𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: a daunting realisation leads you and max to an emotional discovery. or in which you decide to take matters into your own hands.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: skeletons of fluff, angstttt, lots of crying and emotions, lily, arthur, victoria being real ones, potential to hate the reader (ik im srry), also like a fake depiction of charles and max's karting history bc i fucked up with the times and ages at the start so...
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
𝐀/𝐍: okay so please don't kill me... enjoy ♡︎ // second to last chapter AHHHHHHH
You were seasick. Not lovesick. Seasick. That’s what you had said when Charles, Lily, and Max had found you – leaning on the railing, trying to catch your breath. Because that’s what it was.
This wasn’t love. You knew what love was. Love was you and Charles. Years and years of it. This wasn’t even an inch of anything more than the both of you had kissed on.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lily queried, brows bent in concern while she rubbed your back gently. She was too sweet. A mere acquaintance since today and here she was taking care of you as you wiped your face with some water in the bathroom.
You smiled weakly and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry you had to see me like this,” you murmured, lips pressed tightly together as you dried your face, faint taste of bile still ruminating in your mouth.
Lily’s face softened at your words, embarrassment and regret written all over your face. “Oh, this is nothing. You should see me after a few cups of wine,” she laughed with a mission. And it worked. Your shoulders eased while colour made its way back to your face.
You sucked in a sharp breath, trying to feel fresh again. “Should we go back up? I’ve probably ruined the lunch,” you mumbled with a small groan as you said it. Fuck. Your skin burned, fingertips pressed into your forehead while you grovelled. You hadn’t thought of that. Everything had happened so suddenly.
You could feel Lily’s hand wrap around your arm, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “You haven’t. It’s been amazing. These things happen,” she shrugged.
You turned to her in disbelief. Things like almost having a panic attack over something entirely idiotic? “Dude...” you started, “Where have you been all my life?” You asked, admiring her kindness.
Lily laughed quietly. “In England,” she replied.
You sighed, shaking your head. “Should’ve been born here to be friends with me.”
“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” She gave you a light nudge, making the both of you grin as you returned back to the deck.
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The walk back to the deck filled you with dread.
You could still remember how Max wrapped his hand around your shoulder, holding you up to him, asking if you were okay, concern heavily running through his voice. And instead of recoiling, you found yourself breathing easier. Or was that when Charles had pushed him to the side and frantically checked you for any other signs of being sick.
You slowly blinked, internally sighing. You wished the earth would swallow you whole right now.
You could capture a quick glimpse of everyone before they had seen you and Lily. Carlos and Rebecca were quietly talking to Charles. Lando laughing with that mysterious girl, laying on the loungers. And then finally, Max sitting across Oscar at the table. It was only a few seconds, but you thought he looked tense. With the way his chin rested on his hand, jaw taut, blue eyes slightly blank, attention occasionally drifting to Charles.
Did he always look that? So... rugged? So firm?
He always just seemed to piss you off with every chance he got. But when he wasn’t, he didn’t look so awful.
It was Oscar who first noticed the both of you, abruptly standing up, capturing Max’s attention to swing his eyes in your direction, the same concern still ever present in his gaze.
You sucked in a sharp breath. Christ...
It’ll be fine. You were seasick. That’s all.
You braved an awkward smile, feeling Lily peer at you with encouragement from the corner of your eye. “Hello,” you slowly greeted, laughing softly as though to ease out the anxiety in your bidy. God forbid you threw up again.
Oscar pressed his lips together, gently smiling in return. “Everything okay?”
You swallowed, nodding, eyes falling to the cracks in the deck as the weight of everyone’s worry seem to become unbearable. “Yeah, yeah, um... I don’t know. I don’t normally get seasick,” you said sheepishly, scratching the back of your neck.
“Maybe it was something you ate,” Lando called out.
You looked over to him and his friend. She seemed nice and sweet. She hadn't even done anything really. Yet for some reason she was bothering you. Like an itch at the back of your head that you couldn't really scratch. You cleared our throat, smiling tightly, nodding once again. “Yeah, maybe,” you murmured. “Sorry if I made lunch weird. That was... pretty dramatic,” you laughed out, fingers haphazardly tightening and loosening.
“You didn’t,” Max finally spoke, voice quick, reassuring, and firm.
Pressing your lips together, you nodded silently. The weight of his eyes was the worse. Heavy and intense. Like he wanted to scream. Shout. God knows what. But it was the way they stared at you. As if he knew you were lying. That you weren’t okay. Reading you like an open book. It was unsettling.
You shuddered when you felt a hand on your back. Head turning, you found Charles next to you. He smiled at you gently before looking at everyone else. “We should probably all head back,” he said as your eyes fell back to Max’s face. He wasn’t pissed off. He looked purely annoyed.
“Thanks for coming. I really enjoyed it,” Charles smiled, tilting his head as he looked at Max and then back to you. He stared, blue eyes boring into yours, making his presence known. “Ready to go?”
You blinked, nodding after some time, a bit too exhausted to try and decode why the man in front of you displayed the same signs of anger as he did when a race went wrong. “Sure.”
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It had been almost a week since your debacle on the boat. You hadn't talked to Max. You couldn't. In fact, you were trying to stay away from all things Max.
You could’ve sworn you were going crazy. Or maybe it was making you crazy.
Because here you were, staring at your phone, on a zoomed in picture Max had posted of himself during the summer break. He was in Portugal now. And while the idea of him being so far away let you breathe in peace, you were still keeping tabs on him like some weirdo.
Your head tilted, brows furrowed, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Your eyes ran over the photo. Wet body in the water, muscles taut. Scatters of red on his face. That wide boxy smile. Perfectly swooped brown hair. You groaned, throwing away your phone on the couch and rubbing your face harshly.
What is wrong with you?
This was Max. The guy who had been pissing you off since you saw him race in go-karts. To you, he was always absolutely infuriating because he thrived off knowing your biggest secret. Vexing because he used it against you. A few months ago, you couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him. He used to make you want to peel off your skin. That’s how much you hated him.
But then again... you made that deal with him.
You leaned up, blinking quickly as a strange cog in your head finally turned in place. The deal. That was your problem. That stupid goddamn deal. It was the only thing that had united the both of you in the first place. The whole reason you were in the same room as him to begin with.
If that went away... then this would go away, right? There would be no doubt. No Max. No nothing. There only be you and Charles. Like it was supposed to be. How you always wanted it.
━━━━━━━━━━━
Max wasn’t expecting you. You hadn’t called him or texted him. And to be honest, he was trying to fulfil the suggestion to stay away from you. Not because Charles told him – never. Because he couldn’t trust himself around you.
He couldn’t trust himself to keep quiet and tell you everything he knew. Because what was he going to say? Charles was actually one of the most selfish people he had ever met and he’s just using you? Like you'd believe him.
And where was the evidence?
“Yeah, he just told me that. So just believe me. I’m telling the truth.”
The part that haunted him the most was your reaction if he did tell you. He couldn’t bear the thought of the light in your eyes fading away as he told you. Or your smile dropping. Nor your eyes glossing over because you’d be crying of Charles in front of him again.
And there he would stand, again. Angry and annoyed, laughing, having to pretend like your tears didn't make his heart ache. Because that 'logical' response would be better than telling you why the mere sight of you in pain made his breath catch.
But here you were. Awkwardly perched on the couch of the lobby, clearly full of anxiety as your foot tapped away, eyes flickering between the vapid paintings on the walls and the questionable art sculptures in the room.
You could feel your body freeze when your eyes fell to him. You swallowed thickly, chewing your lips seconds later. Fuck, why was he making you so nervous? Your fingers clasped around each other tightly as he walked over to you, casual and hands to the side.
That familiar boxy smile slowly graced his face. “Hey,” he greeted, scratching his brow. “You know you can call me, right?” He joked.
You knew. But if you did, you probably would’ve hung up. At least here, you couldn’t run away. Because the idea of that was far more mortifying than anything else at the moment.
You observed him carefully. Portugal had kissed him and left a small glow on him.
Even if he didn't seem particularly relaxed after a much needed vacation... it looked– it was nice.
You shook your head lightly before breathing in. “Um, yeah,” you murmured, rubbing your knees with your hands. Honestly, you hadn’t even planned what to say. All you knew was that you needed to end it.
This. It. Whatever it was.
But Christ, the words were fizzling out on your tongue every time you tried. Your stomach churned, bubbling with an unfamiliar uneasiness.
Max knitted his brows together, easily spotting the look on your face. It was the same one you sported at the lunch before you had thrown up. He had seen it as he was talking to Lando’s friend. It was why he was the first standing up after you left. Only to be pushed aside by that absolute cretin.
“Is everything okay?” He asked gently.
You winced at his softness. He didn’t make this any easier for you. Because this wasn’t Max. Since when was he this forbearing? This… mushy?
“Do you mind if we head up?”
Max blinked, pausing for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Yeah, sure,” he murmured. Something was very clearly wrong. Especially if you couldn’t say it out in the open.
The ride up to his penthouse was like your first. Quiet. Tense. Standing like you were on the verge of breaking. The only difference was he wasn’t holding he wasn’t holding you up. You stood near him but at a maintained distance. Like you were scared he was going to infect you. Every other time you had been in this elevator, you were laughing... joking... teasing...
God, this was even worse than you ignoring him. To acknowledge him and render him invisible at the same time was a damning prowess.
Opening the door to his penthouse, Max watched you enter first, taking note of how familiar you looked in the setting as you took your shoes off. He followed suit, heading to the kitchen to grab some you a cup of water. He returned, finding you seated on his couch, leg still jolting with nerves. He placed the glass on the coffee table in front of you and sat across you. “So,” he breathed, lips pressed tightly together. “What’s going on?”
You stayed silent. You weren’t trying to muster up the courage. No. You had no idea exactly what it was that you were trying to build so you could finish this off. Your hands had been clammy for ten minutes now, a physical manifestation of how you felt. Dread was pouring into you like a broken dam.
You sucked in another sharp breath.
Remember why you were doing this.
Why are you doing this? A small voice queried in the back of your head. What are you? Afraid?
You blinked, internally shrugging off the sound. “I...” you started, blowing air into your cheeks, unable to look him in the eye. God, why was this so hard? “I think... I think we should stop this,” you carefully said.
Max pursed his lips. “This?” He repeated, confused.
You nodded. “Uh, you know,” you pointed between the both of you. “This. The deal,” you clarified with a slight shrug.
Max blinked, leaning back into the couch, hard blue eyes staring at you. He had expected this. That lunch had proven something was bound to happen. He didn’t, however, expect it to be so early. After some time pondering, he cautiously spoke, “Is this because of Charles?”
Your lips parted. How did he...? You cleared your throat, nodding. “I– yeah. He said he loves me.”
You couldn’t explain what you expected from Max when you had said that. Perhaps some sort of overjoyed reaction that left him saying he was really happy for you. Or even a silent nod. But you watched as he laughed softly and whatever guards he had down with you were suddenly back up – eyes firm, jaw taut, teeth grinding against one another.
“What?” You queried, slightly flustered, unable to pick apart his reaction like you normally did.
Max shrugged, hands turning outwards in his lap. “Nothing. It’s just funny,” he huffed. “How you come back to him so easily?”
You blinked, skin beginning to itch. So easily? You narrowed your eyes, jaw clenched as you folded your arms. “Max, I’ve been in love with him for years. Of course it’s easy.”
He snorted, bow laughing to himself while he shook his head. Only you would say something so naive. He licked his lips, leaning forward to hold your gaze. “He’s treating you like you’re his second choice,” he stated.
“Excuse me?” Your voice was sharp, offence screaming on the surface. Your shoulders lifted, tense and propped up like the way a shield. Were you dreaming? Was this some sort of nightmare reality and really you were still stuck in your apartment, debating on how to do this?
Max swallowed, instantly regretting the way he had said it. He sighed with frustration, standing up to take a seat next to you. He slowly started speaking with the utter most wariness, unaware of how the hairs on your body stood straight. “Can’t you see how fast he's moved on? Suddenly looking back at you? Touching you? He hasn't looked at you like that since you were kids. Ever.”
Your eyes grew hot. You could tell he was right. Stating only the same truth you had revisited time and time again over the past few weeks, wondering why the love of your life had just started to reciprocate even a little bit of your feelings.
But your heart ached at those inklings. Brain rerouting that truth when you were reminded how long you had spent pining after Charles. All those years... all that time, it couldn't be for nothing. He was just giving back what you had given him, right?
You chewed your lip, glassy eyes reverting to the glass of water in front of you. You huffed, corners of your mouth turning upwards to block out those alarms. “Are you sure you’re not jealous?” You queried with a tired grin, reaching for the glass before taking a sip to cool the swarming heat in your body.
Your body stilled when Max said nothing, silence echoing in heartbeats. You hesitantly turned towards him, heart racing when you read those eyes. Still tense and stormy as ever. But in that mix were slivers of a softness you had only ever seen in yourself – the very one you gave to Charles.
You shook your head, placing the cup down. “No, no, no,” you began only to be interrupted.
Max laughed quietly, pained at your reaction. He hesitantly put a hand on your own, sending a current down your arm. “I mean come on. Surely, you’ve noticed. Our excuses to meet. Asking you to stay.”
You stood up abruptly, shrugging off his hand. You stared at him hard, heartbeat screaming in your ears. “You said no strings attached, Max,” you slowly murmured, cautious.
It didn't make sense. It couldn't. He hated you.
“Well, I lied.”
He stood up, towering over you as he usually did. He tilted his head, blue eyes looking at you, searching your face for an answer – anything that would soothe the ache in his chest.
“Max,” you groaned, feeling the tears brim in your eyes. Your hands fell to your face, covering those annoying tears. Why was he ruining this? It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to agree and be okay with it and you were going to move on. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath.
“What do you want me to say?” He asked, the exhaustion he had been feeling for the past few weeks over his feelings slowly beginning to creep into his own voice as it cracked.
“You fill my house!” He shrugged defencelessly, running a hand through his hair, dishevelling its kept, guarded exterior. “My house has been empty for years. But everywhere I look, everywhere I walk — you’re there! I have never been able to get you out of my head. No matter how hard I’ve tried. No hard I’ve tried. No matter how hard I’ve tried to hate you.”
You blinked, taken aback, removing your hands from your face, a rush of cold air skimming by. Tried? What does that even mean?
Max looked at you resigned, shoulders slumping. “I mean, shit, ___, why do you think I noticed you at a karting track? One of my favourite things ever? ___, you wore my colours. My colours.”
“Stop,” you sighed out, voice raw and sore as you shook your head. “Stop talking,” you said, taking a step back. If this was what you thought it was... you couldn’t hear it.
Max shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No, no. You don't get to do that when I've watched you be pathetically in love with him for years,” he gritted out, sucking in a sharp breath.
For some reason, you closed your eyes at the hurt in his voice as if that would block it out. You felt his fingers graze your face as he held your jaw in in his hand. It's soft and gentle, carried with care. You hated that it felt right.
Fuck. Fuck...
“I want you to look at me when I say this,” Max stated.
“Max–”
“Please.”
You sighed, opening your eyes. You almost couldn’t recognise him with those reddened eyes and his flushed skin. In all your life, you had never seen him look so torn. So destroyed.
Max breathed in, gaze focused on you, undeterred by your harsh glare that you tried to build as if you were trying to keep your guards up. “I’ve liked you since we were kids. I tried not to. I tried to move on. But this deal... this reminded me exactly why I’ve failed every time. I like you, okay? And I think you do too– yes,” he interrupted when you shook your head adamantly.
