SUMMARY . . rafe gets exactly what he asks for when he calls you clingy in front of everyone and discovers that silence is a lot harder to live with than he expected.
AUTHOR’S NOTE . . 2847 words ; PART TWO, rafe admitting he was wrong for that night so theres closure
MAIN MASTERLIST | PART ONE
the conversation should make him feel better. logically, it should, because you answered.
that alone is more than he’d gotten from you for days. you responded to every question he asked, told him where you were, reassured him you weren’t angry, and never once left him sitting there wondering if you’d disappeared again.
he finds himself staring at the messages with a growing sense of irritation he can’t even explain, not because of anything you said. if anything, that’s the problem. you were reasonable, you were patient.
over the next few days, he rereads the conversation more than he’d ever admit to out loud. every time he does, he finds himself stopping at the same messages. i’m literally texting you right now. how is that avoiding you.
before, conversations with you had never felt like work. he never had to think about whether you’d answer or if he’d hear from you that day. you were always somewhere nearby, reaching out first. he tells himself this is temporary. you’re still upset and it’ll pass. but the longer it goes on, the more obvious it becomes that this isn’t punishment. you’re simply matching the energy he’s always given you.
that’s the part that keeps bothering him. if you were screaming at him, he’d at least know what to do. instead, you’re calm, you smile when you see him, you don’t seem upset.
by the time he sees you at the country club, he’s convinced himself that what the two of you need is time together. if things feel weird, then all he has to do is make them feel normal again. it’s the kind of logic that makes perfect sense inside his own head and literally nowhere else.
the afternoon sun hangs low over the golf course as people move in and out of the clubhouse. you’re standing near the outdoor counter waiting for a drink you’d ordered, one hand resting against the strap of your bag while you scroll absentmindedly through your phone. from across the patio, rafe spots you immediately.
without hesitation, he changes direction. you don’t even notice him until he’s really close. when you glance up, surprise flashes across your face for half a second before settling into something softer.
“hey.” it’s just a hey, and for some reason, it already annoys him.
“hey,” he says back. “what’re— what’re you doing?”
you glance toward the counter. “waiting for my drink.”
“then what?”
the question earns a small look from you, but you smile like it’s obvious, “then i’m leaving, babe. i’ve gotta go. i told you i’d be out with friends today.”
his jaw tightens slightly as you suppress your smile. it’s not even because it’s funny. you can just already know where this conversation is heading.
there’s a beat of silence before he exhales through his nose. “you’ve got a lot of friends all of a sudden.”
you raise an eyebrow, “i’ve always had friends.”
he immediately realizes how that sounded, unfortunately, not before the words are already out there, but you don’t argue with him over it. don't get defensive. you choose to let the comment sit there until the awkwardness belongs entirely to him.
“look,” he says, shifting his weight. “we should do something.”
you blink. “what do you mean?”
“later. tonight. whatever.”
your expression remains unchanged. “i already have plans.”
“cancel them.” the response comes so naturally he doesn’t even think about it.
you stare at him for a second. something about your expression makes him realize he’s done it again - in the expectation that you’ll immediately rearrange yourself around whatever he wants.
your drink is placed on the counter beside you before either of you says anything else.
you reach for it. “sorry, i can’t tonight. i already made plans.”
“your friends again?”
“no.” you shake your head lightly. “my family’s doing something, and on friday too.”
for a second, he just stares at you. he doesn’t know why that answer bothers him as much as it does. maybe because it catches him off guard, that somewhere along the way he’d convinced himself the only reason you weren’t around was because you were deliberately staying busy because you were upset or something.
“what, like dinner?” he asks.
you shrug. “yeah, something like that. i just haven’t spent much time with them lately, so.”
it’s vague, but not dismissive. you’re answering him, same as you’ve been doing all week - just giving him enough information that he can’t accuse you of shutting him out, but not volunteering anything extra either.
a month ago, you would’ve told him three days in advance, probably would’ve asked if he wanted to come.
the realization lands heavily in his chest. “okay. so you’re busy all night tonight?”
“probably.”
another silence settles, but you don’t seem uncomfortable inside it. you shift your drink into your other hand and glance toward the parking lot where a familiar SUV has just pulled into one of the spaces.
even from this distance, you immediately recognize it. your expression softens almost instantly. “i asked them to pick me up.”
he follows your gaze as a man steps out from the driver’s side, your father. your mother climbs out from the passenger side a second later while your siblings in the backseat leans forward, waving through the window after spotting you near the clubhouse.
before rafe can stop himself, his eyes flick back toward you. you’re smiling at them. while he’d spent days sitting in his room staring at his phone, waiting for your attention to come back, you’d simply gone back to living your life. but of course, why wouldn’t you?
“i should go,” you say.
he opens his mouth, ready to say something, but he isn’t entirely sure what, like don’t go. come with me instead. what about tomorrow? something, anything, but none of it sounds right.
so all he manages is a stiff nod. “alright, i’ll see you.”
you offer him a small smile. “i’ll see you.”
the entire drive home, he keeps replaying the interaction in his head, picking apart pieces of it. nothing about the conversation was bad. if anything, it was frustratingly normal.
he spends the rest of the evening trying to distract himself from it. he throws himself into whatever’s in front of him, whether it’s helping move something down at the dock, sitting through a conversation he barely listens to, or aimlessly scrolling through his phone while the television drones somewhere in the background.
for days after the argument, he’d assumed the distance came from sadness. then, when the sadness seemed to fade, he’d convinced himself it was just stubbornness. now he isn’t so sure it’s either of those things anymore. sadness still reaches for people and anger still demands something from them.
he wakes up and instinctively checks his phone before remembering there probably won’t be anything waiting for him, again. every little thing seems to lead back to the same uncomfortable conclusion. somewhere along the way, he’d become used to being a priority without ever having to earn it.
the memory of the party comes back more often now. before, whenever he thought about that night, his focus stayed on the argument itself, then on the smaller details instead. he remembers your smile disappeared in the moment, the look on your face after he said it what he said, you knew you genuinely didn’t understood what you’d done wrong.
the more distance he gets from it, the harder it becomes to justify what happened. he’d spent so much time convincing himself that you were too attached and too involved in every part of his life that he’d never stopped to consider why. you weren't demanding things from him. you weren't
one night, he finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed with your message thread open again.
he doesn’t even remember opening it. one second he’s scrolling through something else, and the next he’s staring at months of conversations stretching up the screen.
for the first time, embarrassment starts creeping in alongside everything else. it’s not the embarrassment of being ignored, but the embarrassment of realizing he’s been trying to skip straight to the part where things go back to normal without actually addressing the reason they changed in the first place.
he’s asked where you’ve been, who you’ve been with, what you’ve been up to. he’d focused so heavily on restoring access to you that he’d never once stopped to acknowledge the thing that pushed you away. and once he notices it, he can’t stop noticing it.
the thought follows him long after midnight.
he leans back against his bed’s headboard and stares at the ceiling, one hand resting across his stomach while the events of the past couple weeks continue looping through his head. eventually, a frustrated laugh escapes him, because the answer feels so obvious now that he almost wants to be annoyed with himself.
the next morning, you don’t expect to see him.
the weather’s nice, people move in and out of storefronts, golf carts weave lazily down the street. you’re standing outside a small shop near the marina, waiting for a bag someone inside is still putting together for you, when a truck pulls into a nearby parking spot.
you recognize it immediately. rafe steps out and spots you, but for a second, neither of you moves, and then he starts walking over.
you watch him approach, noticing almost immediately that something feels different. like he’s still rafe, shoving his hands into his pockets halfway through crossing the sidewalk, but there’s something less impatient about him today. he seem less reactive than as of late.
he stops in front of you. “hey.”
“hey.” you glance toward the shop window.
he notices. “you busy?”
the question almost makes you smile. “my parents wanted to go out on the boat today, remember?”
he nods once. for a moment, it seems like he’s about to fall into the same pattern as before to ask how long you’ll be gone for or if the plans are gonna take over the entire day. you can practically see the questions forming behind his eyes.
instead, he exhales slowly, and lets them go, which surprises you. “okay.”
another pause settles between you. as a group of tourists walk past, you realize he’s actually nervous. at least not visibly, but you’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s uncomfortable.
your expression softens slightly, “what’s up?”
rafe looks away first, and that surprises you too. he drags a hand across the back of his neck. “been thinking about that night, and before you say anything—” he starts, then immediately stops himself with a frustrated shake of his head. “actually, no. never mind.”
you tilt your head slightly, but still don’t say anything. the conversation goes quiet as a worker approaches you, handing you a bag. you thank her, nodding politely and wishing them well before you turn away, fiddling with the handles of the bag while lingering long enough to let rafe know you’re still listening.
“i was already in a bad mood,” he tries again. you stay quiet and watch him carefully. “i was irritated, stressed, whatever. but that wasn’t your problem, i know. you weren’t doing anything wrong. you weren’t bothering me, and you weren’t being clingy.”
frustration flickers across his expression after saying it, just only with himself for needing to say it out loud in the first place.
“i just . . i took everything out on you because you were standing there. i guess. and then i did it in front of everybody.” there’s no excuse attached to it.
you study him for a moment before speaking. “why?”
his eyebrows pull together. “what?”
“why did it bother you so much?”
the question catches him off guard. you can see it happen. it’s easier to apologize for the outcome than it is to examine the reason.
“i don’t know.”
you raise an eyebrow, waiting.
he lets out another quiet laugh. “okay, that’s not true.” his gaze drops briefly toward the pavement before returning to yours. “i think i just got used to it.”
“used to what?”
“you.”
you furrow your brows in confusion.
“you’ve always been there, calling me, checking on me, all that. i started acting like it was annoying when really . .” he shakes his head once. “i don’t know. i just stopped appreciating it.”
people continue moving around the marina while a boat horn sounds somewhere behind you. the tension that’s been sitting between you for weeks finally feels different.
you look at him for another second before your expression softens almost imperceptibly. you ask quietly, “so when i stopped?”
rafe’s eyes meet yours. “hated it.”
you hum with a nod, looking away. he doesn’t try to explain himself again, but he stands there looking at you, waiting.
you don’t realize it, but you’re currently holding all the power in the conversation. he’d finally handed you something honest, and now he has absolutely no idea what you’re going to do with it.
your eyes narrow thoughtfully, and rafe swears he feels his stomach twist. the corners of your mouth don’t even move that suddenly rafe finds himself wondering if he somehow managed to make things worse.
a couple weeks ago he would’ve literally rather had to swallow glass than stand in public talking about his feelings, even if people aren’t even close enough right now to hear you two. but still, you’re standing on a marina sidewalk with people walking past every few seconds.
“i mean it, y/n.” your eyebrows lift slightly at his low voice. “i shouldn’t have said any of that, especially not like that. you didn’t deserve it. and i’m sorry.”
the apology hangs there. for a moment, neither of you says anything. you can see how awful he’s been feeling. you sensed it the moment he kept messaging you. he doesn’t even know sarah overheard rafe topper and kelce about her that one time and told y/n about it.
you smile. it’s small at first, but it’s enough for something in rafe’s expression to immediately soften. all week he’s been bracing for resistance or disappointment. instead, you’re smiling.
you shake your head lightly before glancing past him toward the docks. “c’mon,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
you turn before he can ask what you mean, already beginning to walk away from him, and for half a second rafe simply stands there watching you go. then he notices your arm moving behind your back.
your hand’s open, waiting.
the sight nearly makes him smile, because apparently after everything, after a week of driving himself insane and rereading text messages and checking your location like a lunatic, this is how you choose to tell him he’s forgiven. he’s been forgiven, you’ve just been waiting for him to admit how much of a dick he’d been that night.
you don’t even look back so you can keep walking, fully expecting him to be there. rafe reaches for your hand immediately. there isn’t even a second of hesitation.
his fingers close around yours, and the relief that hits him is so sudden it almost catches him off guard. he shortens his stride as he catches up beside you, careful not to tug your arm as he brings your hand toward his mouth and presses a quick kiss against your knuckles.
only then do you finally look at him, and the second he sees your face, he lets out a quiet huff of laughter because you’re grinning. you’ve apparently been waiting for him to catch up.
his thumb brushes across the back of your hand, then gives your hand a gentle pull, reeling you slightly closer until you’re forced to stumble half a step toward him with a laugh. before you can say anything, he’s already leaning down, pressing a brief kiss against your lips, and the second he pulls away he follows it with another against your temple.
you roll your eyes, but he immediately does it again.
“rafe.”
“what?” he sounds entirely too pleased with himself, you can hear it, which is exactly why your smile refuses to leave.
by the time you reach the docks, he’s hovering close behind you, both hands settled comfortably at your waist while the two of you walk. every so often he leans down to press another absent-minded kiss somewhere he can reach, to your temple, the side of your head, the back of your hair.
your family’s boat comes into view a few moments later where your parents are already waiting. the second they spot you, your mother lifts a hand in greeting. you wave back.
“can rafe come?” you call out to them.
your father looks from you to him, then immediately smiles, nodding big, just once, maybe twice if you didn’t catch the first one. “of course.” the answer comes so quickly it makes you smile.
beside you, rafe’s grip tightens slightly against your waist. he’s walking beside you, and this time, when you reach for him, he has no intention of letting go.
inspired by request | rafe unintentionally makes you cry
“Can you just—fuck, I said right there,” Rafe snaps, pointing aggressively at the engine while you fumble with the flashlight.
You shift your grip, trying to get it where he wants, but your hands are shaking a little now. It’s hot, and his tone is making your chest feel tight.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Dude, just—why is this so hard for you?” he says, frustrated, wiping sweat off his forehead. “You’re literally just holding a light.”
You go quiet. You don’t say anything, just stand there blinking fast because if you speak now, you’ll cry. And you really, really don’t want to cry in front of him over something this dumb.
But a second later, your eyes are already watering. And he sees it.
“Wait,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Are you—are you crying?”
You quickly look away, shaking your head. “I’m fine.”
“Babe,” he says, quieter now. “Shit. I didn’t mean to—hey. Hey, come here.”
You still don’t look at him, just hand him the flashlight and step back.
“Don’t do that,” he says, sighing. His voice is softer now, not angry anymore. “I didn’t mean to yell like that. I’m just pissed at the truck, not you.”
You shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” he mutters, walking over to you. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his chest. “I’m a dick. I know. I’m sorry.”
You stay quiet, but your hand grips his shirt, and that’s enough for him.
“I’ll be nicer next time,” he says, resting his chin on top of your head. “Promise. Just don’t cry, okay? Makes me feel like the biggest asshole alive.”
Heyyy queen, I was the one that requested The proposal and let me just say that you took my prompt and went above and beyond and your writing is sooo good I had to follow you on both my tumblr accounts. Anyways if it isnt a bother I was wondering if you could do a Charles Leclerc oneshot of him introducing reader to his family, and maybe some reader bonding with his niece?? Idk if this is good but you're the expert so imma leave it up to you. Like I said in my last ask, take care of yourself and take breaks ❤❤
Sunday traditions
Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader (y/n)
Warnings: pure fluff, emotional vulnerability, meeting the family, baby bonding, mild anxiety
Summary: Meeting your boyfriend’s family is always terrifying, especially when he’s a Ferrari Formula 1 driver. When Charles brings you home to Monaco to meet his mother, brothers, and a tiny new addition to the family, your anxieties slowly melt away into an afternoon filled with warmth, love, and belonging.
Requested: Yes/ anon
Word count: 5296
Author’s note: This one is super close to my heart! I really wanted to write something cozy that shows just how grounded and loving Charles is when he's around his family, away from all the racetrack madness. Plus, writing the baby cuddles completely melted me. I hope this gives you all the warm, fuzzy feelings! xx
Masterlist
The Mediterranean air in Monaco always seemed to carry a faint scent of saltwater, expensive jasmine, and, if you listened closely enough, the distant, echoing roar of an engine bouncing off the limestone cliffs. But today, sitting in the passenger seat of Charles’s pristine custom sports car, the only sound you could focus on was the steady, rhythmic click of his turn signal as he navigated the familiar, winding streets toward his mother’s apartment.
Your fingers were wrapped so tightly around the strap of your handbag that your knuckles had turned an sharp, bloodless white.
Charles noticed. He always noticed.
With one hand casually balancing on the steering wheel, he reached across the console, his warm, broad palm covering your trembling fingers. He squeezed gently, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over the back of your hand.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a soft, low rasp that instantly cutting through the static of your panic. “Breathe, chérie. You are vibrating so hard I think the car is going to lose its alignment.”
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, finally releasing your death grip on the leather strap. “I can’t help it, Charles. Meeting the family is already terrifying, but meeting your family? It feels like I’m about to audit a royal court, except instead of crowns, everyone has flawless hair and a racing license.”
Charles threw his head back, a rich, genuine laugh bubbling out of him. The sound filled the small cabin of the car, warm and infectious. “Flawless hair, maybe. But I promise you, my family is not a royal court. We are just a bunch of loud Monegasque people who talk too fast and eat too much pasta. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, looking out the window as the familiar architecture of Monte Carlo rolled past. “You’ve known them your whole life. I’m just the girl who somehow managed to trip into your life at a charity gala and never left.”
“You did not trip,” Charles corrected gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he turned down a quieter, tree-lined residential street. “You stood your ground when I accidentally spilled half a glass of champagne down your dress, and then you proceeded to tell me that my overtaking at Silverstone was ‘audacious but sloppy.’ I knew right then I had to keep you around.”
The memory brought a genuine smile to your face, softening the tight knot of anxiety in your chest. It had been eight months since that night, eight months of quiet dates in secluded restaurants, late-night FaceTime calls from hotel rooms across different time zones, and whispered promises in the dark. You loved him, deeply and unequivocally, which was precisely why today felt so monumental. This wasn't just a casual Sunday lunch, it was Charles opening the door to the most sacred part of his world.
He pulled the car into a private underground garage, the engine dying with a low, purring sigh. The sudden silence in the car made your heart take a nervous leap.
Charles unbuckled his seatbelt and turned fully in his seat to face you. He reached out, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek. His green-blue eyes were incredibly soft, anchored by a sincerity that stripped away any remaining sarcasm.
“Listen to me,” he said, his tone dropping to a serious, tender whisper. “My mother has been asking about you for months. Arthur already thinks you are too good for me because you understand engineering better than I do, and Lorenzo is just excited to have another sane person in the room. They are going to love you, y/n. Because I love you, and they see how happy you make me. Just be yourself.”
The weight of his words, especially that simple, effortless because I love you, anchored you. You took a deep, stabilizing breath and nodded. “Okay. Okay, let’s do it.”
Charles smiled, a dazzling, brilliant thing that lit up his whole face. He leaned across the console and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips, tasting faintly of the espresso he’d had an hour ago. “That’s my girl. Come on.”
The elevator ride up to Pascale’s apartment was mercifully short, though your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs the entire time. When the doors slid open, Charles grabbed your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours in a firm, reassuring grip that he clearly had no intention of releasing.
He led you down a bright, beautifully decorated hallway to a large wooden door. Before he could even lift his hand to knock, the door swung open, revealing a striking woman with elegant features, warm eyes, and a brilliant smile that instantly explained where Charles inherited his charm.
“Charles!” Pascale Leclerc exclaimed, her face lighting up with absolute joy.
“Maman,” Charles beamed, dropping your hand for just a brief second to step forward and wrap his mother in a warm, tight hug. They exchanged quick, affectionate kisses on both cheeks, speaking a few rapid words of French that you couldn’t quite catch, though the sheer warmth in their voices needed no translation.
When Pascale stepped back, her eyes immediately shifted to you. The anxiety that had subsided in the car threatened to rear its head again, but the moment Pascale’s gaze landed on your face, any lingering coldness vanished. Her expression softened into something incredibly welcoming, maternal, and kind.
“And you must be y/n,” Pascale said, her English fluent and beautifully accented. Before you could offer a polite handshake or a formal greeting, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you, drawing you into a warm, fragrant hug that smelled faintly of expensive lavender and home-cooked food.
The sheer warmth of her embrace caught you off guard, but you immediately relaxed into it, wrapping your arms around her in return.
“It is so wonderful to finally meet you,” Pascale said, pulling back to hold you at arm’s length, her hands resting gently on your shoulders as she scanned your face with a tender smile. “Charles has told me so much about you, but he did not do you justice. You are absolutely beautiful.”
A blush crept up your neck, warming your cheeks. “Thank you, Pascale. It’s an absolute honor to meet you. Thank you so much for having me into your home.”
“Oh, please, none of that formal business here,” Pascale laughed, waving a hand dismissively as she stepped aside to let you both into the apartment. “You are family here. Come in, come in! The boys are already in the living room, making entirely too much noise, as usual.”
The apartment was stunning, flooded with natural Mediterranean sunlight streaming through massive floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the sparkling blue harbor. The decor was a perfect blend of modern elegance and cozy, lived-in warmth, white couches adorned with plush throws, shelves lined with books, family photographs, and a few discrete, elegant trophies tucked away in corners. It felt like a home, not a showroom, and that realization instantly put you at ease.
As you stepped further into the living space, a wave of loud, boisterous laughter echoed from the adjacent room.
“I am telling you, your reaction times are getting slower, Arthur. It is old age. You are turning twenty-six this year, it is downhill from here,” a deep, teasing voice boomed.
“I am twenty-five, Lorenzo, and my reaction times are perfectly fine! You try dodging a flying tennis ball while balancing on a bosu ball and see how well you do!” another, slightly younger voice shot back defensively.
Charles caught your eye and rolled his eyes dramatically, though a fond, playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You see? I told you. Animals.”
He led you around the corner into the expansive living room. Sitting on one of the large white sofas was Arthur Leclerc, looking remarkably like a slightly younger, softer-featured version of Charles, dressed in a casual sweatshirt. Standing near the window, holding a glass of sparkling water, was Lorenzo, the oldest brother, possessing a quiet, grounded aura of maturity that instantly distinguished him as the eldest.
The moment you and Charles entered the room, the bickering stopped instantly. Both brothers turned their attention toward you, their expressions shifting from competitive brotherly banter to genuine curiosity and warmth.
“Look who decided to finally show up,” Arthur grinned, bouncing up from the sofa with an easy, youthful energy. He walked straight over, offering you a bright, dimpled smile. “Hi, I’m Arthur. It is so good to finally meet you.”
“Hi, Arthur,” you smiled, shaking his hand, though he quickly pulled you into a brief, friendly half-hug. “It’s great to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot about your racing this season.”
Arthur’s eyes lit up, and he immediately shot a smug look over his shoulder at Charles. “Oh, really? Did Charles tell you about my overtake in Monaco, or did he conveniently forget to mention it because he was too busy crying about his own strategy?”
“Arthur, behave yourself,” Charles warned, though there was no real heat in his voice as he clipped the back of his younger brother's head in a practiced, familial gesture.
Lorenzo chuckled, stepping forward with a calm, measured pace. He set his glass down on the coffee table and extended a hand to you, his expression warm and welcoming. “Don't listen to either of them, y/n. I am Lorenzo. It is a pleasure to have you here.”
“Thank you, Lorenzo,” you said softly, shaking his hand. “Congratulations on the baby. Charles told me she was born just last week.”
At the mention of his daughter, Lorenzo’s entire face softened, a look of profound, radiant pride washing over his features. “Thank you so much. Yes, she is just a week old today. Charlotte is down the hall in the nursery with her right now, trying to get her to sleep after a feeding. She will be out in a moment.”
“She is an angel,” Pascale chimed in, walking into the room carrying a tray of small appetizers and glasses of chilled white wine. “A beautiful, perfect little angel. Unlike these three when they were babies. They did nothing but scream and break things.”
“Hey, I was a very quiet baby,” Charles protested, reaching out to steal a small pastry from the tray before his mother could set it down. Pascale swatted his hand away with a stern look, though her eyes were dancing with amusement.
“You were the loudest of them all, Charles Marc Hervé,” Pascale countered, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “You cried every time your father took you out of the kart. You only stopped when you were driving.”
You couldn't help but chuckle at that, shifting your gaze to Charles, who was now rubbing the back of his neck, a faint, embarrassed flush creeping onto his cheeks. It was incredibly endearing to see the formidable, ice-cold Ferrari driver reduced to a blushing boy under his mother’s gentle ribbing.
“Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable,” Pascale urged, gesturing toward the spacious sofas.
You sat down next to Charles on the larger sofa, while Arthur reclaimed his spot on the opposite side, and Lorenzo leaned casually against the armrest. Within minutes, the initial stiffness of the introduction completely melted away. The Leclerc family had an innate, effortless way of making you feel like you belonged. They didn’t treat you like an outsider to be inspected, they pulled you straight into their dynamic.
The conversation flowed seamlessly, jumping from lighthearted jokes about Charles’s terrible cooking skills, which Arthur took great pleasure in detailing, to stories about their childhood growing up in the principality. You found yourself laughing easily, your shoulders relaxing completely as you realized that Charles had been entirely right. They were just a loving, tightly-knit family who fiercely adored one another.
Yet, underneath the laughter and the easy banter, you could feel the quiet, profound absence of the man who should have been sitting in the empty armchair across from you. Every now and then, Pascale would share a memory that began with, “Your father used to say…” or Lorenzo would reference a joke that Hervé had made years ago.
There was no heavy, suffocating sadness when they spoke of him, instead, it was a beautiful, reverent celebration of a man who was clearly still the foundation of everything they were. You watched Charles’s face whenever his father’s name was mentioned, noting the soft, proud curve of his lips and the quiet, reflective look in his eyes. It made you love him even more, seeing the deep roots of resilience and love that had shaped him into the man he was today.
About half an hour into the visit, the soft click of a door opening drew everyone’s attention toward the hallway.
A beautiful woman with soft features and tired but radiant eyes stepped into the living room. She was dressed in comfortable, elegant loungewear, her dark hair pulled back into a loose, effortless bun. In her arms, cradled securely against her chest in a soft, pink muslin blanket, was a tiny, delicate bundle.
The entire room seemed to quiet down instantly, a collective wave of reverence washing over the family.
“Speak of the angels,” Pascale whispered, her eyes immediately locking onto the bundle.
Lorenzo’s expression transformed instantly into one of absolute devotion. He walked over to his wife, wrapping a supportive arm around her waist and pressing a tender kiss to her temple. “How is she? Did she finally settle?”
“Yes, she is asleep, but only just,” Charlotte smiled softly, her voice a quiet, melodic whisper. She turned her attention to the rest of the room, her gaze landing on you. “Hello everyone. And you must be y/n. I am so sorry I wasn’t out here to greet you when you arrived.”
“Oh, please don’t apologize,” you said quickly, instinctively lowering your voice to match hers as you stood up from the couch. “It’s so wonderful to meet you, Charlotte. And congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte beamed, stepping closer to let you get a look at the tiny life in her arms.
You stepped forward, Charles rising right along with you, his hand settling gently on the small of your back. You leaned in slightly, looking down at the baby girl cradled in the blanket.
Your breath caught in your throat. She was absolutely microscopic, with a dusting of fine, dark hair, tiny translucent eyelashes, and a pair of perfectly formed, miniature hands tucked up against her chin. She let out a tiny, soft sigh in her sleep, her little nose twitching slightly.
“Oh, Charles,” you whispered, your heart completely melting at the sight. “She is absolutely beautiful.”
“She looks exactly like Lorenzo, poor thing,” Arthur teased from the couch, earning a sharp, playful glare from his older brother.
“She does not, she has Charlotte’s nose,” Lorenzo defended proudly.
Charles leaned in next to you, looking down at his new niece with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe. For all his speed and ferocity on the racetrack, seeing him look at something so fragile and tiny was profoundly moving. He looked up at you, his eyes shining with a soft, quiet warmth, and you felt a strange, beautiful flutter in your chest.
“Do you want to hold her, y/n?” Charlotte asked softly, offering a warm, encouraging smile.
Your eyes widened slightly, a sudden wave of panic washing over you. “Oh, I, I don’t want to wake her up. She’s so peaceful, and she’s so tiny. I wouldn't want to drop her or anything.”
Charlotte laughed softly, shaking her head. “You won’t drop her, I promise. She is actually quite sturdy for being so little, and she loves being held. Go ahead, sit back down on the couch and I will pass her to you.”
You looked at Charles for reassurance, and he gave you a small, encouraging nod, his hand squeezing your waist gently. “Go on. You’ll be great.”
Swallowing your nervousness, you sat back down on the plush sofa, clearing your lap and positioning your arms into a supportive cradle, just as you remembered seeing others do. Charlotte stepped forward, moving with practiced, gentle care as she lowered the tiny bundle into your arms.
As the weight of the baby settled against your chest, a profound, instinctual warmth washed over you. She weighed almost nothing, like holding a cloud wrapped in cotton. You carefully supported her tiny head with the crook of your elbow, your other hand resting gently underneath her bottom, securing her against your body.
The little girl stirred slightly at the transition, her tiny mouth opening in a soft, silent yawn before she settled back down, nuzzling her face directly into the warmth of your sweater.
A soft, involuntary gasp escaped your lips, a brilliant, radiant smile spreading across your face. You looked down at her, completely captivated by her perfection.
“Hi there, little one,” you whispered, your voice thick with sudden emotion. “Hi, sweet girl.”
Charles sat down right next to you, shifting so close that his shoulder was pressed against yours. He leaned over, his gaze moving between you and his niece, his expression incredibly soft. He reached out a single, calloused index finger, gently offering it to the baby. As if sensing his presence, the little girl’s tiny hand opened up, her microscopic fingers curling tightly around Charles’s finger.
Charles let out a low, breathy laugh, his eyes shining with an emotion so raw and beautiful it made your chest ache.
“Look at that,” Arthur murmured from across the room, his usual teasing tone replaced by something deeply fond. “She already has him wrapped around her little finger. Literally.”
“She knows who the favorite uncle is,” Charles murmured, never breaking eye contact with the baby. He looked up at you then, his face just inches from yours, his green-blue eyes carrying a depth of affection that left you entirely breathless. “You look very natural holding her, you know.”
Your heart did a spectacular, wild flip. “She’s just perfect, Charles. What’s her name?”
Lorenzo stepped forward, standing proudly next to Charlotte as he looked at his daughter in your arms. “Her name is Camilla.”
“Camilla,” you repeated, the name rolling beautifully off your tongue.
Pascale wiped a stray, emotional tear from the corner of her eye, a proud, maternal smile on her face. “Yes. Yes, it is. Her grandfather would have absolutely adored her.”
The mention of Hervé brought a beautiful, solemn moment of shared connection through the room. It wasn't a sad moment, but rather a profound acknowledgment that his legacy of love was continuing through this tiny, new life.
For the next hour, you became completely blissed out in baby heaven. While the boys and Pascale eventually moved toward the dining room to help set up the lavish Sunday lunch, Charlotte sat down next to you, grateful for the brief physical break. The two of you bonded instantly over quiet conversation, talking about the challenges of the racing calendar, the beautiful chaos of the Leclerc family dynamic, and Charlotte’s experience of becoming a mother.
Camilla remained sound asleep in your arms, an incredibly warm, comforting weight that you had absolutely no desire to give up. Every time you looked down at her tiny, peaceful face, you felt a deep sense of peace wash over you. Whatever anxieties you had possessed about this day, about fitting into Charles’s world, had completely dissolved. You weren't just a spectator anymore, you were here, woven into the fabric of their afternoon.
Eventually, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of garlic, fresh herbs, and slow-roasted meat filled the apartment, signaling that lunch was finally ready.
“Alright, time for lunch,” Pascale announced, walking back into the living room with an apron tied around her waist. “Charlotte, ma chérie, go wash your hands. Y/n, I am sorry to separate you from the baby, but you must eat. My boys will eat everything if we do not get to the table quickly.”
“I can take her now,” Charlotte smiled warmly, stepping forward to carefully lift the sleeping Victoire from your arms.
As the physical warmth of the baby left your chest, you felt a strange sense of longing, but you smiled brightly up at Charlotte. “Thank you for letting me hold her. She is truly an angel.”
“Anytime,” Charlotte replied sincerely. “In fact, you are officially hired as our permanent babysitter whenever you are in Monaco.”
“I will absolutely take you up on that,” you laughed, standing up from the couch and smoothing down your clothes.
You walked into the dining room, where a large wooden table had been beautifully set with crisp white linens, elegant silverware, and platters piled high with incredible food, fresh homemade pasta with a rich ragu, roasted vegetables, crisp salads, and baskets of warm, crusty bread.
Charles was already standing by the table, waiting for you. The moment you walked into the room, his eyes locked onto yours, a warm, proud smile spreading across his face. He pulled out the chair next to his, waiting for you to slide into it before pushing it in gently and sitting down beside you.
“You did beautifully,” he whispered in your ear, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your lobe, sending a delightful shiver down your spine. “My mother is already entirely in love with you. She whispered to me in the kitchen that if I lose you, she is adopting you and disowning me.”
You giggled, nudging his shoulder with your own. “Good to know I have a backup plan if you keep driving like a maniac.”
The lunch that followed was an absolute blur of laughter, loud conversations, overlapping voices, and truly spectacular food. You found yourself completely immersed in the dynamic, speaking with Pascale about her garden and her charity work, laughing with Arthur about his terrible attempts at learning how to golf, and discussing architecture with Lorenzo.
Charles sat by your side through it all, his hand occasionally resting on your thigh under the table, a constant, reassuring presence that reminded you exactly who brought you here. He looked so incredibly relaxed, free from the immense, suffocating pressure of the Tifosi, the media, and the championship fight. Here, surrounded by the people who loved him simply for being Charles, he could just be a son, a brother, an uncle, and a partner.
By the time the main courses were cleared away and Pascale brought out a beautiful, homemade tarte tatin for dessert along with fresh espresso, you felt a deep, profound sense of contentment.
As the afternoon began to wind down, Charlotte took Victoire back into the nursery for another feeding and a nap, and Lorenzo went to assist her. Arthur had stretched out on the living room sofa, seemingly entering a food coma from the sheer amount of pasta he had consumed.
Pascale was in the kitchen, rinsing off the espresso cups. You stood up from the table, wanting to offer your help.
“I’ll be right back,” you whispered to Charles, who was currently engrossed in a quiet conversation with Arthur about a specific corner at the upcoming race circuit.
You walked into the bright, clean kitchen, stepping up to the sink where Pascale was standing. “Here, Pascale, let me help you with those.”
