
"I don't think any of this is part of any script."
"How many likes for you to do this again with me."
Oscar leans back in thought, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks up at the ceiling as he ponders upon an answer. You raise an eyebrow at his antics.
"Honestly... no amount of likes will make me do this again."
Your smile drops at this, staring at the F1 driver deadpan. "Are you serious?"
A grin appears on Oscar's face, "No."
"Have you ever considered switching to Alpine?"
You couldn't tell, but you swear you saw Oscar's eye twitch a little at the mention of his lower formula team.
"Why would I do that?"
You shrug, "For the funsies."
A beat of silence washes over the both of you.
"Have you ever considered switching to McLaren?" Oscar quips.
You smile at his rebuttal, "Only if it comes with a signed Oscar Piastri hat."
The driver nods once before sticking his hand out across the table. You take it and shake his hand, nodding in sync.
"It's a deal."
"Your PR team must love you. You typically stay out of trouble."
Oscar nods at this, glancing over to behind the camera where a handful of his team stood. "Yeah, they tend to sleep well."
You hum at this. "Maybe it's out of sheer boredom."
"Your manager is a former Red Bull menace. You give 'nervous intern at the media day' vibes."
Oscar furrows his eyebrows at this, not knowing whether to be offended or amused.
"I prefer the term calm."
You tilt your head at this, pursing your lips.
"You're a LinkedIn post. Mark's a gossip headline."
"Do you often publicly reject job offers?"
Oscar immediately knew what you were talking about, a breathy chuckle escaping his mouth.
"That was... complicated."
"Right. You rejected them like they were an ex texting at 2 AM."
"Do you ever miss the days when you were a highly rated junior instead of a highly judged rookie?"
Oscar takes a sip at this, blinking in confusion. "That's dark."
"It's the truth."
"You know," you start, taking a bite out of a fry. "I love your mom."
Oscar raises his eyebrows like he wasn't surprised. "Most people do."
"Like, if I had to choose between dating you or getting a Christmas card from Nicole... I'd choose the card."
Oscar clicks his tongue at this, leaning back in his seat. "Yeah, I would too."
"Everyday you prove to be the least favorite Piastri."
Oscar looks at you with a deadpan look. "Very original."
"You definitely aren't the original I'll tell you that much."
"Rate this date out of 10. Be honest."
Oscar sits quietly for a beat, munching on his fries as he thinks about the question. You sit there with a small smile, expecting the best from the man in front of you.
"Well, the food is an 8. You're... definitely present."
welcome to chicken shop date! where you take the world's hottest stars on the most awkward dates. today's menu consists of crisp chicken tenders, greasy fries, and an uncomfortable oscar piastri.
INCLUDES: fast-paced dialogue, many cuts, not a full-block thing, funny car jokes (please laugh), they don't really eat, poor osc definitely wants to get out of there, but its alright at the end, SASSY OSCAR BTW
NOTE: inspired by chicken shop date by amelia dimoldenberg! i loveeee the series its so fast-paced and witty and uncomfortably funny. planning on doing this with more drivers but osco is my first pick of the litter! enjoy :>
PART TWO: SECOND DATE
( masterlist | more OP81 )
The shop smells like grease and chicken. Oscar Piastri sits across from you, uncomfortably shifting in his seatā he does not know what he has just signed up for.
"So, Oscar," you begin, picking up a fry from your box. "Are you emotionally available?"
His eyes flick to yours, blinking comically. "I thought this was going to be a racing interview."
"I lied." You offer him a faint smile, taking a bite of the grease in your hand. "So?"
There's a long pause before he clears his throat. "I... guess I'm emotionally stable? Does that count?"
You raise an eyebrow, still munching on your food. "That's what emotionally unavailable people say."
Oscar looks back up at you with a mix of both amusement and mild concern.
You lean forward slightly, a glint of teasing in your eyes. "Do you smile this much in races, or is it just me?"
"I donāt think I smile during races at all," he says, cautious.
"So I'm special?"
His lips twitch into a smile, despite himself. "You're definitely something."
You nod slowly, pretending to be unfazed. "Flirting already? We just got our drinks."
Oscar looks down at his tray. "Yeah, I think I might need another."
"Would you rather win the championshipā¦" you pause for effect, "or get a second date with me?"
Oscar blinks. The silence stretches.
"ā¦Is there a third option?"
You blink in offense. "Rude."
"Sorry."
"Would you say I'm more of a red flag or a yellow flag?"
Oscar hums at the question, swallowing the food in his mouth before answering. "Can I say black flag?"
You furrow your eyebrows at this. "What am I being disqualified from?"
Oscar looks at you dead in the eyes. "Being my date."
"You're from Australia."
Oscar nods. "That is correct."
"Well, that's good. 'Cause guess what?"
Oscar softly narrows his eyes, putting down the tender he was munching on. "What?"
"I've got a pick-up line for you."
"Go on, then."
You clear your throat, wiping your greasy fingers on the napkin in front of you. You look at the McLaren driver dead in the eyes and lean forward into the table.
"Are you from Melbourne? Because you just flipped my whole grid."
It's silent for a few seconds, an amused smile slowly itching onto Oscar's face.
"Get it?" you start, "Flipped like... like upside down. 'Causeā 'cause Australia isā"
"Down under," Oscar finishes for you, "Yeah, Iā I got it."
"You've won a fair amount of times already," you start, catching Oscar's attention as he takes a sip of his drink. "You think you're gonna win a lot more now that we've finally gone on this... date."
Oscar blinks a few times at this, staying silent as he puts his drink down. "I think the opposite."
You get taken aback by this, eyebrows furrowing suit. "What?"
"I might start losing more that this has finally happened." He takes a fry and gestures it between the both of you. He takes a bite to cover his cheeky smile, your mouth slightly agape.
"Are you saying I'm a distraction?"
"No," Oscar shakes his head. "I'm saying you're bad luck."
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