“You just don’t want to admit it. You don't want to admit that at that stupid gala, he had hurt you more than he ever had. He made you question your fucking worth. Made you feel like you aren't beautiful when you're the most precious woman I've ever seen. And here you are wanting to pretend Charles is the one because you want to live in your fucked up fairytale – well guess what? This is reality. Whether you like it or not.”
You clenched your jaw, frowning at him, new tears beginning to drip from your eyes. “Is that it then?" you queried, hands resting at your sides as your shrugged shoulders slumped. "What do you want me to do? Run to you? Choose you because you think I'm beautiful?”
Max blinked, giving you a curt nod. “Yeah,” he softly said, biting down on his lip when he felt the early signs of a tremble.
Choose him. Choose him, a voice echoed.
But all those years... that can't be all for nothing, another chimed. Your love can't be wasted - you didn't deserve that.
You breathed in, tight and long, suffocating, lips pursed tightly before they parted. “Goodbye, Max.”
Max watched as you took a few steps back, leaving his hand falling from your face and down to the side of his body as you retreated to his front door, sniffles loud and clear in the air. He flinched at the sound of his door slamming shut, the echo, reverberating in waves as he was left alone in his empty penthouse.
That’s the thing about En Passant. The capture must be done on the very next move, or the opportunity is lost.
Max had lost.
But Charles hadn’t won either. And for now... that was the only hope he had.
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Arthur had never been so startled when you knocked on his door and he found you in tears. Instantly, he brought you into his arms, ushering you to his living room. “Oh chérie,” he mumbled, lips pressed against your hair, hands tightening around him as you cried in his arms. “What happened?”
You hadn’t kept Arthur in the loop. With so much happening, you probably should have. But it was all so quick. Hungary. The breakup. Charles’ apartment. The lunch. Max.
So, you began where you left off, sharing your vulnerable moment with his brother in Hungary. How Charles’ realisation had daunted you and was the whole reason why you had flown to Estonia to begin with.
Then came Charles and Alex’s breakup. Which, by the sounds of it, had happened not too soon after Hungary. That, of course, Arthur knew.
But as you explained Charles’ behaviour at his apartment, dry tears staining your cheeks, Arthur couldn’t help but become bewildered. He knew as much as the next person… his brother had never batted even an eye to you. Ever. At least not like that. Charles saw you the way Arthur saw you – as a sister. It was the most unfortunate to fall in love with him.
Arthur had even suggested it to Charles a couple of times. Not directly of course. But small little nudges your way. How you and Charles would be good a fit because you get each other. How you're able to read his mind. Anything to set him up with you. But Charles had always ignored it, telling Arthur, “Why don’t you just date her instead?”
So, for Charles to be up and about, right after breaking up with Alex, hugging you and clinging on to you… it just didn’t sound right.
Arthur blinked after your last words. “Wait, he told you he loved you?” He queried, even more confusion piling into his face.
“Yeah, at the lunch,” you nodded, sniffling.
Arthur mended his brows, brain beginning to hurt. If you told him this was about literally anyone else, he would be more inclined to believe you. But his own brother? He couldn’t even recognise him.
“Which is when you had the panic attack?” He asked, trying to salvage the pieces of this puzzle he had lost. He felt you nod again, savouring the warmth of his chest in the moment as you curled up to him.
Arthur frowned, tucking your hair behind your ear. “But what’s got you like this?”
This clearly wasn’t the aftermath of Charles. This was something else. And by the hesitation on your face, he was right. It hurt him to see you like this. You normally told him everything. But watching you struggle, watching your defences crumble was devastating.
You stayed silent for a moment, trying to replay the past hour in your head. “I went to Max,” you confessed with a pained sigh after some time. “I thought that if the deal was making it difficult to love Charles back, then maybe it was time to break it off. But then Max said I was Charles’ second choice,” you stated bitterly.
Arthur made a face. Second choice?
You huffed with a sardonic amusement. “Said Charles ‘moved on too fast.’ What the hell does he know?” You grunted, annoyance still dripping through your veins.
“So did you break it off?”
You paused, pulling away from Arthur’s arms. You looked up at him, uncertainty swirling within your eyes. “I guess.”
He raised a brow. “You guess?”
You swallowed, wincing at the taste of salt in your mouth. Clearing your throat, you sighed. “He said... he broke the rule,” you murmured. “No strings attached,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Arthur.
Arthur smiled softly to himself. “I thought that would happen,” he admitted quietly. He tilted his head, spotting the absent look on your face as you chewed your lip. He nudged you lightly. “What?”
“He said he had felt that way since we were kids.”
Arthur’s body stilled. He blinked. One. Twice. Another two times. He was sure he had heard you incorrectly. “K-Kids?” He stuttered; disbelief ever present in his voice. No way... surely he would've noticed.
He raked over his memories. In all those times he had ever spent with Max Verstappen, had there ever been a sign? Snowball fights, stomped sandcastles, broken daisy chains, blown dandelions, your reddened cheeks when he'd beat his own brother in a sprint... Max was a menace as a child. But he couldn't of liked you then. Could he?
You nodded idly, staring at the fabric of the couch as Arthur leaned back, sighing with you, disbelief pouring into the both of you. Why was this getting more complicated with every passing second?
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“Max? Oh sweetie,” Victoria gasped as he opened the door for her. She frowned at her red-eyed brother, immediately bringing him in for a hug, soothing hand rubbing his back.
“Sorry for calling you all the way here,” he mumbled, voice sore like he had been shouting or crying – neither of which his sister could tell.
Max usually was pissing her off in the way brothers usually did. Irritable jokes. Teasing. But she could tell, this was real. When he had called her and begged her to come to Monaco, she knew he wasn't joking around. He needed his sister.
“Nonsense,” she mumbled, pulling away gently. She looked m at him, taking in his exhausted expression. He sighed “Have you had anything to eat yet?”
Max shook his head silently, head overrun with dangerous thoughts. What if he had lost you forever? Fuck. Should he have said nothing?
Victoria stared at him. She almost didn’t recognise him. She sighed to herself and walked into his penthouse, opening the fridge before turning to her brother who remained at the door, lost in thought. “Okay. I’m going to make some tomato soup. And then we’ll talk, hmm?”
And so, she did.
Max sat at his dining table, adamantly not wanting to sit on the couch. He could still see you there. The moments of your fight clashing with every good memory he had of you in his house.
“What happened?” Victoria asked after a few minutes of silence and ensuring Max had something to eat.
Max stared at the bowl in front of him, rubbing his face as he sighed, frustrated. “I fucked up, Vic. I fucked up bad,” he confessed, slightly gnawing on his knuckle.
She raised a brow. “With ___?” She gently queried.
Her brother nodded quietly, still in disbelief. Your voice echoed in his brain. The shouting. The hurt. Ringing in his ears like a tinnitus he couldn't get rid of. “I...” he started, breathing in shortly before cutting himself off. “Charles asked me to stay away. So, I did. did. That’s why we did Portugal together.” he murmured like he was still trying to go over every second of this fallout.
“Yeah,” Victoria softly agreed with a nod. She knew about that conversation Max had with Charles on the yacht. Safe to say she was considering throwing the nearest vase at the Monégasque.
“And then she came over here out of nowhere and, fuck, I said nothing right,” he exasperated, reddened eyes finally looking over towards his sister. His hands flailed as the emotion took over him. “I-I told her Charles wasn’t treating her right but not why. I told her I liked her but not why. I didn’t give a fucking explanation about anything!”
His sister winced at his anger, watching his body slowly simmer down with a pained laugh. She could see his eyes well and there he was – her true brother. Not the one in the media. Not the ‘Rarely Emotional Max.’
This was him.
The same guy who spent hours on the plane reading through your blog. Your very first follower actually (his username was iluvc4ts_33 and he always leaves a comment on your posts). Her brother who was distraught when you cried over Charles winning Monaco and hesitantly debated consoling you but chose not to. Max who had named his cat Jimmy after you suggested it randomly when you were kids and less hateful. He who broke your handmade daisy chains and made you even better ones after. Who attacked Charles with endless snowballs just to see you laugh and 'accidentally' ruined both of yours joint-venture into sandcastles, only to make a bigger one with you.
Victoria mended her brows. “Max, do you remember the first time you saw her?”
Max looked at his sister like she had grown two heads. His eye twitched, head leaning in with incredulity. “Vic, I’m sitting here, crying over ___ who I don’t think is ever going to talk to me again and you’re asking me that?”
Victoria rolled her eyes. Ever the flair for dramatics. “Shut up and answer the question.”
“Of course I do,” he mumbled.
Because Max could never forget it even if he tried.
It was in 2005 in Limburg, Belgium at a karting circuit. The first time Max ever competed directly against Charles. He had heard of the Monégasque before, name swirling around through the adults and some other kids. He was curious, naturally. Who was this kid?
Max had come to the circuit with his dad. It was cold that day. He had already been training in the rain beforehand, leaving his hands absolutely freezing to death. Italian winters weren’t exactly the kindest things.
He was sat somewhere in the paddock, trying to remember the turns in his brain while he warmed up his hands by rubbing then when he heard a voice yell.
“Charles! I told you to keep your gloves on.”
The voice was soft and sharp, reprimanding yet with good intentions.
That voice was you.
Max blinked into himself, cheeks all rosy as he watched you run after this famed Charles. He tilted his head, blue eyes picking up your out of breath expression once you finally caught up to your friend. Your hair fell out of the beanie you wore, long and loose. You were bundled in an orange coat. You were young. Only by a couple of years. But you stood firm, grabbing the boy’s hand.
“You’re going to catch a cold,” you huffed, big eyes peering up at Charles.
Charles looked at you like a mere fleck of dust, shrugging off your hand. “I’ll be fine. Go give them to Lorenzo.”
Max could tell. Even as Charles walked away from you, dismissing your entire presence. You loved him. Even then.
It was the way your shoulders shrunk as the hurt splashed across your face. You stepped back unconsciously like you had just been stabbed. You pouted to yourself, shifting on your feet awkwardly, gripping the pair of gloves in your hand tightly.
Max could feel his world stop as you turned around, big eyes meeting his and then falling to his reddened hands. His heart slammed in his chest with every step you took near him. He watched your cheeks bunch up as you smiled gently, your five-year-old self bending down to meet him. He sat silently, skin burning when you grabbed his hands, sliding on each glove with great difficulty, tongue resting on the side of your mouth as you concentrated.
He swallowed when your eyes flickered back to him. He could'e sworn he had just died. He watched the cold air deepen the flush on your cheeks while you smiled again. “Good luck,” you mumbled, looking up at him.
And just like that, you were walking away, still able to see the faint trace of Charles’ red coat.
In that championship, Max had won. Charles wasn’t on the podium. And he caught you again with him, this time consoling the dejected Monégasque – like you would for years to come. You looked at him and smiled. And even then, as Charles looked from you to him, curious or miffed, he couldn’t tell. But Max could feel that ember of annoyance in his chest.
So, he laughed and shook his head. Like you and Charles were beneath him. All while keeping those glove-covered hands close to himself all the way back home, holding into them like they were a last resort as his father critiqued every little thing he had done wrong that week.
"What does this have to do with anything?" Max sighed, chest aching even further, head lightly dipping, the weight heavy on his shoulders.
His sister pursed her lips, hand reaching over to comfort him. "Whatever you feel right now. Remember it. Don't let this brief moment of weakness get in between the both of you."
"I know," he swallowed, gnawing on his lip, sting in his eyes. She was right. As she often was. But it was difficult to see this as just a mere obstacle. All he could replay in his head was the pain in your eyes. The way his confession struck you, creating this glass like denial – fragile, firm, and protective. "It feels like I've lost." His voice strained, fracturing like his heart.
"You haven't lost, Max," Victoria murmured. "You can't expect her to just accept the truth. Charles..." she paused at her brother's breath catching in his throat. "He has been everything to her. And he knows that. He's exposed this careful... facade to her purposefully. You have to recognise that you threaten his control."
Max sighed, leaning back in his chair, sniffling. He listened to his sister's words carefully, arms folded. "She's unlearning," he said, turning to her.
"Yeah," she agreed, smiling gently, patting his arm.
A silence enveloped the both of them for a beat, the realisation slowly settling in. To unlearn what had been embedded into years and years of friendship, it would take time. Even if you accepted it. Because this wasn't just a lie. This was a betrayal to your very love. To who you were.
For a moment, Victoria could feel her heart clench as her older brother looked at her, same blue eyes full of misery and hope. "Everything will be fine... won't it?" His voice echoed into his penthouse, unsure and scared. Similar to that of the same kid who fought to not collapse under his father.
She swallowed thickly, throat tight. She sucked in a deep breath of air, letting the ache curl into her lungs before she released it. "Of course it will."
No wait THIS is the most dramatic chapter so far, this is peak dramatism and I'm feeling every part of it
I loooove how well written is the main character, like, all her feelings and reactions are real, feel real, feel like someone (me) might react the same way as her and I love it
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in an attempt to recollect yourself, you find charles taking up every spot in your mind. or in which max learns the truth.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, angstttt, mention of death and mental health, jealousy, lovebombing (?), throwing up, another lunch (a real warning atp), and the potential urge to kill me ._.
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
𝐀/𝐍: here's the storm... well some of it anyways... ha ha ha 🫣 (sorry in advance)
You hadn’t talked to Charles or Max for a week after the Hungarian Grand Prix. You were far too exhausted to deal with the aftermath of your actions. Your mind was overrun by repeats: that moment of realisation on Charles’ face when he saw you and the way Max had caught you in your lies so quickly.
You hadn’t bothered cooping yourself in your apartment. Either one of them would find you, even getting past Arthur, who had actually recommended the break in the first place. Sp, when you got an email from a small local tourism company to visit the beautiful Estonia, you had jumped at the chance.
Paul, an Estonia native and one of Alpine’s reserve drivers, had reached out to you, offering to be your tour guide. You thanked the boy, kindly declining. You had enough of race drivers for the time being.
Estonia was an interesting place, full of islands and islets wherever you looked. It was a pretty little thing really; every inch still covered in its history. The people were sweet, the food divine, the places more vibrant than the rest of Europe – even the summer air was cooler. Which was exactly why you were on the Rebäse landscape trail with a thin sheet of sweat covering your skin, jean shorts clinging to your legs, walking every part of the seven-kilometre path, admiring the views while you contemplated your life.
Out of all the things that had happened to you in the past few months, there was still two questions bugging you.
“Why did I lie? And why did I shut him out?” You huffed to yourself, taking a seat at the picnic table nearby. Your ears perked at the sound of crunched grass. Turning your head, you raised a brow at the cow peering at you. “What do you think, Daisy?”
The cow, of course, said nothing, simply staring at you with its wide eyes.
You sighed, folding your legs and grabbing your drink bottle from your backpack. Lying almost always tends to have a purpose. Saying you weren’t still in love with Charles was stupid. Of course, you were. He was your first love. But then why did you lie to Max? Was it some sort of weird protection mechanism? As if you were scared he’d see how idiotic you were. Because that’s what it was... right? Idiotic to still be in love with Charles after everything. Even after he had the most beautiful girl in the world right next to him.