Pascale turned, a look of pleasant surprise crossing her face. “Oh, y/n, no, please, you are a guest. Go sit down and relax.”
“I really want to help,” you smiled warmly, grabbing a clean dish towel from the counter. “My mother always taught me that you never leave the host alone with the dishes. Besides, I'd love to help clean up after such an incredible meal.”
Pascale looked at you for a long moment, her eyes softening with a deep, maternal affection that warmed you to your core. “You are a very special young woman, y/n.” She handed you a rinsed espresso cup to dry. “And you have a very kind heart.”
“Thank you,” you said softly, carefully drying the porcelain cup. “Your family is incredible, Pascale. Thank you so much for welcoming me so warmly. I was incredibly nervous coming here today, to be completely honest.”
Pascale let out a soft, melodic laugh, shaking her head as she washed another cup. “Nervous? Of us? Oh, my dear, there was no need. But I understand. Charles’s life is very big, very loud, and very fast. It can be incredibly overwhelming from the outside.”
She stopped washing, turning fully to face you, leaning her hands against the edge of the sink. Her expression grew quiet, serious, and profoundly tender.
“I have watched Charles carry a very heavy weight for many years,” Pascale said softly, her voice carrying the profound depth of a mother who felt every ounce of her children’s joy and pain. “He has lost people who were the foundation of his world, his father, his best friends. He carries the hopes of an entire country on his shoulders every time he gets into that red car. He smiles, and he is strong, but as his mother, I see the toll it takes.”
She reached out, placing a warm, gentle hand over yours. “But today, when he walked through that door with you, and throughout this entire afternoon, I looked at my son. I have not seen him look this happy, this relaxed, this completely at peace in a very long time. You give him a safe place to just be Charles, not the racing driver, just the boy I raised. For that, y/n, I am deeply, profoundly grateful to you.”
A lump formed in your throat, tears stinging the backs of your eyes at the sheer beauty and weight of her words. To hear from the woman who raised him that you were a source of peace for him was the greatest compliment you could ever receive.
“I love him very much, Pascale,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “He means the world to me.”
“I know,” Pascale smiled, her own eyes shining with soft tears as she reached up to gently pat your cheek. “I can see it in your eyes. And I see it in his. You are a part of this family now, y/n. Always remember that.”
Before you could get overwhelmed by the emotion, the sound of quiet, slow footsteps drew your attention to the kitchen doorway. Charles was standing there, leaning casually against the doorframe, his hands tucked into his pockets. He was looking at the two of you, a look of profound, quiet reverence on his face. It was clear he had overheard at least the last part of the conversation.
Pascale clapped her hands together, breaking the emotional spell with a bright smile. “Alright, Charles, come take your girl. I think you two should go take a walk by the harbor before the sun sets. It is a beautiful evening.”
“That sounds like a perfect idea, Maman,” Charles smiled, stepping into the kitchen and wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you tightly against his side. He pressed a quick, loving kiss to his mother’s cheek. “Thank you for lunch. It was perfect.”
“Always, my boys,” Pascale smiled, her eyes moving between the two of you with absolute satisfaction.
After a round of warm, lingering goodbyes, hugs from Arthur and Lorenzo, and a quiet wave from Charlotte from the nursery door, you and Charles finally left the apartment.
The late afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the Monégasque sky in brilliant shades of pink, gold, and deep violet. The air had cooled down slightly, a refreshing sea breeze sweeping across the cliffs as Charles led you down a quiet, stone path that overlooked the glittering Mediterranean Sea.
You walked hand-in-hand, the silence between you incredibly comfortable and heavy with a profound, beautiful contentment.
“So,” Charles began, a playful, teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he looked down at you. “You survived the Leclerc gauntlet. How do you feel?”
You let out a soft, happy sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder as you walked. “I feel incredibly lucky, Charles. Your family is absolutely beautiful. Your mom is one of the most incredible women I’ve ever met.”
“She loved you,” Charles said, his tone shifting from playful to deeply sincere. He stopped walking, turning you gently so that you were facing him, your back against a stone stone railing that overlooked the harbor below, where multi-million dollar yachts bobbed gently in the water. “She really, truly loved you. And trust me, my mother is a very good judge of character. If she didn't like you, she wouldn't have given you the family recipes.”
You laughed, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. “Did she give me the family recipes?”
“She whispered to me that she is going to email you the secret to her ragu,” Charles grinned, his hands settling securely on your hips, pulling you flush against his body. “Which is a huge deal. She didn't even give that to Lorenzo’s wife until they were married for a year.”
“Wow, I feel honored,” you smiled, looking up into his beautiful, clear eyes. The golden light of the setting sun hit his face perfectly, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the incredible, deep warmth in his gaze.
Charles’s expression softened, the playful banter melting away, replaced by a profound, intense emotion that made your breath catch. He reached up, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, his touch incredibly tender.
“Thank you for today, y/n,” he whispered, his voice thick with raw sincerity. “I know it was scary for you. But seeing you sit there, holding my niece, laughing with my brothers, talking with my mother, it meant more to me than I can ever express. My family is everything to me. And having you there, fitting in so perfectly, it made me realize something.”
“What’s that?” you whispered back, your heart hammering a wild, beautiful rhythm against your ribs.
Charles leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “It made me realize that I never want to experience a Sunday like this without you again. You are my home, y/n. Everywhere I go in the world, whatever track I am racing on, the only thing that keeps me grounded is knowing I get to come back to you. I love you so much.”
The sheer depth of his confession left you entirely speechless, tears of pure, unadulterated happiness welling up in your eyes. You tightened your grip around his neck, pulling him down into a deep, passionate, and incredibly loving kiss.
The kiss tasted of the sweet tarte tatin, the crisp sea air, and the absolute promise of a beautiful future. Charles responded instantly, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly off your feet as he held you close, as if he never wanted to let you go.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your hearts beating as one in the quiet Monégasque twilight. He smiled, a beautiful, radiant, dimpled thing, and wiped away a stray tear of happiness from your cheek with his thumb.
“Come on,” Charles murmured affectionally, intertwining his fingers with yours once more as he turned to walk back toward the car. “Let’s go home. I think we have some secret ragu recipes to look forward to.”
You laughed, leaning into his side as the stars began to blink awake over the harbor, knowing with absolute certainty that you were exactly where you belonged.
Summary: they call you “Charles Leclerc’s little sister,” “the deaf girl,” and “Ferrari’s newest junior engineer” … but Max just calls you the person he decided to learn a whole new language for (he’s totally chill and normal like that), because your silence has a lot to say and it deserves to be heard
The sun is high over Melbourne, heat shimmering off the asphalt like it’s trying to make the circuit dance. You step through the paddock gates, your pass clipped to your red Ferrari polo, heart pounding like it’s racing before the cars even start.
You’ve imagined this moment for years. Every lecture, every late-night study session with race footage playing in the background. Every time your brothers told you to be realistic, every time they hugged you tight and said they were proud , but still kept you wrapped in bubble wrap. Every second of wanting to be more than someone’s little sister.
You’re here now. Not as Charles Leclerc’s sister. Not as Arthur or Lorenzo’s baby sister either.
You’re here as you. Junior engineer. Ferrari. Official.
And you are not going to mess this up.
The paddock is buzzing. People shouting into radios, lugging gear, sprinting in and out of garages. Everyone looks like they know exactly where they’re going. You don’t — not quite yet — but you walk with purpose, tablet in hand, eyes flicking across the names on the motorhomes and hospitality units.
You’re so focused on the screen that you barely register the sudden blur of navy blue until it slams into you.
Hard.
Your tablet goes flying. You stumble backward, your shoulder banging into a column. And then a hand — strong, steady — grabs your elbow.
“Shit, are you okay?” The guy says.
You blink up.
He’s taller than you expect. Messy hair. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes narrowed in concern. It takes a second to register the Red Bull logo on his shirt, the sunglasses hooked into the collar, and the slightly scuffed trainers. The second after that, your brain catches up.
Max Verstappen just ran into you.
You don’t answer him. Not out of rudeness, but because you didn’t hear what he said. The world is a closed, silent room to you. It always has been. And he’s talking, voice moving in a world you don’t live in.
You sign quickly, I’m fine. It’s okay.
Then you kneel to pick up your tablet and turn on your heel, pulse still hammering. You need to find the engineering bay, check in with your supervisor, and double-check the tire compound setup for the weekend. No time for awkward apologies or flustered conversations. Definitely no time to explain your entire existence to Max Verstappen.
Behind you, Max is frozen in place.
He watches you disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed.
“What the hell just happened?” He mutters.
Carlos Sainz appears beside him, eyebrows raised. He has a protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other.
“You alright?” Carlos asks casually, eyeing the scene.
Max blinks. “I just ran into someone. Red shirt. Ferrari. She didn’t say anything. Just … did something with her hands and walked away.”
Carlos follows his gaze. His expression softens. “Ah,” he says, voice lowering. “That’s Y/N.”
“Y/N?”
“Leclerc. Charles’ sister.”
Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “That was her? I didn’t even know he had a sister.”
Carlos shrugs, unwrapping his protein bar. “Yeah. She keeps a low profile. Just graduated with an engineering degree. She’s starting as a junior on the team.”
Max squints after you, baffled. “She didn’t say anything. Just kind of-” he waves his hand vaguely, mimicking the motion you made. “Was that sign language?”
Carlos nods. “She’s deaf.”
Max stares at him, then back at where you disappeared.
“She’s what?”
“Deaf. Profoundly, I think. Has been her whole life. Charles is super protective. Don’t take it personally — she probably didn’t hear you. Or didn’t feel like explaining.”
Max doesn’t respond right away.
He’s not sure what he expected, but that explanation hits like an unexpected downshift. His brain races to keep up. Deaf? He’s never met a deaf engineer in the paddock. Never met a deaf person his age, actually. The way you signed — fluid, fast — he had no idea what you were saying. And yet you moved like it was second nature. You looked at him like you were already done with the conversation before he’d even said a word.
It shouldn’t bug him.
But it does.
“You said she’s Charles’ sister?” He asks again.
Carlos nods, taking a bite of his bar. “Yep. Youngest.”
“And she works here now? Like … full time?”
“Junior engineer. Started this weekend. First race.”
Max nods slowly. Then blinks, brows drawing together.
“I think she hates me.”
Carlos laughs. “You collided with her at thirty kilometers per hour in the hospitality zone. Maybe give it a minute.”
Max watches the crowds flow past, still mildly stunned. It wasn’t the way you walked off — not exactly — but something else. The way you didn’t flinch. The way you didn’t wait for his response. The way you carried yourself, like your silence wasn’t something missing, but something deliberate. Controlled.
He’s used to people reacting to him. Good or bad, they usually say something.
You didn’t.
You just signed and left.
Carlos nudges him. “You’re still thinking about it.”
“No, I’m not,” Max says automatically.
“You are.”
“I just didn’t expect-” he gestures vaguely again. “You know. That.”
Carlos eyes him for a beat. “Yeah. Most people don’t.”
Max exhales sharply through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like-”
“I know,” Carlos says. “Look. She’s good. Smart. Tough. But she doesn’t like being treated like she’s fragile. Just talk to her like a normal person. Or-” he grins, “-you know, learn some sign language.”
Max snorts. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just add that to my to-do list.”
Carlos shrugs. “You asked.”
Max watches the crowd one more time, but you’re gone.
You, meanwhile, are at the edge of the Ferrari garage, face still burning from the collision. You’re not embarrassed exactly, but you can still feel the jolt in your bones, and the moment plays on loop in your head like a replay gone wrong.
You’re also annoyed.
Not at him. Not really. But at how fast it happened. At how you didn’t get a chance to explain. At how quickly you had to slip back into the habit of brushing things off before they became complicated.
You scroll through your tablet, grounding yourself in data. Suspension settings. Weather patterns. Tire allocations. There’s comfort in numbers. They don’t expect small talk. They don’t look at you funny when you don’t respond.
Charles appears beside you ten minutes later, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hair windswept and face already faintly sunburnt.
“You okay?” He asks, mouthing the words clearly.
You nod.
He tilts his head. “I heard you ran into Max Verstappen.”
You roll your eyes. He wasn’t watching where he was going.
Charles grins. “He never does.”
You arch an eyebrow. He looked at me like I had three heads.
Charles shrugs, suddenly less amused. “People are idiots.”
You sigh and give a small shrug. It’s fine.
But something about the look Max gave you — surprised, confused, not unkind, just clueless — lingers longer than you’d like.
Charles squeezes your shoulder and gestures toward the engineering bay. “Come on. Practice starts in an hour. Time to show everyone what you can do.”
You follow him, head held high.
You don’t look back toward the Red Bull side of the paddock.
And Max, two motorhomes over, doesn’t stop thinking about the way you signed without waiting for permission.
He doesn’t know what you said. But for some reason, he wants to.
***
The suite smells like garlic and olive oil and something faintly burnt — probably Arthur’s doing. The balcony doors are wide open, letting in the sound of a Melbourne Friday night. Laughter from somewhere below. A street performer’s faint guitar. The deep thrum of traffic.
You slip your shoes off by the door and pad into the open-plan kitchen, still in your red Ferrari jacket, hair up in a messy bun. Your tablet’s in one hand. You haven’t stopped reading telemetry since you left the garage. You’re buzzing — wired from the day, exhausted and electric all at once. Practice went better than anyone expected. And your code — the custom data-cleaning script you finished at 2 a.m. last night — ran flawlessly.
You’re still mentally reviewing downforce numbers when Arthur barrels into the suite like a cannonball.
“Tu rigoles! You’re here before me?” He shouts, arms flailing as he tosses his keys on the table.
You barely glance up before signing, Barely. I beat you by five minutes.
“Still counts,” he huffs, kicking off his sneakers.
Lorenzo arrives next, a plastic bag of wine bottles looped around his fingers. He smells like his cologne and long-haul flights. “Do you ever stop working?” He says, watching as you flick through another screen on your tablet.
You flash him a tight smile, then sign without looking. Telemetry doesn’t analyze itself.
“I brought Pinot,” he says instead. “Don’t say I never support your dreams.”
“You don’t,” Arthur mutters. “You’re just pretending to like wine now to seem sophisticated.”
Lorenzo rolls his eyes.
The front door opens again, and you freeze before you even see him.
Charles steps into the room, hair damp from a shower, still wearing his Ferrari polo, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s grease smudged faintly on his wrist. His eyes land on you immediately.
He says nothing for a beat. “You’re still in uniform.”
You sign, So are you.
He sighs, drops his bag on a chair, then walks over and pulls you into a tight hug without warning.
You’re not expecting it.
For a second, you just stand there, his arms around you. Then your tablet lowers, and you press your cheek to his chest.
His hand finds the back of your head, fingers gentle.
You think he’s proud.
But when he pulls back, his expression is complicated.
Dinner takes shape fast — pasta boiling, Arthur chopping vegetables badly, Lorenzo opening wine, Charles strangely quiet. You hover near the kitchen island, half-listening to your brothers argue over whether the sauce needs more salt.
But your eyes flick to Charles. Again and again.
Finally, you sign, Say it.
He looks up from his glass of water. “Say what?”
You narrow your eyes. Whatever you’re thinking.
He hesitates. Then sets the glass down and leans on his elbows. “It’s not a small job.”
I know.
“It’s not a forgiving job.”
You nod. I know.
Charles exhales, rubs his hand over his face. “You’re twenty-two.”
You smile faintly. And you were twenty-one when you started at Ferrari.
“That’s different.”
Why?
His jaw flexes. “Because I wasn’t-”
Arthur throws a handful of basil into the sauce and cuts in. “Because you weren’t deaf?”
Charles doesn’t answer.
Lorenzo steps in smoothly, voice even. “It’s not about that. He’s just worried.”
Arthur scowls. “She’s not fragile.”
“No one said she was,” Lorenzo counters.
“You’re all thinking it.”
You cut in, fingers flying. Stop talking like I’m not here.
They all fall silent.
You press your palms to the countertop. I got this job on my own. I earned it. I’ve spent years watching you live your dreams while pretending I didn’t want the same thing. I’m done pretending.
Arthur’s the first to speak, voice soft. “We never wanted you to pretend. We just-” he breaks off, frowning. “We know what this world is like.”
Charles is staring at the wine bottle label like it holds the answers to the universe. “It’s brutal.”
And I’m ready for that, you sign. You don’t think I haven’t seen it? From the inside? I grew up in garages. I watched you kart before I even had baby teeth.
“You think I don’t remember Le Castellet?” Charles says suddenly, his voice low. “When you were six and someone on my karting team said you’d never survive a race track because you couldn’t hear the engines? You didn’t sleep for a week.”
You feel the memory hit like a punch to the ribs.
Arthur mutters, “I wanted to fight that kid.”
“You did fight that kid,” Lorenzo says dryly.
Charles’s voice goes quieter. “We’ve seen what this world does. We just wanted to protect you from it.”
You don’t get to protect me from my own future.
He flinches.
Lorenzo clears his throat and holds up a wine glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.
Arthur grabs a glass and clinks it with his. “To terrifying little sisters who are smarter than all of us.”
You raise your glass, but Charles doesn’t move at first.
Then, finally, he lifts his and meets your gaze.
“To you.”
You smile.
It’s soft. But real.
***
Meanwhile, two hotels away, Max Verstappen lies on his bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling through YouTube.
A video’s paused on the screen. The thumbnail shows a smiling woman with short hair and bright eyes. The title reads Learn 20 Basic ASL Signs for Beginners!
Lando, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips, looks over. “What are you watching?”
Max doesn’t even glance up. “Sign language.”
Lando snorts. “Since when are you learning that?”
“Since today.”
“… Because of Charles’ sister?”
Max finally looks up. “She ran into me.”
“Actually,” Lando says, mouth full, “you ran into her.”
Max groans. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because it’s true?” Lando throws a chip at him. “So? What? She blew you off and now you’re in love?”
Max narrows his eyes. “I’m not in love.”
Lando grins. “You downloaded Duolingo for sign language.”
“No, I didn’t,” Max says. “Duolingo doesn’t have sign language.”
Lando blinks. “How do you know that?”
“I checked.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Lando howls with laughter.
Max scowls and throws a pillow at him. “It’s not funny.”
“It is,” Lando gasps. “You’ve never even looked twice at anyone in the paddock and now you’re watching videos about finger spelling.”
Max shifts, face heating. “She’s just … different.”
Lando raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“She didn’t react to me,” Max says. “Not like people usually do.”
“She didn’t hear you.”
“No, but-” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t just that. She didn’t try to be nice. Or awkward. Or pretend she didn’t care who I was. She just signed something and walked away.”
“She probably thinks you’re a dick.”
Max sighs. “Maybe I am.”
“You’re not,” Lando says, surprising him. “You’re just not used to people not treating you like Max Verstappen.”
Max is quiet.
Then he reopens the YouTube app and hits play.
The woman on the screen smiles. “Let’s start with the alphabet!”
***
Back in the Leclerc family suite, you’re doing the dishes.
Charles stands beside you, towel in hand, drying each plate you hand over. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Arthur is on the couch, yelling at the TV. Lorenzo’s on the phone in the bedroom.
Charles breaks the silence.
“Do you like it?” He asks.
You glance over.
The job?
He nods.
I love it.
He nods again, slower this time.
Then he signs, You’re amazing.
Your breath catches. You smile — small, warm.
Thank you.
And for the first time that night, everything feels exactly right.
***
The morning is cool and bright when you step into the paddock, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tablet tucked beneath your arm. The air smells like fuel and fresh asphalt. The kind of smell that most people wrinkle their nose at, but to you, it smells like home.
Ferrari’s garage is already alive, buzzing with the usual symphony of controlled chaos. People moving fast, voices raised, tire blankets being peeled back. The pit wall team is calibrating headsets, and engineers are tapping away at laptops like they’re defusing bombs. But when you walk in, the air shifts just slightly.
One of the senior engineers, Sergio, gives you a nod of acknowledgment as you pass.
Another, Isa, offers you her usual crooked half-smile.
It wasn’t always like this — not even one day ago. But something changed after practice. The moment they saw your data lines. The way you isolated the inconsistent vibration through lap telemetry and flagged it before anyone else noticed. You didn’t say a word in the debrief, but the numbers did.
They’re starting to see you.
Not as someone’s sister. Not as a girl who needs shielding. Just as you.
You're mid-scroll through tire wear stats when someone taps your shoulder. Gently, like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they push too hard.
You turn.
It’s him.
Max Verstappen, in full Red Bull uniform, cap pulled low, jaw clenched like he’s about to launch into a high-speed corner.
You raise an eyebrow.
His lips press into a tight line. Then he lifts both hands, takes a deep breath, and starts finger-spelling something. Slowly. Carefully. Like every letter might explode.
H … E … L … L … O.
Then he hesitates. His brow furrows. His mouth moves slightly, mouthing the letters along with his hands. His finger flicks toward his chest.
You stare at him.
It takes a second before you realize what he’s trying to do.
And then it hits you.
He’s signing in ASL.
Your nose wrinkles. Not in annoyance, just surprise. Because you don’t use American Sign Language. You never have. You were born in Monaco. Raised in French. Your whole life has been in Langue des Signes Française.
And whatever Max just spelled?
It looked like a painfully slow attempt at ordering coffee in a different country.
You blink.
He looks so serious. Like this is a press conference. Like this is his world championship.
You burst out laughing.
Full-bodied. Loud. A rare kind of laugh that you don’t usually give out in public. It slips out of you before you can stop it.
Max’s face goes completely blank. Mortified. Like he’s just gotten out of the car and realized his fly’s down during a podium.
You hold up a hand, trying to breathe.
Then, still smiling, you reach behind you and grab a napkin off the coffee cart near the hospitality entrance. You scribble something with the pen clipped to your tablet.
You fold the napkin once, then hold it out to him.
He takes it, cautiously.
10/10 effort. 2/10 accuracy.
Wrong language, Verstappen.
Max reads it. Then blinks.
Then groans, tipping his head back toward the sky. “You’re kidding me.”
You shake your head, still grinning.
He rubs his hand over his face. “So what do you use?”
You sign, slow and clear. LSF.
“Is that … French?”
You nod. Then point to yourself, then your badge. Ferrari. Monaco. Surprise.
Max exhales, the tips of his ears pink. “Great. So I’ve been learning the wrong damn language all night.”
You shrug, amused. It’s cute.
He stares at you. “You think that was cute?”
You gesture toward the napkin. The effort. Not the execution.
Max looks at the napkin again, then folds it and stuffs it into his pocket like it’s a race strategy worth saving.
Then, after a beat, “Okay. New plan. I learn French sign language.”
You don’t have to.
“I want to.”
You blink. He says it with such ease. No hesitation. No bravado. Just … honest.
That’s new.
You cock your head. Why?
He shrugs. “Because if I run into you again, I want to say more than ‘hello’ and get laughed at in three seconds.”
You grin. Four seconds. Give yourself some credit.
He actually laughs. It’s short, but genuine.
Then he glances at the garage behind you. “You’re … uh, busy?”
You nod. Always.
He hesitates. Then holds out his hand. “I’ll get out of your way. Just … if I learn it. Will you help me practice?”
You eye his outstretched hand. Then, after a moment, you shake it.
Only if you promise not to run into me again.
He nods solemnly. “Deal.”
***
Later, in the garage, you’re reviewing a line graph on your monitor when Charles slides in behind you like a shadow.
He taps your shoulder.
You turn.
He signs hurriedly. You okay?
You nod. Then sign back, Why?
He tilts his head. “Because I saw Verstappen trying to mime at you and then you laughed so hard I thought you were having a breakdown.”
You roll your eyes. He tried to sign in ASL.
Charles frowns. “Isn’t that … the wrong one?”
You grin. Exactly.
He shakes his head. “This guy.”
He tried. It was sweet.
Charles narrows his eyes. “Max Verstappen is not sweet.”
He spelled hello and then looked like he wanted to cry.
Charles pauses. Then sighs. “Okay. That’s a little sweet.”
You give him a look.
His mouth flattens into a line. “Just … be careful.”
You raise both brows. Of what?
He gestures vaguely. “People like him.”
Confident men?
“Cocky men.”
You mean men like you?
He groans. “That’s not fair.”
You tap your fingers to your temple, smiling. Life isn’t fair.
Behind you, Sergio waves you over. You hold up a finger to Charles, then jog toward the data table.
He watches you go.
Isa sidles up next to him.
“She’s good,” she says.
Charles glances sideways. “She always has been.”
“No, I mean really good,” Isa says. “The sensor override fix she implemented this morning? Saved us thirty minutes in practice. Cleanest code I’ve seen from a junior in years.”
Charles stares at you across the garage.
You’re deep in conversation with two of the engineers. Laughing silently, eyes bright. You’re signing quickly, clearly. They’re following. One even signs back, haltingly, but with visible effort.
You’re not just holding your own.
You’re leading.
Charles lets out a slow breath.
Isa nudges him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
He mutters, “That’s not how big brothers work.”
She shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time you learn.”
***
That night, Max sits cross-legged on the hotel bed, hair damp from the shower, eyes locked on his phone. His laptop is open beside him, playing a YouTube video titled Les bases de la langue des signes française – PARTIE 1.
The woman onscreen moves her hands with elegant fluidity. He mimics the signs, stumbling through them, pausing every five seconds to rewind.
Lando walks in, a PlayStation controller in each hand, then stops in the doorway.
“… Mate.”
Max doesn’t look up. “Don’t say it.”
“You switched languages.”
“Yes.”
“You really like her, huh?”
Max’s fingers pause mid-sign. He exhales through his nose.
“I don’t know,” he says. “She’s just … not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
Lando nods, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. I get that.”
Max clicks pause. The screen freezes on a still of the sign for “bonjour.”
He stares at it for a long time.
Then goes back to the beginning.
Again.
***
The rooftop bar is too loud. Too bright. Too many conversations colliding like spinning tires in a wet turn. Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls, neon reflections pooling in half-empty glasses. Somewhere across the rooftop, someone is already dancing on a bench with a Ferrari flag wrapped around their shoulders like a cape.
You stand off to the side, pressed against the railing, fingers curled around a glass of lemonade you haven’t touched. Your tablet is in your bag, and without it, your hands feel oddly empty.
The Ferrari team is celebrating — P3 for Charles, P5 for Lewis — and no one expected that after the struggles in FP2. There’s champagne being passed around like water, and someone has started taking shots off a tire-themed tray.
You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re not uncomfortable, exactly. Just … aware. There’s always this moment, at these things, when the conversation starts slipping just beyond your reach.
Not because people are cruel. Not intentionally.
But because laughter doesn’t translate. Lip-reading fails in strobing lights. And the group talk always fractures into side chats you can’t follow unless someone remembers to turn toward you. Remember to include you. Remember that you’re still here.
You’re used to it. You’ve perfected the art of pretending you’re not watching the room, calculating how long before you can politely leave.
And then-
“Hey.”
You turn.
He’s there.
Max. Hands shoved in the pockets of a black jacket, slightly rumpled hair, looking vaguely like he walked into the bar by accident.
Your brow lifts. Coincidence?
He pulls out his phone and types something. Turns the screen toward you.
Total coincidence. I just happened to crash the Ferrari party for no reason at all.
You laugh. Just once, but it’s real.
He grins.
You sign, simple and slow. You came to see me.
He shrugs. Maybe.
You tilt your head. How many signs do you know now?
He pulls a folded napkin from his jacket pocket. On it, scribbled in surprisingly neat handwriting:
Bonjour
Comment ça va?
Travail
Voiture
Toi / Moi / Merci / S’il te plaît / Fatigué / Intéressant
You raise an eyebrow. Then sign, Impressive.
Max looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
You grin. Then grab a pen from your bag, pull a coaster off the bar, and write.
10/10 effort. 6/10 accuracy. Upgraded from last week.
He reads it and chuckles. Then scribbles underneath.
Still failing, though?
You scribble back. Barely passing.
Then, before you can overthink it, you add. You’re getting better.
He pauses. His fingers hover over the edge of the coaster, tracing your handwriting once, then twice. His smile softens.
Max gestures toward the quiet seating in the corner. You nod, and the two of you move over, away from the noise, to a pair of stools by the edge of the railing, facing the skyline. The Shanghai towers blink like circuit lights in the distance.
He pulls out his phone again and types:
Can I ask you something?
You nod.
What exactly is your job? I mean not like, in vague PR terms. But actually.
Your brows rise.
Most people ask about Charles. Or about how hard it is. Or how you “cope.”
Not many ask what you do.
You grab a clean napkin and start writing. It takes a few minutes. He waits.
I write code that analyzes car data in real-time. I help identify irregularities before they become problems. Everything from tire temp curves to ERS discharge rates. Yesterday I found a minor brake imbalance in Lewis’ car before FP3. Probably saved a lock-up.
You pass the napkin over.
Max reads it, lips moving silently as he follows the words. Then, after a beat, he signs — carefully, but clearly — Smart.
You grin. Correct.
He types. So you’re the reason Lewis didn’t spin into Turn 11 today?
You nod. Probably.
He whistles under his breath. Do they treat you like part of the team?
That one takes you off-guard. You blink.
Then pick up the pen and write. Sometimes. Depends on the day. It’s better now. I had to earn it. Twice.
He doesn’t ask what you mean.
But you keep writing anyway. Once as a rookie. Again as the deaf girl.
He reads it. And instead of offering pity — or worse, fake admiration — he just writes. They’re idiots if they can’t see what you bring.
You stare at the napkin.
He taps the pen between his fingers and looks sideways at you. “I’m not always good at saying the right thing,” he says, voice low. “But I mean that.”
You nod. Something tugs in your chest. A thread, long and old and quiet.
People don’t usually talk to you.
They talk over you. Around you. At you.
They smile politely while looking to your brothers for your answers. They ask if you “mind” being here. If it’s “okay” that you have to “struggle” so much.
No one asks about your code.
No one waits to read your words slowly. Pauses between questions. Watches your hands. Listens with their eyes.
Except him.
You sign, slow and clear. Why do you care?
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I mean, I do. You’re interesting.” He hesitates. “You don’t pretend. You don’t do that thing where you act impressed or unimpressed. You’re just … you.”
You snort. Then write. You’re used to people trying too hard around you.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Or pretending I’m not human at all.”
You nod. I get that.
You both fall quiet for a moment, watching the lights. Somewhere behind you, the Ferrari crew is howling over a game of darts using pitboard numbers as targets.
Max leans forward, resting his arms on the railing. “I looked up how sound works in your car,” he says suddenly.
You turn to him.
“The sensor translation system. It’s cool. I didn’t realize how much it’s tied into the telemetry.”
You blink. You researched it?
He nods. “Yeah. I wanted to know how you experience the car.”
You don’t reply.
Mostly because you don’t know how.
It’s the kind of question no one ever asks. People assume you miss something. Like hearing is the baseline, and everything else is lesser.
But he doesn’t ask what’s missing.
He asks how it feels.
You take the napkin again. Then, carefully, you write. It’s not quiet. Just … different. I read vibration, motion, tone. I can feel a problem in my chest before I see it on a screen.
You hesitate.
When I work in the car, I feel like I’m part of it.
You push it across.
He reads it twice. His jaw flexes like he’s trying not to say something too fast.
Then he leans back and signs. That’s incredible.
Your throat tightens.
You sign back. You don’t think it’s weird?
He shakes his head. “I think it’s probably what makes you better.”
You don’t say anything.
But your smile says enough.
***
It’s well past midnight when the party starts winding down. Someone’s already asleep under the bar, and Charles’ race engineer is trying to organize a very serious group karaoke plan for the following Sunday night.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at Max.
He types something on his phone, then holds it up.
Want to walk back to the hotel? It’s five minutes.
You hesitate. Then nod.
The Shanghai night is soft and humid, the skyline glowing above you like a ceiling of stars. You walk in silence, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind that feels like a warm hand resting on your shoulder.
When you reach the hotel entrance, you pause.
Max stops beside you.
You pull out a pen one last time and write.
10/10 effort tonight.
He grins. Then signs, 8/10 accuracy?
You shake your head, smile wide.
9/10, at least.
And this time, you’re the one who walks away first.
But not before you look back.
***
The sun dips low behind the Miami skyline, throwing sharp shadows across the paddock as the race trucks rumble to life. The air still hums with the echo of roaring engines, adrenaline not yet burned off. Debriefs wrap, interviews trail off, and slowly the paddock starts to exhale.
You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.
Ferrari finished decently well — Lewis P7, Charles P3 — but the mood in the garage is brittle. The race was messy. Tire strategy misfired. The late safety car scrambled everything.
Still, your data team caught the overheating rear brake sensor just in time. You flagged it at Lap 34, just before it could snowball into a full failure. Sergio clapped your shoulder when the drivers debriefed.
But you haven’t been able to enjoy any of it. Because you’ve felt Charles watching you.
All weekend.
And not in the proud big-brother way.
In the circling hawk way.
You’re mid-step toward the hospitality suite when he corners you. Right outside the motorhome, arms crossed, face unreadable. The same expression he wore at age seventeen when he found you trying to sneak into a karting track at midnight with Arthur.
You sigh.
Charles speaks first. “We need to talk.”
You frown. Now?
He nods. “Now.”
You glance around. The hallway’s mostly empty, save for a Red Bull junior engineer pacing on the phone.
You fold your arms.
Charles rubs the back of his neck. “This thing with Max …”
Your stomach drops.
What thing?
“You’ve been spending time with him.”
So?
“I just-” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t like it.”
You blink. Then laugh. It’s small and sharp.
That’s not your choice.
Charles flinches like the signs hit harder than your voice ever could.
“I’m just saying, he’s … Max,” he says, exasperated. “He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do people. He’s intense and impulsive and he plays mind games-”
He’s not like that with me.
“How do you know that?”
Because I pay attention.
Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand how he is when the pressure builds. He changes. I’ve seen it.”
You sign faster now, sharper.
What, and you think I can’t handle it?
“That’s not-”
You’ve never trusted me. Not really. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re just controlling me.
His jaw tightens.
You shake your head. I’ve earned my place here. And you still treat me like I’m twelve years old.
“That’s not fair-”
No, you sign furiously. What’s not fair is being watched like I’m a problem waiting to happen. What’s not fair is having my choices questioned just because they make you uncomfortable.
Silence stretches between you.
Your fingers are trembling.
Charles’ shoulders sag. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
You stare at him.
Then, quietly, you sign, That’s not your call.
And you walk away before he can answer.
***
The gravel crunches under your sneakers as you find your way behind the paddock, to the far edge where the energy dies off. A line of cargo containers sits in shadow, quiet and cold, forgotten.
You sit on the edge of one, tucking your knees to your chest. The South Florida wind is somehow colder here. Your breaths come sharp and uneven, not from crying, but from holding everything in.
You hate that your hands shook.
You hate that your voice always has to be your fingers.
You hate that people still don’t listen.
You lean your head back against the metal container and close your eyes.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up. You don’t need to.
The voice is quiet. Familiar.
Max.
You turn your head slowly.
He stops a few feet away, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket. No Red Bull entourage. No camera crew. Just him. Looking at you like he already knows you don’t want to be seen but came anyway.
He doesn’t say anything else.
He sits beside you. Careful not to crowd.
For a while, there’s just wind. The low hum of trucks packing down. The distant laughter from a hospitality tent.
Max pulls out his phone. Then sets it on the ground between you, screen facing up.
Are you okay?
You stare at it.
Then shake your head. Once.
He nods.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns his body toward you and lifts his hands.
You. Matter.
Your chest pulls tight.
He signs again, a little slower this time.
You. Matter. To me.
You bite the inside of your cheek. Then reach for his phone. I didn’t know how badly I needed someone to just say that.
He doesn’t smile. Just nods.
Then signs, I mean it.
You reach for your notebook, flipping to a clean page. Your hand shakes as you write.
Charles thinks I’m making a mistake. With you.
He swallows. His jaw ticks.
He thinks I can’t see who you are. But I do.
Max looks at you carefully. Like he’s afraid of breaking something already cracked.
You keep writing.
You’re stubborn. Competitive. Sometimes kind of an ass.
He barks a laugh. Muted and surprised.
You add, But you see me. You listen. You try. And you don’t make me feel like I have to fight to be heard.
He stares at the words. Then at you.
When he signs again, it’s slower than before, but steadier.
I want to learn how to do this better.
You nod.
Then sign back, softer now. So do I.
He looks at your hand for a moment. Then, carefully, threads his fingers through yours.
Your breath catches. The wind shifts.
You don’t need words right now.
You just sit with him in the quiet.
And for the first time in weeks, you feel understood.
***
Later, as the paddock lights flicker off one by one, someone watches from a distance.
Charles, leaning against the back wall of the hospitality suite.
He sees the way Max sits beside you.
Sees the stillness. The peace.
And something in his expression finally starts to change.
***
You’re not a morning person. Never have been. But the email came in at 6:13 a.m. from Ferrari PR, with the red URGENT tag glowing like a warning light on your screen.
Meeting at 8:00. Hospitality office.
No context.
By 7:45, you’re seated in the back of the Ferrari motorhome, legs crossed at the ankle, hair pulled up in a tight knot, tablet in your lap like a shield. You tap your pen once, twice, against the corner, heart drumming a half-beat too fast.
Silvia from PR sits across from you, all sharp lines and tight lips. Beside her is someone you don’t recognize — early forties, pale blue shirt, hair too neat for anyone who’s ever stepped foot on a pit wall.
To her left sits the interpreter.
You nod politely to him. His name is Luc. You’ve worked with him before. He’s kind. Precise. A rare comfort in a setting that so often feels too fast, too loud, too assuming.
Luc signs, They wanted me here to ensure full clarity on what’s being discussed.
You nod once, eyes already narrowing.
Silvia leans forward, elbows on the desk.
“There’s been chatter,” she says in Italian, her words slow but firm.
Luc mirrors them in LSF.
You frown. What kind of chatter?
The man in the pale blue shirt — Vincenzo, you learn — scrolls through his phone and swivels it toward you. It’s a tweet. And then another. And another.
Ferrari’s new engineer sleeping with the enemy?
Guess Verstappen isn’t just fast on track.
Charles Leclerc’s sister caught cozying up to rival.
Pick a struggle: nepotism or pillow talk strategy leaks?
Your stomach turns. Not from the words themselves. But from the way Silvia won’t meet your eye.
Vincenzo speaks again. Luc signs.
We’re not accusing you of anything. But this is … unfortunate. Distracting. The timing is poor. It’s the middle of a championship season.
You stare at them. So your solution is to what? Tell me who I can and can’t speak to?
“No,” Silvia says, gently. “But we need you to be aware. The optics aren’t ideal. You’re Charles’ sister. You work for the team. And you’re visibly spending time with someone from a rival camp.”
You exhale sharply. Then start signing quickly, hands snapping the air like a whip.
I’ve worked my ass off. I’ve earned this job. My deafness already made me a question mark to half of this paddock. Now I finally get taken seriously, and suddenly I’m a liability? Because I sat with someone at a bar?
Luc softens the delivery, but the heat still lands.
Silvia clears her throat. “That’s not what we’re saying.”
But it’s exactly what you’re implying.
Vincenzo’s tone turns clipped. “We are asking you to consider how your actions reflect on the team.”
You write a single word on your tablet screen, bold and in capital letters, then turn it toward them.
UNFAIR.
They don’t have a response.
***
You don’t cry.
Not until you’re in the back hallway near the logistics trailers, hidden behind a stack of wheel carts. Then you slide down the cold concrete, bury your face in your arms, and let the frustration roll over you in one silent, aching wave.
You’ve survived harder things.
But this … this feels personal. Because it erases everything. All the hours. The data streams. The quiet respect you’ve built in the garage.
Gone with a headline.
Reduced to someone’s sister. Someone’s rumored girlfriend. Not an engineer. Not a mind.
Just gossip.
***
The press conference is livestreamed.
You watch it from the back hallway of the paddock, standing just out of sight. The words blur together until you read your name cross someone’s lips.
A reporter from a sensationalist racing tabloid starts to ask, “Max, there’s been some speculation about your relationship with a Ferrari engineer — Charles Leclerc’s sister, to be specific. Any comment on the photos and what it could mean-”
Max cuts in. Instantly.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do have a comment.”
The room stills.
Max leans into the mic, eyes sharp.
“I think it’s pathetic.”
A murmur ripples through the journalists.
He continues. “She’s a brilliant engineer. She caught a mechanical failure in China that probably saved a race. She works harder than most people in this paddock, and instead of talking about that, you’re writing clickbait about her sitting next to someone?”
The reporter tries to interrupt. Max doesn’t let him.
“If this is the level of journalism you’re going to bring to this sport, I won’t be answering questions from your outlet anymore. Period.”
He sits back. Calm. Dead serious.
The moderator tries to steer the conversation back to tire strategy.
Max answers without looking away from the camera.
And just like that, it’s over.
You watch the video again. And again.
You don’t know what to feel.
Until your phone buzzes.
MAX
You free after debrief?
You reply, Yes. Why?
He replies with a location pin. A quiet hill above the paddock.
And nothing else.
***
You’re sitting on a bench beneath the cypress trees when he arrives.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds out a small brown paper bag.
You open it.
Snowdrops.
Not roses. Not some generic red bouquet.
Snowdrops — your favorite. Soft, white, delicate, and defiant. The first flower to push through winter soil. The symbol of beginnings. Of resilience.
Your throat closes.
You sign, slow. How did you know?
He shrugs, awkward. “I asked Arthur.”
That makes you laugh. Wet, shaky, but real.
You touch the petals gently. Then look up.
Why did you do that? At the press conference?
His jaw tightens. “Because they made it sound like you’re some pawn. Like you’re here because of me. Or Charles. Not because you earned it.”
You stare at him.
He breathes out. “And because I hate when people talk about you like you’re not you.”
You stand up. Walk closer. Just enough for him to see your face clearly.
They made me feel small today, you sign. Like all I’ve done didn’t matter. Like I’m just a headline.
“You’re not,” he says.
Then what am I?
He doesn’t answer right away. “You’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. You see things no one else sees. You care more than people deserve. And you still let them in anyway.”
You don’t move.
“You make me want to be better,” he says.
You’re shaking again. Not with anger this time.
With something warmer. Something more terrifying.
Max steps closer. Carefully. Always carefully.
Then signs, as well as he can, one word at a time.
You. Are. Not. Small.
And finally.
You. Matter. To. Me.
You reach for him before you can think.
He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you don’t let go.
Not for a long time.
***
The rain doesn’t fall at Spa. It assaults.
The skies opened just past lunch, and now thunder rolls low across the Ardennes like some ancient god is clearing its throat. The paddock buzzes in disjointed chaos: engineers reworking strategies in damp garages, drivers pacing, fans huddled under ponchos. Visibility on track is nonexistent. Qualifying’s already been delayed twice.
And still, the rain doesn’t stop.
You watch the chaos from inside the Red Bull motorhome, seated awkwardly on the edge of a modular couch in Max’s driver’s room. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and fabric softener. The low hum of the television murmurs in the background, some archive footage of past Spa races looping while the commentators stall for time.
Max is pacing near the window, watching water stream down the glass like it’s personal. You’ve learned he’s always restless before quali, but this is a different kind of tension. One that builds when plans are disrupted and control slips through fingers.
You tap your tablet once to get his attention.
It’s not looking good, you sign, eyes flicking toward the forecast scrolling on the screen.
He huffs. “They’ll probably cancel the whole session. Call it based on FP times.”
Which would leave you starting fourth.
He makes a face. “Behind both Ferraris? That’s tragic.”
You grin. I might be okay with it.
“I’m not.”
You let the silence settle. The storm outside is louder now, wind rattling the motorhome's metal panels. The TV drones on, the voices muffled even to Max. You glance at him. He’s not watching anymore.
Without a word, he picks up the remote and shuts it off.
He turns to face you fully.
Then walks over and sits, close. Closer than usual. His shoulder nearly brushes yours, his thigh just shy of touching.
You glance at him. Okay?
He nods.
Then he takes a breath.
And lifts his hands.
Tu n’es pas du bruit de fond.
You stare.
The signs are slow, a little shaky, but precise. Thought-out. He even pauses between words like you taught him to let the sentence mean something.
You blink hard. Then again.
You are not background noise.
Your throat tightens.
You open your hands, unsure where to begin.
You practiced that?
He nods. “All night.”
Why?
“Because I needed to say it right.”
You look down at your hands, folded in your lap. Then back at him.
People have always talked over me, you sign. Or around me. Or about me.
He nods, not breaking eye contact.
But not you.
“I never want to be that person.”
You exhale, a breath that leaves your chest softer.
It’s terrifying.
“What is?”
Letting someone see me. Like really see me.
He nods, slow. “Yeah. I … I think I’ve been terrified since Melbourne.”
You blink. Why?
“Because I’ve never wanted someone to look at me the way you do. And I’ve never cared this much about getting it right.”
Your chest feels like it’s caving in and expanding at the same time.
The thunder cracks outside again, closer now. The lights flicker just briefly.
You don’t look away from him.
And he doesn’t look away from you.
When he leans in, it’s not a dramatic sweep. It’s tentative. Slow. Like he’s giving you space to move. Space to say no.
You don’t.
His lips brush yours — just barely. A question, not an answer.
Your fingers curl instinctively in the fabric of his shirt.
You kiss him back.
Soft, deliberate, electric in the quiet way storms can be — no flash, no fury. Just the hum of something inevitable finally breaking the surface.
When you part, neither of you speak for a long time.
You touch his cheek once, then sign. You didn’t mess it up.
He grins, forehead resting against yours. “Good.”
Outside, the storm rages on.
Inside, it finally feels like something’s just begun.
***
The sun has barely dipped behind the trees in Monza when Charles finds Max.
The paddock is emptying out, crew members packing up gear with the dull exhaustion of another long race weekend, but Ferrari’s hospitality terrace still buzzes faintly — bottles of prosecco half-empty, leftover canapés untouched.
Max is sitting near the back corner of his own team’s hospitality, talking quietly with one of Red Bull’s engineers, face sun-flushed from the race, eyes sharp and clear despite the heat.
Charles approaches with purpose.
Max sees him and straightens a little, nodding at the engineer, who takes the hint and melts away without a word.
For a beat, it’s just them.
Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t challenge. He waits.
Charles folds his arms. His jaw works once before he speaks.
“What are you doing?” He asks. Not angry. Just tired. Guarded.
Max tilts his head. “Right now?”
“You know what I mean.”
Max breathes in slowly. “If you’re here to threaten me, I’ve already heard it from Arthur. And Lorenzo. Twice.”
“This isn’t about them.”
“Then what’s it about, Charles?”
Charles glares. “It’s about Y/N.”
Max meets his eyes, unblinking.
Charles huffs. “She’s not like the rest of us. She doesn’t live for this circus. This pressure. This madness. She’s not-”
“-a driver?” Max finishes. “That’s funny. Because she knows more about these cars than everyone in the grid.”
Charles scowls. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
Max stands, finally. Slowly. Not confrontational. Just level.
“You still see her as the girl who needed you to walk her across busy streets and translate for her at the store,” he says, voice quiet. “You still think she needs your protection.”
“I know what she’s been through.”
“Then maybe you should stop acting like she’s fragile because of it.” Max’s tone is sharper now. “She’s not a child, Charles. She’s a professional. A brilliant one.”
Charles’s fists curl slightly. “I don’t care how brilliant she is. You’re reckless. You’ve got a temper. You shut people out-”
“You think I’d ever take her lightly?”
“You hurt people without meaning to. I’ve seen it.”
Max’s expression doesn’t shift. But something behind his eyes flickers.
“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But I see her.”
Charles doesn’t respond.
“I see someone who moves through the world in silence, and still manages to command every room she walks into.” Max’s voice lowers, almost reverent. “You see a little sister. I see someone who redefines the space around her. Who doesn’t ask to be heard, but is impossible to ignore.”
He steps forward, not aggressively, but close enough that Charles has to listen.
“I care about her. I respect her. And if she wants me in her life, that’s not your decision to make.”
Silence hangs thick between them.
“You don’t get to decide who’s enough for her,” Max finishes. “She decides that herself.”
***
While that storm brews outside, you’re walking into the lion’s den.
The Ferrari senior management team is mid-way through their end-of-weekend debrief. The air is thick with numbers, data, and the faint aroma of burnt espresso. You’ve been invited — not formally, but pointedly. You know what it’s about.
The rumors.
The tension.
The whispers in the garage.
You walk in calmly, dressed in your team gear, hair pulled back, tablet in hand but unused.
Luc sits beside you.
Fred barely looks up.
“Let’s make this quick.”
Luc signs the words, but you already know the tone.
You speak with your hands, composed and clear.
Let’s.
“I think we’ve given you a lot of freedom,” Fred starts, “more than most first-year engineers would get.”
You’ve given me a contract. I earned the rest.
Someone shifts in their seat. Not a challenge, not yet, just discomfort.
“You’re good,” he says. “But optics matter. And lately-”
Optics?
He hesitates. “There’s a perception that your relationship with Verstappen is … unprofessional.”
You don’t flinch.
Would it be unprofessional if I was not Charles’ sister?
He says nothing.
If I were a man?
Still nothing.
You tap your pen once against your tablet, then lean forward.
Let’s talk about what actually matters. My performance. The improvements I helped Lewis make in sector two. The aero feedback I corrected that gave Charles a 0.2 advantage in Q3. The fact that the simulations I ran this morning predicted the tire degradation curve to within 0.3% accuracy. That’s what I do.
A beat.
I don’t trade secrets. I don’t let anyone near my work. I’ve never once compromised this team. Not for Max. Not for anyone.
Your hands are steady. Your voice, through Luc, carries like steel.
If you have concerns, say them. But don’t mask discomfort with sexism or ableism and call it team management.
It’s quiet.
Very quiet.
Finally, Fred leans back.
“Noted,” he says.
That’s it.
But you know it’s more than enough.
You stand, nod once, and walk out.
Luc catches your eye as you reach the hallway. He signs, You okay?
You smile, just a little. Now I am.
***
Charles doesn’t speak to you that night.
You notice his silence at dinner. Notice the way he watches you — carefully, cautiously, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t know how to say. Lorenzo speaks softly about the season. Arthur cracks jokes. But Charles says nothing.
Until later.
You’re walking back toward your room when you notice him behind you.
“Wait.”
You turn.
He’s standing alone in the corridor, hands in his pockets, hair still damp from a post-race shower. His eyes are tired.
You sign, What is it?
“I spoke to Max.”
Your brows lift. Okay?
“I thought he’d be defensive. Or angry.”
You tilt your head. He can be both. But not when it matters.
Charles exhales. “I didn’t expect him to fight for you.”
He didn’t. He stood beside me.
Charles’s eyes soften. “You always say things like that. That make me feel stupid.”
You’re not stupid. Just used to seeing me as someone who needed protecting.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I remember when you got your first hearing aid. You hated it.”
It hurt. And it made everything too loud.
“And you ripped it off in the middle of school and flushed it down the toilet.”
You smile. That was a proud day.
He chuckles softly. Then his expression shifts.
“I’m not proud of how I’ve treated you. Or how I treated him.”
You pause.
Why did you?
He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Because he reminded me of me. And I didn’t want that for you.”
You take a step closer.
But I’m not you.
He nods.
And Max …
“He’s not who I thought he was,” Charles says quietly. “He’s better.”
That hits harder than you expect.
You smile. Just a little.
So you’re okay with this?
Charles laughs under his breath. “I’m still your brother. I’ll never be okay with any of it. But I trust you.”
You nod. Slowly. That’s all I wanted.
He opens his arms, tentative.
You walk into them.
And for the first time in a long time, your hug is that of equals.
***
Later, as the paddock winds down and the stars emerge over Monza, you find Max leaning against the fence near the parking lot, headphones around his neck, head tilted back toward the sky.
You tap his shoulder.
He turns, and before he can say anything, you sign:
He trusts me now.
Max raises a brow. “Took him long enough.”
You laugh, and he smiles — really smiles. The kind that lights up everything inside you.
He pulls you close.
And under the cooling night, you realize something else.
You didn’t need anyone to fight for your place in this world. But damn, it’s nice having someone who wants to.
***
One Year Later
It rains, as it always does in Belgium.
Not the full-force storm Spa is famous for, but a light, steady drizzle that makes the tarmac slick and the grass smell alive. The clouds hang low and moody over the forested circuit, and the energy is electric in that uniquely race day kind of way — tension, adrenaline, caffeine, too many radios crackling at once.
You walk through the paddock with Max.
You’re both in team gear — Ferrari red for you, Red Bull navy for him — but his jacket sleeve brushes yours every few steps. There’s nothing secretive about it anymore. You’re a fixture. A year in. Public. Steady. Still occasionally shocking to people who never expected Max Verstappen to show up for anyone like this.
But you know the truth.
He doesn’t just show up.
He stays.
You sign, You have a hair sticking up.
He glances at you, amused. “Just one?”
You reach up and flatten it with a smirk. He lets you.
You’re halfway to the Red Bull motorhome when it happens.
A small, insistent tug at the leg of Max’s jeans.
He stops.
Looks down.
And there, standing in the slight drizzle with wide brown eyes and a worn little Red Bull cap, is a boy — no more than six or seven — reaching toward him like he’s trying to touch something he’s only ever seen on screen.
Max immediately crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet to meet the boy’s eye level.
But before he can say anything, a woman rushes over, umbrella in one hand, backpack slipping off her shoulder.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She blurts in French-accented English. “He just ran off. He saw you and — he doesn’t mean to bother, he just — he won’t understand, he’s deaf, so it’s okay, really, you don’t have to-”
Max holds up a hand, gently.
And then switches languages.
Does he use LSF?
The mother freezes. Yes … yes, he uses LSF.
You feel it before you see it — the shift in Max’s posture. The quiet focus. The ease in his shoulders.
Then he signs.
Clear, confident.
Hi, what’s your name?
The boy blinks. And then grins. Wide, startled, toothy.
He signs back, My name is Michel.
Max laughs — genuine, delighted — and nods. He points to himself. Mine is Max.
The mother covers her mouth.
You watch, heart thudding hard, as Max and the boy fall into an easy rhythm. Michel signs fast, little fingers moving with the eagerness of someone who doesn’t often get the chance. Max keeps up, asking questions, repeating signs when Michel stumbles, nodding along like they’ve known each other for years.
Do you like cars?
I love them!
Who is your favorite driver?
The boy points at Max’s chest. You! And I also like Ferrari. Because she’s cool too.
Max glances at you, eyes sparkling. “He says you’re cool.”
You blink rapidly. Try to keep your face still.
The mother is crying now — softly, silently. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears. You know that kind. You’ve seen them before. You’ve cried them before.
You step closer to her, gently touching her arm.
He never gets to talk to anyone, she signs shakily. People always say it’s too hard. That it’s not worth it. She laughs through the tears. But he’s talking to Max Verstappen.
You smile and sign, Of course he is.
Max is laughing at something now — something Michel just signed. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a sharpie. Without hesitation, he takes Michel’s cap, flips the brim, and writes something carefully.
He hands it back with a wink.
Michel clutches it like treasure.
Max signs, Thank you for talking to me. Have a good race?
Michel nods enthusiastically.
Then, with one last beaming look, he runs back to his mother, holding the cap like it’s made of gold.
The mother mouths “thank you” to Max. Then to you. Then wraps her arms around her son and disappears into the crowd.
The paddock noise returns. Radios. Heels on concrete. Someone calling Max’s name from the motorhome entrance.
But the quiet between you two lingers.
He turns to you slowly, suddenly self-conscious. “Was that okay?”
You don’t answer.
Not at first.
You step closer. Press your hand gently to his cheek.
Then sign, I fell in love with you all over again just now.
Max swallows hard. “Yeah?”
You nod.
That was more than okay.
He exhales, eyes soft, posture loose in a way you know means he’s trying not to let it show too much. But you see it. The way his fingers twitch, like he wants to say more.
You give him a moment.
He takes it.
Then signs, a little slower, You once told me silence doesn’t mean nothing. That it has its own shape. Its own voice.
You nod, breath caught in your throat.
Max smiles. Small. Tender.
That’s what I want to be. Someone who knows the shape of your silence.
You don’t kiss him.
Not there, in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by team staff and cameras and noise.
But you do reach out, take his hand, and pull it to your heart.
And when you sign, you already are, he doesn’t look away for a second.
A wild night in Vegas left you hungover, married, and shocked to discover your new husband is Max Verstappen, four-time Formula 1 World Champion. What starts as a drunken mistake turned into something more and a question you never thought you’d ask—was this really just a stupid decision, or the best thing that ever happened to you?
pairing. Max Verstappen x wife! fem! reader.
warnings. rom-com (i tried), 10,6k words, accidental marriage, soulmates-ish, love at the first sight, my poor humor, soft! max, reader is clueless about f1, domestic fluff (literally just reader and max bullying each other white they’re married) alex s. m., lestappen bromance, pet names (schatje, baby).
YOU CAME TO LAS VEGAS FOR ONE REASON: to have fun. Maybe gamble a little, maybe dance a lot, and definitely forget about the stress of your everyday life. It was supposed to be a wild weekend with your friends—filled with overpriced cocktails, glittery outfits, and questionable decisions. You knew the Grand Prix was happening the same weekend, but you weren’t exactly a sports girl. Formula 1 meant fast cars and loud engines, and the only thing you really cared about was how the race would mess up traffic. You had no idea how much more it would mess up your life.
One night, your friend—who always seemed to know someone who knew someone—dragged you to a party she swore would be crawling with celebrities. You didn’t believe her, but you went anyway, dressed in something sparkly and slightly too short, because why not? Vegas was built for nights like this. The party was on a rooftop, lights glowing against the desert sky, music thumping through your bones, and drinks flowing like water. You weren’t sure who was famous and who was just pretending to be, but everyone looked expensive and slightly untouchable.
And then you met him.
He was tall, with messy hair and a grin that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. Dutch, he said. His name started with an M—Mark? Max? You couldn’t quite remember. He was charming in a way that felt effortless, confident in a way that bordered on cocky, and somehow still made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You didn’t know who he was, but you liked him. And the drinks kept coming. Tequila shots, champagne, something neon blue that tasted like candy and regret.
The night blurred into a haze of laughter, dancing, and whispered conversations that felt like secrets. You remembered him pulling you onto the dance floor. You remembered him saying something about fate and bad decisions. You remembered kissing him. And then—
Well, no drink could have prepared you for what came next.
───
You woke up with a headache so sharp it felt like someone was playing drums inside your skull. The room was too bright, too quiet, and far too unfamiliar. But what truly terrified you wasn’t the pain—it was the man sleeping beside you.
His back was turned, broad and bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction. He looked peaceful, annoyingly comfortable, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.
You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the chaos of whatever had happened the night before. Your dress—what was left of it—was draped over a chair like it had given up. One heel peeked out from under the bed. The other was missing entirely.
You glanced at him again, trying to piece together the night, and that’s when your eyes caught something that made your stomach drop.
A ring.
On his left hand.
Bold, shiny, and impossible to miss.
Your heart stuttered. Oh God. Did you sleep with a married man? You stared at the ring, panic rising in your throat. But something about it tugged at your memory—a flash, a moment, a laugh. You looked down at your own hand, slowly, carefully, like you were afraid of what you’d find.
And there it was. The same ring.
Only yours had a diamond. A very large, very catchy diamond.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Oh fuck.
Your heart was already racing, but it kicked into overdrive when your eyes drifted to the nightstand. Amid the clutter—an empty glass, a phone, a crumpled napkin—was a piece of paper that looked far too official for a party night in Vegas. Thick, cream-colored, with bold lettering across the top. You leaned closer, squinting through the haze of your hangover, and your stomach dropped.
It wasn’t just a piece of paper.
It was a marriage certificate.
You froze, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked hard enough. But it didn’t. It stayed right there, mocking you with its very real, very legal presence. You reached out with a shaky hand and picked it up, scanning the names printed neatly in black ink.
Max Emilian Verstappen.
You blinked. That name sounded… familiar? Maybe? You weren’t sure. It rang a bell, but not loud enough to make sense of it. You looked down, and there it was—your own name, printed right beneath his. Only now it had a new addition. His last name. Your name, with his last name.
You stared at it, mouth slightly open, brain refusing to catch up.
You married him.
You didn’t walk. You launched yourself out of the bed like it had burst into flames, nearly tripping over the twisted sheets as you scrambled to grab your phone. Your heart was racing, your brain still foggy, and you had no idea what you were doing—only that you needed to not be in that room. You bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it like you were hiding from a monster. For what? Safety? Privacy? Maybe just a moment to breathe. Or maybe in case Max Verstappen woke up and decided it was time for a honeymoon on a yacht. You didn’t know what married people did. You weren’t supposed to be one of them.
The bathroom light was way too bright, and you winced as it hit your face. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Your makeup was smeared like a bad painting, your hair looked like it had fought a tornado, and your eyes were wide with panic. You looked exactly how you felt—like a disaster. A very confused, slightly drunk, newly married disaster.
Your thumbs were shaking as you opened Google, typing in the name from the certificate as fast as you could.
Max Verstappen.
And then your screen exploded with results.
Photos. Headlines. Videos. Interviews. All of it.
“Four-Time World Champion Max Verstappen Wins in Las Vegas.”
“Verstappen Dominates Under the Vegas Lights.”
“Undeniable King of Formula 1.”
You stared at the screen, jaw slowly dropping.
There he was. The man in the bed. Standing tall in a sleek racing suit, champagne bottle in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the podium lights. His arms were raised in victory, his grin wide and confident, like he owned the world. Another photo showed him on the top step of the podium, gold trophy in one hand, waving with the other. Cameras flashed around him. Fans screamed his name.
And okay. You could admit it.
Your husband? He was hot.
Like, really hot.
Of course he had to be the kind of guy who looked even better sweaty. Of course he had to have that smirk. That face. That body. That entire vibe. And of course he had to be one of the best athletes in the world.
“Fuck!” you hissed the second your phone buzzed in your hand, nearly dropping it into the hotel sink.
Incoming call: my girl xx
You didn’t even hesitate. You smacked the green button and brought it to your ear like it was a direct lifeline to reality.
“I think I married Max Verstappen!” you whisper-screamed the second the call connected, pacing across the bathroom in bare feet, trying not to pass out or throw up or—god forbid—wake him up. You had no idea if the feeling in your chest was joy or terror. Probably both. Definitely both.
There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.
Then: “Y/n, what the fuck? Did you take something? Are you high?”
You let out a strangled laugh, half-sob, half-manic giggle. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? But like… I woke up next to this guy, okay? Big, hot, Dutch guy. Tall. Sleepy. Smug. And he had a ring on. And then I had a ring on. And then—” you reached over to snatch the paper from the counter again, yes you took it with you “—there’s literally a marriage certificate. Signed. With both our names. His is Max Emilian Verstappen. I googled him. He’s a four-time Formula One World Champion?!”
You stopped to breathe, then whispered aggressively, “I married a rich race car driver.”
Your best friend went quiet again, then finally said, “Wait… Max Verstappen? Like, actual Max Verstappen? The hot one who wins everything and never smiles?”
“Yes!” you hissed. “Except he does smile, and I think he kissed me last night, and he definitely slept next to me—and with me, and now I don’t know if I should cry or call Vogue and pitch a cover story as his wife.”
“Y/n, I left you alone for five minutes and you got married?!” your best friend shrieked so loudly through the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear before it shattered your eardrum.
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” you whisper-yelled, pacing the bathroom like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Your bare feet slapped against the cold tile, your sheet toga flapping behind you like a cape of shame. “There were drinks! There was dancing! He had a really nice smile, okay? I don’t even like racing! I came to Vegas for overpriced cocktails and bad decisions, not a whole husband!”
You were so deep in your meltdown that you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.
Then—two soft knocks.
“Are you panicking in there?” a deep, amused voice called through the bathroom door.
You froze. Completely. Like a deer caught in headlights. Like someone had hit pause on your entire body.
Your eyes went wide. Your mouth opened. That voice—it was him.
Your husband.
Max Verstappen. Actual Max Verstappen. Speaking. To you.
You turned toward the door, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. “Yes—I mean no!” you called back, instantly cringing at how weird your voice sounded. You sounded like someone who had definitely married someone by accident.
There was a pause. You thought you heard him laugh. Just a little. Low and quiet. Like he found this whole thing funny.
You turned back to your phone, whispering like you were in some kind of spy movie. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Wait, Y/n! Does he have any hot fri—”
You hung up before she could finish the sentence and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned your hand. You stared at the door, heart racing, brain spinning, and absolutely no idea what you were supposed to say next.
You couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom forever, no matter how much you wanted to hide from the world—or from the man waiting outside. You had to face it. Face him. Face the fact that you were somehow married to Max Verstappen.
Slowly, you reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open just enough to peek your head out. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe chaos, maybe cameras, maybe him halfway through packing his bags to escape this mess. But instead, you saw him standing there calmly, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a magazine cover. His hair was still messy, shirtless, but he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was just another normal morning.
“There you are,” he said, his voice soft but amused. “Do you want something? Coffee? Water? You look pale.”
You blinked at him, stunned. “Yeah, and you look completely fine! You shouldn’t!” you said, stepping out and slowly making your way back to the bed. You sat down carefully, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to keep your brain from short-circuiting.
He tilted his head, clearly confused. “Why?”
You stared at him, trying to find the right words. “Because you’re Max Verstappen! You’re like… F1’s big dog. The guy who wins everything. You married a random girl in Vegas!” You paused, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all. “Oh my god, can you imagine the drama? The headlines? The press? The fans? Your team? Your mom?”
“We can keep it secret for now, if you want,” Max said, his voice calm and casual, like he was suggesting you skip breakfast or order room service. Not like he was talking about hiding a marriage from the entire world. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just woken up married to a complete stranger. His expression was unreadable—cool, collected, almost amused.
Meanwhile, you felt like your entire body was buzzing with panic. Your heart was racing, your thoughts were spinning, and you were pretty sure your eye was twitching. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, trying to figure out how your life had turned into a headline overnight.
You stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. Keep it secret? Like it was no big deal? You couldn’t even think straight, and he was already planning how to cover it up. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.
“We should annul it,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out fast and loud. “Obviously.”
Max turned his head slowly to look at you, like you’d just said something completely ridiculous. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“Why?” he asked, voice still calm. “I like you.”
Your brain stopped working.
You blinked at him, mouth falling open, unsure if you’d heard him right. “Wh—what?” you stammered, eyes wide. “You like me? We met like—what—ten hours ago?”
Max shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “And I liked those ten hours.”
You stared at him like he’d just suggested you move to Mars. “That’s not a reason to stay married!” you said, your voice high and full of disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were even having this conversation. You were wrapped in a hotel sheet, hungover, and somehow arguing about the validity of a marriage with a man you’d met less than a day ago.
Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you with those stupid, perfect blue eyes—calm, steady, and annoyingly unreadable. “It’s not a bad one either,” he said, voice smooth and quiet. But there was something in his eyes. A spark. A glint of amusement, maybe interest. Maybe even a challenge. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.
You clutched the sheet tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto reality, but your brain had already started to drift. You couldn’t help it. You imagined it—being his wife. Not just the ring on your finger or the chaos of last night, but the life that came with it. The luxury. The attention. The private jets and race paddocks. The kind of dinners where the wine cost more than your rent. The interviews where people called you Mrs. Verstappen. Waking up in Monaco. Falling asleep in Italy. Kisses in Singapore.
It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was completely out of your comfort zone.
And yet… it didn’t sound bad.
Okay. Maybe annulment was a little dramatic.
“Okay,” you sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair as you sat up straighter on the bed. The sheet was still wrapped around you like some kind of makeshift armor, and you were starting to feel like you’d need it. Your head was spinning, your heart was still racing, but you knew you couldn’t keep dodging the reality of what had happened. “We should… talk about this. All of it.”
Max’s lips curled into a smirk the moment the words left your mouth. He looked far too amused for someone who had just woken up married to a stranger. “That’s how I like you,” he said, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “Assertive. Calm. Rational.”
You gave him a look. A sharp, tired, are-you-kidding-me look. “I’m none of those things right now.”
He shrugged, completely unfazed, his eyes still sparkling with mischief. “Still. Be grateful you married me and not Lando.”
You blinked. “Who’s that?” you asked, your eyebrows pulling together in confusion.
Max paused, then actually laughed. A real laugh. Not a smirk or a chuckle, but a full, amused laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. “Oh wow. You really don’t know anything about Formula One, huh?”
You stared at him, unsure if you should be embarrassed or proud. “Is he, like… worse than you?”