But then you thought about that moment in the motorhome. Suppose it wasn’t stupid and perfectly acceptable. He saw you that day. You didn’t say anything–you didn’t have to say anything. Your eyes said it all. Seeing the exact moment Charles had clocked it should've thrilled you. Because even after so long, even if you weren't the one to tell him, he knew. A couple months ago, you would've been over the moon. But this wasn’t how you had imagined it to happen.
You had planned different ways you’d do it. When you were a kid, you initially thought about whispering it to Charles and then running away, hoping he’d follow after you. You wanted to tell him that day he said you were the only person in his life that made him feel put together. It was a month after his father passed away and he had signed with Sauber. You remembered how distraught he was. Everyone was. But to Charles, his father was... everything.
It was a random day. He had been trying to keep strong for a couple weeks now. But then he collapsed. Right in front of you, in your lap, tears never ending, asking you why this had happened to him. You had no idea what to say. Heck... you were seventeen. You barely had anything figured out. All you could do was console him, bring him close to you and promise that everything would turn out alright. Because in a weird way, from the moment you met him as a kid, you knew he was destined for greatness. Of course, no one said it’d be easy.
Then he told you how grateful he was to have you. And God it was on the tip of your tongue. Heart pounding, hands clammy. I love you, Charles. But, fuck, you couldn’t. Not when he looked like he had lost a battle with life itself.
No one knew but that was why you never really told him afterwards. It wasn’t entirely about rejection or ruining a friendship. He wasn't ready. He wasn’t in the headspace for it. And you didn’t want to become a burden. Because if you did, you would never forgive yourself.
“I’m so screwed,” you groaned, rubbing your face erratically. The cow near you mooed in what sounded like agreement making you curl your lip in annoyance. “You aren’t really helpful, Daisy.”
Daisy only blinked in response before trotting away. You thew your hands into the air. “Even a cow doesn’t want me,” you mumbled dryly.
The loud blare of your phone soon captured your attention. You pursed your lips, fingers stretching to fish it out of your backpack. Why on earth had you packed so much stuff in there? It wasn’t even that long of a trail.
You furrowed your brows at the name sprawled across your screen before rolling your eyes and grumbling dramatically as you swiped right, bringing the phone to your ear.
“___, you have to come back to Monaco,” Arthur’s voice stated, urgent but not indicative of any true danger.
You sighed, eyeing another version of Daisy who seemed a bit too interested into your call. “I told you to only call me for emergencies, Arthur,” you retorted, swatting away a nearby mosquito who seemed eager take your blood.
“This is an emergency!” He quipped back.
“Arthur, I swear to God, if you say you and Jade need help getting back together for the fourth time, I will literally–”
“They broke up.”
You blinked, silent for a moment. “Who broke up?” You asked, even though the quickened beat of your heart and the lingering nausea in your chest gave you a pretty good idea of who.
Arthur breathed out slowly. “Who else?” He mumbled.
You swallowed thickly, wondering what to say but your heart knew it before your brain. “Is he okay?”
“He needs you, ___. He always will. You know that,” Arthur whispered on the other side of the call.
Fuckfuckfuck...
Charles, more often than not, had a talent to throw your entire life off course with a simple sentence even if they didn’t come from his own lips.
“We’re dating.”
“Every breath sounds like magic.”
“Did I do something?”
“They broke up.”
You rubbed your forehead, chewing on your lip. “Look, I have a return flight in three days so...”
A beat of silence.
"Can you make it two?”
“Arthur!” You sighed.
“Okay fine,” he grumbled in a way you could tell he was pouting. "“Just...” he sucked in a sharp breath, “...hurry back, okay?”
You blinked, nodding unconsciously. “Yeah, of course. I’ll see you.”
You cut the call, turning over to the two Daisys staring back at you curiously, which one was the original... you had no idea. You smiled tightly, swallowing hard. “Well ladies, I guess we’ll have to cut our meeting short. Boy problems... am I right?”
━━━━━━━━━━━
Your flight back to Monaco was full of dread. You had spent almost two weeks away from the nonsense. But now you were right smack dab in the middle of it. Summers in Monaco were another favourite of yours. The atmosphere was unlike any other.
You had almost forgotten about it as you walked to Charles’ new apartment – apparently, he had moved while you were gone. You vaguely remembered him talking about it to you but you must have blocked it out. However, it was supposed to be with Alex. Not necessarily an official move in but something.
You hummed at the feel of the warm sun glossing over your skin, cool breeze welcoming you in the streets of Monaco. You looked down at the small jade plant tucked under your arm. Charles’ housewarming gift. Supposed to bring luck and wealth. You knew he had the latter so right now you were focused on the former.
You stood outside of his new apartment, chewing your lip as you wondered how he was at the moment. You weren’t sure what to expect. The last time Charles had a breakup, a couple years ago, you thought he’d be devastated. It was a relationship of three years that had ended just like that. But no, he was so... normal.
You sighed, ringing the doorbell, taking a step back and patiently waiting for Charles to answer.
“Every breath sounds like magic.”
His words still echoed in your head. Surely... saying something like that meant you would be distraught?
The door opened seconds later, and you were met with a very excited Leo. You gasped with awe, bending down at the leaping pup. “Hey buddy,” you cooed, rubbing his head before looking up at Charles, who leaned on his door, amused. You smiled at him. “Hey,” you greeted, bringing forth the plant.
“I brought you a housewarming gift,” you said, watching him take a step back to let you come inside. Your eyes raked over your new surroundings. It was similar to his old apartment. Piano still in the middle. Paintings on the walls. Trophies and memories on the shelf. It was, however, a lot bluer than you imagined. Like a coastal vibe.
You hummed, taking a few steps forward, wondering where to place this new plant. You turned on your foot, eyeing the small table near his front door and the window across it that brought some light. According to some, placing it near the door would bring in some prosperity. You nodded yourself, putting it on the small table. You tilted your head, facing Charles. “It’s a jade plant,” you informed, leaning up with a small smile. “Brings luck and wealth,” you shrugged, hands clasped together.
Charles stared at you for a beat before bringing you into sudden hug. You blinked at his actions, heart racing, cheeks flushing as you felt his arms wrap around your waist. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmured near your ear.
You swallowed thickly, awkwardly patting his back. You couldn't remember the last time he was this touchy. You let him stay like that for a few seconds before pulling away, hoping your warm cheeks weren't obvious. “I, um, I’m sorry about Alex, Charles. Really. You seemed happy together,” you mumbled, smile tight.
Charles blinked. “Some things aren’t meant to be, I guess,” he shrugged, taking in a sharp inhale of air as he walked around his apartment, some of his stuff still in moving boxes. He picked out the framed picture of you and him as kids and smiled gently, placing it next to his photo of him and his dad on the shelf. “She didn’t really know me that well, anyways.”
You pursed your lips, trying to understand the situation. “What... What happened anyways?” You asked, taking a seat on his couch. “You guys were fine last I checked.”
Charles turned to you, staring at you briefly before taking a seat next to you. “Things were already kinda rough. Maybe we moved to fast,” he mumbled, resting his hands on his knees. He tilted his head, blue eyes falling to you. “And then Hungary happened.”
You paused at his words. H-Hungary? Surely not the Hungary you were thinking about. You blinked. “D-Did something happen after I left? Did that sangria get to you?” You joked weakly, nudging him playfully.
The way Charles looked at you, you could tell he knew you were trying to brush over what had happened. And to your surprise, he let it. “Yeah... I mean, we’re not compatible. She doesn’t get me. She doesn't make me feel... put together.”
You almost felt your heart drop out of your chest. What the literal fuck? Was he telepathic? You were literally just lamenting to the cows in Estonia about this.
“She doesn’t give me stability.”
You raised a brow at him as Leo climbed into your lap. “Was that something you could notice in just a couple of months?” You asked, patting Leo gently.
He shrugged. “You’ve always made me stable.”
You tried to remind yourself to breathe. This many heartbeats being skipped can’t be that good for you. You hummed idly. “Yeah, but you’ve known me since we were kids,” you retorted back, smiling at Leo and tapping his nose.
Charles watched you and nodded. “I know. But even when we first met, I felt it then. You know how to make people feel grounded without realising it. It’s your own ‘charisma’ as maman puts it.”
You mended your brows. You had never seen yourself like that. You had always found yourself wanting to be more like Charles and his brothers. So outgoing and confident. Ready to take on anything. You chuckled softly. “I was like five," you countered back, running your hand through Leo’s fur.
Charles stared at you for a second before raising his hands in his defence. “Hey, I’ve got a talent for these things.”
“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes, looking down at Leo. “He’s crazy,” you whispered to him. “Run while you can.”
“I can hear you, you know,” he exasperated, giving you a pointed look, corners of his lips tugging upwards regardless.
“Oh, you can? My bad.”
Charles huffed with amusement, smile sprawling onto his face. He nudged your knee with his, eyes softer all of a sudden. “There’s a lunch on my yacht tomorrow. Will you come?”
“Sure,” you agreed with a small nod. “Is it with Joris and the others?” You queried, scratching Leo's head gently.
He shook his head. “Some of the drivers. Lando... Oscar. You haven't met Lily yet, have you?”
“No, she’s so hard to find in the paddock,” you mumbled with a sad sigh. She was like a ghost. There one second and then gone the other. You just had to meet her though. She seemed like the sweetest girl you had ever yet to meet. You didn't have many acquaintance in the paddock. One that you knew well would be nice.
“Well, she’ll be there with the others. There’ll also be fraise millefeuille,” he said.
You stared at him for a beat. And then another. Fraise millefeuille. Once your summer favourite. But one summer, when you were nine, you swore to never eat it again when you saw an ant come out of the strawberries. Arthur and Charles only howled with laughter as Lorenzo chucked away the strawberry soon after.
You sucked in a sharp breath, pursing your lips. “You’re spoiling me,” you sighed, dramatically pretending to wipe a tear.
Charles smiled softly, hand reaching out to where you had gotten rid of your non-existent tear, thumb trailing over the smooth skin of your cheek. “Only the best for you.”
You blinked, heart now thudding in your ears. You wondered if he could hear it. Since when was he like this? Was this the effect of breaking up with someone? To go crazy and become clingy?
You gave a faint smile, finally breathing as he retracted his hand, staring at you for a second longer before standing up. “So,” he clasped his hands. “How do you feel about adding ‘house mover’ to your résumé?”
━━━━━━━━━━━
You should’ve realised when Charles had talked about having some drivers over for lunch, that very short list also included Max. But it was far too late to abort. You had already stepped onto the yacht with Lando behind you, ushering you on when you made eye contact with him. And as you did, all you could think about was how strange you left things between the both of you.
You could see his lips part, a step forward in your direction, eyes softening with a slight urgency like he had been waiting to talk to you.
You swallowed thickly, averting your eyes to the pretty angel standing in the corner, the most gorgeous long hair swaying in the Monaco wind. You smiled brightly. “Lily!” You sung, taking an eager step forward in her direction.
She giggled at your excitement, happily talking in your open arms. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she murmured as she hugged you.
“You too! We always miss each other in the paddock,” you mumbled, pulling away with a soft smile. “Probably something to do with this one winning so much and this one losing,” you wiggled your eyebrows at both Oscar and Charles.
Oscar rolled his eyes, taking a step forward to hug you. “Hey, ___.”
You grinned in return, patting his back. “Hey.”
Charles sighed, pushing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose as he stood, leaning on the table on the deck of the yacht. “I host this lunch, and this is the thanks I get,” he sighed, shaking his head.
You put a hand on your hip, simply shrugging while Lily’s laugh echoed through the air. “Truth hurts.”
He hummed in amusement, not believing you even for a second as he removed his glasses, hooking them on the collar of his polo before dramatically pulling out a chair. “My lady,” he gestured, hand rolling with flair to point at the chair.
You sighed, turning to Lily and Oscar. “Will you guys accompany me, so I don’t get bored to death?” You asked.
Charles looked at you blankly. “Ha. Ha,” he said, narrowing his eyes at you. “Very funny.”
Max stood in the corner of the yacht, watching you take a seat, jaw clenched in a way that left Lando was concerned for his teeth. "Mate, you alright?" He asked.
The Dutch driver simply nodded. You were actually ignoring him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Max had tried getting a hold of you. Knocking on your apartment door, leaving a few messages apologising for what he said. That he hadn't been in the right mind after Hungary. The race had been awful for him and he was just angry because of that – no other reason. Maybe he had been touch depraved or something. Anything to make you talk to him.
But when your neighbour had come out and said you were out travelling, he had realised, in some shape or form, you were ignoring him.
Your blog only somewhat soothed his tension. A few posts saying you were in Estonia for some time and that you would do a dedicated piece all in due time.
For the first time in his life, Max had debated using, sorry, abusing the filthy privilege of owning a private jet. Estonia... a three hour flight away if he was lucky.
But he hadn't done it.
Because it was the British driver next to him who had stormed onto his own yacht and broken the news about Charles' break up. The hesitation for Max had been almost immediate.
You would've known. Surely, you would've known. And in any case... this was the best news for you. This was what you had always wanted, right?
━━━━━━━━━━━
You were very much still occupied with Lily. It was the only reason why Max was below deck, silently standing in front of Charles when the Monégasque asked if he could talk with him. Because you were avoiding him and he was avoiding you.
Max rubbed his brow with his index finger, lips pursed at the lack of words not being said. Sighing, he folded his arms, leaning on the wall, looking at his old friend straight on. “What is it, Charles? You’re the one who wanted to talk.”
Charles remained quiet for another second before shrugging. “I feel like we don’t talk much these days.”
“I... guess?” Max said, brows furrowed.
To be fair, Max didn’t talk with Charles that much in general. It was a weird relationship they had. Competitors who both had the same passions and interests. Somewhere along the line, they had become friends. Yet they weren’t. They just existed in the same circles.
“But that probably has to do with ___, right?”
The Dutch driver blinked at those words, lips parted, confusion ripped from his face as he was unable to say anything for a moment. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. “W-What?” He queried lamely, leaning up from the wall.
Charles laughed dryly, like he was amused or something. He took a seat on the couch, taking a sip of the Scottish whisky he had brought down and breathed out slowly. “Come on. Don’t play dumb, Max. You're hooking up with each other,” he said, eyes calculatingly firm, teeth biting down hard.
Max said nothing for a moment, letting another silence envelope the both of them as his head thrummed. Was Charles finding out bad? How had he even found out? Then Max blinked, pausing the overwhelming thoughts in his brain. Why did this even matter?
So fucking what?
The Dutch driver shrugged, aware of the oddly patient look on Charles’ face. “Okay, yeah, we are. So what?” He asked, lips stretching to accommodate a small harmless laugh. “Are you going to give me the whole ‘don’t hurt her thing?’” He raised a brow, smug grin slowly sprawling onto his face. “Because trust me, I think I'm doing a really great job compared to some people.”
He wasn’t going to out you. But he also wasn’t going down without a fight. How many times had you come crying to Max in the past few months because of the man in front of him? Far more than he liked. So, if he could rub it in his face... he gladly would.
Charles pursed his lips, tilting his head like he was contemplating the words that had just been said. He sat straighter on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, one hand swirling the whisky in his cup as his eyes fell back to Max. “Actually, I was going to tell you to stay away,” he simpered.
Max stood in front of Charles, ears and brain dissecting that tone. Because underneath that charismatic fucked-up French accent, underneath all that modesty and shyness, was that sliver of brazen rooted into his heart.
En Passant. That’s what they called it in chess.