Max tilted his head, clearly enjoying the question. “Debatable,” he said, his grin growing wider. “He’s a walking red flag though.”
You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way Max said it made you laugh. Just a little. Just enough to forget, for one second, that your life had completely flipped upside down.
───
The hotel breakfast room was way too quiet. That strange kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s hungover and pretending they aren’t. Even the soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup felt like it echoed through your skull. You were surrounded by people who probably had millions in their bank accounts, all dressed in expensive clothes and sipping tiny espressos like they hadn’t made a single bad decision the night before. But you knew better. You could see it in their tired eyes and slow movements. Vegas had worked its magic on everyone.
You sat across from Max, your very real, very hot husband of roughly ten hours, trying to act like this was normal. Like you did this kind of thing all the time. Like waking up married to a stranger and then sharing breakfast with him was just another part of your weekend plans. You picked at your croissant, trying to look casual, even though your brain was still spinning.
“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you tore off a piece of pastry, “tell me something about you, my husband.”
The word husband still felt strange coming out of your mouth. It made your stomach flip a little. It was weird, but also kind of exciting. You barely knew anything about Max—other than the fact that he was ridiculously attractive, strangely calm about the whole situation, and apparently some kind of international sports legend.
Max leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. “Well,” he began, “I’m Dutch, but I was born in Belgium. So technically I’m Dutch-Belgian. My mum’s from Belgium.”
You nodded slowly, pretending to take that in like it was important information. But honestly, your brain was stuck on the way he said my mum. It sounded so soft, so sweet, and it didn’t match the image of a guy with arms like his and a face that belonged on a billboard.
“I started karting when I was four,” he continued, “then got into Formula One when I was seventeen. And now I’m here—with four world championships.”
You blinked. “Casual,” you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even though your jaw wanted to drop.
Max gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. He wasn’t bragging. He was just telling the truth. And somehow, that made it even more impressive. You could tell he wasn’t trying to show off. He was just… being himself.
And honestly? He was kind of a racing nerd. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up when he talked about karting, in the quiet pride in his voice when he mentioned his career. You weren’t into sports. Like, at all. But there was something really endearing about how much he cared. It wasn’t just a job to him. It was his whole world.
And because you couldn’t help yourself—because even though you didn’t follow racing, you did know the one headline that had practically broken the internet—you tilted your head and asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.
“Aren’t you the one who robbed Lewis Hamilton of his eighth title?”
Max didn’t answer right away. He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. There was a flicker of something in his expression—not anger, not guilt, just… something unreadable. But then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. Calm. Cool. A little smug.
“That’s what some people say, yeah.”
You blinked, surprised. That was not the reaction you expected. No awkward laugh. No defensive speech. No attempt to explain or justify. Just a simple, quiet answer that carried more weight than a whole press conference. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just casually admitted to being part of one of the most controversial moments in sports history.
It was the kind of energy that made your stomach twist. The kind that said he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone—not the media, not the fans, and definitely not the girl he’d accidentally married in Vegas.
You chewed slowly, studying him. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.
But deep down—and you’d never admit it out loud—you were starting to think you might’ve married someone weirdly interesting. And dangerously charming.
“But that’s a long, boring story,” Max said with a casual wave of his hand, brushing off four world championships and one of the biggest rivalries in sports like it was nothing. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and gave you a look—the kind that made your heart skip a beat. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, playful and curious. “I want to know something about you, Mrs. Verstappen.”
The way he said it—so smooth, so relaxed, like it wasn’t the most insane thing either of you had ever done—made your stomach flip. Mrs. Verstappen. You’d been trying not to think about how official that sounded. How serious. How… weirdly not awful. It was ridiculous, but hearing it out loud made something flutter in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was panic or something else entirely.
You cleared your throat, trying to snap out of it. “Uh—well,” you began, suddenly feeling very aware of how painfully normal you were compared to him. He had trophies and fans and a career that spanned continents. You had… a messy Instagram feed and a half-used planner.
“Mostly I live off my dad’s money,” you said, giving a small, awkward laugh. “Because, you know, he prefers to pay me to leave him alone.” You took a sip of juice, hoping it would make you sound less ridiculous. “But I studied art. And now I sort of work in marketing? Like, social media stuff. Influencer-adjacent.”
You winced a little as the words came out. God, you sounded lame. Like you were trying to explain your life to someone who’d never had to worry about rent or job interviews or whether their post got enough likes. You were sitting across from a man who drove cars at 300 kilometers an hour for a living, and you were talking about hashtags.
Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, like everything you’d said made perfect sense. Like you made sense. It was strange, really—how someone so far removed from your world could listen like he’d known you for longer than ten hours. His expression was calm, open, and maybe even a little curious.
“And I, uh, moved to Monaco a few months ago,” you added, almost as an afterthought. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe because you wanted to sound a little more interesting. Maybe because you wanted to find some common ground with the man sitting across from you.
But that got a reaction.
Max’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “No way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You live in Monaco?”
You nodded, feeling a little sheepish. “Yeah. Mostly for the tax thing, but let’s pretend it was for the vibe.”
Max grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made your stomach flip again. “Me too.”
Your jaw dropped a little. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve lived there since I was eighteen.”
You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around that. Eighteen. Already living in Monaco. Already racing in Formula One. Already building a life that sounded like something out of a movie. Meanwhile, you were still figuring out how to pay your phone bill on time at that age.
“I mean, most of the drivers do,” Max said, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. “You live in Monaco and don’t know anything about Formula One? Even though there’s a Grand Prix happening there every year? It’s like… the biggest event in the city.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Hey! I do know who Charles Leclerc is,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s Monaco’s bias—the hometown hero everyone pretends they’re not obsessed with.”
Max blinked, then burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a full, warm laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was the kind of laugh that made your chest feel lighter, like you’d said something genuinely funny and not just accidentally charming.
“I married the right girl,” he said, still grinning, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck.
You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that was now impossible to fight off. It was ridiculous. You were still hungover. You were still confused. You were still technically married to a man you barely knew.
You loved every second of it.
───
You’d been in Monaco for a few days now, and somehow, without really planning it, you’d spent most of that time at Max’s place. His apartment was sleek and modern, with huge windows and a view that looked like it belonged in a travel magazine. Sometimes he came over to your place too, and it was starting to feel… normal. Comfortable. Like you’d known each other for way longer than just a few chaotic days. You went on cute dates—late-night walks by the harbor, quiet dinners tucked away from the cameras, even a grocery run that turned into a mini adventure. You’d both agreed to act like you were just dating, like the marriage part was a funny secret between you. And honestly? It worked. It felt easy. It felt right.
So when Max insisted that you had to bake a cake for your one-week anniversary, you didn’t argue. You went out and bought all the ingredients, found a beginner-friendly recipe online, and tried to convince yourself this wasn’t going to end in disaster.
Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by flour, eggs, and a very confused Max Verstappen, you gave him a look. “I’m warning you,” you said, tying your hair up and glancing at the recipe again. “The last time I baked anything, I was eighteen. It was a birthday cake for my best friend, and it was… not great.”
Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Well,” he said, gesturing to himself, “do I look like I’ve baked anything in my life?”
“No,” you said as you rolled up your sleeves, determined to make this cake happen—even if it ended up more like a sweet disaster than a masterpiece. Max stood beside you, watching the recipe on your phone like it was written in a foreign language. You handed him the whisk and pointed to the bowl.
“Okay, start mixing the eggs and sugar,” you said, trying to sound confident.
Max squinted at the bowl, then at the whisk, then back at you. “You’re trusting me with this?”
“You drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour,” you said, grabbing the flour. “I think you can handle a whisk.”
He gave you a dramatic nod, like he was accepting a mission, and started whisking with way too much enthusiasm. Sugar flew out of the bowl. You gasped and jumped back, laughing as tiny crystals landed in your hair.
“Max!” you shrieked, swatting at him with a dish towel.
He grinned, completely unbothered. “Precision is overrated.”
You tried to stay focused, measuring flour and butter, but Max kept sneaking little pokes at your side, bumping your hip, stealing spoonfuls of batter when he thought you weren’t looking. At one point, he dipped his finger into the mix and held it out to you.
“Try it,” he said, eyes sparkling.
You leaned in, tasted it off his finger, and paused. “Not bad.”
He smirked. “Told you. Natural talent.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was fluttering. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar, and the air was warm with laughter and something softer—something sweeter.
The cake was safely tucked away in the oven, and for the first time in the past hour, the kitchen was quiet. Warm. Sweet-smelling. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard and moving too fast. Max stood nearby, watching you with that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip every time.
“You have flour on your nose,” he said, pointing at you and laughing softly.
You reached up to wipe it off, but then paused, a mischievous idea forming. You looked at him, narrowing your eyes playfully, and moved your hand toward his face.
“Oh, don’t you dare,” he warned, stepping forward just as you lunged.
Before you could get him, Max caught both of your wrists in his hands. His grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to stop you, but gentle enough to make your heart flutter. You tried to wriggle free, laughing, but he was too strong, too steady. And honestly? You didn’t really want to escape.
He pulled you closer, slowly, until your body was pressed against his. Your chin rested just under his collarbone, and you tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft now, not teasing, just… warm. You smiled without meaning to, and he smiled back, like he couldn’t help it either.
And in that moment, something shifted.
You felt it in your chest—a quiet, fluttering feeling that wasn’t panic or confusion anymore. It was something sweeter. Something softer. Were you falling for your own husband? The thought hit you like a whisper, unexpected but not unwelcome.
Max leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your lips. It was gentle, slow, like he was testing the waters. Like he wanted to make sure you were still with him in this strange, beautiful mess.
You smiled against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. “Was this part of the recipe?”
He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Obviously,” he said, and kissed you again—this time longer, deeper, like he didn’t care if the cake burned.
When the oven finally beeped, you jumped a little, startled out of the warm haze you’d been floating in. You grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the cake out, setting it down on the counter. You blinked at it, surprised. It actually looked… good. Like, really good. Golden, fluffy, not burned. You tilted your head, inspecting it like it might suddenly collapse, but it held its shape perfectly.
“See?” Max said proudly, stepping beside you. “It looks fantastic.”
You laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Yeah, but does it taste fantastic?” you teased, eyeing the cake like it might be lying to you.
Max didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out a bowl of whipped cream—dark blue, of course. “I want to decorate it,” he said, already grabbing a spoon and getting to work.
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Okay, Picasso,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter to watch.
Max was focused, tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he carefully spread the whipped cream across the top of the cake. He wasn’t fast, but he was determined. You stepped closer, peeking over his shoulder, and smiled at the mess he was making. The letters weren’t perfect, the spacing was off, and the whipped cream was a little too runny—but it was adorable.
And then you saw it.
Written in slightly crooked, slightly smudged letters across the top of the cake:
Max + Y/n, always and forever
Your heart did a little flip.
You stared at the words, warmth blooming in your chest. It was silly. It was messy. It was whipped cream on a cake made by two people who barely knew what they were doing. But it was also sweet. Thoughtful. Real.
You looked up at Max, who was still focused on smoothing out the edges, and felt something soft settle in your chest. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just a wild Vegas story. It was starting to feel like something more.
“Aww,” you whispered, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
Max glanced at you, eyes twinkling. “Too cheesy?”
You shook your head. “Just cheesy enough.”
───
One thing about your husband, Max Verstappen—he adored Charles Leclerc. Like, actual bromance level. The kind of friendship that involved inside jokes, constant teasing, and way too many shared podium selfies. So when the idea of a double date came up, it wasn’t dinner or drinks or something chill. No. It was karting. Because of course it was. The most on-brand plan imaginable for two Formula One drivers who couldn’t go five minutes without turning something into a race.
The guys were hyped. Already texting about lap times and trash talk before you’d even left the apartment. And you? You were nervous. Really nervous.
Alex was everything. Fashion icon. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged on magazine covers and red carpets. She was Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend—the it-girl of the paddock. And you were… well, you. Clumsy. Still adjusting. The newly accidental wife of Max Verstappen who had only just learned what a pit stop was.
You clutched Max’s hand tighter as you both walked toward the karting center, your stomach bubbling with nerves and regret over the fizzy energy drink you’d chugged earlier. Your heart was racing, and not in the fun, adrenaline kind of way. More like the what if I embarrass myself in front of Monaco’s golden couple kind of way.
“Max,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “what if they don’t like me? I mean, I’m not exactly—”
“Schatje,” he cut in gently, turning his head to look down at you. That soft half-smile was already forming on his lips—the one that always made your brain short-circuit a little. “They’re both excited to meet you. Charles has heard so much about you already.”
You blinked up at him, heart still fluttering, but something about the way he said it made you feel a little steadier. Like maybe you weren’t walking into a disaster. Like maybe you did belong here, even if you weren’t sure how yet.
You stepped inside the karting center, your nerves buzzing just beneath your skin like tiny sparks. The smell of rubber and engine oil filled the air, and the sound of distant engines revving made your heart beat a little faster. You spotted Charles and Alex waiting near the entrance, both dressed casually but somehow still looking like they belonged on a magazine cover. Max’s face lit up the second he saw them. He walked straight over and pulled Charles into one of those quick, half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back greetings that guys do when they’re trying to act cool but are clearly happy to see each other.
Before you could even process the moment, Alex stepped toward you with a bright smile and zero hesitation. “You must be Y/n,” she said, her voice warm and confident. “You look stunning, girl.”
You blinked, caught off guard by how friendly she was. Before you could even say thank you, she pulled you into a hug—not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt real. The kind that said, you’re safe with me. It was soft and strong all at once, and something in your chest loosened. Just like that, you knew: this girl was going to be your girl.
“And you’re even prettier in person,” she added with a grin, looping her arm through yours like you’d been friends forever.
You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “You’re literally so cool, this is unfair.”
Max, overhearing your comment, smirked and leaned toward Charles with a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe we should do a few laps without them,” he said, voice teasing. “You know, as revenge for that time you pushed me off track.”
Charles rolled his eyes, already used to Max’s drama. “You brake-tested me,” he replied, deadpan.
Max waved him off, already distracted by the sight of you and Alex laughing together like old friends. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced over, he was smiling—that soft, proud kind of smile that made your stomach flutter.
Alex leaned in and whispered, “I think we’ll definitely find something to talk about.”
You nodded, heart lighter than it had been all day. You weren’t just the accidental wife anymore. You were part of something. Something fun. Something real.
Max walked over, his voice quieter now, just for you. “Cheer for me, schat,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it lingered as he grabbed a helmet and headed toward the karts with Charles, already tossing playful insults back and forth.
You and Alex sat down on the bench near the track, the loud buzz of go-karts filling the air as Max and Charles disappeared around the first corner. At first, the sound was a bit much engines roaring, tires screeching—but after a few minutes, it started to feel kind of normal. Like background noise to a day that was already turning out better than you expected. You leaned back, letting the sun warm your face, while Alex pushed her sunglasses up and turned to you with a friendly smile.
“So,” she said, her voice light, “how’s it going? Being a WAG and all?”
You laughed softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s new. I didn’t grow up watching racing or anything, so I’m still learning. But… I’m happy.”
And you meant it. Even though everything had happened so fast— the wild Vegas night, the surprise marriage, the dates, the quiet mornings—it felt good. Like you’d landed somewhere that made sense, even if it was unexpected.
Just then, a blur of navy and red flew past the pit lane. Max’s kart. He lifted one hand off the wheel and waved as he sped by. Even with the helmet on, you could tell he was smiling. And without thinking, you smiled too—like it was automatic now.
Alex saw it and grinned. “You’ve got it bad,” she teased. “But don’t worry—Max is even worse.”
You blinked. “Really?”
She nodded. “He called Charles the morning after Vegas. Didn’t even say hi. Just started talking about you. Said you were funny, smart, and somehow kept up with him better than anyone else.”
Your mouth opened a little. You hadn’t known that. Max had never told you. You’d been wondering if this was just fun for him, something casual. But hearing that he’d been excited enough to call his best friend the next morning?
Your heart did a little flip.
Alex leaned closer, her voice softer now. “He’s serious about you. I’ve never seen him like this.”
Max and Charles walked over with matching grins, the kind that spelled trouble in the most entertaining way. Their hair was messy from the helmets, their cheeks slightly flushed from the race, and they looked way too proud of themselves for two grown men who’d just spent twenty minutes trying to out-drive each other.
“They’ve got two-seater karts,” Charles said, clearly amused. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was up to something. “Wanna race?”
Max stepped forward, smirking straight at you like he was already imagining the chaos. “And you two are driving,” he added, handing you a helmet like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Your eyebrows shot up. “Me driving? With you in the kart?”
“Exactly,” Max said, his voice calm but teasing. “Don’t worry, I trust you.”
You stared at the helmet in your hands, heart thudding a little faster. You weren’t a racer. You weren’t even sure you knew how to start the kart. But Max was looking at you like you could do anything. Like he believed in you without question. And somehow, that made you want to try.
Charles turned to Max with a smug smile. “We’ll see which couple’s faster. Verstappen’s or Leclerc’s.”
There was something in his tone—playful, yes, but also curious. Like he was watching closely. Like he could feel there was more going on than you were letting on. You were still supposed to be just Max’s girlfriend, after all. But something about the way Charles looked at you, then back at Max, made your stomach twist. He was catching on. Maybe not the whole story, but something.
You and Alex exchanged a quick glance, wide-eyed and a little too in sync. You could tell she felt it too—the shift, the tension, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.
Alex leaned in, her voice low and full of humor. “If we crash,” she whispered, “at least we look cute doing it.”
“M’lady,” Max said with a dramatic little bow, holding the helmet like it was a crown. You laughed, nerves still buzzing in your chest, as he gently placed it on your head. His hands were careful, adjusting the straps with surprising focus, making sure everything was secure. His fingers brushed your skin, and even through the nerves, you felt a little spark—soft, warm, grounding.
You took a deep breath, the weight of the helmet settling over you like a reminder that this was real. You were about to drive a kart. With Max Verstappen sitting beside you. No pressure, right?
“I’m sorry in advance if we crash,” you said quietly, trying to joke your way through the nerves.
Max looked at you, that familiar grin spreading across his face— confident, playful, and just a little smug. “We won’t,” he said simply, sliding into the seat next to you like he’d done it a thousand times. “You’ve got this. You’re a Verstappen now.”
Your heart did a little flip at that. The way he said it—not as a joke, not as a tease, but like it meant something. Like it was something.
You glanced over at Alex one last time, catching her smile through her helmet. She gave you a thumbs-up, her eyes full of encouragement. You smiled back, grateful for her calm energy, her warmth, her quiet way of saying you’re not alone.
The countdown lights began to flash in front of you—red, red, red— and your grip tightened on the wheel. Your heart was racing now, faster than the engines around you. You weren’t sure if it was fear or excitement, but it didn’t matter.
The lights turned green, and you hit the gas a little harder than planned. The kart jolted forward, and Max let out a quick laugh beside you—not mocking, just amused. “Okay, okay, not bad,” he said, gripping the side of the seat. “Keep it steady, baby. Eyes on the track.”
You nodded, trying to focus, but everything was moving so fast. The wind rushed past your face, the engine roared beneath you, and the track curved ahead like it was daring you to mess up. Max leaned slightly toward you, voice calm but firm.
“Brake a little before the turn. Not during. You’ve got this.”
You followed his instructions, easing into the curve, and to your surprise—it worked. The kart glided through the corner without spinning out or crashing into the barrier. You grinned under the helmet, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.
“See?” Max said, clearly proud. “Natural talent.”
You barely had time to process anything—the speed, the noise, the curve ahead—before Max reached over and casually placed his hand on your thigh. It wasn’t rough or rushed. Just steady. Warm. Like it belonged there. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your heart jumped straight into your throat, and your grip on the wheel faltered for just a second. The next turn came up fast, and you almost missed it entirely.
“Max!” you shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking, as you swerved a little too wide. Your voice was breathless, your cheeks burning, and you couldn’t stop smiling even though you were trying to act annoyed.
He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even flinch. Just leaned in slightly, his voice low and full of amusement. “What? I’m just helping you relax.”
You glanced at him, eyes wide behind the helmet visor. “You’re distracting me!”
Max grinned, completely unfazed. “Not a chance. You’re doing great.”
You shook your head, trying to focus again, but your heart was racing faster than the kart. His hand was still there, grounding you and distracting you all at once. And somehow, even with the chaos of the track and the roar of the engine, you felt safe. Like you could crash and it wouldn’t matter—because he’d be right there, laughing beside you.
The checkered flag waved, fluttering in the wind like a final exclamation point, and your kart zipped across the finish line just a breath ahead of Charles and his. The moment you passed it, your heart nearly exploded with adrenaline. You’d done it. You’d actually won—with Max beside you, coaching you, cheering you on, and somehow making you feel like you belonged in his world.
Max let out a triumphant laugh, the sound full of pride and joy. He turned to you, eyes shining. “See? Told you we wouldn’t crash,” he said, grinning as you both reached up and pulled off your helmets at the same time.
You were breathless, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, but you couldn’t stop smiling. The rush of the race, the thrill of the win, and the warmth of Max’s presence all wrapped around you like a hug. You barely had time to catch your breath before Max leaned over, grabbed your waist, and lifted you out of the kart like it was nothing.
Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, laughing as he held you close. His arms were strong and steady, and you felt completely safe in them—like the world could spin out of control and you’d still be okay as long as he was holding you.
Before you could even react, Max leaned in and kissed you. It was warm, gentle, and full of everything you’d been feeling but hadn’t said out loud. Your knees went weak, your heart fluttered, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.
As Max pulled back from the kiss, still holding you close, you both heard the unmistakable sound of clapping—slow, exaggerated, and clearly sarcastic.
Charles stood a few feet away, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize the winner got a kiss as a trophy. Is that FIA-approved?”
You laughed, cheeks burning, but Max just grinned and tightened his hold on you. “Oh fuck FIA.” he shot back.
───
People always say that if your marriage can survive building IKEA furniture, it can survive anything. And honestly? They weren’t wrong. Because if there was one thing Max Verstappen could do—besides win races and make your heart race—it was turn even the most ordinary task into something dramatic, chaotic, and somehow… special.
It had all started so innocently. One quiet evening, Max looked around the apartment, spotted the overflowing corner of helmets, trophies, race gloves, and random F1 gear, and casually announced, “I need another shelf.” Like it wasn’t already the fifth one. Like his personal shrine to motorsport wasn’t slowly taking over the living room.
You’d barely finished your tea before you were in the car, heading to nearest IKEA. The store was a maze of bright lights and confusing arrows, and the two of you spent way too long arguing over shelf designs and trying to pronounce the Swedish names printed on the boxes. Max insisted that sturdiness could be judged by how aggressive the name sounded. You ended up choosing one that sounded like someone sneezing mid-sentence and tossed it into the trunk, blissfully unaware of the emotional damage waiting at home.
Now, you were on the floor, leaning against the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside you and How to Train Your Dragon playing softly in the background. The room smelled faintly of wood and frustration. Max sat cross-legged across from you, surrounded by a chaotic sea of screws, wooden pegs, and panels that all looked suspiciously similar. He studied the pieces like he was preparing for a race — focused, intense, and slightly overconfident.
You held the instruction manual in your lap, flipping through the pages with growing dread. The diagrams looked like they’d been drawn by someone who hated happiness. You glanced at Max, who was already trying to fit two pieces together that clearly didn’t belong.
You squinted at the instruction manual, turning it sideways, then upside down, then back again. The tiny drawings made no sense, the arrows pointed in every direction, and the parts in front of you looked nothing like the ones in the pictures.
“I can’t understand a single thing,” you groaned, tossing the booklet onto your lap. “This is actual nonsense.”
Max glanced over, already halfway through trying to jam two wooden panels together. He reached for the manual, flipping it over with a smirk. “Maybe because you’re looking at the French side,” he said, holding it up and pointing at the tiny flag in the corner.
You blinked. “Oh.”
He handed it back to you, this time opened to the English section, like it was some sacred scroll. “Voilà,” he said dramatically. “Now we build.”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so annoying.”
You were twenty minutes into building the SNÖRKLIG—or whatever—shelf—and already three emotional breakdowns deep. Your patience was dangling by a thread, or more accurately, by one tiny wooden peg that refused to fit anywhere it was supposed to. The living room looked like a battlefield. Panels were scattered across the floor, screws rolled under the couch, and the instruction booklet had become your personal lifeline.
“I told you that piece goes on the bottom, Max,” you said, clutching the manual like it was sacred scripture. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were wild. You’d stared at the same diagram for so long, you were starting to see it in your dreams.
Max, sitting cross-legged across from you, held a long wooden panel sideways like it was a sword. “No, it doesn’t,” he insisted, pointing at the drawing. “It clearly goes on top. Look at this!”
You leaned over, squinting at the page. Then blinked. Then sighed. “Max… the drawing is upside down.”
He paused, looked at the manual again, then slowly rotated it in his hands. His face shifted from confident to sheepish in about two seconds.
“Oh.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “You’ve been building this thing backwards.”
Max shrugged, still gripping the panel like it hadn’t just betrayed his entire sense of confidence. “Well, it’s a shelf,” he said, voice casual. “It’ll still hold stuff.”
You stared at him, completely deadpan. “No, Max. It will fall. With all your trophies. Do you really want to explain to Christian why your 2023 championship is lying in shattered pieces on the floor because you refused to read IKEA instructions?”
That made him pause.
His eyes flicked to the mess around you—screws scattered like confetti, dowels rolling under the rug, and a pile of wooden panels that looked more like a failed art project than a shelf. He blinked slowly, like reality was finally catching up to him.
“…Maybe we should build it again,” he said, voice quieter now. Almost humble.
You didn’t respond. You just stared at him, blinking once. Slowly.
Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning like he’d just lost a race by half a second. “Oh, fuck this,” he muttered. “Can’t we just steal Charles’s?”
You blinked. “Wait… you actually want to steal a shelf?”
Max held up a screw like it was proof of his suffering. “Yes. I’d rather get arrested in Monaco than build another one of these Swedish nightmares.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your water. “You’re ridiculous.”
He gave you a serious look. “Schat, I drive F1 cars. I build engines in my sleep. But this shelf?” He pointed at the wobbly mess in front of you. “I’m ready to throw it out the window.”
You slid off the couch and sat beside him, bumping his shoulder. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it together. I’ll read the instructions. You build. And no making it up as you go.”
He sighed, but a small smile crept onto his face. “Fine. But if it breaks again, I’m calling Charles and asking for his shelf. I’ll say it’s an emergency.”
You snorted. “Deal.”
Max grabbed the screwdriver like he was on a mission, mumbling in Dutch as he started taking the whole thing apart. You sat cross-legged next to him, reading each step slowly while Toothless blinked on the screen, like he was silently cheering you on.
Halfway through, Max smacked his forehead. “Wait—this piece was upside down the entire time?”
───
The whole evening had felt strange from the start.
You’d just gotten back from the Red Bull event, and something heavy had settled over you, like a weight you couldn’t shake off. Everyone at the event had seemed so sure of themselves. They walked through the room with ease, dressed perfectly, laughing like they’d known each other forever. They spoke in a language you didn’t quite understand—F1 slang, sponsor talk, inside jokes that flew right past you. They belonged there. They fit.
And then there was you.
You’d stayed close to Max, smiled when people looked your way, nodded politely during conversations you didn’t know how to join. You weren’t rude. You weren’t awkward. But you felt like a shadow—present, but not really part of the picture. You weren’t one of them. You didn’t have the same shine, the same confidence, the same rhythm. You were just… there. A little too quiet. A little too unsure. A little too you.
And that thought had stuck. It had crawled into your chest and made a home there, whispering doubts every time you tried to push it away.
You didn’t belong in Max’s world. Not really.
And now, sitting in the quiet of your shared space, that realization was louder than ever. It stirred inside you, uncomfortable and sharp, making you question everything. Not because Max had done anything wrong—but because you weren’t sure you were enough for the life he lived. The spotlight. The pressure. The people who seemed born to be part of it.
You slipped off your heels slowly, one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft thuds. The dull ache in your feet was familiar, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on your chest. It had been building all evening, creeping in during small moments—quiet glances, awkward silences.
Max sat beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, but with that quiet edge that meant he wasn’t going to let it slide.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Talk to me.”
You kept your eyes forward, staring at the wall like it might offer you a way out. You blinked slowly, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, flat and controlled, like if you said it calmly enough, it might become true.
Max didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the shift in him. The way he turned slightly toward you. The way his gaze settled on your face, searching. You didn’t have to look to know he wasn’t buying it.
“Don’t lie, baby,” he said quietly.
“No—I just think you shouldn’t be with someone basic like me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked at the edges, soft and shaky, but honest. “I feel like I don’t belong in your world.”
You didn’t need to look at Max to know he was staring at you like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. You could feel the shift in the air, the way his body tensed beside you, the way his silence turned sharp.
“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, voice low but firm, no hesitation. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What the fuck do you mean I shouldn’t be with you?”
You shook your head, tears brimming, frustration bubbling up. “I mean—I don’t know what tyre strategy works best in fucking Barcelona—“
He snorted, cutting you off before your spiral could go any further. “Neither does Red Bull, so what’s your point, schatje?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden humor in his voice. It was dry, sarcastic, but warm. And it made something inside you loosen just a little.
You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but the weight in your chest hadn’t quite lifted. It was still there, lingering beneath the softness of the moment. “You know what I mean,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
Max tilted his head, eyes warm and steady. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “But I don’t need you to know every world champion since 1960. You’re not Sebastian Vettel.” His tone was light, teasing, but full of truth. Then he reached out, palm open, waiting. “I just want you to be my wife. My Y/n. The one who makes me laugh when everything feels too damn heavy.”
You looked at his hand, heart thudding, and hesitated for only a second before slipping yours into his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like they belonged there.
A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief. “My wife Y/n, who had to Google me the morning after marriage.”
You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming a the memory, “I thought you were footballer!”
“Just remember that you belong with me. Always,” Max said, his voice low and steady, each word wrapped in quiet certainty. He looked at you like you were everything—like nothing else in the world mattered more than you sitting right there beside him. “And the rest? Fuck it.”
You didn’t even get the chance to respond. Before your thoughts could catch up, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—it was grounding. The kind of kiss that said I’ve got you, even when your doubts were loud and your heart felt unsure. The kind that made the noise fade, just for a moment, and reminded you that with him, you were safe.
─── FEW MONTHS LATER
You were home alone while Max was away for the race weekend. Originally, you’d planned to go with him—packed your bag, even picked out your paddock outfit—but work had piled up fast, and someone had to stay back with the cats anyway. Max’s spoiled little shadows had made it clear they preferred you when he was gone, taking turns curling up beside you or watching your every move from the couch like tiny, judgmental bodyguards.
Evening had settled in quietly. The sky outside was a soft shade of blue-gray, and the apartment was filled with the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional sound of a cat jumping down from furniture. You were slumped behind your screen, shoulders aching, eyes twitching from too many hours of emails and spreadsheets. You blinked hard, rubbed your temples, and muttered to yourself, Just one more email. Then I’m done.
And then—ding-dong.
You jumped, heart skipping. The sound sliced through the quiet like a siren.
You hadn’t ordered anything. You weren’t expecting anyone. Max was halfway across the world, and no one ever just showed up.
Brows furrowed, you pushed your chair back slowly, the cats immediately hopping down to follow you like a tiny security team. One brushed against your leg, the other sat at attention near the hallway, tail flicking.
You padded toward the door, cautious, curious, and just a little unnerved.
You opened the door slowly, still unsure what to expect—and were immediately met with a wall of white lilies. A bouquet so massive it looked like it might swallow the delivery man holding it. You blinked, momentarily stunned, the soft scent of the flowers already drifting into the hallway.
“I didn’t order anything?” you said, brows furrowing as you tried to peek around the blooms.
The man glanced down at the tag, then looked back up with a polite smile. “Are you Mrs. Verstappen?”
Your heart did a tiny flip at the sound of the name. Mrs. Verstappen. It still felt surreal every time someone said it out loud. You cleared your throat, suddenly warm all over. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”
He nodded and gently passed the bouquet into your arms. “Then these are yours.”
You took them carefully, the weight of the flowers surprising, petals brushing your cheek as you stepped back inside. The cats stared up at you like you’d just brought home a jungle. You sighed, closed the door behind you, and locked it with a soft click.
You carried the bouquet to the kitchen, heart fluttering, mind already racing with one thought:
Max.
You placed the stunning bouquet into a vase, the lilies blooming like soft stars across your kitchen island. Their scent filled the room, light and calming, and for the first time all evening, the apartment didn’t feel so quiet. It felt like Max had somehow reached across the distance and wrapped the space in warmth.
As you adjusted the stems, fingers brushing against soft petals, something caught your eye—a folded piece of paper tucked gently between the flowers. Your name was scribbled across the front in Max’s unmistakable handwriting, a little messy, a little rushed, but so him.
Your heart fluttered as you pulled it free and unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the edges.
I wish you were here. Don’t work too hard, and please—eat something other than burnt toast. Even though I’m halfway across the world, I need you to remember how deeply loved you are. Always and forever. With love, Verstappen.
babsie radio ! hope u’re not disappointed y’all cuz this is literally fluff w little plot…still was fun to write <3 love love downbad! max. also yes, i love pet name “schatje” i am not sorry if it’s too many times 🤗
taglist. @lvrpiastri @athanasia-day @hott1es @scarlettxx389 @haniette xx
you were cuddled up against rafe in the bed you both shared, his warm skin pressing against yours as his arms wrapped around your barely clothed body.
his fingers drawing lazy patterns into the exposed skin between your tiny tank top and the little pair of grey panties you had on.
rafe's steady breathing matched your own and you could feel his rock hard cock pressing against you through his boxer shorts.
your leg was wrapped loosely around his waist, so when you shifted to try and get more comfortable, your cunt unintentionally rubbed against his bulge.
a soft sound of pleasure left your lips and your eyes flickered open groggily, sleep threatening to pull you back under any second.
your hips automatically rolled lazily against rafe's, his length rubbing against you in the most delicious way.
his fingers pressed against your skin harshly, and although his eyes stayed closed, you could see the ghost of a smirk on his face.
"tryna kill a man in his sleep, hmm?" he murmured, burying his face into your neck and pressing soft kisses against it, savouring the taste of your skin.
your breathing quickly turned ragged as he bumped against your clothed clit, your arousal soaking through the thin material.
"raaafe" you whined, still hazy from the nap the two of you had taken.
he wasted no time in pulling your panties down, his thumb spreading the folds of your sopping pussy apart, "c'mon angel, time to wake up for me"
♡ author's note: for the person who requested something with rafe who’s an ass man!! also this reminded me of my pilates princess fic !!
HOUSEWIFE MASTERLIST ♡ RAFE MASTERLIST
a prompt smack! echoed throughout your kitchen as you felt rafe's hand land on your ass, giving it a sharp smack over your thin shorts. you simply laughed, continuing to make breakfast for you and your husband as the man wrapped his arms around your midriff, pulling you into him. "you're distracting me..." you mumbled as rafe's lips found the side of your neck, a semi pressing into your ass.
"good. means 'm doin' my job right. appreciatin' my wife." he mumbled into your skin as you continued to poke at the omelette with a spatula, "i'm gonna burn our breakfast." you laughed softly as your other hand trailed up to his head, carding through the short strands of hair. "i'd rather have you for breakfast..." rafe's lips trailed down to your shoulder. "you already did." you grinned, "twice."
"and it was the best thing i ever tasted." "greedy man." you laughed softly as you turned the stove off, moving the pan to a burner that was off, before turning around in rafe's arms, looking up at him with a small smile on your face as his hands slid down to cup your ass, one of them squeezing the round flesh. "you're gonna be late for work." "baby, i make my own schedule." he grinned.
"well, i don't make my own schedule." your words made your husband pout, "what's even on your schedule? i made sure to have all your time when we agreed that your only job was to look pretty." you rolled your eyes at his words, even though you couldn't help the small smile on your lips, your cheeks starting to feel warm. "i'm taking some baked goods to the homeless center, then i have pilates and after that, i'm gonna meet up with lola for coffee."
"god, you're almost as busy as me at this point." rafe tsked, looking down at you with a grin, "my little philanthropist." he gave one last smack to your ass before pulling away, "alright. let's have breakfast i guess." your husband grumbled.
when you got home, you were still in your pilates gear, a pair of tight white leggings, a matching sports bra, and a light pink fitted zip-up jacket. you looked down at your watch and noticed there was still around an hour before rafe would be getting home.
thirty minutes later, as you were cutting vegetables for dinner, you heard the front door open and close, your brows rising slightly in surprise when your husband walked to the kitchen doorway, a grin on his lips, "you're home early." you chuckled softly as he strode to you with confidence, rolling up his sleeves. "i had something urgent to tell you."
"what's up?" you asked, your brows furrowing in confusion and slight concern, only for rafe to bring his lips to yours and sliding his arms around your waist, catching you off guard, until eventually, you melted into the kiss.
when he pulled away from the kiss, you looked up at him with your brows raised, "was that the urgent thing you just had to tell me?" "oh, no." rafe grinned down at you, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "it was that i missed you."
you smack his chest softly with a floral-patterned oven mitt, feeling your cheeks warm up at his honeyed words, your lips starting to quirk up before you turned back to the vegetables you were cutting, picking the knife back up. "i have dinner to prepare."
"y'know, we could always just order in..." rafe's large hand slid onto your back as his eyes, hungry for something other than the meal you'd planned to prepare, trailed down your body, his hand following suite to the curve of your ass, a grin slowly taking over his lips, "these new?" he mumbled, referring to the white leggings you were wearing, "yeah, yeah. i wore them to pilates."
that made your husband let out a dramatic gasp, "you're telling me you wore these in front of other people?" he gave your ass a soft smack, making you chuckle, "and did you wear them when you went out for coffee, too?" "naturally." that earned you a slightly sharper smack, rafe watching your ass bounce slightly in the skin-tight fabric, "haven't we talked about how i don't want you showing my pretty ass to other men?"
"oh? it's your ass now?" you laughed; you were well aware of rafe's obsession with your ass; he loved smacking it, rubbing it, squeezing it, resting his head on it when you were laying in bed... whenever you two went out somewhere, his hand was unashamedly resting on your ass, no matter how inappropriate.
"as long as you have those rings on your finger this ass belongs to me." rafe grins, pulling you into him, his lips finding your neck, each of his actions convincing you more and more, a low whine leaving your lips, "c'mon, baby. we could order in, fool around on the couch a bit before the food arrives..." his large hand slid down the waistband of your shorts, your breath getting caught in your throat as you arched into him, the back of your head going to rest on your shoulder.
"rafe..." "c'mon..."
when his hand slid down into your panties and rafe's long middle finger made contact with your clit, you could finally feel yourself give in, the knife clattering down onto the cutting board. he spun you around, making you squeal, his strong hands gripping your hips, "is that a yes?"
you rolled your eyes as if it was a bother and let out a soft breath of a laughter.
"it's a yes." you mumbled, connecting your lips with rafe's.
summary: your boyfriend rafe helps you pick your outfit for a night out with your friends.
word count: 1.8k
warnings: language. rafe is so dramatic lol.
author's note: a little blurb while you wait for the bigger fics :) (i also like this aesthetic for the blurbs lol)
ꫂ᭪݁
If there's something you love about weekends is stressing Rafe out.
It’s not your fault Kelce and Topper suddenly feel like a waste of time to him. It’s not your fault he’d rather stay home, phone nearby, half-waiting for your call at four in the morning asking him to come get you from somewhere he already doesn’t like. And it’s definitely not your fault that you look the way you do.
Rafe knows all of that. That doesn’t stop him from wanting someone to blame. A reason. Something concrete. Because the idea that you just exist like this —effortless, dangerous, an unregistered angel from heaven— doesn’t sit right with him.
You take forever doing your makeup. Rafe lies back on the bed, pretending he isn’t watching. He knows it’s not accidental. You’re not just putting things on your face—you’re choosing what to emphasize, what to sharpen, what to leave alone. It’s controlled and intentional. That’s what gets him.
He doesn’t understand how you know exactly what works. He just knows it does.
And then you start trying on outfits.
That's when it becomes torture.
Because most weekends aren't just 'going out to party' with your friends. No, it's a night out. And in nights out, everything is valid— it could be a party, it could be a bar, it could be dinner and a bar. People who are at those are definitely conscious enough to notice the way you look straight out of a magazine.
Ironically enough, Rafe would prefer you'd go to house party from someone you don't even know where people are so damn hammered, they won't even notice your looks.
The first outfit is already too good.
It's a simple dress. Black, tight and simple enough that lets you be the actual thing that is shining. Its casualness only brings you up even more, it makes eyes focus solemnly on you and not on what you're wearing.
It's a trap.
The second you step back into the room, Rafe's eyes are already following every movement you do like a police dog. Not a single detail goes missing under his gaze, that's what makes him stand up from other men.
His gaze runs down your body slow and deliberate, head tilting slightly as if judging with far too much intensity how this might be too much for 'just drinks'.
“You’re killing me,” He mutters under his breath, stepping closer until he’s just within reach.
He crosses his arms over his chest— trying (and failing) to look stern.
“That dress better have a coat,” He says flatly. “A long one.”
His words only make you huff. You roll your eyes while smoothing a hand down the fabric, turning around just a little bit to catch different angles. And Rafe wants to die when he sees you doing it.
"Of course not, Rafe." You say with just a little bit of irritation, dismissing him. "It's hot outside."
You inspect the details only you're able to catch, humming a moment later as you let out a soft smile. "It's good, right?"
Of course it is. You make it good.
If he was hoping you'd agree with him (which, he definitely was), he's out of luck because you look absolutely damn perfect.
But God, does he not like how short the damn thing is...
He steps in behind you, presses close, arm wrapping low around your waist before his chin drops onto your shoulder. The mirror makes it worse— your reflection framed by him, like it belongs that way.
“It’s too damn short,” He mutters, breath warm against your neck.
You slap his hand away before he can get comfortable, slipping out of his hold like you planned it. “Great. I wanna show some cheek.”
Your smile alone is enough to push him over the edge.
He clicks his tongue, squeezes your hip once more before you escape, leaning in just enough to growl. “Don’t get smart with me." He gives your ass a sharp swat as you disappear back toward the closet.
The door shuts and Rafe drops back onto the bed like he's been hit.
He exhales, long and miserable, staring up at the ceiling.
This is stupid. He knows it's stupid. He's not that guy— the one who tells his girlfriend what she can and can't wear, who gets weird about it. That's not him. He trusts you. He respects you.
Unfortunately, none of that helps with the fact that you look insane.
He drags a hand down his face, groaning quietly. This is the real issue. Not jealousy or control. Just the unbearable reality that he's deeply, painfully attracted to you and has to live with it every time you leave the house.
It's a curse, honestly.
He’s not mad. That’s the worst part. He’s not trying to stop you, not trying to change you. He knows better than that. He likes that you look good. Loves it, actually. Loves that you don’t need permission, that you don’t soften yourself for anyone— including him.
He’s just… doomed.
Because you look like that, and you’re going out, and he has to sit here and live with it.
He's already exhausted. He thinks about the way people are going to look at you, the double takes, the lingering stares. He imagines someone saying something stupid, something obvious, and you handling it effortlessly because you always do. That’s what kills him— the certainty that you’ll be fine without him.
He needs to take a moment when you walk out again with a different outfit.
Your silk dark brown top is clinging just enough to be unfair. The black shorts are criminal— tiny, low-rise, doing absolutely nothing to help his blood pressure. The boots are almost high to your knees.
Rafe stares for a second too long.
“Baby,” He says, dragging a hand down his face, already stressed. “Your ass is out.” He's in disbelief at what he's seeing.
He sounds genuinely distressed. Like this is a problem that needs solving immediately.
“My ass is not out,” You huff, stepping in front of the mirror, already dismissing him.
He’s up before he realizes it, reaching out and pinching the tiniest bit of cheek that escaped the bottom of your shorts. “What the hell is that, then?” He asks, incredulous, offended.
You jump, groaning, slapping his hand away. “Don’t.”
He exhales sharply, hands lifting like he’s surrendering. “Baby. Please.”
It comes out rough. Not angry— defeated.
You shift your weight, checking yourself in the mirror, and the shorts ride up just a fraction. Rafe groans like he’s in physical pain, leaning back, hands braced on the dresser, eyes tracing every line of you. The way the shorts hug your hips. The way the top falls just right.
He laughs once, breathless and miserable. “I never say this. You know I never say this.”
You glance at him, amused. Dangerous.
“I’m begging you,” He says, dead serious now. “Change. Just—change this one. I’ll survive anything else. I swear.”
He looks at you like a man asking for mercy. Like he’s begging for you to spare him a slow, public death even tho he's going to be staying at home.
“You look insane,” He adds, softer now, miserable about it. “Like—actually. I’m not trying to control anything, I just… can't.” He finishes his speech.
You adjust the top, inspecting yourself again, clearly unconvinced.
You would normally joke about this, but the way he looks genuinely concerned makes you not to. And he's lucky enough that you're feeling nice tonight.
You throw your head back with a groan, already stomping your way back to the closet. "I liked this one, Rafe!" You let him know.
Rafe is back on the bed by the time you walk out of the closet for a third (and what Rafe doesn't know is the last) time.
You're wearing jeans, and for one second —one single blessed second— he feels some sweet relief. Then, his eyes go up your body and see... the devil. This black top that simulated a corset was on you and it fitted like a glove. Doing God's work. Tits up— defying gravity, physics, and his will to live.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." He buries his face on his hands.
"So?" You smile, already feeling so confident.
His eyes rake over the rest of you just as slowly, lingering on the little bit of skin between the hem of the top and the low rise jeans, the belt slung low and loose around your hips.
He lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding as his head falls back against the headboard with a thud, eyes still glued to you.
"This," He murmurs, one hand coming up to rub his temples. "This is not better, baby."
You hum in response, already focused on the accessories spread out in front of you, trying to choose the best one for this look. Necklaces, chains, options— but you already know. This is the one. Because of course it is. The top is a miracle, honestly. It would be disrespectful not to wear it.
Rafe pushes himself up and steps closer. “I could just—” He reaches out, tugging the fabric down an inch to demonstrate his point. “See? Anyone could do that!” He says, feigning enthusiasm.
You swat his hand away. “Oh, come on. You bought this one. Suck it up.”
He gives you the look. Eyes narrowed and jaw tight. That exact mix of annoyed and painfully turned on that makes him feel victimized.
“I bought it for me,” Rafe says with obvious, hands sliding to your hips again like he can’t help himself. He's clinging so bad. “Not for every random guy at the bar to stare at.”
His eyes dip —traitorously— back to your chest.
They look so good.
He swallows, shaking his head off the way you look. "Shit's crazy..." He sighs in defeat. "Whatever— I lose, I guess."
You turn slightly, smiling when you see his expression— dramatic, resigned, still very into you. You cup his face, thumbs brushing his jaw.
“I’ll come back to you," You promise easily. “Same way I always do.”
He huffs. “You better.” There's not a chance that you don't. He doesn't entertain the idea.
“I’ll call you when I wanna leave,” You add, softer now.
He hums, the same way you do while his eyes soften and they slowly make their way all over your beautiful face. "Hope that's soon..." His voice drops, leaning in to get a sweet kiss from you, something that'll give him motivation for the rest of the night.
But you're faster, you turn your face away and let his lips fall against your cheek, he accepts it and kisses there anyways— your lip combo is staying untouched. "It never is." You sweetly sing, pushing him to reality.
Rafe's forehead falls helplessly against your shoulder, inhaling and memorizing the perfume you're wearing tonight in case he needs to go find you. And he will find you.
jungkook x reader | established relationship, domestic fluff:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
word count: 1,000
author’s note:
i wanted to write abt jks silly and goofy side !!
content warnings:
fluff, established relationship, heavy making out, groping/teasing, suggestive content (no full smut)
synopsis:
You’re trying to leave for girls’ night. Jungkook has other plans involving his jean jacket, your lipgloss, and zero intention of letting you go easily.
You stood in front of the full-length mirror, sliding your black trousers over your hips and smoothing the hem of your tight black tank top. Jungkook’s oversized jean jacket hung loose off your shoulders, the sleeves swallowing your hands. It smelled like him—warm cologne, faint detergent, and that comforting scent that always made you want to stay home.Behind you, Jungkook was sprawled across the bed like he owned it, shirtless in nothing but those gray sweats that sat dangerously low on his hips. The deep V-line was fully visible, and every time he shifted, the fabric slipped a little more. His messy hair fell into his eyes as he watched you, phone long forgotten.
“Baby,” he whined, voice playful, “why the fuck do you look that hot? I’m suffering over here.”You laughed, leaning closer to the mirror to apply your lipgloss. “It’s girls’ night, Kook. I’ll be back in a few hours.”He rolled off the bed and padded over barefoot, pressing himself against your back. His bare chest was warm, and you could feel the hard planes of his abs through the thin jacket.
Strong arms wrapped around your waist, hands splaying possessively over your stomach as his chin dropped to your shoulder.“You’re wearing my jacket again,” he mumbled, lips brushing your neck. “Stealing my clothes and looking this good should be a crime. You’re basically walking around with my name on you.”“It’s comfy,” you shrugged, smiling at his reflection.
He hummed, then slowly slid his hands down to your hips, squeezing. “Comfy, huh?” His voice dropped lower. “I like how it looks on you… but I also hate it. Makes me wanna take it off you already.”
Before you could respond, he spun you around and kissed you—soft at first, then deeper. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip, stealing most of the gloss in one go.“Jungkook!” you gasped, pulling back and touching your mouth.He licked his lips and immediately scrunched his face.
“Ughhh—why does it taste like melted plastic strawberries? It’s so bad. Like, chemically depressed strawberry flavor.”You burst out laughing and smacked his bare chest. “You’re such an idiot.”“Your idiot,” he corrected proudly, grinning. Then his eyes darkened a little as they raked over you. “But even with gross lipgloss… you still taste good.”He leaned in again, kissing you harder this time.
One hand cupped the back of your neck while the other slipped under the hem of your tank top, palm sliding up your bare skin and gripping your waist. The kiss turned messy fast—his tongue playing with yours, sucking on your bottom lip like he was determined to remove every trace of gloss.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing heavier.“Still gross?” you asked, lips tingling.“Disgusting,” he said seriously, then smirked. “But I’m addicted now. C’mere.”He lifted you onto the edge of the dresser in one smooth motion, stepping between your legs.
The sweats did nothing to hide how hard he was getting. His hands roamed under the jacket, pushing it open so he could kiss down your neck, sucking lightly just below your ear.“Kook… I have to go soon,” you breathed, even as your fingers tangled in his hair.“I know, I know,” he mumbled against your skin, but his hands didn’t stop. They stayed firm on your waist and hips, pulling you closer.
“Just five more minutes. Or ten. Or… all night.”You laughed softly, tugging his hair so he’d look at you. His lips were shiny with your gloss, eyes half-lidded and playful.“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered.“Yeah, but you love it.” He leaned in and kissed you again, slow and filthy this time—deep rolls of his tongue, gentle bites on your lower lip, hips pressing forward so you could feel exactly what you were doing to him. His hard length rubbed against your inner thigh through the thin layers, teasing.He broke the kiss with a dramatic groan.
“This lipgloss is actually evil. Tastes like shit but makes your lips so soft… I can’t stop.” He pecked you again, quick and stupid, then pulled a face. “See? Still gross. Like strawberry candy gave up on life.”
You giggled, wiping the corner of his mouth with your thumb. He caught your wrist and kissed your finger instead.“Keep laughing like that and I’m throwing you on the bed,” he warned, but his eyes were sparkling with that signature Jungkook mischief. “I’ll tell the girls you got kidnapped by your ridiculously hot boyfriend. They’ll understand.”
His hands kept wandering—squeezing your ass, sliding up your thighs, thumbs pressing into your hips like he was fighting the urge to strip you right there. He leaned down and pressed open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone and neck.“Jungkook,” you warned, half-laughing, half-turned on.
He looked up at you with big puppy eyes, lips shiny. “What? I’m being supportive. Sending you off with good luck kisses.”You cupped his face and kissed him once more, softer this time. He melted instantly, arms wrapping around you in a warm hug while his hands still roamed.
Eventually you pulled away, fixing your smudged gloss while he watched, pouting.“Go have fun,” he said, voice husky but sweet. “But text me. A lot. And send pictures. Especially if you’re still wearing my jacket.” He smirked.
“Actually, especially if you take it off later and show me what’s underneath.”You shook your head, smiling. “You’re impossible.”He walked you to the door, still shirtless, sweats hanging low, and pulled you into one last long hug. His hands slipped down to squeeze your ass as he kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips again—quick and silly.“
Love you,” he murmured. “Even with your tragic lipgloss choices.”“Love you too, you big goof.”As you stepped into the hallway, he called after you:“And bring me fries! Or I’ll be sad and horny when you get back!”
You laughed the entire way down the hall, heart full and lips still tingling, already counting down the minutes until you were back with your favorite stupid, sweet, handsy boyfriend.
୨୧ megumi fushiguro can’t stop kissing you during sex
megumi would kiss you all day if he could.
it’s the highlight of his day, he just loves your kisses. before he leaves the house, he always leans down to kiss you gently to not wake you if you’re still sleeping. if you wake up before he does, he will definitely not hesitate to pull you in closer, giving you a loving kiss even with your morning breath. he never cared, that’s how much he loves to kiss you.
whenever the two of you cuddle in down time, wether that be on the couch watching tv, or just sitting outside together, his lips always seem to find themselves on yours. he always kisses you with love and care, he knows that he always gets a bit flustered whenever he expresses his love for you, so his kisses makes up for it. a silent way of saying ‘i love you so much’
since he spends so much time kissing you, megumi is naturally a great kisser. he tends to get a little carried away when he makes out with you, always starting off soft and gentle, then shifting to passionate and greedy. lips almost swallowing yours, pressing you into the closest surface as his tongue invades your mouth.
at any opportunity he gets to kiss you, he takes it. he loves to kiss you anywhere, your forehead while he sits outside your bathtub while you soak, your cheek whenever he sees you concentrating on your phone. kissing down your shoulders whenever you show him your pretty outfits, gentle kisses on your thighs before and after eating you out.
megumi never knows how to let up when he gets to kiss you like that, always leaving you breathless every time you manage to pull away for a breather. he only allows a few seconds to pass before his lips needly slot against yours once more, letting out subtle moans into your mouth as his hard on pokes your thigh.
he’s especially the same in bed, getting lost in your lips as he pulls orgasm after orgasm from you. he’s got you in missionary, body leaning over yours, practically shielding you from the outside word as his tip pressing into your sweet spot with every deep thrust into your cunt.
he let out a drawn out moan into your mouth, pulling back mere inches to catch his breath. “s’fucking pretty..” mchh! “my pretty baby…” mchh! “love you so much.” he mumbled against your lips between kisses, hips speeding up and fucking his aching cock into you quicker.
the little space between you was sticky and sloppy, his precum mixing with your arousal as he hiked your thigh higher up, holding onto you gently compared to his rough thrusts. you could hardly catch your breath, his constant kisses making you dizzy with pleasure as his cock slid in and out of your soaked cunt, his tip bulging in your tummy every time he fucked into you to the hilt.
your nails raked down his back, moaning weakly into his mouth as his tongue traced yours, kisses growing more messy by the second. as much as you loved his kisses, you needed to catch your breath. you pulled on his hair, your agreed upon silent way of saying ‘i need a breather.’ megumi let out a small whine in protest, reluctantly pulling away to let you catch your breath.
the sight below him almost made him cum.
your lips were kiss swollen, plush tits rising and falling rapidly with each breath you took, subtle bump forming in your lower tummy from his deep and languid thrusts. “you feel so fucking good—baby…you feel that?” he muttered filthy, gripping onto your hand and pressing it into the cock print. you clenched around him impossibly tighter, whining as he pressed your hand into it, pleasure washing over you as squelches filled the room.
megumi’s lips crashed back onto yours, desperate to feel your lips on his once more as he reached up to cup your tit, kneading the supple skin as he continued to fuck you onto his cock with fervor, thrusts almost losing rhythm from how good you felt wrapped around him.
you wrapped your legs around his waist tighter, cunt sucking him in impossibly deeper every time he pulled his cock back, almost like it didn’t want him to leave. the hand that held your thigh snaked down to your clit, rubbing dizzying and intoxicating circles on your clit, eager to feel you come undone around him.
your back arched off the bed, chest flush against his as the kisses grew messy and sloppy, lips moving against each other desperately as your moans grew in pitch in his mouth. the lack of oxygen made your pleasure increase by tenfold, pussy throbbing and spasming around him as your orgasm approached rapidly.
megumi continued drawing figure eights on yours sensitive clit as his cock twitched and leaked pre into your cunt obscenely, taking everything in him to not cum before you just by kissing you. heat bloomed between your legs, your body locking up as an intense orgasm washed over you, your legs trembling around megumi’s hips as your slick cum soaking the both of you and the sheets below, moaning his name breathlessly into his mouth.
his hips lost complete rhythm, now moving on base instinct as he chased his orgasm, leaving short and desperate kisses on your lips between moans. his cum spurt into you deeply with thick, warm ropes filling you to the brim as his orgasm washed over him, cock fucking into you slowly and gently as he rode out his orgasm.
megumi finally pulled up, leaving one last lingering kiss on your now kiss swollen and worn lips, allowing you to catch your breath as he cupped your facd gently, his cum beginning to drip out around the two of you from the sheer amount of it.
he mumbled mindless praises as his hands gently soothed over your body, easing your body out of your intense orgasm with words of affirmation. his eyes fell from your face to your neck, leaning down to place soft kisses along your neck despite your playful whines and protests.
when it comes to kissing you, megumi would never be satisfied.
Summary: Oscar's girlfriend has seemingly always ran into things, bruised herself and Oscar had got used to preventing her from doing more harm to herself. But then she finally gets her eyes tested and to say the least suddenly she's seeing a whole new world.
Author's notes: This is literally me getting my eyes tested recently and it turning out I need glasses :D but I'm single so no one saved me from my lack of ability to see and hurt myself due to that.
Word count: 1.3k
Oscar's hand slips between y/n's forehead and the open cupboard as she turns completely unaware of the impending hit.
"We agreed." Oscar states as he releases her head and closes the cupboard.
"But it's not because I didn't see it, it's just because-"
"You agreed, y/n." Oscar repeats since he's been on y/n about getting her eyes checked for nearly a year now.
It doesn't help that she's a product of their generation and glued to a screen whenever possible. Not that she ignores Oscar in favour of a screen but her phone is rarely not in her hand if she's conscious.
But y/n's sight has plummeted in her ability to just see things and it's started to cause issues in terms of constantly injuring her. Oscar has been pretty good at preventing injury over the past few months but after the black eye from a car door she didn't realise was as close as it was, Oscar has been hounding her none stop and threatening to drag her there against her.
Y/n sighs knowing her boyfriend has reason to be concerned, he caught some strays in accusations when y/n arrived with a black eye to a race following a really bad weekend for him the previous weekend.
They both had to thank god that Kym had captured the moment on camera otherwise there might've been some issues getting people to believe that y/n's injury was self-inflicted.
"Alright, I'll get an appointment." Y/n nods earning a nod and smile from the Aussie. "But I don't know what we're gonna do if they say my sight isn't a problem."
"They won't say that. There's no risk of that." Oscar assures her since there's not a doubt in his system that y/n is not in need of visual aid.
-
Y/n wasn't told she is legally blind but the optician was not the slightest bit surprised that she couldn't navigate by signs, that she'd had more bumps and curb scraps while driving and injured herself more than your average person.
"You wouldn't be willing to just lie, would you?" Y/n asks making optician give her a deadpanned expression.
"You need glasses to drive. Legally." The optician states earning a sigh, that's not really something she'd like to put on her licence. Not that she drives all that much, a perk of having a boyfriend who drives for a living. She has given up that sort of thing. "Really I would advise you wear glasses whenever you are up out of bed."
"That bad?" Y/n mumbles before he places the lenses he'd pieced together for her to show her just how clear the world is. "What if it turns out my boyfriend is hideous?"
"You love him?"
"Yeah."
"Then he won't be...but if he's that bad then the perk of glasses is you can take them off when you don't want them to work."
Y/n laughs a little, actually grateful the optician played along with her joking concern before she sighs.
"I hope he's here to make sure you're not thinking about driving yourself home."
"He's here." Y/n smiles with a flush before she sighs a little and stands up. "He knew I needed glasses but I've been putting it off. Guess I have to find a pair that I actually like and want to wear then?"
"That's usually how we do it."
Y/n steps out with a sigh looking at Oscar's form as he stands up waiting for her.
"So what's the verdict?"
"I need glasses, and I legally need them to drive."
"Well we knew that after that poor old lady got rear-ended." Oscar smiles earning a huff since y/n did not need the reminder of that moment since the elderly woman really gave her a stern talking to while she just about cried. "I was looking at some frames you might like."
Y/n softens as she looks at him and he walks her around watching her try on different glasses and helping her since y/n does care what he thinks even if he's a little unhelpful.
"Alright, these are the ones." Y/n decides after managing to get a good look at herself and being happy that they don't make her feel completely hideous.
So after paying for that and being told it'll be about a week for them to process and get the glasses made before shipping them out to her.
It means another week of Oscar preventing injury, though her does fail when y/n manages to get a bruise in her side when she's walking around the garage and managed to smack into one of the counters dodging a mechanic and not realising how close she was to something so solid.
But finally the glasses arrive and y/n feels like she's looking at a whole new world.
"I didn't know glasses would come with you excessively staring at me." Oscar comments as y/n settles herself down to lie down on top of him and just watches him, eyes looking at him with focused admiration. "Did you think I'd be ugly when you could see me properly?"
"No. But I guess I didn't realise how beautiful you'd be when I could see the details I couldn't see before." Y/n sighs dreamily then settling down while Oscar just smiles at y/n.
"I'm just glad we've eradicated risk of more black eyes-even if it's just because the glasses are a bit of protection rather than preventative."
"I'm not that bad."
"Yes, you are baby." Oscar smiles using one hand to grab her face so he can squish her cheeks together. "But you look cute so I can't hold it against you."
"You can't hold it against me anyway. It's not my fault my eyes don't work like they should. And can I just say it does suck that I have to pay to see? Like how is it fair?"
"I'll cover the cost so you can see me and stare as much as you like." Oscar states earning a small sigh before he moves his hand to gently stroke her cheek. "I think you look beautiful with your glasses."
"Thank you."
Oscar smiles feeling the heat of her skin increase as she gets a little flustered from his compliment and gentle touch. Y/n pulls off her glasses to lie down and get some sleep while Oscar takes them folding them up and putting them in a safe place that they aren't at risk of being crushed and broken by a body.
He doesn't so much as care about the cost of replacing them, obviously money isn't an issue for her, but it's mainly about her going another week without glasses to see.
"Does it feel different without glasses?" Oscar asks while starting to play with y/n's hair, feeling her relaxing down against him at the action.
"Not really, but I've not been going long without them. They did say I could get headaches not wearing them now. But I haven't so far...mainly just take them off for showering and sleeping so not much chance. I think it's because your eyes just get used to not having to focus on their own." Y/n theorises before shrugging. "But I don't know. They help me actually see that's my only concern."
"I just want you to not get hurt and they've helped so far." Oscar smiles while y/n hums already starting to drift off.
you approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. he opens his mouth to ask for the special. instead, oscar says, “would you like to get married?”
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader.
ꔮ word count: 15.7k.
ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, humor. mentions of food, alcohol. marriage of convenience, fake dating, set mostly in monaco, serious creative liberties on citizenship/residency rules, google translated french. title from the fray’s look after you (which i would highly recommend listening to while reading).
ꔮ commentary box: i thought this would be short, but i fear i’m physically incapable of shutting up about oscar piastri. sue me. wrote this in one deranged sitting, and i leave it to all of you now 💍 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
♫ almost (sweet music), hozier. a drop in the ocean, ron pope. hazy, rosi golan ft. william fitzsimmons. fidelity, regina spektor. just say yes, snow patrol. archie, marry me, alvvays.
Oscar Piastri fails his second attempt at Monaco residency on a Tuesday.
The rejection letter is folded too crisply, sealed in a government envelope so sterile it might as well be laughing at him. He stares at it while sipping overpriced espresso from the balcony of his apartment—well, technically, his team principal’s apartment, but the view of the harbor is the same. He watches a seagull steal a croissant from a toddler and thinks: that bird has more rights here than I do.
It’s not that he needs Monaco, but it would make things easier. Taxes, residency, team logistics. Mostly, he just hates the principle of it. He’s raced these streets. Risked his life at La Rascasse. Smiled through grid walks, kissed the trophy once, twice. How much more Monégasque does he need to be?
Still, the Principality remains unimpressed.
Oscar is dreadfully impatient about it all.
He walks to lunch out of spite. Refuses the team car. Chooses the one place that doesn’t care who he is: Chez Colette, tucked between a florist and a family-run tailor, with sun-faded menus and the same specials board since 2004. It smells like lemon and anchovy and garlic confit. Monaco’s soul in three notes.
You’re wiping down a table when he steps in. You don’t look up right away.
He knows your name, but he won’t say it aloud. That would make it too real. Instead, he watches the way your fingers move over the woodgrain, the tiny gold cross around your neck. No wedding ring.
Definitely Monégasque. Probably born here. He’s seen your grandmother in the back, slicing pissaladière with a surgeon’s precision.
You approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. He opens his mouth to ask for the special.
Instead, he says, “Would you like to get married?”
There’s a beat of silence so clean you could plate oysters on it.
Your brow lifts, just slightly. “Pardon?”
Oscar’s own voice catches up with him. “I mean. Lunch. And then—maybe—marriage. If you’re free. Not in the next hour. Just in general.”
Another beat. Then you laugh, low and incredulous. Your English is heavily accented. A telltale sign you learned it for the express purpose of surviving the service industry. “Is this because of the citizenship thing?”
He stares at you.
You shrug, eyes twinkling. “You’re not the first to ask.”
Oscar groans and slumps back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course I’m not.”
You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.
“How do you feel about pissaladière?” you ask, scribbling on your notepad.
“Is that a yes?”
You walk away without answering. He watches you disappear into the kitchen, the sound of your laughter softening the corners of his day.
He’s not sure what he just started. But he knows he’s coming back tomorrow.
And so Oscar returns the next day. Then the day after that. And the one after that.
At first, it’s curiosity. Then it’s habit. Eventually, it becomes something closer to ritual. Lunch. Sometimes dinner. Once, a midnight snack after sim practice, when he told himself he needed carbs and not just a glimpse of the waitress with the tired eyes and fast French.
He likes the way the place smells. He likes the handwritten menu and the old radio that crackles Edith Piaf like it’s a lullaby. He likes you, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too often.
You mumble French at him when he walks in. The first time, he wasn’t sure if it was welcome or warning. Now, he knows it’s both.
You’re usually wiping something down or balancing three plates on one arm. You never wear makeup. Your apron’s always tied in a double knot. And you never, ever miss a chance to call him out.
“If you’re here to poach the brandamincium recipe, you’ll have to marry my grandmother,” you tell him one afternoon.
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I hear she’s already married to the oven.”
You snort, and his chest flares with something stupid and bright.
The regulars give him side-eyes. Your grandmother watches him like she’s trying to solve an equation. Still, you never ask him to leave.
He tips well. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just grateful. For the peace. For the food. For you.
One night, the lights are low and the chairs are half-stacked when he shows up with two tarte aux pommes from the bakery down the street. You look at him like you’re considering throwing him out. Instead, you pour two glasses of wine and sit.
He peels the parchment off the pastries. “Chez Colette. Named after your grandmother?”
You nod. “She started it with my grandfather. 1973.”
He glances around. The cracked tiles. The curling menus. The handwritten notes on the wall that must be decades old. “And now it’s yours”
“Sort of,” you say dismissively. “I wait tables. I do the books. I fix the pipes. Mostly I pray the rent doesn’t go up again.”
Oscar feels a twist beneath his ribs. He’s spent millions on cars. Watches. Sim rigs. But this—this tiny restaurant and your soft frown—feels more fragile than any of it.
“It’s perfect,” he says.
You look at him with the sort of grin that unravels him. “It’s dying.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he takes a bite of tart. Lets the silence sit between you. He swallows his mouthful of pastry, then says, “Then maybe we save it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “We?”
Oscar smiles. When you don’t tell him to leave, he makes a decision.