It was where the opponent’s pawn had just moved two squares from its starting position and landed directly next to the capturing pawn. The capturing pawn then moved diagonally to the square behind the opponent's pawn, making it seem the latter had only moved one square, thus removing it from the board.
All this time, from the moment he made that deal, Max had moved from his starting position. And for the past few months, he had been next Charles, on the same level, becoming everything that you couldn't find in your best friend’s brother.
And now Charles was making his move.
When his old friend didn’t say anything, Charles simply smiled, resting his now empty cup on the coffee table nearby before standing up. He smoothed his shirt, looking at the man in front of him with an amused huff. “Just give up, Max. You should know better.”
Max blinked, blue eyes able to see the truth a little clearer now. He should know better? His jaw clenched, stepping forward, positively seething. “You don’t even want her, do you?” He started, laughing in disbelief as he jabbed his finger into Charles’ chest, hard. “You just saw that she was moving away from you, and you didn’t like that. I mean God, do you even know her favourite flower?”
Annoyance simmered through Charles’ eyes, satisfying the roaring hum in Max’s chest. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it?
Charles believed you would choose because... he knew. He knew how much you loved him. All he did was string you along like the lovesick puppy you were because Charles obsessed over the idea of how much you loved him instead of loving you back.
Charles breathed in. “Like I said, give it up,” he said back, angling his head higher. “Because by the end of the day, she won’t be yours. I mean…" he furrowed his brow, coy expression sprawling onto his face, "...she’s already ignoring you, isn’t she?”
Max stared at the man in front of him, chest heaving with pure rage, and merely uttered, ”Carnations. She likes carnations.”
Charles only clenched his jaw, saying nothing.
Max could feel the air freeze around him as Charles brushed past him, presumably returning back to the deck. His eyes flickered to his empty cup, brain pounding with all that had happened in the past few minutes. He blinked. His heart throbbed and strangely enough, he felt a small sting in his eyes.
This wasn't just going to hurt you. When you found out about this, this was going destroy you. And it was a matter of when and not if because he was going to tell you.
He just... he didn't know how.
━━━━━━━━━━━
Okay, yes... you were avoiding Max. That much was clear to you. But only God knew what happened in the past thirty minutes that Max wouldn't even look at you. Nor breathe in your direction. As if you didn’t exist.
You were confused. Wasn't he just taking a step towards you to talk with you?
Instead, he quietly conversed with one of Lando’s friends, a girl from England. They were talking. Something about cars... road trips... fuck, you couldn’t tell. You eyed the small smile on his face as he nodded to her response. She was animated, moving her hands, eye bright.
Your skin grew hot. Was it the sun? You supposed it was warmer than normal. You breathed out slowly, tugging at the neckline of your dress, trying to let some cold air skim your skin.
You heard her say something about the Netherlands and Max laughed. He laughed the way he did with you, reverent, free, and attentive.
You bit your lip, hand reaching out to take a sip of water, letting the cool liquid into your body. God... the summer temperatures this year were unbearable.
You didn’t even realise you were staring until you felt a nudge from your left.
You blinked your dry eyes, turning to the ever-smiling Charles. He had been smiling the whole day and to be honest, it was starting to get a bit weird. You texted Arthur if Charles had gotten access to any weed again and he said no (it was a one-time thing between you, Charles, and Arthur – never again).
"You haven't touched your fraise millefeuille," he mumbled, pointing at your plate.
You looked at past summer favourite, stomach churning. You hummed with a small nod. "Maybe later," you smiled lightly.
Charles' eyes gleamed over you, slow and steady – purposeful. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” He asked, tilting his head at you.
You pursed lips, acutely aware of how close the both of you were. Everyone was now in their own conversations. Oscar and Lily asked Lando about trips to Ibiza. Max and... whoever was talking about whatever. Rebecca and Carlos in their own world, playing card games. And now you were here, inches away from the love of your life and it was making you feel just... strange.
“Nothing,” you smiled lightly. “Just enjoying the view. Monaco’s always been so pretty. I love it,” you whispered, leaning back in your chair, taking in a deep breath as you beamed at the sight of the blue sky and skin burning at the feel of the warm sun.
“You’re right. It is very pretty,” he said, eyes firmly on you, undeterred and unflinching.
You chewed your lips, fingers fidgeting with one another as a soft laugh escaped your throat, stomach churning. “You’re not even looking at it.”
“I know.”
You could feel your heart constrict. You gently mended your brows, shaking your head lightly, looking away from those familiar blue eyes. “You’re so strange recently,” you murmured, watching his fingers slowly trail over your own, idle and casual, you think.
“How so?” Charles replied.
You shrugged, feeling a scatter of red deepen on your cheeks while the corners of your mouth turned upwards, eyes falling to the both of your hands. “You just seem so... I don’t know...” you sighed, unable to even find the words for it. You genuinely couldn’t explain it.
“Like I’m in love?”
You snapped up your head, eyes wide, peripheral vision cautiously seeing if anyone was hearing this. “Charles,” you mumbled, heart thudding in your chest.
He smiled softly, clasping your hands tightly. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I know it's... sudden. Maybe the timing is weird. It's a new realisation to me as well. But I just want you to know,” he said, squeezing softly, eyes carefully watching you.
You slowly blinked like you wanted to see if this was real life or not. But the familiar low chuckle from across the table sorely reminded you that it was. You gnawed on your lip, pondering– well, more like the thoughts were hitting you like a hail storm, fast and strong.
This was what you always wanted.
You had dreamt about this moment since you were a kid.
You had always imagined to be like a burst. Like stars falling from the night sky. Slow from afar. But you were sure, if you looked any closer, you would miss it if you blinked. So, you would try to keep your eyes open and take in every second of that dizzying rush, wondering if your heart would explode by how hard it would beat. And maybe, just maybe, you’d cry. Because this was all you had ever wanted. To be loved back.
But why weren’t you feeling it?
Fuck, why weren’t you fucking feeling it?
You nodded after some time, curt smile on your face while frustration boiled in your chest. Your ears perked at the girl’s laugh, baring a small glance at the way her hand fell to Max's arm to stablise herself because something was just so goddamn funny. Your hands had become clammy while goosebumps littered your skin. You could feel the bile begin to crawl up your throat.
You abruptly stood from your chair, the action loud and clumsy. The concern calls fell on your deaf ears as you clambered your way to the other side of the yacht, holding the railing tightly, knuckles white. You took in a deep breath, holding it deep in your chest before releasing it. But it was no help.
That girl.
More bile.
Another breath.
“Like I'm in love?”
You held a hand to your chest, rubbing your skin in soothing circles, blinking tightly, nausea filling your churning stomach.
Another breath.
“Good thing I’m not jealous then.”
Your jaw clenched, hands beginning to shake while the winds of Monaco wrapped around you in a sad consolation. You rubbed your face harshly, tears prickling your the brims of your eyes.
Breathe. Fucking breathe! Why aren’t I breathing?
“Do you still love Charles?”
Your lips parted, a vile taste exploding in your mouth as you hurled over the side, eyes aching at the constantly moving water. You coughed, throat sore as you leaned back, wincing at the mix of fresh air and vomit mingled in your mouth. You wiped your lips with the back of your hand, staring hard at the blue sky as the mere inkling slapped you right in the face.
“Fuck,” you muttered, swallowing hard, hand running through your hair in disbelief.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: heading into ferrari for a new season, you think you're pretty focused. but things don't look too good when a series of love notes from your secret admirer start appearing out of nowhere.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: so so much fluff, poor humour, charles being corny affffff, reader is lowkey oblivious, arthur being the best brother in the world, mentions of charles' hardships with monza and monaco as well as lewis' own hardships, two idiots in love basically
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: charles leclerc x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 3.3k
𝐀/𝐍: the last fic of my series! even though it's the cheesiest thing i've written, i love cheesy shit and even better if it's with charles! i really enjoyed writing this series! it's also the most active i've been in a while so that's been really fun. leave some requests and i might just take your offer up. // as usual, poorly proofread
𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Lewis Hamilton moving to Ferrari was a shock to most. Whether it was good or bad, well that was up to the individual.
And while Charles was very welcoming of the move, having the Lewis Hamilton as his teammate wasn’t quite the reason.
It was you.
Lewis Hamilton to Ferrari didn’t just bring the history, talent, and skills. It also happened to bring along his personal trainer – you.
You hadn’t been training Lewis long. Around three years after his previous personal trainer left. There was a lot of doubt surrounding you. You were young. A bit new to the world of motorsports. And it didn’t seem like you were helping Lewis through some of his hardest years at Mercedes.
But truth be told, underneath all of that, you happened to understand Lewis to a ‘T’. His mentality, his values, his respect, and his beliefs. They coincided with yours. Together, you could achieve the impossible, you were both sure of it.
Unfortunately, Mercedes just had a really shitty car (and a shitty attitude).
Cue the move to Ferrari. Which in reality was music to Charles’ ears.
Over the past few years, Charles had managed to become friends with you. It took him a while seeing as you were slightly reserved and all over the paddock at all times. But once you had given him one of the most inspiring and encouraging talks, he had ever received after the stint Ferrari had pulled on him in Monaco, 2022 – it was safe to say you had progressed your friendship.
To anyone with a brain and perhaps even slightly declined vision, it was plain as day that Charles was interested in you. Because someone not interested in you wouldn’t stop his interviews to say ‘Hi’ to you, get you involved in Ferrari’s YouTube videos, or walk the track every morning just so he could join you.
2024 was an irritating year for Charles. While the SF-24 wasn’t particularly awful and Charles had still managed to win some races, there was still something missing. Not to mention, a whole Constructor’s championship. Furthermore, waiting for you and Lewis to arrive to Maranello was like telling a child to wait to open their Christmas gift – it was far too long of a wait.
But the time had finally come. Charles had done his annual training camp and arrived to Maranello and both you and Lewis had officially settled down in the area. The first few weeks with you on the team was surreal. Charles was spending more time with you than ever. Almost every day he interrupted your lunch and sat down with you. When Lewis was in the car, he’d appear next to you, discussing smalls things like how you were finding Italy or how the car was.
With every passing second, he spent with you, Charles was struggling to be just friends with you. Especially with the occasional rumor or ship edit of you and Lewis. Deep down, he knew there was nothing to be worried about. Lewis saw you more as a sister if anything, sharing your knowledge with him.
It was time, however, to change this.
Charles had planned it out carefully. Fourteen notes from your secret admirer. Plastered around all areas you visit the most within the Ferrari headquarters. One for every day up until the holiday of love itself: Valentine’s Day.
The first five notes were relatively tame and simple, complimenting your hair or your smile or even giving you some encouragement. They were enough to get you to pull Charles and Lewis aside.
“Guys,” you ushered, gathering the two men into a small circle. “Don’t tell anyone just yet, but for the past few days, I’ve been getting these secret notes,” you squealed quietly, holding a few of them in your hands.
Lewis raised a brow, taking one into his hand. “Secret notes? You mean like letters from a secret admirer?” He asked, reading the note slowly.
You paused. A secret admirer. You hadn’t really thought of the notes like that. You scratched the back of your neck awkwardly. “Oh... I’m not quite sure about that. They seem really sweet but I don’t think they mean it like that.”
Charles pursed his lips together, in disbelief that he was watching his entire plan fall apart before his very eyes. “I mean... they probably do mean it like that,” he chuckled, trying to waver off his nervousness. He blinked at the staring expressions from you and Lewis. “I mean–who leaves compliments they could say to your face on paper if they don’t like you.”
Huh. Now that you thought about it, that was a reasonable argument. “Maybe,” you agreed with a small nod, taking back the notes.
Lewis shoved his hands in his pockets, moving his knowing glance from Charles to you. “Do you think they’ll ever reveal themselves?”
Unbeknownst to you, Charles’ skin began heating up as you gave a small shrug. “Possibly. Who knows? I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
After your conversation with Charles and Lewis, your notes were starting to become only slightly less complimentary and more poetic.
“At night, when the world falls asleep and all is still, you take over my every thought, against my will.”
“Your laugh is a melody of my favourite music notes I wish to hear. A song for my ears only. So soft and so warm.”
“The smile you wear, while unnoticed by all, is one I cannot forget at all.”
Were they cheesy and corny? Yes. Absolutely.
But were you smiling from ear to ear? A hundred percent.
It was getting bad now. For every note you read, your heart would race against your chest, your cheeks would flush, and the world seem to go quiet. You were sure this was exactly what this person wanted.
You couldn’t help but try figure out who the person was. But so far, there were very little personal clues in the notes. All you knew is that the person seemed to know you quite well as every note you found were in the places you visited the most.
“Hello,” a voice sung.
You looked up from the laptop you were supposed to be doing work on (and not daydreaming about love letters). You grinned at the familiar face. “Baby Leclerc!”
Arthur gave you a feigned pained expression, taking a seat next to you. “You and Charles... I swear,” he sighed, resting his head on the chair as you laughed softly. He turned his head to you. “So, I hear you’ve been getting secret notes?”
You flickered your eyes over to Arthur. “That idiot! I told Charles not to tell anyone,” you pouted.
Things are different when your brother sends you to deliver these same notes at six in the morning. Arthur simply smiled. “Any ideas on who it is?”
You sighed, shutting your laptop. “Nope,” you pursed your lips. You had received ten notes in total now. You had managed to pick out a few things. “I think whoever it is likes music or plays something since I’ve had three notes about music. They also might like snow since my ‘heart is as soft as the snow.’”
Arthur pressed his lips together on a line, trying to control his body from projectile vomiting on his brother’s corny notes. “Sound like anyone you know?” He asked, watching you carefully.
Surely by now...
You furrowed your brows. Music and snow. Music and snow. Music and snow. Nothing. There was nothing going through your head and Arthur could tell.
“Well,” Arthur started, standing up from his seat. “I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”
You smiled. “Hopefully.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
Four notes were left and it was getting more difficult to not only convince Arthur to put them in the selected locations but to make sure you were able to see them. It was getting closer and closer to the date of the car launch. It was five days after Valentine’s Day, the day you were going to receive your last note and this game of hide and seek would finally come to an end.
D-3
“You guide me through all the noise and speed. When you’re here, I find all I need.”
Noise and speed? Now you were thrown off. What did that mean? The noise and speed of what?
But as you walked past the plethora of rooms working on every small or big part of Ferrari’s new car for the season, one cog turned in place. You halted in your steps, thinking very carefully as drills and machines vibrated throughout the building.
Of course. The person had to be within Scuderia Ferrari. Your first thought – it could’ve been anyone. But noise and speed? That was Formula 1. That was at least all your engineers, mechanics, pit crew...
You felt a hand rest on your shoulder, your name softly being called out. “Hey. You okay, chérie?” Charles queried, blue eyes looking down at you slightly concerned.
You blinked, allowing a smile to grace your face even though it felt like the weight of his hand was burning your skin. You tried to keep your cheeks from heating up but any efforts were wasted. “Yeah, great,” you breathed. “Just figuring some things out.”
Charles slowly nodded, removing his hand and allowing you to breathe again. “Okay,” he murmured, “I just wanted to ask. Make sure you eat and drink well, hmm? I don’t want you passing out on the launch.”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks still burning. “Speak for yourself. Don’t think I haven’t seen you skipping lunch for the past week.”
Charles grinned to himself. You noticed. Reality was that he was struggling to not just confess every time he saw you, so he thought cutting one part of his day with you would help. It didn’t. But, hey, at least you noticed.