He returns three days later, after hours. He doesn’t mean to knock twice, but the restaurant is dark, the chairs up, the shutters half-drawn like the building itself is asleep. Still, he raps his knuckles on the glass, envelope in hand, because this isn’t something he can deliver over a text. Or a tart.
You appear after a minute, hair pinned up, sweatshirt on instead of your apron. You squint at him through the glass like he’s forgotten what day it is.
“We’re closed,” you say as you open the door halfway.
“I know,” Oscar replies, holding up the envelope. “I brought... paperwork.”
Your brows knit. You glance down at the crisp white rectangle like it might bite. “If that’s a menu suggestion, je jure devant Dieu—”
“It’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s—alright, this is going to sound completely mental, but just let me get through it.”
You cross your arms. “Go on, then.”
Oscar takes a breath. You’re still not letting him in; he figures he deserves it. “There’s a clause,” he starts slowly, “in the citizenship law. A foreign spouse of a Monegasque national can apply for residency after one year of marriage and continuous residence in the Principality.”
“I’m aware.”
He opens the envelope and slides out three neat pages, stapled, formatted like a sponsor contract. He’d asked his agent to help without saying why. Said it was a tax thing. That part wasn’t entirely a lie.
“This is a proposal,” he continues. “One year of marriage. Eighteen months, technically, to be safe. We live here, we do all the legal bits. Then we file for annulment, or divorce, or whatever keeps it clean. No... weird stuff. Just paperwork.”
You stare at him. He rushes on.
“In return, I’ll wire you 10% of my racing salary during the term. That’s around 230,000 euros. And 5% annually for five years after. You can use it however you want. To keep Chez Colette open. Renovate. Hire help. Buy better wine. I don’t care.”
You say nothing. The silence stretches. A bird flutters past the awning. Oscar rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not asking for a real marriage. Just a legal one,” he manages. “You’ve seen how hard it is for people like me to get a foothold here. I’ve driven Monaco more times than I’ve driven my home streets. I want to stay. I just... can’t do it alone.”
You look at the contract, then back at him. “You typed up a prenup for a fake marriage?”
“Technically it’s a postnup,” he mutters, half to himself.
Something in your face shifts. Not quite a smile. But not a no, either. “You’re serious,” you say, scanning his face for any hint of doubt.
“I really am.”
You shake your head, understandably overwhelmed and disbelieving that this acquaintance had plucked you out of nowhere for his grand citizenship scheme. “Give me a few days. I need to think.”
Oscar nods. He doesn’t push. He just hands you the envelope and steps back into the fading light of Rue Grimaldi.
Two days later, you tell him to come over once again. You give him a specific time.
The restaurant is closed again, but this time it’s by design—chairs down, kettle on, one ceramic pot of lavender still bravely holding on near the window. The table between you is small. A two-seater wedged against the wall beneath a sepia photo of Grace Kelly.
Oscar sits across from you, spine a little too straight, as if you’re about to interrogate him in a language he doesn’t speak. You’re reading the contract like it’s the terms of his parole.
“Alright,” you say, flipping the page with a deliberate rustle. “Ground rules.”
He nods, trying not to look as if he’s bracing for impact.
“One: I’m not changing my last name.”
“Didn’t expect you to,” Oscar says.
“Two: no pet names in public. No ‘darling,’ no ‘chérie,’ and absolutely no ‘babe.’”
He makes a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘babe’ in my life.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
You tap the next section of the contract. “Three: no sharing a bed. We alternate who gets the apartment when the press is nosy, but I don’t care how Monégasque the walls are. We are not reenacting a romcom.”
“I like my own space.”
“Four,” you continue, now fully warmed up, “if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend in another country who thinks this is all some hilarious prank, I will go on record. Publicly. With—how do you say?—receipts.”
Oscar’s eyes widen, then he laughs. He can’t help it. You’re glaring, but it only makes him grin harder. “There is no secret girlfriend,” he assures, still smiling. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
You study him a second longer. He meets your gaze. Not in a cold way. More like someone trying very hard to be worthy of trust.
“Alright,” you murmur, sitting back. “We have only one problem.”
“Do we?”
“This.” You gesture vaguely between the contract, the table, and him. “This is very convincing on paper. But people will ask questions. My grandmother will ask questions.”
“I figured as much,” Oscar says, drawing a breath. “Which is why we’ll need to... date. First.”
“Date,” you say, testing the word out on. Your nose scrunches up a bit. Cute, Oscar thinks, and then he crashes the thought into the wall of his mind so he nevers thinks it again.
“Publicly. Casually. Just enough to sell the story,” he explains. “Lunches, walks, one trip to the paddock maybe. Something the media can sink its teeth into. I’ll—I’ll pay for that, too.”
“You’re telling me I have to pretend to fall in love with you,” you say skeptically.
Oscar’s smile tilts. “Not fall in love. Just look like you could.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then you drop your head into your hands, laughing once—sharp and disbelieving. “Dieu m’aide,” you mumble into your palms. “Fine. One year. No pet names. Separate beds. And if you make me wear matching outfits, I walk.”
Oscar’s heart soars. “Deal,” he says, sealing it before you can back out.
He reaches out to shake on it.
You hesitate. Then take his hand.
And just like that, you’re engaged.
A photo of Oscar with a takeaway bag from your restaurant makes the rounds on a gossip account. The caption reads, Local Hero or Just Hungry? Piastri Spotted Again at Chez Colette. He doesn’t comment.
Then, a week later, he’s asked on a podcast what he does on his days off in Monaco. He shrugs, smiles, and says, “There’s this little place down on Rue Grimaldi. Family-owned. Best tapenade in the world.”
The host jokes, “That’s oddly specific.”
Oscar just sips his water. “So’s my palate.”
After that, things move faster. A video of you two walking along the harbor—him carrying two ice creams, you stealing bites from both—ends up in a fan edit with sparkles and French love songs. Then someone snaps a blurry photo of you adjusting his collar before a press event. The caption: Yo, Oscar Piastri can pull????????
He never confirms. Never denies. Just keeps showing up like it’s natural. He opens doors. He holds your bag when you need to tie your shoe. He stands a little too close when you’re waiting in line. The story builds itself.
Until one night, a photo leaks.
It’s at the back entrance of the restaurant, late, after a pretend-date that turned into real laughter and too much wine. You’re saying goodbye. He kisses you—cheek first, then temple, then, finally, the crown of your hair.
That’s the money shot. Oscar, his lips pressed atop your head; you, with your eyes closed. Turns out both of you are pretty good actors.
The internet implodes.
Lando calls the next morning.
“Mate.”
Oscar winces. “Hey.”
“You’re dating?” Lando sounds honest-to-goodness betrayed. Oscar almost feels bad.
The Australian squints at the espresso machine like it might save him. “Technically, yes.”
“You didn’t think to mention that?”
“I was enjoying the privacy,” he deadpans.
Lando hangs up. Oscar makes a mental note to apologize when they see each other next at MTC. For now, though, he has more pressing matters to handle. One he discusses with you while he’s helping you close up shop.
Oscar nudges you gently. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh no.”
“I need to use a pet name.”
You whip your head toward him. “Absolutely not.”
“Hear me out. It’s weird if I call you ‘hey’ in interviews. People are starting to notice. One. Just one.”
You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”
He clears his throat, adopting a dramatic air. “Darling.”
You shake your head. “Too Downton Abbey.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Too American.”
“Snugglebug?”
You stare.
“That was a test,” he says defensively.
“Try again.”
He considers. “Just—how about ‘my future wife.’”
You look away—too quickly. He sees it. The flicker. The way your lips twitch before you hide them.
“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good.
You don’t say it back, don’t promise to call him your future husband. It’s alright. As it is, he has a couple more hurdles before he can even get to the wedding bells part of this arrangement.
Oscar has faced plenty of terrifying things in life: Eau Rouge in the rain, contract negotiations, Lando in a mood. None of them compare to this. Your grandmother’s dining room, cramped and full of porcelain saints.
He’s painfully aware of the scratchy linen napkin on his lap, the heavy scent of cedarwood and amber in the air. The wallpaper is floral. The lighting is... judgmental. And across from him, your grandmother—petite, sharp-eyed, hair in an immaculate bun—regards him like a fraudulent soufflé.
You sit between Oscar and her, valiantly attempting to translate. The infamous Colette says something sharp and direct in French.
You smile saccharinely sweetly at Oscar. “She wants to know if you have real intentions.”
Oscar clears his throat. “Tell her yes. Tell her I think you’re… remarkable.”
You raise an eyebrow but translate. Your grandmother hums noncommittally, eyes narrowing just a touch. Then she asks another question. You translate again. “She wants to know what you like about me.”
Oscar panics. “Tell her you’re bossy.”
You give him a look.
“In a good way! I like that you tell me what to do. It’s grounding,” he backtracks. “And that you don’t laugh at my French, at least not out loud. And that you know exactly what you want and refuse to settle for less.”
Shaking your head, you deliver the words in French. Oscar has no way to know if it’s verbatim or if you’re somehow making him sound better. Regardless, your next translated words hold true. “She says she still doesn’t trust you,” you say wryly.
“Fair,” he says.
The meal continues. Your grandmother asks about his family, his racing, what he eats before a Grand Prix. You relay each question in English, Oscar doing his best to keep up, alternating between charming and catastrophic. He drops his fork once. He mispronounces aubergine. You have to explain what Vegemite is, and it nearly causes an incident.
Finally, somewhere between the cheese course and dessert, he reaches for your hand. It surprises both of you, the way his fingers find yours without fanfare.
Your grandmother notices. She watches for a long second, then exhales through her nose. Her next words don’t sound as cutting. You murmur, translating, “She says she’ll be keeping an eye on us.”
Oscar nods solemnly.
Outside, later, as the night air cools your flushed cheeks, he lets out a breath like he's crossed the finish line. “Think she’d be open to babysitting the fake kids one day?” he asks ruefully.
You laugh. Hard.
He’ll take it, he decides.
The season starts. You stay in touch. Oscar shows up at the restaurant after three months on the dot, still smelling faintly of champagne and podium spray. “I brought the trophy,” he announces, holding it out like a peace offering.
You stare at the intricate cup accorded to him for crossing the finish line first, then at him. “You think I want a trophy in exchange for emotional labor?”
“I also brought you a pastry,” he adds, brandishing a delicate tarte tropézienne.
You take the pastry.
He follows you inside, slipping into your usual booth in the back, where the sound of the espresso machine muffles any chance of a quiet moment. You sit across from him, pulling your apron over your lap like a barrier.
“So,” he begins. “We should probably talk about... the proposal.”
“You’re really not wasting time,” you chuckle.
“We’ve got a timeline. Press, citizenship, nosy neighbors. I have to make it look like I can’t bear to be without you.”
You snort. “That’ll be a performance.”
He grins. “Oscar-worthy.”
You try not to smile at his joke. “What do you even envision? You just collapsing in the paddock and screaming that you must marry me immediately?”
“That was my backup plan.”
You sip your coffee, watching him over the rim. “And what would be the first plan?”
“Something classic. You’ll pretend to be surprised. I’ll get down on one knee. Ideally, there will be flowers, soft lighting, maybe a string quartet hiding behind a hedge.”
You shake your head. “Ridiculous.”
“You’re saying you wouldn’t want something like that?”
You hesitate. Just for a bit. “Fine,” you admit. “If it were real, I suppose I would want something simple. Something quiet. Not in front of a crowd. No flash mobs.”
“Noted. Absolutely no synchronized dancing.”
“And I’d want it to be somewhere that means something. Like... the dock near the market, maybe. Where my parents met. Just us. Some lights over the water. Nothing fancy.”
Oscar has gone quiet. It bleeds into the moment after you answer. You’re glaring at him heatlessly when you demand, “What?”
He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”
You roll your eyes, but the blush betrays you. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Should we make it the market dock, then? For the fake proposal.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. “Alright,” you concede, all the fight gone out of you. “But if you get a string quartet involved, I will throw you into the sea.”
“No promises,” says Oscar, even as he cracks the smallest of smiles.
Oscar FaceTimes his sisters on a Sunday morning, two hours before his second free practice session in Imola. He’s still in his race suit, hair slightly damp from the helmet, seated cross-legged on the floor of his motorhome like a boy about to beg for pocket money.
“Alright,” he says, flashing the camera a sheepish grin. “Before you say anything—I know it’s been a while. But I have news.”
Hattie appears first, her hair in rollers, holding a mug that says #1 Mum despite not having kids. Then Edie, still in bed, squinting at her phone like it betrayed her. Finally Mae joins from what appears to be a café, earbuds in, already suspicious.
“You’re not dying, are you?” Mae says apprehensively. “Because you have ‘soft launch of a terminal illness’ face.”
“No one’s dying,” Oscar says exasperatedly. “I’m—okay, this is going to sound a bit mad, but I need you all to come to Monaco next weekend.”
A beat. Silence. A spoon clinks against ceramic.
“Oscar,” Edie says slowly, “if this is about the cat again—”
“No, no! I swear, it’s not about the cat. I’m—proposing.”
Three sets of eyebrows go up. Even Hattie lowers her mug.
“Is this the waitress?” Mae asks, frowning. “She’s real?”
Oscar lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, she’s real. You’ve met her—at Chez Colette, remember? She works there. Thick accent. Quietly judges people with just her eyebrows.”
Recognition dawns slowly. “The waitress who told dad his wine palate was embarrassing?” Hattie says, remembering the one and only time Oscar had taken them to the restaurant, post-race. Back when it was just a place for good food and not ground zero for a marriage of convenience.
“The very one,” he says.
“I liked her,” Edie says. “Sharp. Didn’t laugh at your jokes.”
“So what’s the rush?” Mae’s eyes are narrowed. “You’re not the spontaneous type.”
Oscar hesitates. There’s a script he wrote for this exact moment, but it crumbles like a napkin in his hands. He tries the truth, or at least a gentle version of it.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about what matters,” he says. “About building something. And... Monaco’s home now, in a weird way. But it’s not really home without her.”
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole story.
There’s a pause, then Hattie sniffs and says, “Well, if this is how I find out I need a bridesmaid dress, I expect champagne.”
“I want seafood at the rehearsal dinner,” Edie adds.
“And we need a proper girl’s day with our sister-in-law-to-be,” Mae mutters, smiling despite herself.
Oscar grins, relief warm and fizzy in his chest.
“So you’ll come?”
“Of course we’ll come,” they say in near-unison.
The screen glitches for a moment, freezing them mid-laughter. Oscar watches their pixelated faces and thinks, oddly, that maybe this fake proposal has a bit too much heart in it already.
They fly in. His parents, too. The local press catch wind of it; rumors fly, but he says nothing. He’s too busy watching proposals on YouTube and figuring out how to make this halfway convincing.
On the day, Oscar finds that the dock near the market smells like sea salt and overripe citrus. The string of lights overhead flicker like they know what’s about to happen. Oscar stands at the edge, jacket wrinkled, hair wind-tossed, a paper bag tucked under one arm like he’s hiding pastries or nerves.
You arrive five minutes late. On purpose. He doesn’t look up right away, too focused on adjusting something in the bag. When he does glance up, there’s a boyish flush in his cheeks like he’s trying very hard not to bolt.
“You’re early,” you tease.
“I’m punctual,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
You walk toward him slowly, letting the moment settle like dust in warm air. Behind the crates of tomatoes and shutters of the market stalls, there’s the faintest sound of movement—your grandmother, probably, crouched next to a box of sardines with Oscar’s sisters stacked like dolls behind her. His parents, also trying to be discreet as they film the proposal on their phones. All of them out of earshot.
Oscar clears his throat. “So,” he says. “I was going to start with a speech. But I practiced it in the mirror and it sounded like I was reciting tyre strategy.”
You fold your arms. "Now I’m intrigued."
Oscar pulls the ring out of the paper bag like he’s defusing a bomb. It’s a simple one. No halo, no flash. Just a slim gold band and a small stone, found with the help of a very patient assistant and a very anxious jeweler.
“I know it’s not real,” he says. “But I still wanted to ask properly. Because you deserve that. And because, if I’m going to lie to the world, I want to at least mean every word I say to you.”
He kneels. One knee on the old dock planks, the other wobbling slightly.
You try not to smile too much. You fail.
He looks up. Cheeks flaming, eyes glinting. “Will you marry me, mon amour? For taxes, for residency, and the longevity of Monaco’s local cuisine?”
You take the ring. Slide it on. It fits like something inevitable. “Yes," you say softly, amusedly. “But only if you promise to do the dishes when this all goes sideways.”
He laughs, rises, pulls you into him like he’s trying to remember the shape of this moment for later. The lights flicker above you, the market quiet except for the faint sound of someone muffling a sneeze behind a barrel of oranges. You lean in, mouth near his ear.
“There’s nothing more Monégasque than what I’m about to do.”
Oscar pulls back. “What does that—”
You grab his hand and hurl both of you off the dock.
The splash echoes into the cove, loud and wild and full of salt. Somewhere behind you, your grandmother cackles. One of Oscar’s sisters screams. The sea wraps around you both like an exclamation point.
He surfaces first, sputtering. “I didn’t even bring a string quartet!”
You shrug, treading water, the ring catching the last of the sunset. “Welcome to the Principality, monsieur Piastri.”
Somewhere above, the dock creaks and the lights swing, and a family of co-conspirators starts clapping. The water tastes like the beginning of something strange and maybe wonderful. Monaco, at last, lets him in.
One blurry photo on Instagram is all it takes.
Oscar, soaked to the knees, hair flattened to his forehead, grinning like someone who’s just robbed a patisserie and gotten away with it.
You’re next to him, clutching a towel and wearing an expression that hovers somewhere between incredulity and affection. The ring—small, elegant, unmistakable—catches the light just enough.
His caption is a single word: Oui.
It takes approximately four minutes for the drivers’ WeChat to implode.
Lando is the first to respond: mate MATE tell me this isn’t a prank.
Then Charles: Is that my fucking neighbor????
Followed by George: This is either extremely romantic or deeply strategic. Possibly both.
Fernando simply replies with a sunglasses emoji and the words: classic.
The media goes feral. Engagement! Surprise dock proposal! The Chez Colette Heiress™! There’s already a Buzzfeed article ranking the most Monégasque elements of the proposal (you jumping into the sea is #1, narrowly edging out the string lights). Someone tweets an AI-generated wedding invite. The official F1 social media releases a supportive statement.
By Thursday’s press conference, Oscar has a halo of smug serenity around him. He had fielded questions all morning, deflecting citizenship implications with the precision of a man who’s done thirty rounds with the Monégasque bureaucracy and lost each time.
Lando, seated beside him, nudges his elbow.
“So,” he says into the mic. “Do we call you Mr. Colette now, or…?”
Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Only on the weekdays.”
A ripple of laughter. Cameras flash. “I’m just saying,” Lando continues, faux-serious, “first you get engaged, next thing you know, you’re organizing floral arrangements and crying over table linens.”
“I’ll have you know,” Oscar replies, “the table linens are your problem. You’re best man.”
“Wait, what?”
But Oscar’s already looking past the cameras, past the questions, to the text you sent him that morning: full house again tonight. your trophy is in the pastry case. i put a flower in it. don’t be late.
He shrugs at the next question—something about motives, politics, tax brackets. All he says is, “Chez Colette’s never been busier. She looks beautiful with that ring. I’m winning races. Life’s good.”
And for once, no one argues. (Except Lando, who mutters, “Still can’t believe you beat me to a wife.”)
But then the hate makes its way through the haze. A comment here. A message there. Oscar doesn’t find out until much later, but you supposedly ignored them at first. The usual brand of online cruelty wrapped in emojis and entitlement. It curdled, slow and rancid, like spoiled milk beneath sunshine.
DMs filled with accusations. Gold digger, fame-chaser, fraud. A journalist who called the restaurant pretending to be a customer, asking if it’s true you forged documents. The restaurant landline, unplugged after the fourth prank call.
By the end of the week, someone mails a dead fish to Chez Colette. Wrapped in butcher paper. No return address. A note tucked inside reads: Go back to the shadows.
You find it funny. Morbidly, anyway. You show it to your grandmother like a joke, like something distant and absurd. She doesn’t laugh.
Oscar doesn’t either.
He hears about it secondhand—Lando lets it slip, offhandedly, after qualifying. Something about the restaurant and a very unfortunate cod. He chuckles at first, caught off guard, then notices the way Lando avoids his gaze.
He texts you that same afternoon. what’s this about a fish?
You send back a shrug emoji. He calls you. You don’t pick up.
The silence between you is short and volatile. He digs. He finds out. He walks into the kitchen after hours, sleeves rolled, still in his race gear. “You should’ve told me.”
You’re wiping down the bar with the same rag you always use when you’re pretending you’re fine. “It’s not your problem.”
His jaw ticks. He’s too still. That particular quiet you’ve only seen once. After a bad race, helmet still in his lap, staring out at nothing, eyes unblinking. “It is my problem,” he says, voice low, tight. “We did this together.”
“We faked this together,” you correct, sharper than you meant.
“Don’t split hairs with me right now.”
You glance up. There’s a glint in his eye Not anger, exactly. Something colder. Something surgical. Protective. That night, he drafts the statement himself. It’s short. No PR filters. No fluffy team language. No committee approval.
If you think I’d fake a proposal for a passport, you don’t know me. If you think insulting someone I care about makes you a fan, you’re wrong. Leave her alone.
He posts it without warning. No team heads-up. No brand consultation.
The fallout is immediate. And loud. Some applaud him—brave, romantic, principled. Others double down, clawing at conspiracy theories like they hold inheritance rights. But the worst voices get quieter. The dead fish don’t return. You stop sleeping with your phone on airplane mode.
A few sponsors call to ‘express concern.’ He answers them all personally. Later, again in the restaurant kitchen, he leans against the counter while you wash greens, trying to act like it didn’t cost him anything to do what he did. Like it didn’t make something shift between you.
“Don’t read into it,” he says, picking at the label of a pickle jar with too much focus. “I just didn’t want our story to tank before I get my tax break.”
You don’t look at him. He shifts, awkward. Adds, “And... I guess we're friends now. Loosely.”
You pass him a colander without comment. He holds it as if it’s evidence in a case he’s trying to solve. “Still not reading into it,” you say, finally, absolving him and thanking him all at once.
“Good.”
When you turn away, he watches you a little too long. And when you laugh—just barely, just once—he lets himself smile back.
The restaurant is full, as always. Someone just ordered two servings of pissaladière and asked if the newly engaged couple is around tonight.
Your grandmother rolls her eyes and tells them, in her stern, stilted English, “Only if you behave.”
The wedding planning happens in the margins. Between races, between airports, between whatever strange reality the two of you have created and the one that exists on paper. Oscar reads menu options off his phone in airport lounges. You text him photos of flower arrangements with captions like Too romantic? and Is eucalyptus overdone?
Neither of you want something extravagant. The more believable it is, the smaller it needs to be. Just close family. A quiet ceremony. A reception in the restaurant, chairs pushed aside, candles on the table. You call it a micro-wedding. Oscar calls it a tax deduction with canapés.
Still, some things have to be done properly. Rings. A few photos. Legal documents with very real signatures. He misses most of it, but you keep him looped in with texts and the occasional FaceTime call, grainy and too short. It’s always night where one of you is.
On one of his rare trips back to Monaco, he stops by the restaurant to say hello. Your grandmother tells him through gestures that you’re at a fitting two blocks away. He finds the boutique mostly by accident. Sunlight catching on the display window, the bell chiming softly as he pushes the door open.
You’re on the pedestal, the back of the dress being pinned by a seamstress. Simple silk, off-white, the kind of dress that wouldn’t raise eyebrows in a civil hall or turn heads on a red carpet. Your hair is pinned up, loose and a little messy.
Still, he freezes.
You catch his reflection in the mirror and gasp. “Oscar!” you yelp, spinning to look at him. “It’s bad luck to see the dress!”
He blinks, caught. “It’s not a real wedding,” he huffs.
You squint at him. “Still. Don’t ruin my fake dreams.”
He steps further in, slow, like he’s not sure what rules he’s breaking. “So that’s the one?”
You shrug, turning a little in the mirror. "It’s simple. Comfortable. Feels like me."
He nods, too fast. “It’s nice. You look…”
You wait.
He swallows. “Very believable.”
“High praise.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyes still on the mirror, or maybe just on you. There’s a feeling crawling up his throat, unfamiliar and slightly inconvenient. “I should go,” he says. “Let you finish.”
“You came all this way. Stay. I want your opinion on shoes.”
“Right, because I am famously qualified to judge footwear.”
And so he sits, cross-legged in a velvet chair that probably costs more than a front wing, and watches you try on shoes, one pair at a time. You argue over ivory versus cream. You make him close his eyes and guess.
He doesn’t say much, but he files it all away. The way you wrinkle your nose at kitten heels, how you giggle when a buckle gets stuck, how you mutter something in French under your breath when the seamstress stabs your hip with a pin.
He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.
The day of the wedding arrives like a postcard. Sun-drenched, breeze-cooled, the sea winking blue behind the low stone wall where the ceremony is set up. Your grandmother insists on arranging the chairs herself. Oscar offers to help and is swiftly redirected to stay out of the way.
Chez Colette is shuttered for the day, but still smells like rosemary and flour. The reception will spill into the alley behind it, where the cobblestones have been hosed down and scattered with mismatched café tables, each with a little glass jar of fresh-cut herbs.
For now, the courtyard near the water has been transformed with folding chairs, borrowed hydrangeas, and a string quartet (at Oscar’s insistence and your distaste) made up of one of your cousins and her friends from the conservatory. They play Debussy with just enough off-tempo charm to feel homemade.
Oscar stands at the front, hands shoved into his pockets, tie slightly crooked despite Lando’s earlier attempts to straighten it. His shoes pinch slightly. He’s convinced his shirt collar is a size too small. Lando is beside him, fidgeting like he’s the one about to get married.
“You good?” Lando whispers, leaning in just enough.
“No.”
“Perfect.”
Oscar smooths the paper in his pocket for the eighth—no, ninth—time. It’s creased and slightly smudged from nerves and a morning espresso. He didn’t memorize his vows. He barely even finished them. But they’re his, and he wrote them himself. With some help from Google Translate and an aggressively kind old woman on the flight to Nice.
Guests trickle in like sunlight. Your friends in summer dresses and linen suits, their laughter lilting in the sea air. His family, sunburned from the beach, trying to look formal but cheerful. Hattie gives him a thumbs-up. Edie mouths, Don’t faint. Mae just grins and adjusts the flower crown someone handed her.
Then you walk in.
And the world does that annoying thing where it goes quiet and dramatic, like a movie scene he wouldn’t believe if he were watching it himself. You wear the simple dress. Ivory, sleeveless, the hem brushing your ankles. Your hair is down this time, soft around your shoulders. You have a hand wrapped around your grandmother’s arm, and your smile is the kind that turns corners into homes.
Oscar forgets what to do with his face.
The ceremony begins. The officiant says words Oscar doesn't register. Lando keeps elbowing Oscar at appropriate times to remind him to nod, and once to stop picking at the hem of his jacket.
You go first, when the vows come. Your voice is steady, low, threaded with amusement and something else. Something real. You say his name like it matters. Like it might keep meaning more with every time you say it.
You make promises that are half-jokes, half truths. To tolerate his road rage on normal roads. To always keep a tarte tropézienne in the freezer for emergencies. To have him; sickness and health, Australian and Monégasque.
His turn.
He pulls the paper from his pocket. Unfolds it like it might disintegrate. Clears his throat. Glances at you.
“Je... je promets de te supporter,” he begins, awkwardly, his accent thick and uneven. “Même quand tu laisses la lumière de la salle de bain allumée.”
There are chuckles. His sisters blow into handkerchiefs. A pigeon flutters past like it, too, is here for the drama. He stumbles through the rest.
Promises to make you coffee badly but consistently. To bring you pastries when you're angry with him. To never again get a string quartet without written approval. He throws in a line about sharing his last fry, even if it's the crispy end piece.
Halfway through, he glances up. And sees it. The shimmer in your eyes. The not-quite-contained tears that threaten to spill. It knocks the air out of him.
By the time the officiant is saying, And now, by the power vested in me—, Oscar doesn’t wait.
He leans forward and kisses you, hands framing your face like he can catch every single tear before it falls. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone. It’s not rehearsed, but it’s right. You melt forward, like the kiss was always part of the plan.
The crowd cheers. Your grandmother sniffs like she always knew it would come to this. One of your cousins whistles. Lando punches the air with both fists.
The reception begins in the cobbled alley behind Chez Colette, strung with borrowed fairy lights and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The scent of rosemary focaccia and grilled sardines fills the air, mingling with the crisp pop of celebratory champagne.
Someone’s rigged an old speaker system to loop a playlist of jazz and golden-age love songs, occasionally interrupted by the soft hiss of the espresso machine still running inside. Your grandmother commands the kitchen like a general, spooning barbajuan into chipped bowls and muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Monégasque.
The courtyard buzzes with the kind of warmth that can’t be choreographed. Oscar’s sisters are deep in conversation with your friends, comparing childhood embarrassments. Mae pulls up a photo of Oscar in a kangaroo costume at age six and your side of the table erupts in delighted horror. One of your cousins has started a limoncello drinking contest beside the dessert table.
Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.
The music shifts from upbeat to something softer, slower. Oscar’s mother pulls him onto the floor for their dance. He resists at first, shy in the way only sons can be, but she hushes him gently and holds him like she did when he was five and fell asleep in the backseat of the family car.
They sway to the music, and halfway through, she wipes at her eyes and whispers something that makes Oscar nod too quickly and look away, blinking hard.
Later, it’s your turn. He finds you near the edge of the alley, holding a half-eaten piece of pissaladière, watching the lights flicker across the windows and the harbor beyond. There’s flour on your wrist and a tiny smear of anchovy oil on your collarbone.
“May I?” he asks, offering his hand.
You smile, place your hand in his, and let him pull you in. The music lilts, old and romantic, like something out of your grandmother's record player. You move together in small steps, barely more than a sway, but it’s enough. “A year and a half starts now,” you murmur, eyes on his shoulder.
He hums. “We’ll manage.”
You let out a breath, equal parts hope and hesitation. “Still feels like we’re tempting fate.”
He leans closer, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe we should tempt it properly.”
You look up at him, the warning written all over your face. But he’s already grinning like he’s fifteen again, mischief blooming across his face. “You said you wanted something Monégasque,” he hums.
“Don’t you dare—”
He scoops you up before you can finish, and you yelp, arms flailing around his neck.
“Oscar Piastri, I swear—”
“Too late!”
He runs. Through the alley, past your grandmother shouting something scandalized in, past Lando who drops his glass and whoops, past chairs and flower petals and startled guests, and straight for the harbor.
The water meets you like a shock of laughter and salt, the world disappearing in a splash and a blur of white fabric and suit sleeves. When you surface, gasping, your hair clinging to your cheeks, Oscar is beside you, beaming, his jacket floating nearby like a shipwrecked flag. “Revenge,” he says, breathless, “is so damn sweet out here.”
You splash him, teeth chattering and smile unstoppable. “You are insane.”
“Takes one to marry one.”
On the dock, guests are cheering, others filming, your grandmother shaking her head with a tiny smile and muttering something about theatrical Australians. The string quartet starts playing again, undeterred. Lando appears holding two towels like a game show assistant and shouts, “You better not be honeymooning in the marina!”
Oscar swims closer, hands catching yours underwater. “You know,” he says, nose almost touching yours, “you never did say I do.”
You kiss him. Soft and sure and salt-slicked. “That count?” you murmur against his lips.
He laughs. “Yeah. That counts.”
Beneath the twinkle lights and the ripple of music, the harbor keeps your secret, just for a little while longer.
The headlines arrive before the sun does.
Oscar sees them on his phone somewhere over the Atlantic, legs stretched across the aisle, wedding band catching in the reading light. The screen glows with speculation: Secretly Expecting?, Tax Trick or True Love?, From Waitress to Wifey: The Curious Case of Monaco's Newest Bride.
He scrolls past them all, thumb steady, face unreadable. The truth was never going to be enough for people, he knew that. It didn’t matter that your grandmother cooked the wedding dinner herself or that your bouquet had been made of market stall leftovers and rosemary from the alley. It didn’t matter that Oscar’s mother cried during the ceremony or that you whispered something to him under your breath right before the kiss that made his heart knock painfully against his ribs.
None of that sells as well as scandal. In interviews, he dodges the worst of it with practiced ease. “It was a beautiful day,” he says, and “She looked stunning,” and “No, I’m not changing teams.”
Lando, naturally, finds every headline he can and reads them aloud in the paddock. “‘She’s either carrying his child or his offshore holdings,’” Lando recites dramatically, leaning back in a folding chair, grin wide.
Oscar rolls his eyes. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get invited to the harbor plunge.”
“Mate, you threw your bride into the sea.”
“She started it.”
The grid has a field day. Drivers he’s barely spoken to before raise their eyebrows and offer sly congratulations. Someone leaves a baby bottle in his locker with a bow. Social media eats it up and spits it back out, pixelated and sharp-edged.
But he tunes most of it out. Especially when it turns nasty. He has a team for that now. Official statements, social monitoring, the occasional DM deleted before he can see it. Still, he keeps an eye on the worst of it. Makes sure nothing slips through. Nothing that might reach you.
He lands in Monaco two weeks later with sleep in his eyes and a croissant in a paper bag. He stops by the restaurant like he always does and finds you at the register, wrist turned just so. The ring glints beside the band. Matching his. “You’re wearing it,” he says dazedly.
“We’re married.”
He shrugs, hiding a smile. “Feels weird.”
“That’s because it’s fake.”
“Still,” he says, tapping his own ring against the counter. “Looks good on you.”
You roll your eyes and hand him a plate. “Compliment me less. Pay for lunch more.”
He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that your laugh sounds like music, that the lie is starting to feel like it’s been sandpapered into something real and delicate. Instead, he sits in the booth by the window, watching you refill the salt shakers, and thinks—the world can say what it wants.
You know the truth, and so does he.
The week of the Monaco Grand Prix dawns bright and impossibly blue. The streets of the Principality shimmer under the sun, fences rising overnight like scaffolding for a play the city has performed a thousand times. Everything smells faintly of sea salt and fuel, and by mid-morning, the air is alive with the buzz of anticipation and finely tuned engines echoing off marble walls. But this year, the script reads a little differently.
Oscar Piastri is not just another driver on the grid.
The press reminds him of it daily, with a barrage of questions and not-so-subtle headlines. There’s always been one Monégasque darling. Now there’s the new almost-Monégasque.
A man with a newly minted Monégasque wife, a wedding video that’s gone viral twice, and a story that seems too picturesque not to speculate on. Is it for love? For tax benefits? For strategic branding? The opinions come loud and fast, and Oscar finds himself blinking under the weight of it.
He fields the questions with a practiced smile. “No, I’m not replacing Charles. No, I don’t think that’s possible. Yes, Monaco means something different to me now.”
They ask about pressure. About performance. About legacy. He says all the right things. But in the quiet of the restaurant kitchen, where you’re prepping tarragon chicken for your grandmother and your hands smell like thyme, he confesses: “I feel like I might throw up.”
You look up from your chopping board. “That’s not ideal. Especially not in my kitchen.”
He slumps into the stool near the flour bin, the one that squeaks when someone shifts too much weight on it. He rubs his temples, his posture more boy than racer. “It’s just—this place. This race. You. The whole country’s looking at me like I’m trying to steal something.”
You cross to him, wiping your hands on a faded dish towel. The kind with embroidered lemons curling at the hem. “You’re not stealing anything. You’re earning it,” you remind him. “Like you always do.”
He groans, slouching further. “You’re too good to me. I hate that.”
“You love it, actually.”
“That’s the problem.”
The morning of the race is electric. The sun spills golden light over the yachts and balconies, gilding the grandstands in a glow that feels almost unreal. The paddock is a blur of team radios and cameras, the air tight with nerves.
You find him just before the chaos begins. He’s already in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, the kind of laser-sharp focus on his face that tells you he’s trying to keep the noise at bay. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just enough to give him away.
You touch his arm. “Oscar.”
He turns, eyes snapping to yours, and before he can speak, you rise on your toes and kiss him. Not a peck. Not performative. Just real. Your hands rest briefly on his waist. His helmet almost slips from his grip.
He blinks when you pull back. “What was that for?”
“Luck.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“No,” you say. “But I do.”
He grins then, a little sideways, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help it. He starts P3. Ends P1.
The crowd roars. The champagne flies. The Principality erupts in noise and color. From the podium, as gold confetti floats like sunlit snow and the Mediterranean glitters beneath the terrace, he lifts the bottle, sprays it with abandon—and then he points directly at you.
A clean, deliberate gesture.
When he finds you after the ceremonies, helmet gone, hair mussed, face flushed with sweat and triumph, he pulls you into his arms like he needs to anchor himself.
He presses his face into your shoulder, his voice muffled but sure. “You kissed me and I won Monaco. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m never letting you go.”
You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.
Your honeymoon is late. A stolen few days during the season break, tucked between sponsor obligations and simulator hours. But it’s enough.
Melbourne is crisp in the winter. Sky the color of chilled steel, air sharp with wattle blossoms. Oscar meets you at the airport with a bouquet of native flowers and the look of a man trying not to sprint.
He’s a different version of himself here. Looser, unspooled. Driving on the left like it’s second nature, narrating every corner you pass with stories from childhood. “That’s where I broke my wrist trying to skateboard. That’s the bakery Mum swears by. That field used to flood every winter—perfect for pretending to be Daniel Ricciardo.”
He takes you everywhere. Fitzroy cafés for flat whites and smashed avo on toast, laughing himself breathless when you wrinkle your nose at Vegemite. St. Kilda for long walks along the pier, the scent of salt and fried food curling around you like a scarf. Luna Park for nostalgia’s sake; he wins you a soft toy at one of the booths, the thing lopsided and overstuffed. You carry it anyway.
He insists on a ride on the Ferris wheel, and you sit in the slow-spinning cage, knees bumping, breath fogging the glass. He holds your hand the entire time, thumb grazing your knuckles.
He shows you his high school, points out the old tennis courts and the library he never quite liked. You joke that he peaked too early, and he grins, nudging your shoulder. “I'm still peaking. Haven’t you heard? Married a local princess.”
You eat fish and chips out of paper by the beach, ketchup on your fingers, your laughter carrying over the dunes. You splurge on a seven-course tasting menu with matching wines the next night.
He doesn’t bat an eye at the bill, just watches you sip the dessert wine like it's the best part of the whole trip. The waiter calls you madame and monsieur, and Oscar almost chokes on his amuse-bouche trying not to laugh.
One afternoon, you stop by a museum, wandering slowly between exhibits, your steps in sync. He buys you a ridiculous magnet in the gift shop and sticks it in your handbag without telling you. “A memento,” he says later, as if the entire trip isn’t becoming one already.
On the third night, after a movie and a tram ride that rocked you gently against his side, you end up in the small rented flat he insisted on decorating with local flowers and candles from a boutique shop in South Melbourne. He lights them all before you even step through the door. There’s soft jazz playing on a speaker, and a tiny box of pastries on the kitchen counter. He remembered you liked the lemon ones best.
You turn to him, laughing. “You know you don’t have to do any of this, right?”
His smile falters only a moment. “Yeah. I know.”
But that night, he kisses you like he forgot. Like the boundary lines have been redrawn in candlelight and warmth and the way your laughter fills up his chest.
Oscar, for all his planning and fake vows and clever PR angles, starts to think he doesn’t want to fake a single thing anymore. Not the way your hand fits in his. Not the way you snore just slightly when you’re too tired. Not the way you sigh his name in your sleep like it’s always been yours to say.
Six months into the marriage, Oscar finds it alarmingly easy.
There’s a rhythm now. Races and rest days, press conferences and pasta nights. He wires you money at the start of every month without being asked, a neat sum labeled restaurant support in the memo line, though he likes to pretend it’s something more casual, more romantic.
Sometimes he sends it with a picture. The menu scrawled in your grandmother’s handwriting. A photo of you wiping down the counter, hair tied up and apron on. A video where your voice is muffled under the clatter of pans. He tells himself he does it to keep the illusion going. That the marriage needs its props.
But the truth is, he just wants Chez Colette to survive. Wants your grandmother to keep slicing pissaladière with the same steady hands. Wants your laughter to keep floating through the narrow alleyway outside the kitchen window. Wants to be the reason the lights in the dining room never go out.
That part doesn’t feel fake at all.
In Singapore, the air is thick as molasses and twice as slow. Oscar starts P2. He ends up P4.
The move had been perfect. He was tailing Max, toes on the line, pressure in every nerve. Then the moment came and he hesitated. A flicker. A brake. Not even full pressure—just enough.
Max takes the win. And Oscar sits with it. Sits with the loss, the pause, the decision that shouldn’t have happened but did.
The press room is cold with fluorescent light and smugness. Oscar unzips his race suit halfway and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for the inevitable. His jaw is tight. His eyes sharper than usual. Max gets asked first. He smirks.
“I knew he’d brake. He’s got a wife now,” the Red Bull driver teases. “Has to think twice about these things.”
Laughter. Some loud. Some knowing. Some cruel. Oscar stares at the microphone in front of him like it personally offended him.
He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”
A beat of silence. Then chaos. Max laughs like it’s a joke. Oscar lets it sit that way. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smile.
He keeps a straight face through the rest of the conference. But there’s something restless behind his eyes, something simmering. Later, the clip goes viral. Memes. Headlines. Polls ranking it as one of the most dramatic moments of the season.
Some people say he’s being possessive. Some say it’s adorable. Others speculate wildly. Pregnancy rumors, tension in the paddock, impending divorce. A few even suggest it’s all a publicity stunt.
Oscar ignores all of it.
He scrolls through his phone in the quiet of the hotel room, looking at a photo you sent that morning. You in a sundress. The restaurant in full swing behind you. A bowl of citrus glowing in the window light. The ring on your finger catching just enough sun to drive him insane.
He should’ve won today. He should be angry at himself. At the telemetry. At the choice he made in that split second.
Instead, he’s angry at Max. At the snickering tone. At the way your name came out of someone else’s mouth like it belonged to everyone but you. Like it was part of a joke he didn’t get to write.
It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But he replays the moment again, the way the word wife sounded when he said it. Sharp, defensive, protective. Not fake. Not rehearsed.
Oscar doesn’t sleep that night. Not because he’s haunted by the braking point. But because he wonders, for the first time, if he lost the race on purpose. If he braked because the idea of not seeing you again felt worse than losing. If the risk he once lived for now had consequences he isn’t willing to stomach.
He’s never been afraid of risk.
But he’s starting to learn that love, real or pretend, rewrites the whole strategy. And somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten which parts were meant to be fake.
He falls asleep as the sun comes up, the photo still glowing on his phone screen, your smile seared into the darkness behind his eyelids.
Eight months in, Oscar begins to catalogue his realizations like a man trying to make sense of a soft fall. A slow descent he never noticed until the ground felt far away.
He returns to Monaco between races. You meet him outside the market, where the fruit vendors already call him Oscarino, and where the cobblestones wear your footsteps like a second skin.
He watches you point out the small things: the fig tree tucked behind the old chapel wall, the narrow stairwell with the best view of the harbor, the café that serves coffee just a shade too bitter unless you stir it five times.
“Why five?” he asks, half-smiling.
“No idea,” you say. “It’s just what my father used to do. It stuck.”
He nods like this is sacred knowledge. Like he’s been let in on a secret the rest of the world doesn’t deserve. And there it is—realization one: Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now. It’s the way you slip through alleys with familiarity, the way you greet the florist by name, the way your laughter belongs to the air here. It clings to the limestone. It softens the sea.
You show him the bookshop that sells more postcards than novels, the stone bench under the olive tree where your grandmother once waited for a boy who never came. You walk ahead sometimes, pointing out a new pastry shop or pausing to listen to street music, and Oscar lets himself trail behind, watching you like you’re the most intricate part of the landscape.
Realization two: it takes no effort to call you his wife.
He’s stopped hesitating when people say it. Stopped correcting journalists or clarifying the situation. It spills out naturally now, that possessive softness—my wife. Sometimes he says it just to see how it feels. Sometimes he says it because it’s easier than explaining how this all started. But lately, he’s saying it because it makes him feel something solid. Something like belonging.
“This is for my wife,” he says as he buys a box of pastries for the two of you, and he realizes nobody had even asked. He just wanted to say it, wanted to call you that.
At dusk, you both sit near the dock where he proposed. You split a lemon tart, the crust crumbling between your fingers. The lights blink to life along the harbor, flickering like a breath caught in your throat.
“You’re quiet,” you say, licking powdered sugar from your thumb.
He’s quiet because he’s on realization three: he’s in love with you.
Not in the way he warned you against. Not in the doomed, reckless way he once feared. But in the steady kind. The kind that snuck in during long nights on video calls, during your terrible attempt at learning tire strategy lingo, during the sleepy murmurs of your voice when you answered his call at two in the morning just to hear about qualifying.
You nudge his knee with yours. “What’s on your mind?”
He doesn’t say the truth. He doesn’t say you. Or everything. Or I think I’d do it all over again, even if it still ended as pretend.
Instead, he leans over and kisses you. Softly. Just for the sake of kissing you.
Oscar returns to racing with the kind of focus that borders on fear.
The panic builds up quietly, like the slow tightening of a race suit. Zip by zip, breath by breath, until his chest feels too small for his ribs. Every weekend brings new circuits, new stakes, new expectations. Somewhere beneath the roar of the engines, the hum of media questions, the blur of tarmac and hotel rooms, there is a ticking clock. A deadline for when papers have to be filed. He races away from it.
It starts simple: a missed call. Then another. A message from you—lighthearted, teasing, as always. Tell your wife if you’ve died, so she can tell the florist to cancel the sympathy lilies.
He sends a voice memo in response, tired and rushed. Laughs a little. Says he’s just busy. Promises he’ll call when he gets a moment. The moment doesn’t come.
You begin to write instead. Short texts. Then longer ones. Notes about the paperwork, your grandmother’s health, the weather in Monaco. You remind him, gently at first, that his declaration needs to be signed before the deadline. That the longer he waits, the more eyes you’ll have to avoid. You joke about bribing a notary with fougasse. He hearts the message but doesn’t reply.
And slowly, your tone shifts.
I know you’re busy, one message reads, plain and raw. But I haven’t properly heard from you in six weeks. Just say if you don’t want to do this anymore. I won’t make a scene.
He stares at it in the dark of his hotel room. He doesn’t respond that night. Or the next.
In interviews, he smiles too easily. Jokes with Lando. Brushes off questions about Monaco, about the wedding, about how it feels to be the Principality’s newest almost-citizen. He avoids looking at the ring he still wears.
He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That this is the cleanest way to let go. That maybe, if he can finish the season strong, everything else will settle into place. But every time he checks his phone, and sees no new messages from you, something sharp twists under his ribs. And still, he doesn’t go back.
The Abu Dhabi heat wraps around the Yas Marina Circuit like silk clinging to skin. The sun is starting its slow descent over the water, dipping everything in that soft golden wash that photographers live for and drivers hardly notice. Oscar notices, because you’re there.
You’re standing just past the paddock entrance, sundress fluttering lightly at your knees, sunglasses perched high, arms crossed like you’re trying to look casual and failing, which is how he knows you didn’t tell him you were coming.
He stops in his tracks, sweat already drying on the back of his neck from the final practice run, and stares. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says unceremoniously.
“McLaren flew me in,” you reply with a little shrug. “Apparently, there are...rumors. Trouble in paradise.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Trouble manufactured by your absence, more like.”
You raise a brow, just enough for him to catch the sting tucked beneath the humor. “You’ve been making it hard to keep up the illusion.”
Oscar exhales, jaw tightening. He wants to say he knows, that he’s been unraveling with every missed call, every message he didn’t answer because it felt too close to the thing he couldn’t name. Instead, he just says, “I thought the distance would help.”
“It didn’t,” you say simply.
The silence between you stretches, broken only by the far-off roar of another car doing laps in the distance. One of the crew members brushes past, giving Oscar a brief nod, and then disappears into the garage. And then you add, voice softer, “It’s not like I need you to be in Monaco every weekend. But sometimes it felt like you didn’t want to be there at all.”
That lands harder than anything else. There’s tiredness under your eyes, tension in the way you hold your hands together. But you’re here. You flew thousands of miles for a pretend marriage that doesn’t feel so pretend anymore. That has to mean something.
Because of that, Oscar thinks the race is going to be a mess. He thinks he’s going to falter, distracted by the pressure to make the act believable, especially now with you in the crowd and the cameras already tracking every flicker of expression. He thinks he’s going to crash.
He doesn’t.
From the moment the lights go out, he’s more focused than he’s been all season. Every corner feels crisp. Every overtake, calculated. His hands are steady, his breathing even. He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.
P1.
He finishes second overall in the standings. But in this moment, it feels like first in everything.
The pit explodes around him. Cheers, backslaps, mechanics tossing gloves in the air. Oscar climbs out of the car, champagne already being popped somewhere, the air sticky and electric. Helmet off, hair damp, grin tights.
He scans the crowd like he always does after a win, but this time he’s looking for someone. You’re pushing through the throng, one of the PR girls parting the sea for you with a practiced flick of her clipboard. You stumble once in your sandals, catch yourself with a laugh, and keep going. He doesn’t even wait. He surges forward, meets you halfway.
Oscar cups your face and kisses you, champagne and sweat and adrenaline on his lips. The cameras go wild. The crowd screams. Somewhere, someone yells his name like they know him. He doesn’t care.
He kisses you like he forgot how much he missed it, how much he missed you, how long it's been since something felt this real. The kiss isn’t perfect—your nose bumps his cheek, his thumb smears makeup from beneath your eye—but it doesn’t matter.
When he finally pulls back, his voice is low and breathless against your ear. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”
“Apparently, I did,” you grumble, already failing to sound irked. “You keep getting lost without me.”
He laughs, something quiet and incredulous. Then, he holds you tighter and buries his face in your neck for one private second before the next cameras flash.
Monaco in the off-season is softer, like the city exhales after the last race and slips into something comfortable. The streets smell of sea salt and early-morning bread. The market thins out, the water calms, and Oscar returns.
He doesn’t text that he’s coming. He just shows up at Chez Colette on a Tuesday morning, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands tucked into his pockets, like he’s trying to apologize just by existing.
Your grandmother spots him first. “Tu as pris ton temps,” she grouses, and swats his arm with a dishtowel. “Si tu la fais attendre plus longtemps, je te servirai ta colonne vertébrale sur un plateau.”
Oscar grins, sheepish, and mumbles, “Yes, Madame.” He finds you in the back kitchen, sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes like it’s a form of therapy. You don’t look up at first, but you know it’s him. You always know.
“You’re late,” you say noncommittally.
“I brought flowers,” he says, setting them down between the pepper and the oregano. “And an apology. And—a real estate agent.”
That catches your attention. “What?”
“You said the building has plumbing issues. And your grandmother keeps threatening to fall down the stairs,” he says meekly. “I figured we could find something close. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s held together by wishful thinking and rust.”
Your lips part. “Oscar—”
“We don’t have to move,” he adds quickly. “But I want you to have the option. I—I want to help. Not because of the contract. Because I care for you and the restaurant and your grandmother who wants to serve my spine on a platter for being a terrible husband.”
The silence that follows is thick but not heavy. He reaches out, gently prying the peeler from your hand, and brushes a thumb over your knuckles. “You taught me how to love this city,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”
You kiss him before you can think about it. Softly. Slowly. Like you’re reminding yourself what it feels like.
The days that follow move in a familiar rhythm. Oscar doesn’t race. He wakes with you and helps with deliveries. He lets your grandmother teach him how to deglaze a pan, how to make stock from scratch, how to use leftover vegetables for the next day’s soup. He burns the onions twice, gets flour on the ceiling once, and swears he’s getting better. He insists on learning to make pissaladière from scratch and ruins three baking trays in the process. The kitchen smells of olives and chaos.
You share a toothbrush cup. You buy a little rug for the bathroom that he claims sheds more than a dog. He brings your grandmother to doctor’s appointments, even when you say he doesn’t have to. He learns where you keep your spices and starts recognizing people at the market.
He holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. And sometimes, when no one’s around at all, he still kisses you like someone might see.
You try not to talk about the timeline. About the looming expiration date. About the day one of you will have to be the first to say it out loud. Instead, you let him tuck your hair behind your ear. You let him draw a smiley face in the steam of your mirror after a shower. You let him fold your laundry even though he does it wrong. You let him dance with you in the living room while something slow and old plays on the radio.
And when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter one evening, his mouth warm against yours, you don’t stop him.
The winter chill makes the cobblestones glisten; Monaco is always sort of a dream after midnight, all soft amber streetlights and the hush of waves echoing off stone. Your laughter fills the alleyways like a song no one else knows. Oscar is drunk. Absolutely, definitely drunk. And you are, too.
You’re both wrapped up in scarves and half-finished wine, weaving through the old town with flushed cheeks and noses red from the cold. Oscar’s coat is too big on you, or maybe you’re just small inside it, and every few steps you bump into his side like a boat tethered too close.
“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” you ask, tripping a little over a curb. You clutch his arm.
“Nope,” he chirps, tightening his grip around your shoulders. “But we’re not lost. We’re exploring.”
You grin up at him, and it hits him again—how stupidly beautiful you are. Not in the red carpet, glossy magazine kind of way. In the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and how you say his name like it means something. He’s pretty sure his heart’s been doing backflips since the second glass of wine.
You stop by a low stone wall that overlooks the port. The moon sits fat and silver on the horizon, and Oscar feels like the entire world has tilted slightly toward you. “Can I ask you something?” he says, leaning his elbows on the wall beside you.
You nod. Your breath comes in puffs of white.
“What do you know about love?”
“Hm,” you murmur, intoxicated and contemplating. “I know it is tricky. I know it doesn’t always feel like butterflies. Sometimes it’s just... showing up. Letting someone in. Letting them ruin your favorite mug and not holding it against them.”
He huffs a laugh. “That happened to you?”
“Twice,” you say. “Same mug. Different people.”
“Did you love them?”
You pause. “I think I loved the idea of them. The idea of being seen.”
Oscar looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know why he asked, or why he cares so much about your answer. Maybe because he’s been feeling like he’s standing on the edge of something enormous. Something irreversible.
“What about you?” you ask, nudging him. “Any great romances, my dearest husband?”
“Not really,” he admits. “There were people. Nothing that lasted. I didn’t want to risk it.”
“Because of racing?”
“Because of everything,” he says. “Because I’m good at pretending. And it felt easier than trying.”
You nod slowly, then rest your head against his shoulder. It’s not flirtation. It’s not even comfort. It’s something else. Something steadier. Oscar swallows. His thoughts are a mess of wine and wonder. You, against his side. You, in his jacket. You, not asking him for anything except honesty.
This is love, he thinks.
Not the crash of the waves, not the fireworks. This. He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around you, pulls you closer. “Let’s get you home,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair.
You sigh, content. “You always say that like you’re not coming with me.”
And he smiles, because he is. Of course he is.
Morning comes, spilling into the bedroom like honey, slow and golden. Monaco hums faintly beyond Oscar wakes to the warmth of your body, the tangle of your leg thrown over his, your hair a soft mess against his chest. He doesn’t move.
There’s a stillness in the morning that doesn’t come often, not with his schedule, not with the pace of the season. But here, now, he lets it hold. This was the second rule you two had broken—realizing that a warm body was something you could both use, even if it wasn’t for the sake of making love. Just to have something to hold.
He remembers the wine from last night, the stumbling laughter, your hand in his as you leaned into his side. This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.
His hand drifts along your spine, drawing lazy patterns only he can see. You shift slightly, nuzzling into him, the smallest sigh escaping your lips. You once said you liked how he spooned. It had been early on, somewhere between forced breakfasts and joint bank statements. It had made him feel stupidly triumphant.
He doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to leave this bed. He wants to memorize the weight of you against him, the sound of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch in your sleep. But then his phone buzzes. The alarm is gentle, insistent. He reaches for it without moving too much, careful not to jostle you.
A calendar reminder glows on the screen.
ANNIVERSARY IN 1 WEEK. START CITIZENSHIP DECLARATION.
Oscar stares at it. The words feel like they belong to someone else. A script he memorized, not a life he lives. He dismisses it. Hits snooze like he’s defusing a bomb.
You stir, eyelids fluttering open just enough to glance at him. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he lies, tucking the phone under his pillow.
You hum, unconvinced but too tired to push. He shifts, pulling you closer, curling his arm under your neck, bringing you closer the way you like. Your back fits into his chest like a missing piece. You sigh, warm and content. Within moments, you’re asleep again.
Oscar stays awake. He counts your breaths, anchors himself to the rise and fall of your shoulders. The bed is quiet, your dreams peaceful, but something aches behind his ribs.
One more week. He holds you tighter.
Just a little longer.
Oscar doesn’t mean to ruin a perfectly good afternoon, but the words are sitting like a stone in his chest. They jostle every time you laugh, every time you brush your fingers against his arm, every time you ask if he wants a sip of your drink, already holding the straw out for him.
You’re barefoot, perched on the ledge of the terrace, hair loose. There’s leftover risotto on the table between you and the scent of oranges from the orchard down the street. It should be enough. He should leave it alone. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because a contract is a contract and he refuses to shackle you more than he already has.
“What do you want to do for our anniversary?” he asks, voice low.
You go still. It’s not immediate, but he sees it. The flicker behind your eyes, the pause too long before you smile.
“We could do something small,” you say eventually, your voice gentler than before. “Dinner. Maybe at that place with the sea bass. You liked that one.”
He nods, forcing a smile. “I did.”
You twist the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “And after that,” you say, “you can submit your declaration.”
There it is.
You say it like you’re reading from a recipe card. Like you’ve practiced in front of the mirror. Like you’re trying very hard to pretend your chest doesn’t hurt. Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t trust himself to. You sip your wine, and he watches the way your hand trembles just slightly, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Like you’re preparing.
“Okay,” he says, plain and simple.
You smile. You always do.
When he gets up to leave for the gym, you walk him to the door. It’s quiet. You stand on your toes to kiss his cheek, and he turns just enough to catch your lips instead. It happens without thought. Without ceremony. The way it always has.
He pulls back slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ll see you tonight?”
You nod. “I’ll be here.”
But even as you say it, he can feel it. The detachment. The quiet retreat. You’re drawing the curtain in your head, beginning the soft choreography of letting go. Because this is how the plot was written. Because this is how it will go. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer.
He walks out into the afternoon sun, but it doesn’t feel like light. It feels like the slow fade-out of a film. One where the hero doesn’t get the timing right. One where love comes too late.
On the day of your wedding anniversary, Oscar wakes up early.
Monaco hums quietly beyond the window, still in the lull between morning coffee and the world waking up. He turns onto his side and watches you sleep, for a moment pretending today is just another morning. He tries not to think of it as a Last Good Day.
Still, he makes sure everything is perfect.
He picks out the white dress shirt you said made him look like someone in an Italian film. He even tries to iron it for once. He buys your favorite flowers and then arranges them in the living room vase. He lets you sleep in and makes coffee the way you like it, with a dash of cinnamon. The two of you eat breakfast on the tiny balcony, knees knocking gently beneath the table.
When you smile at him over the rim of your cup, he kisses you. Long, sweet, steady. Like he means it. Because he does.
He books a quiet table at the small bistro tucked into one of the back streets of the city, a place you once said reminded you of Paris. You laugh too loudly over wine, your hand finding his easily over the tablecloth. For a few hours, you let yourselves be the kind of couple you’ve always pretended to be.
Then, slowly, the shadows lengthen.
“Ready to go?” you ask, voice soft as the sun begins to set.
He swallows. “Not really.”
Still, you walk hand in hand down the cobbled streets. The mairie—the city hall—waits like an afterthought, a quiet door at the end of a narrow alley. Oscar detours.
“Gelato?” he offers.
You smile sadly. You know what he’s trying to do. “Before filing paperwork?”
“It’s tradition,” he lies. “One year deserves dessert.”
You let him. You always let him. You get gelato; he tastes one too many samples. He pretends to get lost as you walk through the market, even though Monaco is probably the easiest map to remember in the world. He takes you to the docks, just for a minute, just to watch the boats rock gently in the water. You lean into him, silent, warm, your head tucked beneath his chin. He feels you there, but something else, too. The soft press of reality.
“We should go,” you whisper eventually.
He nods, but doesn’t move.
“Five more minutes,” he says. “Please.”
You let him delay. And delay. And delay.
The moment you file the paperwork, the clock starts ticking in a new way. You’re both aware the curtain is about to fall, but no one wants to call out the final act. So you stay there, together. Not speaking. Just watching the harbor. Pretending it’s still the first day, and not the last good one.
But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.
You walk into the government building side by side. Oscar’s hand grazes the small of your back as the two of you wait at the numbered queue, the soft whir of the ticket printer, the low hum of bureaucratic silence filling the air.
He signs the papers for the Ordinary Residence Permit with an orange pen you handed him from your bag. You’ve always kept pens on you. He knows that now, like the many other things he’s come to know and love about you. You watch him scrawl his name, carefully, and when he finishes, he exhales through his nose like it took something out of him.
The official behind the desk looks at the documents, stamps them, hands them back with a nod. Oscar is granted residency. Carte Privilège and citizenship are now visible, shimmering just over the next hill.
Neither of you speaks of endings. Not yet.
You agree to drag it out a little more. Not for legal protection now, not even for optics, really. Just to ease the world into the conclusion. He wires you ten percent of every monthly deposit still, but it’s no longer transactional. It’s a quiet act of love, of investment. A stake in something that outlasted the farce.
Two years instead of one and a half. Long enough for the lines to blur beyond recognition.
He’s there when your grandmother needs surgery. You’re there when he misses the podium in Spa and sits, soaked in rain, on the garage floor.
The divorce happens on a random off-season day. A Tuesday, maybe. The restaurant is closed. Oscar wears a hoodie and sunglasses like he’s hiding, but the clerk doesn’t even look up to recognize him.
The two of you sign quietly. No rings on your fingers anymore, but his tan line still shows.
“Take care,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say.
He nods. “You, too,” he says, and he means it as much as he knows that he’ll never love anybody else.
The story ends, quiet as it began—
Monaco is a small place. The kind of small that lives in the bones, that lingers in the echo of footsteps down alleys, that smells like salt and baked peaches even in February. Oscar thinks, at first, that he might be able to avoid you. He’s wrong.
He runs into your grandmother before he sees you. She catches his wrist in the produce aisle of the market and drags him toward the tomatoes.
“Ce sont mauvais,” she says, inspecting them with a frown. "Viens avec moi."
Oscar doesn’t protest. He never does with her. Her hand is still strong, her voice still unimpressed by celebrity. She mutters in French about overpriced zucchini and tourists ruining the flow of the Saturday market. He follows her like he used to, like he always will. She doesn’t ask about the divorce, and Oscar is half-tempted to grill her about how you might’ve justified it. In the end, he decides it won’t do him any good.
She feeds him a small pastry over the counter at Chez Colette, dabs powdered sugar off his chin, and says nothing when he glances over at the kitchen, where you aren’t. But you’re there later, arms flour-dusted, laughing with a vendor, the soft light of the late afternoon catching in your hair. And when your eyes meet, the silence isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Familiar. Something like home.
You greet him with the same smile you used to wear when you were both still pretending. “Back already?” you ask, brushing your hands on your apron.
In the aftermath, the press circles like gulls. Questions echo at paddocks and press conferences, in magazines and murmurs: Why did the marriage end? Was it all just for the passport? Was there heartbreak? Had there ever been love?
Oscar gives clipped answers. “We’re still friends. It ended amicably. I’ll always care about her.”
He says them all with the same practiced ease he once used on the track. But none of them touch the truth: that sometimes, in the quiet of his apartment, he still thinks of you when he hears the clink of wine glasses. That he misses the sound of your laugh bouncing off tile. That he still folds his laundry the way you taught him. That he sometimes forgets and checks his phone for your texts before remembering you no longer owe him any.
And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.
Friendship is easier than silence. You both settle into it like a well-worn coat. You pass each other notes on delivery slips, meet for drinks that stretch into hours, walk the promenade without ever having to explain why. You send him soup when he’s sick during the off-season. He fixes the restaurant’s leaky sink without being asked. You tell him about your new dates, gently, and he listens too closely, nodding like he’s not tallying every man who isn’t him.
He learns to exist in proximity to the past. Learns to let his gaze linger on your cheekbones without reaching out. Learns that the ache isn’t something that ever really goes away. He sees you in the blur of every streetlight, in the smell of garlic on his hands, in the soft echo of French murmured over dinner.
The years go on. Races come and go. The restaurant thrives. He doesn’t kiss you again, but he lets you lean your head on his shoulder on cold nights, and you let him hold your hand under the table at weddings. At your grandmother’s birthday, he still helps serve the cake.
Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.
And Monaco stays small. Always small. Just enough room for memories, for weekend markets, for a kind of love that doesn’t ask for more—but still dares, in the quietest way, to linger.
Three years after the divorce, Oscar renews his Ordinary Residence Permit. It feels less momentous than it should. There are no trumpets, no ceremony. Just a polite government clerk stamping a paper, and a weight Oscar didn’t know he was carrying suddenly easing.
You come over that evening. He insists on cooking.
You arch a brow, leaning against the doorway to his small kitchen. “If you burn the garlic again, I'm calling your mum.”
“She’s the one who taught me this, actually,” he replies, a little too proudly.
The meal is simple: pasta with olive oil, lemon, and garlic, tossed with cherry tomatoes and a flurry of parsley. You watch him plate it with a kind of reverent amusement, your wine glass in hand. He lights a scented candle. It’s too much and too little all at once.
You take a bite of his labor of love. “You’ve improved.”
“No burns this time.”
“Progress.”
You eat in silence for a few minutes, the sort of silence that only exists between people who have known one another across the worst and best of themselves. Then, without looking at you, Oscar asks: “Why are you still single?”
The question isn't accusatory. It's soft, tentative, like he's peeling back a layer he doesn't have the right to touch. You don’t answer right away. He glances up.
You're still. Your fork rests against the rim of your plate. You have one or two silver hairs now, and laugh lines from the years. Oscar likes to think one or two of them might be from him. You smile, slow and crooked. Your voice is impossibly sad without taking away from the amusement of your words.
“To be married once is probably enough for me.”
It lands somewhere between a joke and a wound. Oscar nods, because what else can he do?
The pasta is a little too al dente. The wine is already warm. The truth lingers in the corners of the room, unspoken but present. You both sip, chew, avoid. Later, he sees you to the door. You press a kiss to his cheek, brief, like a punctuation mark. “Happy anniversary,” you half-joke.
He leans against the doorframe after you’ve gone, watching the hallway where your footsteps fade.
One full year later, Oscar invites you out again.
Except he doesn’t take you to a restaurant, doesn’t cook some pasta dish for you. Not really. He asks you to walk instead, your hand in his like old times. You go without question, winding through the tight alleys and open plazas until you reach the harbor.
It’s dusk. The dock stretches long and narrow, lined with the boats of old money and new dreams. The sea breathes soft against the pilings. The air is salted and damp, heavy with the scent of brine and engine oil. Lights flicker to life over the water—dancing like stars, like possibility.
He slows as you reach the edge of the dock. The sky is dipped in indigo, the sun a smear of molten orange far behind the hills. You shiver slightly, just enough for him to offer his jacket, which you take with a smile that softens something in his chest.
And that’s where he kneels.
Not at a white-tablecloth place. Not with roses and fanfare. But here, where he kissed you once. Where you dragged him into the harbor to celebrate something that wasn’t even real. Where you clung to each other with laughter in your throats and seawater on your skin.
“I know,” he says, voice breaking, because you’re looking at him like he’s insane. He deserves that, he figures.
His French fails him in the worst way. All the rehearsed lines dissolve on his tongue. He switches to English, because he’s desperate, because he needs you to know.
“We married for taxes once,” he says. “What do you say about marrying for love?”
He opens the box.
You gasp.
It’s not new. Not a cut-glass showpiece or anything plucked from a catalogue. It’s old. Your birthright. An heirloom. A week ago, Oscar sat across from your grandmother armed with months of practiced French. He told her the whole story, spoke of his devotion, and came out of the conversation with this blessing.
There is so much he wants to say.
How he wishes he could have fallen in love with you in a normal way; how he still probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.
How he agrees to be married once is enough, which means he wants to marry you over and over again. In Monaco, in Melbourne, in whichever corner of the world you’ll have him.