“You can just say you miss me. I won’t tell anyone, chérie. It’ll be our little secret,” he winked, starting to quickly walk past you in the hope you can’t see his flustered expression.
You blinked blankly again, feeling your heart loudly beat in your chest.
Holy shit.
D-2
“Even amongst the roar of the engine and the cheer of the crowd, you’re the only one I can hear.”
So, you were right. Whoever this admirer was, they were dealing with Ferrari’s car in some shape or format. It was more likely to be a mechanic or engineer, maybe even a test driver.
But one who liked music and snow? You couldn’t think of one person who fitted in all those categories.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Lewis queried, taking a seat next to you at lunch. He mended his brows, tilting his head. “Or should I say euro?”
You huffed, shaking your head. “Funny guy, aren’t ya?”
“Very,” Lewis commented before nudging your shoulder. “So... what’s on your mind? A secret admirer, perhaps?”
You rolled your eyes at his teasing tone. “Sort of. I’m just trying to figure them out. I just wish...”
Lewis raised a brow, turning his body to yours. “You wish...?”
You wished Charles was your secret admirer instead.
Sure, the notes made your day. But Charles was making your day in real life... off the paper. Just this morning, you and Charles had bumped into each other after you received your note. You were about to order your usual drink when he had ordered it for you, memorising the way you liked it exactly.
You told him you couldn’t believe he remembered. And he responded, “Of course I remember. Why wouldn’t I?”
The moment had left you thinking for the entire day. You hadn’t seen him since but you don’t think you could look at him without being flustered and a hot mess.
“Nothing,” you mumbled, sighing while Lewis grinned to himself. He knew exactly what you were wishing for.
D-1
“For every checkered flag that waves, you’re the one I look for first. Because even in a crowded room, I’ll always look for you.”
Checkered flags were always a mess. Seconds before the race leader would even pass, the garage and the stands were always moving, running, to the podium. It was rhythm of chaos. You never knew who was next to you. All you could feel was what it felt like in the moment.
Silverstone 2024 was for you to remember forever. Lewis’ first win since 2021 – since you had joined him as his personal trainer. The driver to have the most wins at a single circuit and it was at his home race.
Tears were shed that day.
And the crowd was something you would never forget. You almost lost yourself until Lewis had found you himself, thanking you for being by his side for some of the toughest years of his life.
But for your secret admirer to find you in a crowd of a checkered flag waves... well, they must have some good eyes.
You were lying down on a bench with Charles seated next to you and Arthur sitting across you. All of you were on your break, soaking in the tiny bit of sun that had come out during winter.
Your eyes were shut, protecting yourself from the sun and from melting under Charles’ gaze. You could hear Arthur call your name, making your ears perk up. “What do you look for in a guy?”
You couldn’t see it but Charles was sending the most heaviest glare he could muster to his younger brother. Arthur simply rolled his eyes, waiting for your response.
“That’s such a random question,” you mumbled.
Arthur cleared his throat. You were already onto him. “I mean... well, I asked Jade after I saw a TikTok of people’s responses. She said personality which is great, I guess. Kind of unsettling news for my face though,” he murmured towards the end.
You and Charles found yourself laughing at the scenario. Arthur was truly one of a kind. Quietening down, you realised the brothers were both waiting for your answer. “Um,” you momentarily pondered, “their soul.”
Arthur and Charles paused. The younger brother raised a brow you couldn’t see. “Their soul? What are you, a grim reaper?”
You chuckled softly. “It’s not that... it’s–well, I think everyone has specific types of souls. You can see it when you talk to someone and get to know them. It’s someone’s essence... the fabric of who they are.”
Charles leaned over, face hovering over you from a safe distance. “Their souls?” He repeated out of curiosity.
You nodded. “Yep. Everyone has one. Even you.”
Now you had full undivided attention. “Yeah? What do you think my soul is like, chérie?”
You opened your eyes, swallowing hard when you met those baby blues. Letting out a slow exhale, you stared at him as you thought about your answers. The words seemed to come easily to you.
“Charles... your soul dances. Purely. Freely. It dances to every fleeting moment and to the rhythm of life. Your soul finds meaning in everything because you have the biggest heart I’ve ever known. Because you are the most beautiful person I have ever met, inside and out.”
Charles blinked, speechless. He wasn’t sure what was more touching. Your words or your sheer seriousness. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his heart at bay.
One more day...
That’s all he needed to wait for
D-DAY
“Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together? I don’t know about you but I hope they do.”
You stared at the piece of paper. Souls? All of a sudden?
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” a voice quietly greeted behind you.
You turned your body despite knowing exactly who it was by the wave of warmth his voice had sent through you. “Hmm? Did you say something?”
Charles pursed his lips. Shoving his hands in his pockets of his jacket and smiled. “I said Happy Valentine’s Day. You know... since it’s the fourteenth.”
You nodded slowly, half processing his words while his dimples twinkled at you. “You too,” you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up once again. Stupid goddamn cheeks and their susceptibility to Charles.
You watched his eyes to fall the note in your hands. “Another note?” He asked.
You gave a small smile. “Yup.”
Charles cleared his throat, shuffling on his feet. “What does it say today?”
You opened your mouth, ready to start complaining. “It asks me about whether I think the universe fights for souls to be together–”
“Well, do you?” Charles queried, softly staring at you.
You blinked, feeling tongue-tied. “I... I-I mean yes. I’m sure the universe does but that’s not my point. My point is... is that it’s too random. Where did souls come from? This entire time it’s been music, piano, snow, noise, engines, and checkered flags... it’s so random. They’ve all been somewhat connected by now and–”
“Chérie,” Charles called.
“Yeah?” You responded only to be met with silence. You mended your brows together as he silently stood in front of you. Why wasn’t he saying anything?
You felt the walls of the world close in on you as he raised his eyebrows gently. Surely not...
Charles took a step closer to you, grabbing your hand with his. “I’m not sure about the universe, chérie. But I would love to fight for us.”
Your mouth fell open. You think your hands were shaking. “Charles... you wrote the notes?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, hand reaching to rub the back of his neck as his own cheeks started to burn.
“I’ve been planning it a few days after you came to Maranello. I just didn’t know how long I could be just friends with you for but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you then. If it isn’t clear yet,” he breathed in, thumb rubbing your hand gently, “I really really like you.”
You gulped. Charles’ eyes were always soft. They changed when he raced. Like he could burn down the track. But today, they looked at you with such a warm and heartfelt intensity. It was the same one when he lost in Monaco and when he won.
The same one you found searching for you in the crowd.
Charles’ breath hitched as he felt you lean in. He watched you move your head, eyes falling to his lips. And just like that, he could feel your lips pressed onto the corner of his mouth. He steadied himself as you pull away, your thumb grazing his mouth gently.
He flickered his eyes to your lips as the words fall freely. “I like you too.”
Charles grinned, dimples popping out once again. His arms moved to wrap themselves around your waist, bringing you into a tight hug. He let out a relieved exhale. “Thank God,” he murmured next to your ear.
He could feel you laugh against him and he loved it. “What did you think I was gonna say? That I didn’t like you?” You asked with a small smile as you pulled away from his body, still in his grasp.
Charles rolled his eyes, thumb rubbing small circles into your waist. He looked at you, taking in the moment. He gave you a small shrug. “You always make me nervous,” he sighed out.
“Me? Make you nervous?” You gaped. “I’m pretty sure I’m shaking right now.”
A wide smile graced his face. “I’m glad I have the ability to do that.”
You stayed silent, unsure if you could trust yourself to speak any further. You simply smiled, cheeks still burning to react to Charles while you rested in his arms.
“Chérie,” he called softly and this time you looked back to what was yours.
You tilted your head, waiting for him to say something.
“You never asked me about your soul,” he stated.
The way he said it made the comment sound factual. But you didn’t understand. “What do you mean?” You asked.
He laughed quietly at your confused expression. Tucking your hair behind your ears, Charles rested his hands back on your waist. “I want you to ask me what I think about your soul.”
You fell quiet for a brief second. Christ, was he sure that you were the one making him nervous? Because he sure knew how to make you speechless.
“Okay.” You breathed, giving him a small smile. Moving your arms to his neck, you hung them and opened your mouth. “Charles, what do you think about my soul?”
“Chérie, you said my soul dances. But your soul... it breathes. It lives. Everywhere you walk, you give life to world. You create reason. Everything you say and do sounds like a song. Even your silence is music. Sweetheart, you make living the most beautiful gift of life.”
SUMMARY: it won't be that bad to hope for something to happen between you and oscar, right?
REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.
WARNINGS: angst but happy ending, inspired by my favorite movie 'sixteen candles', alternative universe wherein oscar is not an f1 racer but a uni boy, a little cliche (just bc), not proof read, and a little typographical errors
WORD COUNT: 15.1k
AUTHOR’S NOTE: i honestly don't know what to say. this had been in my drafts for months now (since last year), and also, happy 2026. a lot of things had happened to me, that's why i have to be inactive for a while. been dealing with some stuff. i offer this word vomit of a fic to you guys. i hope you'll like it :)
p.s. i'm not completely sure when i'll be able to do an update again with my op81 socmed au. i need to get my shit together first. also, i might disappear again right after, so i'm very sorry in advance.
The sound of your mother’s laughter filtered through the thin walls of your house that one Saturday morning. She was talking to someone over the fence—again. You didn't really have to look to know who she was talking to. There was only one person she chatted with animatedly at eight in the morning on weekends—Mrs. Piastri. You were still in your Pajamas, brushing your teeth when you heard your mother call your name.
“—and she’s up now, she’s awake!”
You froze mid-brush, toothbrush hanging limply from your mouth. “No,” you mumbled around the foam, “no, no, no—”
But by then, it was already too late. There was a light knock at the door connecting to the side gates of your houses, followed by an all too familiar voice.
“Your mum says you’re awake.” Oscar said, tone flat but amused.
“I hate this neighborhood arrangement.” You said, spitting out the toothpaste, and out onto the hallways.
Oscar leaned against the doorframe, wearing that usual half smirk he did whenever he was amused with you. His hair was messy, a clear sign that he had just woken up too, but he already looked too effortlessly put together for someone who had just rolled out of bed. You noticed, with slight annoyance and something else you did not want to name, that he wore the same black hoodie he always did when it was chilly.
“Morning to you too,” he replied, eyes flicking over your sleepy state. “You’ve got, uh…”
“What?”
He motioned vaguely to your mouth, “toothpaste.”
“Oh, uh,” you wiped it quickly, cheeks heating up. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he said, biting back a grin. “Mum said you’re coming to campus early for your Saturday class. You still need a ride?”
You sighed, heading back to your room to get dressed. “Yeah, just give me ten minutes.”
Ten minutes, of course, turned into twenty-five. By the time you walked out of your front door, bag slung over your shoulder and hair hastily tied up, Oscar was already leaning against his car—arms crossed, pretending to check the time on his phone like he always did.
“You know,” he said dryly, opening the passenger door for you, “for someone who complains about my driving, you sure love making me wait.”
You slid in at the front seat with a mock glare. “You don’t drive fast. You drive like an eighty-year-old man who’s terrified of speed bumps.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow as he got inside the driver’s seat. “Well I’m sorry that I value my life and my passengers by not dying in traffic.”
“Tragic.” You said, buckling in.
“You’re so dramatic.” He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched.
“Comes with studying medicine.” You said, clicking on his dashboard screen.
The speakers hummed softly before you connected your phone via bluetooth, and, as always, you went straight to your favorite playlist—basically a whole spotify playlist of songs from your favorite rom-com movies of all time. The intro chords of Stephen Bishop’s song, It Might Be You filled the car, and you turned the volume up just enough to make Oscar groan.
“Again?” He said, dragging out the word.
“Yes, again!” You said brightly, leaning back in your seat. “This song is a masterpiece, don’t tell me it doesn't make you feel things!”
“It’s from 1982.”
“So? It is literally the golden era of love songs.” You tapped your fingers on your thigh in rhythm. “This song is about fate, you know. About finding the right person when you least expect it. It’s timeless, Oscar.”
He gave you a sidelong glance, that subtle little smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve given this speech, like, fifty times now.”
“And yet you still don’t appreciate it enough!” You said, turning up the volume again and starting to sing along—loudly and exaggeratedly. “Time, I’ve been passing time, watching trains go byyyy—”
Oscar just groaned. “Oh my god.”
But he didn't stop you, he never did. By the time you reached the chorus of the song, you could see Oscar trying not to smile. You stretched your arm towards him dramatically, pretending like you were serenading him from the passenger seat.
“It might be you, all of my life!”
He burst out laughing, finally shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it, though.”
“Debatable.”
“Liar.”
It was always like this, the easy banter. The quiet moments that didn't need words. The comfort that came from years of friendship, the kind that made you forget where the line between ‘best friend’ and ‘something else’ really was.
You and Oscar grew up side by side—matching scraped knees, shared ice creams, your mothers gossiping over the fence while you and Oscar built lego towers that always collapsed. He was awkward even as a kid, quieter than most, but you would always find his dry humor very charming. Somewhere between high school and university, though, he had grown taller, jaws became sharper, and his smile more boyish—and somewhere along that blurry timeline, you had started falling. But you had never told him, you never would.
Oscar had that effect on people—being the kind of quiet that made you want to fill the silence, the kind of presence that felt safe, steady, and real. Maybe that’s why it hurts sometimes, because you knew that while you were quietly memorizing the way he smiled, Oscar probably just thought you were being your usual loud, dramatic self.
Halfway to campus, the song had already switched to another track. The moment you noticed it was no longer It Might Be You, you reached for your phone again to replay it.
Oscar swatted your hand lightly. “Nope.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve listened to that one enough.”
“I’m not done absorbing the emotions!” You protested.
He just gave you a look that said he had heard this line before. “You listen to that song like it’s your religion.”
“That’s because it is,” you said solemnly. “It’s the perfect love song. Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to just know someone’s the one?”
He blinked, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Of course not, never said it was,” you said softly, staring out the window. “But I think you just feel it. Like one day, you wake up, and you realize you’ve been looking at the same person all along, and all of a sudden, it makes sense. It’s them.”
“You really believe that?” Oscar replied, a little quieter now.
“I do.” You smiled faintly.
He nodded slowly, eyes still on the road. “Yeah, I can tell.”
You laughed softly at his reply, but your chest felt warm in that painful, familiar way. You wanted to tell Oscar that it’s you. That every time you sang that song, it was not just for fun. It was because every word of it reminded you of the way he had been there for years—steadily, unknowingly, and the boy next door who had somehow become the center of your heart.
But you didn't say it. Instead, you just turned the volume back up, singing the chorus again while Oscar shook his head with the fond, quiet smile that you had grown too attached to, and in that car, between laughter, music, and unspoken feelings—you decided that if you had to carry this secret forever, it was okay with you. Because, even if he never knew, even if he never felt the same way, it still might be him.
All your life.
It was one of those rare evenings when the roles were reversed. Usually, Oscar would be the one leaning casually against the wall across from your lecture hall, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, scrolling through his phone while waiting for you to finish class. But tonight, it was you standing outside his lecture hall—tired but still patient, your tumbler being held by your right hand, and your books being clutched by your left hand against your chest.
The corridor buzzed faintly with voices from the other rooms—footsteps echoing, people laughing, and the faint squeal of rubber soles against tile. The light outside had dimmed into a dusky orange, the kind that seeped through the hallway window and painted the white walls gold. You checked the time on your phone, Oscar’s running late.
“Come on, Piastri.” You murmured softly, shaking your head.
You tried distracting yourself by doom scrolling between different apps, but your focus kept slipping towards the door of their lecture hall. You could faintly hear a professor’s voice inside, muffled and monotonous. You smiled to yourself, picturing Oscar fighting to stay awake, pen tapping lightly against his notebook as he zoned out. When the door finally opened, a flood of students poured out—some were chatting, yawning, and rushing towards the vending machines. Then, there he was.
Oscar walked out, laughing softly at something that was beside him had said, and that someone was Lily Zneimer. You froze for a split second, the same smile you had been wearing faltering just slightly. Of course you knew who Lily was, everyone in the faculty did. Bright, kind, effortlessly composed—she’s the type of person that people would usually gravitate towards.
You had worked on a charity project together once, where you went to an underserved remote area, she’s the one that the engineering faculty sent to go with you. Lily was genuinely lovely, the kind of girl who said your name softly when she spoke to you, who remembered details about people, and who always had encouraging words to offer. Now, she was walking next to Oscar, her hair falling gracefully over her shoulder as she laughed at something he said. He looked very relaxed, hands in his pockets, that faintly amused smirk on his lips, the one you always saw when he was in a good mood.
There was a small pinch in your chest. You didn't know why exactly, or maybe you did, and you just don’t want to admit it yourself. You took a quiet breath, straightening up, and decided to just wait until they were done talking, since you didn't want to interrupt. So you just stood there, pretending to check your phone, pretending that your pulse was not doing that weird thing it did whenever Oscar smiled.
After a few moments, Oscar’s eyes lifted and spotted you down the hall. His expression softened, and that familiar, small, lopsided smile appeared on his face. The one that always felt a little too fond, too easy. You lifted your hand and gave him a small wave, smiling back. He nodded slightly before turning to say something to Lily—probably to say goodbye, you guessed. She smiled at him, and then waved before walking in the opposite direction, her friends calling out to her from down the corridor. Just like that, it was you and him again.
Oscar walked towards you, his bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly disheveled from running his hand through it, which is something he did often when he was tired or distracted.
“Hey,” he greeted, voice easy and casual. “Sorry, class ran a bit over.”
You smiled, forcing the cheerfulness into your tone. “It’s fine. I figured you’d be late, engineering people, right? Always overachieving.”
“Right,” he chuckled. “Because med students never stay late in the lab or anything.”
You grinned at him faintly, brushing off his teasing. Then, because you couldn't help yourself, the words slipped out of your mouth before you could even try and stop them.
“You and Lily looked good together.”
You said it with the intention of it only being a joke, with tone light and sing-song, as if you were just teasing Oscar. You even raised an eyebrow and nudged his arm slightly, like you were daring him to laugh. However, you did not expect him to go along with it.
Oscar looked down at you, smiling faintly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You blinked.
He shrugged that looked entirely too casual, and then said, “she’s nice. I kinda have a little crush on her, actually.”
The words hit you like an ice cold rush of water. For a second, you could not breathe properly. You tried to school your face into something neutral, supportive, but you could only feel your chest tighten anyway. You forced a laugh, one that came out softer than you meant it to.
“Oh? Really?”
“Yeah,” Oscar nodded, shoving one hand into his pocket, tone almost bashful—but in that kind of quiet and awkward Oscar way. “I don’t know…she’s smart, funny, and kind of easy to talk to.”
“She’s really sweet,” you said lightly, smiling. Even though it felt like your cheeks were made of glass. “And she’s one of the best in your year, right? You two make sense, actually.”
Oscar gave a small laugh. “You think so?”
“Yeah, of course.” You replied, staring ahead as the two of you started walking towards the university parking lot. “You’re both on the same program, probably understand each other’s brainy conversations about mechanical…curcuits? Or whatever you guys talk about.”
“Oh wow,” he said, glancing sideways at you with a teasing grin. “You really have no idea what we do, do you?”
“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p,’ and laughing softly. Grateful that Oscar took it as a joke. “I just pretend to understand whenever you talk about equations.”
He smirked, kicking a small pebble on the path ahead of him. “Good to know. I’ll stop pretending to understand all the medical terms you throw around, then.”
“That’s fair.” You chuckled faintly, gripping your books and tumbler a little tighter.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but heavier than usual. Usually, your walks with Oscar back to the car were filled with banter—snide remarks, shared laughter, and your voice bouncing off his quiet hums. But tonight, it was a little bit different. You could hear the faint rustle of leaves, the low chatter of students heading home, and beneath all that, the steady rhythm of your heart trying to pretend that everything’s fine.
You looked at Oscar from the corner of your eye—his relaxed posture, the way his hair fell into his eyes, faint trace of a smile that was still lingering on his lips as if he was lost in thoughts, which you think that he’s probably thinking about Lily.
“Soooo,” you swallowed hard, smiling, and forced a bright tone. “Are you gonna ask her out?”
Oscar laughed softly. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” You echoed.
“I mean,” he glanced at you, eyes amused. “She’s great, yeah. But I don’t think I’d have much of a chance.”
You frowned. “And why not? You’re Oscar Piastri. You literally have people in our year who blush when you talk to them.”
“That’s not true.” He rolled his eyes.
“It is,” you said. “Trust me on this one, I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. You just don’t notice because you’re too busy pretending you don’t care.”
Oscar chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You give me way too much credit.”
“Eh, maybe.” You replied softly.
But your voice came out quieter this time, barely above the sound of the gravel under your shoes. You smiled faintly, looking up at the darkening sky, and tried not to think about the dull ache that was growing somewhere deep in your chest. You wanted to say something else, something that would change the subject, lighten the mood, but the words stayed trapped behind your smile.
So instead, you kept walking beside him, shoulders brushing against each other every now and then, your laugh a little too soft, voice a little too casual, and somewhere in the quiet, between the sound of your footsteps and the memory of that song that always played inside of his car, you realized something—maybe the most cruel part of loving someone in silence is not that they do not love you back, but that they could look at someone else the way you had been looking at them all along.
The days began to fall into a rhythm that you didn't quite enjoy, but accepted it anyway—because that’s just how things were now. Every afternoon, the familiar routing repeated itself. You would finish your lab work, exhausted but patient, and then make your way towards the engineering building to wait for Oscar.
Waiting for Oscar used to be a small and comforting part of your day. You would lean against the wall outside his lecture hall, maybe scroll again through your phone, sometimes you’ll hum to yourself while counting the minutes until he gets out. Usually, he would be the first one to spot you, his face lighting up a little as he waved and walked over to you. But lately, that small, familiar joy had been replaced by something that is quieter, something that pressed against your chest whenever the door opened and you saw him walking out beside Lily.
You did not mind, that it was fine—unless that’s what you tell yourself. But you were starting to get really good at lying to yourself, and today was no different. You stood by the side of the hallway, your bag heavy on your shoulders—filled with your lab coat, goggles, notes, and everything else from your day of endless experiments and dissections. Your other hand held your tumbler, which you hadn't even opened yet because you were too tired to care. The white tiles under your shoes gleamed faintly under the hallway lights, and the faint hum of the air conditioner filled the space around you.
It had been a long day. A very long day. The kind of long that made your limbs ache and your mind fog over. You had been at the lab since eight in the morning, measuring, testing, writing, redoing—and now, it was almost seven in the evening. You didn't even have any energy left to scroll through your phone. You just stood there, staring blankly ahead, exhaustion heavy in your bones.
When the door to Oscar’s lecture hall finally opened, your eyes automatically flickered towards it. Students filed out in twos and threes, chatting quietly as they passed, and there he was again—Oscar, walking beside Lily, papers in hand with the faintest smile on his face. You didn't know if it was because you were tired or just completely something else, but seeing Oscar and Lily together made that familiar dull ache return. It was not jealousy, not really. It was something that is much softer, sadder. The kind of pain that came from watching something slip away from your grasp that you never really had in the first place.
They look good together, you couldn't simply deny that. Oscar was tall and quiet, awkward in the way that made people want to lean in closer, whereas Lily was poised and warm, the kind of girl who made everything around her seem lighter. Then there’s you—you were just there. Standing on the sidelines, with your heavy bag and tired eyes.
You waited until they finished talking. You didn't want to interrupt, you never did. You watched Lily laugh softly at something Oscar said, the sound echoing faintly down the corridor. You watched the way he looked at Lily—not with intensity, but with quiet interest. You had seen that look before, it was the same one Oscar had when he found something fascinating, something worth understanding. It took him a little while before his eyes finally lifted and found you.
When they did, his face broke into that familiar, gentle smile—the one that felt like it belonged only to you. You gave him a small wave, returning his smile with one of your own, though yours was a little tighter, a little more tired. Oscar said something to Lily, probably goodbye, and she smiled before heading in the opposite direction, her books hugged to her chest. You exhaled quietly as he walked towards you, pushing his hair back with his hand.
“Hey,” he said, voice soft but bright. “You’ve been waiting long?”
You shook your head, forcing a little smile. “Not really. I just got here.”
It was a complete and total lie—you had been there for nearly twenty minutes, but you didn't have the energy to make Oscar feel bad.
He frowned slightly, studying you. “You look exhausted.”
“I am,” you admitted with a quiet laugh, rubbing your shoulder. “We had back-to-back lab sessions today. My brain’s basically mush.”
Oscar chuckled softly, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Mush, huh? Is that the medical term?”
“Yeah,” you gave him a small grin. “Very scientific.”
He smiled, and for a moment, it felt like things were normal again. The easy rhythm of your friendship falling into place. But your body was too drained to keep up the usual banter, so the silence stretched longer than it usually did. As the two of you started walking towards the parking lot, you could hear the faint crunch of gravel beneath your shoes, and the rustling of trees overhead. Oscar glanced sideways at you a few times, like he wanted to say something, but each time, he stayed quiet.
“You and Lily seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.” You said finally, trying to keep your tone light, casual.
“Yeah,” he nodded, not catching the way your fingers tightened slightly around your water bottle. “We got paired up for this big project. Counts for, like, half our final grade.”
You nodded. “That’s great. You two make a good team.”
“Yeah, she’s—” he started, then paused. “She’s really smart. Organized, too. Keeps me on track.”
You forced another smile. “Sounds like you need that.”
“Probably.” He grinned faintly.
You modded, looking straight ahead. You didn't say anything else. You don’t trust your voice right now to sound as casual as you wanted it to. But, inside your mind, your mind wouldn't stop spinning. You told yourself that it was okay, that this was just how things went sometimes. You had known Oscar your whole life, and if anyone deserved something good, it was him, and Lily—she was as good as they came. Of course they would make sense, they would fit together in a way that you and Oscar never would.
Lily Zneimer was perfect. She was soft spoken, radiant, effortlessly graceful—she is the kind of girl who made people look twice, and you, well, you were just you. Loud, quiet other times, always somewhere in between. You were good at what you did, sure—top of your class too, focused, ambitious, but you are not Lily Zneimer. You couldn't compete with someone like her, not that you ever planned to. But still, that didn't make it hurt any less.
Oscar’s voice broke through your thoughts. “You’re really quiet today,” he said, glancing at you with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” you blinked, then looked up at him and smiled faintly. “Just tired. Labs all day, remember?”
“You sure?” He asked again, gaze lingering a little longer than usual.
“I’m sure,” you chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just running on fumes.”
“Okay,” he said, tone still laced with a hint of worry for you. “You can sleep in the car if you want.”
You laughed quietly. “Tempting.”
Oscar laughed a little at that, unlocking the car door for you. As you slid into the passenger seat, you rested your head lightly against the cool window, eyes falling shut for a moment. You could hear him starting the engine, the faint hum of it filling the silence. For a brief second, you wished things could go back to how they were before—before Lily, before the paired project, before the quiet ache that had taken up residence in your chest. But you knew better. Some things were not meant to stay simple, and some things—like loving someone who didn't know, were meant to hurt quietly, in ways you would ever understand.
You just stayed silent, eyes closed, pretending to rest. When Oscar glanced your way again, concern was evident in his eyes, you smiled faintly to yourself—because even though your heart was aching, you still loved him enough to be happy that he might have found something who could make him smile that way.
The hum of the fluorescent lights inside the laboratory had long stopped being comforting. By now, it was a dull, persistent reminder of how late it was, how tired you were and how much you wanted to go home. The faint scent of disinfectant clung to the air, mixing with the sterile tang of metal instruments and faint traces of alcohol from the day’s endless experiments.
You glanced up at the clock above the door, nearly eight in the evening. You let out a quiet sigh, shoulders sagging as you placed your pipette down, double checking the label on the last sample before closing the lid on your lab kit. Other students were already packing up too, the scraping of chairs and quiet chatter echoing faintly against the tiled walls.
“Fucking finally,” you muttered under your breath, wiping your forehead with the back of your sleeve. “I can’t feel my brain anymore.”
Noelle, your lab partner gave you a tired laugh as she zipped up her bag. “Go home, you look like you’re about to fall over.”
“Don’t tempt me.” You smiled faintly.
Once everything was neatly tucked away—notes, gloves, goggles, and medical tools, you slung your bag over one shoulder and grabbed your tumbler, still half-full from this morning. The hallway outside was dim and quiet now, most classes were already done for the day. You could feel the weight of the week pressing down on you—fatigue seeping deep in your bone, dryness of your throat, and stiffness in your hands.
As you pushed the lab door open, you let out a breath that you did not realize that you were holding—relieved that the long day was finally over. But then, you stopped on your tracks, because standing just outside the lab, waiting, was Oscar. Next to him was Lily.
For a brief moment, your mind went blank. Your footsteps faltered just slightly as your eyes took in the sight of them—Oscar in his usual hoodie and jeans, leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed, and expression relaxed as he said something to Lily that made her laugh. Lily’s hair gleamed under the hallway lights, posture perfect and graceful, as if she was not the least bit tired despite the late hours. You didn't know what to feel exactly, there was a strange twist in your chest, mix of surprise, confusion, and that small stubborn ache that had been sitting in you for weeks now. Still, you smiled, tight lipped and polite, clutching your tumbler a little too firmly in your hand.
“Hey.” You greeted, voice soft, and trying to sound normal.
Oscar’s eyes lifted at the sound of your voice. His expression quickly changed—a familiar kind of warmth lighting up his face, the kind that always made something inside you flutter, despite your best efforts.
“Hey,” he replied, pushing off the wall. “You took your time.”
You gave him a small laugh, it sounded weak but genuine enough. “Sorry, the lab ran late again. We had so many samples to process today.”
“Med students are built differently,” Lily chimed in, smiling kindly at you, and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I could never do that many hours straight.”
You smiled back at her. “Trust me, neither can I.”
Oscar chuckled softly, watching the exchange between you and Lily. You glanced down at your watch, it was already 8:12 pm. The realization that they had both been waiting thus long hit you, and something about that did not sit quite right in your chest.
“You should've gone home first,” you said, looking up at Oscar. “I could've just taken the bus.”
“Not a chance.” Oscar replied almost instantly. “Mum would actually murder me if she found out I left you here alone.”
His reply made you pause. For a heartbeat, you didn't know what to say. Though the words themselves were plain and simple, teasing, but the way he said it—a small hint of protectiveness in his tone, made you feel things. It made your chest ache in that familiar, traitorous way.