Before he can start, you’re sinking down to your knees, too. The dock creaks beneath you both.
You kiss him all over the face—temples, nose, cheeks, lips—laughing and crying all at once. “You idiot,” you whisper. “You stupid, beautiful idiot.”
He pockets the box, and, hands shaking, reaches for your waist, your shoulders, your hair. He laughs into your shoulder. “Is that a yes?” he breathes, but you’re too busy sobbing to get any words out.
That’s okay, Oscar thinks to himself as he pulls you as close as he can.
oscar piastri has somehow become part of the leclerc family, just… not for the reason everyone assumes.
pairing: oscar piastri x leclerc!fem reader
requested: yes!! hope this delivers
warnings: use of y/n, slightly inaccurate timeline for plot purposes, oscar piastri leclerc propaganda, mentions of alexandra and other members in charles’ family. also this is just for fun and obviously fiction, i'm not trying to reflect any person in real life ‹3
a/n: helloooo i promise i didn’t die. i’m slowly restarting requests <3 also brace yourselves because the next request i'm posting is pure angst...
MY MASTERLIST
oscarpiastri
Monaco
liked by ynleclerc and 424.325 others
oscarpiastri Another Monaco podium. On to Barca
view all comments
username1 i love you so much 🥲
username2 so nice to see oscar with his dad on the podium
ynleclerc 👏 ❤︎ liked by the author
⤷ username3 omg i didn’t know y/n and oscar were even friends
⤷ username4 the leclercs fully adopted him this weekend i fear
username5 1681 podium we cheered!!!
username6 father and son celebrating on the podium together
f1 The Piastri-Leclerc genes are strong 💪
──── ୨ৎ ────
ynleclerc
Monte-Carlo, Monaco
liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 193.264 others
ynleclerc weekends at home 🤍
view all comments
username1 i missed you in the paddock pls don’t disappear again
alexandrasaintmleux ❤️❤️❤️❤️
⤷ username2 the most gorgeous girls
⤷ username3 i love their friendship
username4 my favorite leclerc, no competition ❤︎ liked by the author
arthur_leclerc Where did you get the cap?
⤷ ynleclerc some small brand
⤷ arthur_leclerc That's my cap
⤷ ynleclerc prove it
yourbff FORZA FERRARI
username5 i spot the same bracelet from charles’ post
⤷ charles_leclerc She stole it
⤷ ynleclerc borrowing isn't stealing
⤷ charles_leclerc It's been 3 months
⤷ username6 NOT THREE MONTHS 💀
username7 oscar likedddd
⤷ username8 they're probably just friends through charles and arthur
──── ୨ৎ ────
ynleclerc updated their story
❤︎ liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and others
view all replies
oscarpiastri
Hope they made you smile 😊
⤷ ynleclerc
maybe he just has good taste?? idk sounds possible
charles_leclerc
Did he send the giant bouquet on purpose to earn points or is this just his style?
⤷ ynleclerc
you literally know him
⤷ arthur_leclerc
That’s why I’m shocked
He used to be a dork who laughed at everything I said
Now he’s sending coordinated bouquets from Barcelona like some kind of professional romantic
arthur_leclerc
I can’t believe Oscar Piastri is sending my sister flowers
⤷ ynleclerc
i’ll let him know the approval committee said yes
lorenzotl
He has good taste
──── ୨ৎ ────
alexandrasaintmleux
I love you 🫶🏻
oscarpiastri
Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya
liked by leclerc_pascale, ynleclerc and 1.011.608 others
oscarpiastri Enjoyable one that
view all comments
username1 p1 baby let’s gooooo
username2 you did it amazing im so so so so proud of you
username3 awwww charles’ mum liked this
⤷ username4 he’s fully integrated into that family it’s so sweet
username4 did i see…. ABS 🤯
ynleclerc well deserved 🥹🧡
⤷ oscarpiastri Thank you!
username5 that’s my world champion right there
charles_leclerc 👏👏👏 ❤︎ liked by the author
⤷ username6 charles supporting his adopted son
⤷ username7 this will never not be funny
username8 finally a smile 🙂↕️
arthur_leclerc Congrats 👏 ❤︎ liked by the author
username9 the entire leclerc family is in these likes i love it
⤷ username10 he’s one of them now
──── ୨ৎ ────
──── ୨ৎ ────
op81updates
liked by username1, username2 and 187.44 others
op81updates oscar in a recent interview revealing that his french is actually quite good because charles' mum cuts his hair and doesn't speak english so they communicate in french 😭 #CanadianGP
Interviewer: "Last time we spoke, your French was a work in progress. How's it coming along?"
Oscar: laughs "I think my French is actually quite good now! Well, better than it was."
Interviewer: "Have you been practicing?"
Oscar: "Yeah, I've had some help and I've been putting it to use."
Interviewer: "Oh? How so?"
Oscar: "Well, I get my haircuts from Charles' mum, and she doesn't speak a single word of English."
Interviewer: surprised "And she understands you?"
Oscar: smiles "She does now! Took a bit at first."
Interviewer: "The Leclerc family must really like you."
Oscar: "I hope so."
view all comments
username1 mr worldwide (0.000000001% french)
username2 okay so the thread about yn and oscar is making more sense now
username3 hope he's getting a family discount at least
⤷ username4 FAMILY DISCOUNT I'M SCREAMING
⤷ username5 if he's dating yn he better be getting it for free
username6 they really get along well and that makes me soooo happy
username7 THAT'S SO FUCKING CUTEEEE
username8 well he IS a leclerc so that makes sense to me
username9 oscar piastri leclerccccc
username10 i really need to hear oscar speaking french
username11 omg pascale still cuts his hair I MOVED
──── ୨ৎ ────
ynleclerc
So Easy (To Fall In Love) - Olivia Dean
liked by oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri and 127.849 others
ynleclerc this n that
view all comment
username1 the third pic 👀
username2 soft launching is an art form and she’s mastered it
alexandrasaintmleux 😍😍😍😍 ❤︎ liked by the author
username3 who’s the mystery man in pic 3
charlotte2304 Très belle 😍 ❤︎ liked by the author
yourbff he’s getting better at taking pics finally
⤷ ynleclerc yes i’m training him well
username4 WAIT OSCAR’S SISTER LIKED THIS
username5 i’m connecting dots 🕵️🕵️🕵️
──── ୨ৎ ────
oscarpiastri
liked by ynleclerc and 881.626 others
oscarpiastri Prep week 💪
view all comments
username1 IS THIS WHAT WERE DOING NOW
username2 i hate when they know.
ynleclerc WJD+}.sS..DKFKR
this comment has been deleted
username3 learning the art of thirst traps you’re doing great keep it up
username4 oh my god did anyone saw y/n’s comment before she deleted it
⤷ username5 YES IT WAS JUST KEYSMASH I HAVE THE SCREENSHOT
⤷ username6 she really said sjdkfksk and then DELETED
⤷ username7 can’t blame her 😭😭
⤷ username8 i’m starting a new rumor as we speak
⤷ username9 y/n girl... come back... we’re not judging...
⤷ username10 proof she’s just as down bad as the rest of us
⤷ username11 she’s one of us fr
username12 never let your hair see a pair of scissors again!!
username13 i understand the product placement but ain’t nobody looking at that damn water bottle
⤷ username14 REAL
⤷ username15 what water bottle
username16 oscar you didn’t even TRY to pretend this was about training
──── ୨ৎ ────
ynleclerc updates their close friends story
❤︎ liked by yourbff and others
──── ୨ৎ ────
──── ୨ৎ ────
ynleclerc and alexandrasaintmleux updated their story
❤︎ liked by hattiepiastri and others
username1
are you going to spa??
⤷ ynleclerc
can’t wait!!
kikagomes
see you soon😍
──── ୨ৎ ────
username2
spa weekend?
oscarpiastri
liked by ynleclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 687.254 others
oscarpiastri Tough opponent on the way to Spa charles_leclerc
view all comments
username1 LEOOOOO omg cutie
username2 wait does this mean y/n and alex were with them??
⤷ username3 i think so, alex posted charles with leo on a plane and y/n posted clouds from a plane
⤷ username4 THEY WERE ALL TOGETHER
lando you lost to a dog ❤︎ liked by the author
username5 so we’re all just ignoring that oscar charles y/n and alex flew together
ynleclerc he won every round
⤷ oscarpiastri Can confirm
username6 Y/N WAS THERE I’M UNWELL
username7 sidequests??
──── ୨ৎ ────
ynleclerc updated their story
❤︎ liked by arthur_leclerc and others
username1
best track on the calendar
──── ୨ৎ ────
username2
girl we KNOW you’re not only there for ferrari don’t play with us
oscarpiastri
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps
liked by ynleclerc, nicolepiastri and 1.273.830 others
oscarpiastri Did I mention I like Spa?
view all comments
username1 oscplaining was done
ausgp This win ATE ❤︎ liked by the author
username2 goat doing goat things
nicolepiastri So proud!!
⤷ oscarpiastri ❤️
username3 the way y/n was supporting charles but also probably dying to celebrate with oscar
ynleclerc you may have mentioned it
⤷ oscarpiastri Once or twice
⤷ username3 at this point you two just need to confirm it
──── ୨ৎ ────
──── ୨ৎ ────
ynleclerc and oscarpiastri updated their story
❤︎ liked by charlotte2304 and others
⤷ ynleclerc
you literally exposed us to 50 million people so no
charles_leclerc
Where's my invitation to this dinner?
yourbff
why is he holding you like you're about to LEAVE he's got a grip
friend1
relax bro aint nobody takin her from u
username1
IS THAT OSCAR'S HAND
──── ୨ৎ ────
username2
OSCAR AND Y/N POSTING AT THE SAME TIME THIS IS NOT A DRILL
oscarpiastri
liked by ynleclerc, lando and 2.847.936 others
oscarpiastri Summer break so far ☀️
tagged user: ynleclerc
view all comments
username1 OSCAR PIASTRI HARD LAUNCH
username2 HE REALLY JUST DID THAT
username3 oscar really said I’M MARRIED 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
ynleclerc 🤍☀️
username4 i thought he was becoming a bonus leclerc brother not… this????
⤷ username5 we were NOT expecting this from him but we will adapt
username6 can oscar fight??? 😮💨
──── ୨ৎ ────
ynleclerc
liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 325.793 others
ynleclerc my family approves 😋
tagged user: oscarpiastri
view all comments
username1 i’m pretending not to scream at the last pic thanks
charles_leclerc ✅
⤷ arthur_leclerc ✅
⤷ lorenzotl ✅
username2 remember when she keysmashed on his gym post and we all knew
oscarpiastri They do?
⤷ ynleclerc you passed the test months ago
⤷ oscarpiastri Could've told me that
⤷ ynleclerc where's the fun in that
username3 "my family approves" girl they ADOPTED him
Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".
Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)
miss misunderstood— op81
smau + blurbs
oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader
yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.
(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.
fc : amna al qubaisi
—
f1gossipgirls
257,087 likes.
f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.
—
view 32,057 other comments.
username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899
liked by f1gossipgirls
username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??
username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone
username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.
username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.
username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.
↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.
liked by f1gossipgirls
username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.
liked by f1gossipgirls
username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.
username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.
liked by f1gossipgirls
—
They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.
Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.
Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.
They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.
—
The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”
I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.
Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.
I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.
Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.
“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”
I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”
He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.
Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”
“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”
He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”
“You give plenty of one-word answers.”
“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”
He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.
“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”
I nod. A slow exhale.
“Thanks, Max.”
He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”
This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.
“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”
“I’d drive through them.”
“Exactly.”
He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.
—
I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.
A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.
Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.
She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um—sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”
My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.
“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”
I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”
Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.
—
The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.
“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”
I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.
“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.
But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.
He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”
I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”
Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.
I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”
I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.
—
The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.
Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”
I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”
He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”
Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.
“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”
I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.
“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”
Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”
I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.
“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”
Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”
“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”
Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”
I nod.
“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”
Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”
“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”
She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.
The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.
Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”
“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.
Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”
I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”
“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”
—
yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona
—
third person pov
YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.
“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”
His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.
Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.
“…Did I say something weird?”
He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.
—
twitter!
f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?
view 120,004 comments.
username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE
username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.
username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.
username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊
username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.
username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱
username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.
—
ynfromredbull
liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.
ynfromredbull : good shit.
—
view 74,032 other comments.
lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨
liked by ynfromredbull
username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.
maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.
liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing
oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻
liked by ynfromredbull
↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn
alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.
liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing
username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.
↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.
carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn
liked by ynfromredbull
—
I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.
“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”
I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”
He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.
“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”
Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.
“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”
I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.
“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”
He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.
“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”
Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.
“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”
I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”
He smiles, shy and genuine.
“So… you don’t hate me?”
That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.
“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”
There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.
He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”
I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.
Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”
—
3 month time skip
ynfromredbull
liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.
ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻
—
view 127,002 other comments.
username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.
username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn
maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud
liked by ynfromredbull
oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn
liked by ynfromredbull
↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri
liked by oscarpiastri
↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS
liked by ynfromredbull
↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track
liked by ynfromredbull
georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)
liked by ynfromredbull
—
f1gossipgirls
428,023 likes.
f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?
—
view 15,539 other comments.
username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane
username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is
username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.
username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening
username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.
username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol
username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.
—
It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.
I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.
I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.
He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.
Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.
—
I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.
Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.
I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.
“YN!”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”
I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.
“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”
The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.
“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”
They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.
“YN! Oscar! Over here?”
I froze.
Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”
I shook my head. “Just one.”
We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.
“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”
Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.
“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”
He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”
“You already are,” I deadpanned.
Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”
And for once, I let myself believe it.
—
The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.
“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.
I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”
He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”
I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.
“I think I’m falling for you.”
It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.
I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.
The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.
Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.
“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.
I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”
I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.
“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”
He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.
“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”
Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.
“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”
I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.
“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.
Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”
And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.
—
f1
liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.
f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.
tagged : ynfromredbull
—
view 239,492 other comments.
username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.
username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????
susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.
liked by ynfromredbull and f1
username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅
lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫
liked by ynfromredbull
oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍
liked by ynfromredbull
lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG
liked by ynfromredbull
lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥
liked by ynfromredbull
maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.
liked by ynfromredbull
—
ynfromredbull
liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.
ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.
—
user has disabled comments on this post.
—
We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.
“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.
He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”
I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.
“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”
Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”
I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”
He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”
Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.
“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”
I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.
“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”
He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”
I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.
“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”
“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”
And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.
Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.
—
‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’
’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’
’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’
’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’.
—
world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026
—
ynsenna
liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.
ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.
this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.
to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.
and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.
—
user has disabled comments on this post.
—
twitter!
f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?
—
view 802,482 comments.
username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.
username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.
username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.
username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.
username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.
username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.
—
oscarpiastri
liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.
oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.
—
user has disabled comments on this post.
—
The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.
The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.
“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”
BANG BANG BANG.
Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”
That voice. That unhinged tone.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”
Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”
I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.
“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”
“She’s probably ignoring us—”
“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”
“Shut up, George.”
“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”
I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.
“Hi,” I said blandly.
“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.
Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”
“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.
“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”
“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.
Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”
Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”
“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”
The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.
Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”
I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”
George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”
Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”
Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”
“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.
And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”
I blinked. “What—”
He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.
Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”
Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”
And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”
I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.
hiii! I love your writing! Could I request a George fluff were he’s teaching the reader how to swim. Ty
Poolside Promises
George Russell x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: George finds out his girlfriend never learned to swim, and instead of teasing, he takes her hand and teaches her himself. An afternoon in the shallow end turns into a quiet lesson in trust, comfort, and letting him hold her through every fear.
It slipped out the way embarrassing truths always do — sideways, in a moment where your guard was down and his eyes were too kind. You were sitting on the edge of the hotel pool in Monaco, legs dangling in the water while George floated lazily on his back, hair slicked and sun catching on his cheekbones.
He paddled over, resting his arms on the edge beside your knees.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he said, nudging your leg with his chin. “What’s going on in that pretty head?”
You shrugged, staring at the water instead of him. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Thinking about why you’ve refused to get in the pool for the last three days?”
You winced. Subtlety was not his strong suit.
George tilted his head, studying you with that gentle patience he saved for exactly three things: small children, elderly neighbours, and you.
“Love,” he said softly, “talk to me.”
You exhaled, cheeks heating. “I never learned to swim.”
He blinked. Once. Twice.
“Oh,” he said, and then his whole face softened. “Oh, darling.”
You braced for teasing, but it never came. Instead, he climbed out of the pool, water dripping down his chest, and sat beside you. His hand found yours immediately, thumb brushing your knuckles.
“Thank you for telling me,” he murmured. “That must’ve been scary.”
You swallowed. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” he said firmly. “It’s human.”
You looked at him then — really looked — and the sincerity in his expression made your throat tighten. He squeezed your hand.
“Let me teach you.”
Your stomach flipped. “George…”
“I promise I’ll go slow. And I won’t let anything happen to you.” He smiled, that soft, earnest smile that always made you feel like the safest person in the world. “Come on. Trust me.”
And of course you did.
---
He started in the shallow end, where the water barely reached your waist. George stood in front of you, hands hovering near your hips but not touching until you nodded.
“Okay,” he said, voice low and steady. “First thing — breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just like that.”
You followed his lead, matching your breaths to his. It helped. Everything always felt easier when he was close.
“Good,” he said, eyes warm. “Now hold onto my shoulders.”
You hesitated, then looped your arms around him. His skin was warm from the sun, and he grinned when you clung a little tighter than necessary.
“Not complaining,” he teased, “but you’re allowed to relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re holding onto me like I’m a life raft.”
“You are a life raft.”
He laughed, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “Fair enough.”
He guided you slowly, step by step, letting you feel the water move around you. Every time your breath hitched, he murmured reassurance against your hair.
“I’ve got you.”
“You’re doing so well.”
“Look at you, love. I’m proud.”
Eventually, he coaxed you to lean back while he supported you with his hands under your back.
“This is floating,” he said softly. “I’m right here. I won’t let go.”
You stared up at the sky, heart pounding, but his hands were steady, warm, sure. After a minute, he said, “You’re doing it. You’re actually floating.”
Your breath caught. “I am?”
“You are,” he said, sounding so proud you almost cried. “You’re brilliant.”
You let out a shaky laugh, and he beamed at you like you’d just won a Grand Prix.
---
By the time the sun dipped low, you were exhausted but glowing. George wrapped you in a towel, rubbing your arms to warm you up, then pressed a kiss to your temple.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like I didn’t drown,” you said, smiling.
He laughed, pulling you into his chest. “You were amazing. And tomorrow, if you want, we can try again.”
You looked up at him. “You really don’t mind teaching me?”
“Mind?” He cupped your cheek, brushing a damp strand of hair away. “Darling, I love teaching you. I love being the person you trust with the things that scare you.”
Your chest tightened in that warm, overwhelming way he always caused.
“And,” he added, leaning in with a playful smirk, “I love having an excuse to hold you in a pool.”
You shoved him lightly. “George.”
“What? I’m being honest.”
He kissed you then — slow, sun-warm, grateful — and you melted into him, towel and all.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, “we’ll try floating again. And the day after that, maybe kicking. And one day, you’ll be swimming laps and leaving me behind.”
You snorted. “Unlikely.”
“Very likely,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “Because you’re stubborn. And brave. And you trust me.”
Summary- can i request an arthur fic where maybe he’s secretly dating the reader (she’s famous in her own right, like a singer or an actress maybe) and people start shipping her with charles so he gets frustrated. maybe eventually they’re seen out together and the world is shocked.
You're scrolling through Twitter when you see it—the edit that makes you burst out laughing in the middle of your Monaco apartment. It's you and Charles at last week's charity gala, the photo taken at just the right angle to make it look like you're gazing adoringly into each other's eyes. In reality, he'd been telling you about the time Arthur accidentally locked himself in a bathroom at a sponsor event, and you'd been trying not to spit out your champagne.
The caption reads: "CHARLES AND Y/N WOULD BE SO PERFECT TOGETHER 😍 #Charlesyn"
You're still giggling when you hear the key turn in your lock. Arthur lets himself in, dropping his gym bag by the door with more force than necessary. His hair is slightly damp from his post-workout shower, and he's wearing that grey hoodie you love, but his expression is stormy.
"Have you seen Twitter?" he asks without preamble.
You bite your lip, trying to suppress your smile. "Hello to you too, mon amour."
He crosses the room in three strides, holding up his phone. "They're shipping you with my brother. My brother, Y/N."
"Arthur—"
"There are fan accounts. Multiple fan accounts. Someone made a playlist called 'Charles and Y/N's Love Story' with over three thousand followers."
You can't help it—you laugh. It bubbles up from your chest, and soon you're laughing so hard you have to set your phone down. Arthur stares at you like you've grown a second head.
"This isn't funny," he protests, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching.
"It's a little funny," you manage between giggles. You reach for him, pulling him down onto the couch beside you. "Baby, you know Charles and I are just friends. Good friends, yes, but friends. He's like a brother to me. Which, technically, he will be someday if you ever—"
You cut yourself off, realizing what you were about to say. Arthur's eyes soften immediately, and he pulls you against his chest.
"When," he corrects quietly. "When I make you my wife. Not if."
Your heart does that stupid fluttery thing it always does when he says stuff like this. You've been together for almost two years now, keeping your relationship carefully hidden from the public eye. It had been your idea initially—you'd just released your third album, and the press was intense enough without adding a relationship to the mix. Arthur had understood, even though you knew it killed him sometimes to watch you walk red carpets alone or dodge questions about your love life in interviews.
"The point is," you say, tilting your head up to look at him, "you have absolutely nothing to be jealous about. Charles knows about us. He's happy for us. He's also very much interested in someone else, as you well know."
Arthur sighs, his arms tightening around you. "I know. I know you're right. It's just... frustrating. Watching everyone speculate about you and him when I'm right here. When I'm the one who knows that you sing in the shower, and that you're grumpy before your coffee, and that you cry at every Pixar movie without fail."
"I did not cry at Cars," you protest weakly.
"You absolutely did. You cried when Lightning McQueen said 'I'm a precision instrument of speed and aerodynamics.'"
"That's not even a sad line!"
"I know!" Arthur laughs, and the sound makes everything feel right again. "You're ridiculous, and you're mine, and I hate that I can't tell the whole world that."
You shift in his arms, turning so you're straddling his lap, your hands coming up to cup his face. His eyes are so green up close, flecked with gold in the afternoon light streaming through your windows. He's beautiful in a way that still takes your breath away, even after all this time.
"What if we did?" you ask softly.
Arthur's hands settle on your waist. "Did what?"
"Tell everyone. Not in some big announcement or anything, but just... stop hiding. We could go to the next race together. Properly together."
You watch the emotions play across his face—hope, fear, excitement, worry. "Are you sure? I know how important your privacy is. I don't want you to feel pressured because of some stupid shipping rumors."
"I'm not," you assure him. "I've been thinking about it for a while now. I'm tired of pretending you're just my 'friend' when you're so much more than that. I'm tired of attending events alone when I could have you beside me. And honestly?" You grin mischievously. "I kind of want to see the internet's reaction when they realize they were shipping me with the wrong Leclerc brother."
Arthur groans, but he's smiling. "They're never going to let me live this down. Charles is going to be insufferable about it."
"Probably," you agree. "But think about it—we could actually go out to dinner like normal people. I could wear your hoodies in public. You could post photos of us. We could be... us. Openly."
He studies your face for a long moment, and you can see him turning the idea over in his mind. Finally, he nods. "Okay. Let's do it. The next race is Silverstone in two weeks. We'll go together."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He pulls you down for a kiss, soft and sweet and full of promise. "I'm done hiding how much I love you."
The two weeks pass in a blur of planning and preparation. You coordinate with your publicist and Arthur's team, making sure everyone's on the same page. The plan is simple: you'll arrive at the paddock together, and whatever happens, happens. No official statement, no staged photos—just the two of you, finally able to be yourselves.
Charles, when Arthur tells him, laughs so hard he nearly falls off his sim racing chair.
"Finally!" he exclaims. "Do you know how hard it's been to keep this secret? I've had to watch people ship me with your girlfriend and just smile and nod. It's been torture."
"You could have denied it," Arthur points out.
"And say what? 'No, she's actually dating my brother, but it's a secret'? That would have gone well." Charles grins. "I'm happy for you both, though. Really. It'll be nice not to have to pretend anymore. And the look on everyone's faces is going to be priceless."
The night before Silverstone, you can't sleep. You're lying in bed in your London hotel room, Arthur's arm draped over your waist, listening to his steady breathing. He'd fallen asleep an hour ago, but your mind won't stop racing.
"I can hear you thinking," Arthur mumbles into your hair.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Nervous?"
"A little," you admit. "Not about us. Never about us. Just about... everything else. The attention, the speculation, the inevitable think-pieces about our relationship."
"We don't have to do this," Arthur says seriously, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you. "If you've changed your mind, we can keep things private. I'll wait as long as you need."
You roll over to face him, your hand finding his in the darkness. "I haven't changed my mind. I want this. I want you. I want everyone to know that I'm completely, stupidly in love with you."
Even in the dim light, you can see his smile. "Stupidly?"
"So stupidly. Embarrassingly so. The kind of love where I miss you when you're gone for five minutes and I keep one of your hoodies in my tour bus and I have about a thousand photos of you sleeping on my phone."
"You have what?"
"You're very cute when you sleep! You do this little snoring thing—"
"I do not snore!"
"You absolutely do. It's adorable."
Arthur tackles you, pinning you to the mattress as you dissolve into giggles. He kisses you breathless, and for a while, you forget about tomorrow and the cameras and the world waiting outside. There's only this: his weight pressing you into the soft hotel sheets, his hands tangled in your hair, the way he whispers your name like a prayer.
Later, as you're drifting off to sleep, Arthur speaks into the darkness.
"For the record, I'm completely, stupidly in love with you too. Have been since the day you tripped over that cable at the Monaco GP and blamed it on Charles."
You smile against his chest. "I did not trip. I gracefully stumbled."
"You fell flat on your face."
"Semantics."
His laugh rumbles through you, and you fall asleep feeling more certain than ever that tomorrow, whatever happens, you'll face it together.
Silverstone dawns grey and drizzly, typical British summer weather. You take extra care getting ready, choosing a Ferrari jacket over your sundress—Arthur's number, 36, embroidered on the sleeve where everyone can see it. When Arthur sees you, his eyes go wide.
"Is that—"
"Custom made," you confirm, doing a little spin. "You like it?"
He crosses the room and kisses you so thoroughly that you have to redo your lipstick. "I love it. I love you. Are you ready for this?"
You take a deep breath and nod. "Let's go shock the world."
The drive to the circuit is quiet, both of you lost in your own thoughts. Arthur's hand finds yours on the center console, his thumb tracing patterns on your skin. When you pull up to the paddock entrance, you can see the photographers already gathering, cameras at the ready.
"Here we go," Arthur murmurs.
He gets out first, and you can hear the confused murmurs as he comes around to your side. When he opens your door and offers you his hand, the murmurs turn to shocked gasps. You step out, your fingers laced with his, and the camera shutters go crazy.
"Y/N! Arthur! Are you two together?"
"How long has this been going on?"
"Does Charles know?"
You ignore the questions, smiling up at Arthur as he wraps an arm around your waist. Together, you walk toward the paddock entrance, and you can feel every eye on you. Your heart is pounding, but Arthur's steady presence beside you keeps you grounded.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"Perfect," you reply, and you mean it.
Inside the paddock, the reactions are immediate and varied. Some people stare openly, others whisper behind their hands. You spot a few drivers doing double-takes, and you have to suppress a laugh when you see Pierre Gasly literally walk into a barrier because he's too busy gaping at you and Arthur.
And then you see Charles.
He's standing outside the Ferrari hospitality, and when he spots you, his face breaks into the biggest grin you've ever seen. He jogs over, pulling you both into a hug.
"About time!" he exclaims. "Welcome to the paddock, Y/N. Officially, this time."
"Thanks, Charles." You pull back, grinning. "Sorry about all the shipping edits."
He waves a hand dismissively. "Please. I've been secretly sending them to Arthur for weeks just to annoy him."
"You what?" Arthur demands.
"Oh, did I not mention that?" Charles's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Yeah, every time I found a particularly good 'Charlesyn' edit, I'd send it to him. The one with us photoshopped into a wedding photo was my personal favorite."
You burst out laughing at the expression on Arthur's face. "I take back every nice thing I ever said about you," Arthur tells his brother.
"No, you don't. You love me." Charles slings an arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Besides, now everyone knows the truth. She's all yours, little brother. Try not to be too insufferable about it."
As if on cue, your phone starts buzzing incessantly. You pull it out to find your social media exploding. Twitter is having a collective meltdown, Instagram is flooded with comments, and you have about fifty missed calls from your publicist.
"Oh my god," you breathe, scrolling through the reactions. "We're trending worldwide. Number one. 'Arthur and Y/N' is trending number one worldwide."
Arthur peers over your shoulder, reading some of the tweets aloud. "'WAIT ARTHUR?? ARTHUR LECLERC??' 'I've been shipping her with the wrong brother this whole time I'm—' 'Okay but they're actually so cute together??' 'THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER I'M CRYING—'"
"This one's my favorite," you say, showing him a tweet that reads: "Charles Leclerc: exists Y/N: no thanks I'll take the other one"
Even Arthur has to laugh at that. "The internet is going to be unbearable for weeks."
"Probably," you agree. "Worth it, though?"
He looks down at you, his eyes soft and full of love. "Absolutely worth it."
The rest of the day passes in a blur. You watch the practice sessions from the Ferrari garage, Arthur's arm around your shoulders, and you don't miss the way the cameras keep finding you. During a break, several drivers come over to congratulate you both—Lando makes a joke about being a bridesmaid at your wedding, and George asks if you'll sing at his next birthday party.
But the best moment comes when you're walking back to the car at the end of the day. You're tired, your feet hurt from your heels, and you're pretty sure you've been photographed about ten thousand times. Arthur notices you limping slightly and, without a word, scoops you up into his arms.
"Arthur!" you squeal. "Put me down! There are cameras everywhere!"
"Let them look," he says simply, carrying you toward the parking lot. "I'm done hiding how much I care about you."
You wrap your arms around his neck, resting your head on his shoulder. Around you, you can hear the camera shutters going crazy, but for once, you don't care. Let them take their photos. Let them write their articles. Let the whole world see that you're his and he's yours.
"I love you," you whisper against his neck.
"I love you too," he replies. "Even if people did ship you with my brother."
You pull back to look at him, and he's grinning. "Are you ever going to let that go?"
"Absolutely not. I'm going to bring it up at our wedding."
"Our wedding?"
He sets you down gently beside the car, his hands coming up to cup your face. "Our wedding," he confirms. "Someday. When you're ready. I'm going to marry you, Y/N. I'm going to stand up in front of all our friends and family, and probably half the internet, and I'm going to tell everyone that you chose me. Not Charles, not anyone else. Me."
Your eyes are stinging with happy tears. "You're really not going to let the Charles thing go, are you?"
"Never," he says cheerfully, then kisses you as the sun sets over Silverstone.
That night, lying in bed scrolling through the reactions, you come across a video that makes you laugh so hard you wake Arthur up.
"What?" he asks groggily.
You show him the screen. It's a compilation video titled "Charles Leclerc and Y/N: A Comprehensive History of Why We Were All Wrong." It's set to dramatic music and shows every interaction you and Charles have ever had, with someone providing commentary.
"See, we thought this was romantic tension," the narrator says over a clip of Charles whispering something to you at a gala. "But looking back, we can now see that he was clearly saying something about Arthur. Look at her face. That's not 'I'm in love with you' that's 'I'm in love with your brother and you're telling me something cute about him.'"
Arthur is fully awake now, watching with you. The video continues, recontextualizing every moment, every photo, every interaction. By the end, you're both crying with laughter.
"The internet is insane," Arthur manages.
"The internet is amazing," you correct. "Look, someone made a timeline of all the times we were almost caught. Remember that time in Monaco when we had to hide in that café bathroom because we saw a photographer?"
"Or the time you came to my race in disguise and Charles had to pretend you were his cousin?"
"Or literally last month when we were photographed leaving the same restaurant and had to claim it was a coincidence?"
You're both laughing now, remembering all the close calls, all the sneaking around, all the elaborate excuses. It feels good to finally be free of it all.
Your phone buzzes with a text from Charles: "Enjoying your moment in the sun? You're welcome for all the free publicity from the shipping, by the way. I expect a thank you in your wedding vows."
You show Arthur, who types back: "The only thing you're getting is a restraining order."
Charles's response is immediate: "Too late. I'm already planning my best man speech. It's going to be very long and very embarrassing."
"He's not wrong," you tell Arthur. "You know he's going to tell every embarrassing story he can think of."
"I'm counting on it," Arthur says, pulling you close. "I want everyone to know everything about us. The good, the bad, the embarrassing. All of it."
You snuggle into his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "No more hiding?"
"No more hiding," he confirms. "From now on, it's just us. Out in the open. Dealing with shipping wars and Twitter meltdowns and Charles's terrible jokes together."
"I can't wait," you whisper.
And you mean it. Because yes, the attention will be intense, and yes, people will have opinions, and yes, Charles will absolutely be insufferable about the whole thing. But you'll face it all with Arthur by your side, and that makes everything worth it.
Your phone buzzes one more time. It's a tweet from Charles that he's tagged you both in: "For everyone asking: yes, they're together. Yes, I knew. Yes, I'm happy for them. No, I was never dating Y/N. Yes, Arthur is punching above his weight. No, I will not be taking questions at this time. 😂❤️"
The tweet already has thousands of likes and retweets. You show it to Arthur, who groans.
"I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?"
"Nope," you say cheerfully, kissing his cheek. "But look at it this way—at least now when people make edits of us, they'll be of the right couple."
"Small mercies," Arthur mutters, but he's smiling.
You fall asleep that night with your phone still buzzing with notifications, Arthur's arms around you, and the certain knowledge that tomorrow, you'll wake up to a world that finally knows the truth. You're not Charles Leclerc's rumored girlfriend or a mysterious figure in Arthur's life.
You're simply Y/N, hopelessly in love with Arthur Leclerc, and finally, finally free to show it.
And if the internet wants to make a big deal about it? Well, let them. You've got Arthur, and that's all that matters.
You’re Not Alone 🌎🦋 @shuaberries17 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