“Right,” you smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. “Can’t risk your mum’s wrath.”
“Exactly.” He grinned.
“Let’s go then,” you shifted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, trying to ignore the heaviness in your limbs and the slight wobble in your heart. “Before I actually fall asleep on my feet.”
Oscar nodded, starting to walk, but then he glanced back over his shoulder. “Hey, is it okay if Lily rides with us? She didn't bring her car today.”
“Oh,” you said softly, Oscar’s question catching you off guard. “Yeah, of course.”
“Are you sure?” He asked, tone careful.
“Yeah,” you repeated, managing a small smile. “It’s fine.”
It really was fine. It had to be.
The three of you started walking together towards the university parking lot, the night air was cool and quiet. You listened absently as Oscar and Lily talked about their project, something about simulation codes and structural testing that you don’t have any idea about. Their conversation flowed easily, it was the kind of conversation that only happens between people who understand the same language.
You trailed behind, nodding occasionally, not wanting to intrude in their conversation. When you finally reached Oscar’s car, you automatically went towards the backseat, only to realize that Lily had done the same thing. You both reached for the door handle at the same time, pausing awkwardly.
“Oh—sorry,” Lily quickly said, pulling back her hand from the door handle. “You sit there, please.”
“No, it’s okay.” You shook your head with a polite smile. “You can sit in front.”
“Are you sure?” She asked, hesitant. “I don’t want to impose—”
“Really, it’s fine,” you insisted, tone gentle. “Go ahead.”
Lily looked at you for a moment before smiling gratefully. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
As you settled into the backseat, you buckled your seatbelt and rested your head briefly against the cool window, the city lights outside flickering faintly in the reflection. You caught a glimpse of Oscar as he got into the driver’s seat, adjusting the rear view mirror.
“Ready?” He asked.
“Yeah.” You and Lily said almost at the same time, and both laughed softly.
The car ride started quietly, the hum of the engine, the occasional sound of the tires rolling over the uneven pavement, and ghe faint murmur of Oscar and Lily’s conversation upfront. You chime in every now and then when they addressed you—small things and polite responses. But mostly, you just listened.
There’s no doubt that Lily was easy to talk to, you could see why Oscar liked her. She had this natural warmth that made the space feel lighter, her laughter easy and sincere. Every now and then, she would turn slightly in her seat to ask you something about your classes or how medicine compared to engineering, and you would answer with a smile. Though your words would always come out quieter and slower. You didn't trust your voice not to sound off.
From where you were seated, you could see the way Oscar would glance at Lily whenever she spoke—curious, attentive, and with that subtle smile tugging at his lips. You had seen that kind of expression before, Oscar had once looked at you like that during your late night study sessions or car rides that were filled with laughter. Now, it was all hers. You just decided to turn your gaze towards the car window instead, the soft glow of passing streetlights blurring into streaks of gold and white.
By the time you reached Lily’s place, you had managed to compose yourself again. She unbuckled the seatbelt and turned slightly to look at you from the front seat.
“Thanks again for letting me hitch a ride,” she said kindly. “You’re seriously too nice.”
You smiled. “It’s no problem. Get home safe, okay?”
“I will,” she said, and then looked at Oscar. “Thanks, Oscar. See you tomorrow.”
“See you.” He replied, voice soft, and his smile lingering as Lily stepped out of the car.
The door on the front seat closed gently, and then silence. The air inside Oscar’s car felt heavier now, quiet—almost deafening after all the light conversation. Oscar started driving again, hands steady on the steering wheel. You leaned your head against the window, feeling the cool glass against your skin, reflection faint in the passing lights. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke, until Oscar decided to break the quietness.
“You okay?”
You blinked, forcing a small hum. “Mhm? Yeah. Just tired.”
“Long day?” He glanced at you through the rearview mirror, eyes soft.
“Very,” you replied, smiling faintly. “I don’t think my legs remember how to function anymore.”
Oscar chuckled under his breath. “You’re gonna burn yourself out if you keep pushing like this.”
“Well, it’s basically in the job description for my program.” You said, voice tired but teasing.
He smiled at what you had said, but nothing else. The car fell into that quietness again, save for the low sound of the tyres against the road. Every now and then, you would catch him glancing at you in the mirror—quick, concerned looks that he probably did not even realize he was doing. When he finally pulled up in front of your house, you unbuckled your seatbelt, giving him a tired but genuine smile.
“Thanks for the ride. Goodnight, Oscar.”
“Anytime,” he said softly. “Get some rest, yeah?”
You nodded, stepping out of the car. “You too.”
Oscar waited until you reached your front door before he parked his on the garage of their house next to yours. You turned the key in your lock, exhaling deeply as you stepped inside. It wasn't until you were settling your bag down that you had realized that your tumbler was missing. You immediately frowned, checking the pockets of your bag, the counter, your jacket—nothing. Then it hit you, you must have left it in the backseat of Oscar’s car.
“Of fucking course.” You murmured to yourself, sighing and shaking your head.
You would get it from him tomorrow.
You never did get your tumbler back from Oscar. You realized it two days later, when you opened your bag to reach for it after class, and your hand met only the empty space. A hollow sigh escaped you, one that carried more than just the frustration of losing something small. You knew exactly where it was—on the floor of Oscar’s car, maybe rolling under the seat or tucked beside the door. You could have texted him, you could have asked, but somehow you didn't, because lately, Oscar was not just Oscar anymore. Yeah, he was Oscar, but now it became Oscar and Lily.
You thought it was just convenience. The two of them had been partners in a group project, so it made sense that they spent time together, working late, talking through code or design drafts. But the project had ended weeks ago, and still, Lily rode with you both now to and from university. You saw him and Lily together sometimes inside the university campus together—laughing, sharing those small, comfortable looks that you used to think only you understood. And maybe that is when realization had hit you again—maybe Oscar did finally made his move.
Meanwhile, you were sill the one staying late in the lab, surrounded by the sterile hum of machines and the echo of your own exhaustion. The embarrassment began to creep in slowly, until it became impossible for you to ignore. Every night you would leave the lab and find them both waiting for you—Oscar leaning casually against his car, Lily beside him, their silhouettes framed by the yellow glow of the campus lights. It was kind, maybe even sweet of him, but you just could not stand the thought of Oscar waiting there for you with Lily. You felt like an intruder in something that used to be yours.
One evening, after another long and draining day, you finally decided. You had just finished logging your lab results when you saw a message pop up on your phone.
Oscar [7:34 pm] : outside whenever you’re done :)
You [7:34 pm] : hey, if you’ve already been waiting for 15 minutes or so, you don’t have to stay.
You [7:35 pm] : you can just go home first, I’ll be fine.
Oscar [7:36 pm] : nah, it’s fine. we’ll wait.
You [7:36 pm] : oscar, seriously.
You [7:36 pm] : you don’t have to wait for me, especially since lily’s with you.
You [7:37 pm] : i can just take the bus or grab an uber ride home, it’s late anyway.
Oscar [7:40 pm] : you know mum will kill me if she finds out i left you here alone lol
You [7:41 pm] : then i’ll tell her it’s fine.
You [7:41pm] : i’ll talk to her myself if i have to.
You [7:42 pm] : i promise i’ll get home safely, okay?
Oscar [7:43 pm] : you sure?
You [7:43 pm] : yep :)
Oscar [7:44 pm] : 👍🏻
That was basically how it started with you going home alone at night. The first few nights felt strange, lab corridors were too quiet, the hum of the vending machine too loud. You got used to hearing your own footsteps echo as you walked to the bus top, the weight of your bag pressing down on your shoulder. You had plugged in your earphones and listened to the faint hum of your playlist that you didn't really pay attention to, mind too full and too emoty all at once. Yet, every night as you stepped out of the lab, you would find yourself glancing towards the parking lot out of habit, just to check and see.
Sometimes, you would caught a glimpse of Oscar’s car in the distance, headlights cutting through the dark, Lily in the passenger sear beside him. You would swallow down that quiet, stupid ache that bloomed in your chest and quickly look away, pretending you hadn't seen anything.
During your in-between breaks, it was all the same. You would sit at one of the benches by the university courtyard, notes open in front of you but your attention slipping elsewhere. Across the quad, you would see them together—Oscar carrying his backpack with that casual slouch of his, and Lily laughing at something he had said. They always walked close enough that their shoulders brushed. That small, simple sight would be enough to send a stinging feeling through your chest.
It was not jealousy to be exact. Or maybe it was. You didn't know anymore. It was more like realizing that something you had quietly cherished for years was slipping away—not taken, nor broken, just fading. Slowly and quietly, like it had never really belonged to you in the first place.
Days turned into weeks, and before you knew it, you and Oscar had started to drift apart. There was no argument, no falling out, just a gradual softening of things—conversations that used to be easy now felt forced, messages that used to come instantly now came hours later, if at all. Oscar became busy with Lily, you became busy with your own stuff. That was all there was to it. When you did see each other, it was different. Polite, a little distant, like two people who used to share everything but now didn't know where to start.
Then, your new class schedule came out, it felt like it was the quiet ending of it all. Your classes were now in the afternoons, while Oscar’s were still in the mornings. There was no point in riding together anymore. You didn't even mention it to him, there was no need. The change just happened naturally, besides he didn't asked.
Somewhere between the late nights in the lab and the quiet rides home alone, the rhythm you once had with Oscar had unraveled. Not in a sudden snap, but in a slow and steady unraveling that you could not stop. It was fine, people drift apart, that this was just a phase—part of growing up. Yet, every now and then, as you walked home with your bag heavy on your shoulder and the city lights flickering faintly in the distance, you couldn't help but think of the tumbler you left behind—the one still sitting at the back of Oscar’s car.
Weeks had quietly slipped by, the kind that blurred together in the haze of university life—labs, lectures, late nights, and the quiet sting in your chest that followed you around like a shadow. Somewhere in between those days, things began to shift again, though not in the way you expected.
Your parents had sat you down in the kitchen one Saturday morning. You were still in your pajamas, hair tied in a messy bun, sipping coffee while trying to finish your lab notes. Your mother cleared her throat first, exchanging a quick glance with your father, and you immediately knew something was coming.
“Sweetheart,” your mother began, tone gentle but deliberate. “We’ve been talking, you father and I, about your car.”
You looked up from your notebook. “Uh, what about it?”
“The mechanic says it’s done for. Completely.” Your dad gave a small sigh, pushing a few papers aside. “He doesn't recommend repairing it anymore.”
“Seriously?” You blinked. “I thought it just needed a new transmission.”
“He said even if he replaced that, the engine’s going to gove out sooner or later. It’s been over ten years, love. It’s time to let it go.” Your mother said softly.
“So…no car for me anymore?”
“That’s the thing.” Your father smiled, a little too amused for your liking.
That was when you noticed the small envelope your mother slid across the table. Curious, you carefully opened it, and inside was a key fob. New, shiny, and completely unfamiliar.
“Wait,” you blinked, looking up, completely caught off guard. “Is this—?”
“Your new car!” Your mother said excitedly. “Well, technically it’s ours until you graduate, but you’ll be the one driving it. It’s parked in the driveway.”
Your jaw dropped. “You got me a new car?”
“An SUV,” your father added. “Something reliable. You’ve been coming home late from the lab almost every night, and we don’t like the idea of you taking the bus alone. It’s not safe.”
“I can’t believe this.” You were still in disbelief, clutching the key fob.
“You’ve been working hard, sweetheart.” Your mother reached over, squeezing your hand. “You deserve something that makes things a little easier.”
“Thank you.” You said softly, meaning it.
“We also know about everything.” Your mother’s gaze softened even further as she added. “About Oscar, and how you feel a little embarrassed about him waiting for you with Lily.”
“What?” You blinked, heart tightening just slightly. “You knew about that?”
“You think we don’t notice?” Your father chuckled under his breath. “You’ve always been open with us, honey. We know you insisted on going home alone. We trust you.”
Your mother tilted her head. “You know, you could've just told Oscar to stop waiting for you. You’ve always been so considerate of everyone else’s time.”
“I did,” you said softly, stirring your coffee. “I did told him, and I told Aunt Nicole about it too. She was sweet about it, just worried, I think.”
“Of course she was,” your mother said. “They’ve always treated you like family.”
You smiled faintly at that. “Yeah, they have.”
By the time Monday rolled in, you were already used to seeing your new SUV sitting proudly in the driveway, a crisp shade of silver gleaming under the sunlight. You hadn't driven it to university yet, though—your schedule had been packed, and today, you were running late. Your 1:30 pm class starts in fifteen minutes, and you haven't even left the house. You were half-dressed, hair still damp from fhe shower, scrambling to shove your notes and laptop into your bag.
“You’re going to be late if you don’t move faster!” Your mother called out from downstairs.
“I know!” You called back, juggling your tumbler and stethoscope case before nearly tripping over your shoes.
After the whirlwind of chaos, you slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your keys, and called out a breathless goodbye to your parents.
“I’ll be home late! Don’t wait up!”
You jogged down the front steps, clutching your bag and keys, and then you froze. Leaning casually against the hood of his car parked right outside your house was Oscar. He looked completely at ease, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly down as he scrolled through his phone. The sight of him, so unexpectedly familiar, made your heart stumble in your chest.
“Oscar?” You blinked, momentarily stunned.
He looked up immediately, faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Took you long enough.”
“What are you doing here?” You frowned slightly, walking up towards him. “I’m running late, I don’t have time to talk.”
Oscar shrugged, straightening up. “Good thing I’m driving then.”
“What?”
“Your class starts at 1:30, right? Mine too. We can go together, saves you time.” He replied, gesturing to his car.
“You don’t have to do that anymore, Oscar.”
“What do you mean I don’t have to?” He frowned slightly, pushing off his car.
“I mean, you don’t have to drive me anymore.” You said, fumbling with your keys. “Not unless my car breaks down again, which, I’m hoping won’t happen anytime soon.”
He blinked, confused. “You got a new car?”
“Yeah! My parents surprised me with a new one.” You said, proud and breathless as you gestured towards the shiny silver SUV parked a few feet away. “Apparently, they got tired of worrying about me going home alone from uni.”
“Exactly.” You smiled, walking towards your car, pulling open the passenger door and tossing your bag inside the front seat. “So really, thank you for driving me every day for the past few months. I owe you so much for that.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” He tilted his head, looking at you quietly.
“Come on, I definitely do.” You laughed softly, brushing it off. “You were basically my chauffeur for how many months. Just text me what you want in return—coffee, food, free tutoring, not that you really need it since you’re already smart, anyways. So whatever you want and it’s yours.”
Oscar let out a quiet scoff, almost amused. “That’s not how it works.”
“Well, too bad,” you said, grinning as you shut the car door. “Consider it a deal.”
Oscar stuffed his hands into his pockets again, brows furrowing slightly, like he wanted to say something more. But before he could, you nodded with a teasing lilt.
“Anyways, you should go now too. I’m sure you’ll still be picking up Lily along the way.”
You meant to what you said as a lighthearted joke, but something in his face changed slightly. There was a flicker of something you couldn't quite place. You didn't notice though, as you were already walking around to the driver’s side, smiling softly.
“Thanks again, Oscar.” You said sincerely, before opening the door and sliding in. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
Oscar hesitated, standing there for a few moments longer. Then finally, he nodded. “Yeah. See you.”
You waved at him through the car window as you started the engine, his reflection caught faintly in the glass—standing there beside his car, watching as you drove away for the first time in a long while. For the first time in months, you were the one leaving Oscar behind.
Days slipped into a peaceful and quiet rhythm—but the slower and duller kind of days, and somehow, it’s familiar enough that you learned to live with it. Waking up, driving to university in your new car, attending your classes, spending hours in the lab, and driving home. Alone.
But in all honesty, it took you a while to get used to the silence. You did not realize how much space Oscar’s presence had occupied in your day until it was gone. The sound of hum humming absentmindedly to some song on the radio, sarcastic little comment that he would throw in whenever you ranted about an exam or quizzes, or the quiet moments when neither of you talked but the silence never felt heavy.
Now, it did.
The first few days were the hardest. You would reach for your phone instinctively after class, about to text him ‘I’m done’ like you always did—only to stop halfway, your thumb hovering over the screen before you locked it again. You reminded yourself that this was fine, this was what you wanted—indepence, distance, and control over your own feelings. But still, sometimes, when you passed by the engineering building, you couldn't help but glance toward the entrance, half-expecting to see him there with his backpack slung over one shoulder, waiting.
Now, when you did see him, he wasn't alone.
In no time, Oscar and Lily had become a familiar sight around the campus—walking side by side, talking, laughing softly at something only they understood. It was as if they had their own little bubble. You never lingered long enough to stare, of course. Whenever you happened to cross paths with them, you would pretend to be busy or in a hurry, clutching your bag a little tighter and keeping your eyes trained on your phone. But you always made sure to greet them, at least politely.
“Hey, Oscar. Lily.” You would say with a small smile, your voice steady, but your heart not.
They would smile back, both kind and genuine. Lily would wave and Oscar would give you that small nod of acknowledgement, the same one he used to give you when you were waiting outside his classroom. But now, it all felt…different.
The last straw happened when you were sitting in the student lounge, halfway through revising your notes, when you overheard a group of engineering students talking a few seats away. Their voices carried easily through the quiet room.
“—so apparently, Oscar and Lily have been hanging out a lot lately.”
“Yeah, they’re not officially together yet,” another chimed in. “But, like, they might as well be. They’re basically inseparable.”
It all felt like a cold bucket of water had been splashed at you. You froze for half a second, pen hovering over your notebook. You told yourself to ignore it and just focus on the lines of text in front of you, on the ink, on anything else. But you heard it anyway.
“They’d make such a cute couple, to be honest.”
You forced a small, bitter smile and looked down at your notes again, pretending to reread the same sentence for the tenth time. You even nodded slightly to yourself, as if agreeing to something unspoken. But on the inside, it felt like something had quietly folded on itself—small, sharp, and painful.
By the time afternoon rolled around, you were already running on fumes. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong.
You woke up late this morning, spilled coffee on your notes, forgot your ID inside your locker, missed a quiz because your lab session ran over time. Hell, you even dropped a petri dish, and while your professor had been very patient about it, the humiliation alone made your throat tighten. It was one of those days where the universe decided to test you, one small inconvenience at a time—as if it wanted to see how long you could hold it together.
Apparently, not very long.
Your last class ended later than usual. You stayed just long enough to hand in your lab report—movements stiff and mechanical. When the professor dismissed everyone, you packed up your things quickly, shoving your notes and laptop into your bag without any care at how messy it was. You didn't say goodbye to anyone, you just straight up left.
Your footsteps echoed against the empty hallways, breathing uneven as you clutched your keys in one hand and pushed open the door to the parking lot. The sun was already beginning to set, orange light bleeding across the concrete. It should have been a very pretty sight, but right now, it just felt so heavy. At a distance, you spotted your car from the distance, the familiar silver SUV that your parents had given you, now sitting quietly in its usual spot. You walked faster, not wanting to see anyone or talk to anyone.
Not Oscar. Not Lily. No one.
The moment you reached your car, you fumbled with the keys, and finally unlocked it with trembling hands. You opened the back door and threw, literally, your bag inside—the sound of your things hitting the seat and some of your things on the car floor echoed louder than it should have. You even threw your tumbler, the clanking of the metal sound reverberated as it hit the closed car door on the other side, you then slammed the door shut, and sank into the driver’s seat, body sagging against the leather.
You did not even start the engine.
Instead, what you did was you just sat there in complete silence. The kind of silence that was defeaning—no music, no laughter, no voice calling your name. Just your heartbeat, loud in your chest. And then, without any warning, something in you cracked. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, fingers white against the leather. The pressure built in your chest, a mix of exhaustion, frustration, and sadness—all of it all balled up and tangled until you could no longer tell them apart.
And before you even could stop yourself, you let out a scream. A raw, broken sound that tore from your throat before you even realized it was happening. The scream filled the car—loud, ugly, and desperate. It was the kind of sound that you did not even know you were capable of making.
Then came another. And another. Until the scream turned into sobs.
You leaned forward, resting your forehead against the steering wheel, shoulders shaking as the tears came—hot, unrelenting, and unstoppable. You didn't even know what exactly you were even crying for. Maybe it was the stress, maybe it was Oscar and Lily, and maybe it was everything all at once. You had been holding everything in for so long, telling yourself that it doesn't matter, that you were fine, that you had gotten used to it. But you weren't fine at all, you hadn't been for a while.
You covered your face with your hands, breaths coming in shaky bursts as tears fell down on your cheeks.
“I’m so tired.”
Your voice cracked, barely audible over the sound of your breathing. You were not just tired physically—though you were, completely. You were tired emotionally, mentally, in ways you could not explain. Tired of pretending it was okay, when in reality, it was not.
You just sat there for a long while, letting the tears run freely, until your chest finally began to loosen. The sky outside had darkened by the time your breathing steadied again. You wiped your face with a tissue from the tissue box inside your car, sniffling, and throat raw.
You started the engine, the soft hum of the car filling the silence. The headlights flickered on, cutting through the fading dusk. And even though the ache in your chest was still there—small, stubborn, and lingering, you took a deep breath and drove away. Trying to leave everything in the parking lot.
Weeks bled into months. A slow and colorless passing of time that made everything blur altogether. Your life had fallen into quiet predictability—classes, assignments, grocery runs, and long nights spent catching up on readings. The routine was steady, unchanging, and almost peaceful.
Almost.
The strange part was how easy it had been to slip out of rhythm with Oscar. There wasn't a fight, no harsh words exchanged, and no dramatic ending to your friendship. It just faded. One day you were sending each other memes and quick texts about random things, and the next, days turned into weeks of silence. Then it eventually became months.
You always reminded yourself that you’re both busy. He had his program, his relationship—or whatever it was going on with Lily. You had your coursework, internship preparations, and your life. You lived on the same street as him, yet somehow it all felt like worlds apart. Sometimes, when you would pass by the Piastri’s house, you would see his car parked outside, lights inside the house turned on, and laughter faintly spilling out from inside. You had wondered if he was there with Lily, or just his family. You would wonder if he ever thought of you at all.
Still, life went on.
So when the two-week break had been announced, you felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was exactly what you needed. A pause, a breather from all the stress. And somewhere within those two weeks was your birthday, though this year, you would be spending it alone. Your parents had been upfront about it, they had a business trip abroad that would last a month, meaning they would miss your actual birthday. But they had celebrated early before leaving—a quiet dinner, thoughtful cake, a few gifts, and warm hugs. You told them not to worry, that you would be fine, and you’ll just treat your special day as your usual self-care day.
As the day approached, you couldn't help but think of Oscar.
Part of you hoped, stupidly, that maybe he would remember. That he would text you, and that he would show up at your door the way he always used to every year, grinning, holding a box of your favorite cake, and hearing him say, ‘you didn't think I’d forget, did you?’. But you didn't let that hope take root, you tried to be rational—it was not fair to expect anything anymore, things were already different now. Changes are always inevitable, and you can’t be stuck in the old usual routine that you used to have every year for your birthday.
When your birthday came, the day started in silence. You woke up to your phone buzzing with notifications, and your parents calling you on facetime. As you answered, you were greeted with an off-key ‘happy birthday’ from halfway across the world. Somehow, it made you cheer up on a glum day, laughing softly, your chest warming at the sight of their smiling faces.
“So what will you be doing today, sweetheart? Is Oscar coming over?” Your mother asked.
There was a slight hesitation before you answered, keeping your tone light. “I’m not sure, mom. He’s probably busy, but I’ll do something small here. Maybe bake myself a cake or something.”
“Send us photos, okay?” Your dad chimed in. “We’ll celebrate again properly the moment we get back.”
You promised them that you would, said your goodbyes, and hung up. Even Nicole, Oscar’s mother, sent you a text later that morning.
Aunt Nicole [10:43 am] : Happy Birthday, darling! Hope you’re enjoying your day ❤️
You [10:45 am] : Thank you, aunt Nicole! Hope you and everyone are doing well 🤍
You scrolled through your messages after that, your thumb subconsciously pausing over one contact—Oscar’s. The chat history was old now, filled with the kind of warmth that made your stomach twist when you reread it. You locked your phone before you could even think too much about it.
The hours passed by quietly. You baked yourself a small cake—vanilla sponge with whipped cream and strawberries, your favorite. You had done it more out of habit than excitement, but despite everything, it still felt nice. Plus, you love the smell of sugar and butter filling the kitchen. It didn't matter if you were celebrating alone, birthdays were just normal days, after all. But still, you found yourself glancing at your phone every so often, the screen lighting up with random notifications—group chats, university announcements, and social media, but never the one name you were hoping for.
By eight in the evening, the whole house was silent, save for the faint sound of the movie playing on the tv. Sixteen Candles. You had it paused midway through, the screen frozen on a frame, wherein Samantha’s disappointed face. You let out a soft sigh that sounded a little too much like hers—the irony was not lost on you.
You looked back from the couch you’re seated at, and stared at the untouched cake sitting on the dining table—frosting still perfect and a single candle standing straight at the center. The candle lighter you had used earlier was placed beside it, right where you had left it.
So, you stood up from the couch, stretched a little, and walked over to the table. The air smelled faintly sweet. You picked up the candle lighter, flicked it on, and watched the small flame catch onto the wick. The tiny flame flickered in the dim light of the dining room, its glow reflecting faintly on your face. You sat down on the dining chair, resting your chin on your palm as you stared at the candle, the warmth of it soft but lonely. You let out a quiet laugh—empty, almost bitter.
“Happy birthday to me.” You whispered to yourself, under your breath.
Then, softly, you blew out the candle. The smoke curled upward, fading quickly into the still air. You remained on your seat for a moment longer, chest heavy, the silence around you settling deeper. Then you reached for your phone, screen lighting up immediately. There was a message from your mother in the family group chat.
Mom [8:23 pm] : How did you celebrate today, sweetheart? Did Oscar come over? 🎂❤️
You stared at the message for a while, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then you began to type.
You [8:30 pm] : Yeah, Osc came over! We just finished watching movies, and had some cake. It was fun! 🤍
You read the message twice before pressing send. A harmless lie, something small, and something that would make them worry less. Once the message was delivered, you turned your phone face down on the table and stood up. You walked back to the couch, pressing play on the movie again. The screen came alive, showing Samantha’s disappointed expression melting into a shy hope. You pulled a blanket over your legs and hugged a pillow to your chest.
You had seen Sixteen Candles more times that you could even count, you even made Oscar watch it with you once. He would groan halfway through, teasing you endlessly for loving something so corny, but he would stay until the end. You smiled faintly at the memory, even as your throat tightened, because right now, you felt exactly like Samantha—forgotten on her own birthday.
And no matter how much you try to convince yourself that none of it really matters, you couldn't just help the way your heart ached quietly in your chest. Wishing that somewhere out there, he would at least remember.
Throughout the two-week break, there was nothing from Oscar. No texts, no quick ‘hey,’ not even a reaction to an instagram story of the cake you baked. It was pure silence—defeaning, frustrating, painful silence. It’s fine, or so you thought. Tried to make peace with the fact that maybe things really did change for good between you and Oscar. You were not angry, just tired. You knew he had Lily, and you knew that meant you were not the center of his world anymore. You didn't even have the right to demand such things from him, let alone his time, much less expect him to remember your birthday. But still, when you found out from mutual classmates that he had spent your birthday out with Lily, something inside you wilted quietly.
The ache didn't come and swallow you all at once, instead it came in a form of little waves. You would be fine, then hear a song, or see a photo, or remember something he once said, and it would sting. You learned to breathe through it, to let the ache pass, to remind yourself that none of it was Oscar’s fault.
It was now the last night of your two-week break, and you had done nothing the entire day. You just let yourself wallow, drown in old romantic comedy movies, the classics and comforting ones. When Harry Met Sally, 10 Things I Hate About You, Pretty Woman, Notting Hill. You even found yourself laughing at the predictable endings, even though your chest tightened a little every time the credits rolled in and the couple kissed. By the time the final movie ended, it was already nine in the evening. The tv screen dimmed into darkness, and the only light came from the small lamp near the couch. You exhaled softly, stretching your arms over your head before standing.
“Alright,” you murmured to yourself, brushing off invisible crumbs from your sweater. “It’s time to hit the sack.”
You picked up the throw pillows that had fallen off of the couch and onto the floor, neatly arranging them back on the couch. Then you grabbed your empty mug from the coffee table, the one that still smelled faintly of cocoa, and made your way towards the kitchen. The house was quiet, eerily so, and the soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound filling the silence.
As you were halfway to turning off the lights, you heard a knock coming from the front door. The knock was sharp, clear, and really unexpected. You froze for a second, fingers hovering over the light switch, frowning. Glancing at the wall clock—9:07 pm. Who would even be at the door at this time of hour? You didn't order anything. A neighbor? That’s unlikely, everyone on your street was quiet by this hour. Your heartbeat picked up a little as the knock came again, slightly softer this time.
You padded towards the door, floor cool against your feet despite wearing socks. You peeked through the small gap between the curtains, just for precautionary measures. When your eyes finally landed on who it was, your breath caught in your throat.
Oscar.
He was standing there, under the faint yellow glow of your porch light, hair slightly messy like he had run his hands through it too many times. He was wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, shoulders slightly hunched like he was not sure if he should even be there. In his hands was a big brown paper bag, and your eyes immediately recognized the logo printed on the side. It was a paper bag from your favorite bakery.
You blinked, disbelief clouding your mind. You thought that Oscar standing there, with a paper bag from your favorite bakery was just a figment of your imagination. That the exhaustion was playing tricks on you. But then he shifted his weight from one foot to another, glancing towards the door expectantly. Your fingers tightened around the doorknob before you could slowly unlock it and opened the door—just a little, taking a peek first.
“Oscar?” You said, voice cautious, soft. “What are you doing here? It’s already late.”
Oscar looked up, meeting your eyes instantly. For a moment, neither of you had said anything. Then he cleared his throat, paper bag crinkling slightly as he adjusted his grip on it.
“Hey,” he started, voice low. “Uh, I know it’s late. I’m sorry for just showing up like this.”
You blinked, opening the door a little wider. The cool night air slipped inside, brushing against you despite wearing a sweater.
“It’s uh, it’s okay.” You said slowly, still trying what to make of the situation. “But why are you here? It’s already past nine.”
Oscar nodded quickly, looking a little flustered. That’s when you noticed it. He was talking fast, words tumbling over each other like he had rehearsed this a dozen times inside of his head but was now panicking.
“I know. I know it’s late, and you probably—well, I mean, you are probably tired, and I just—look, I messed up, okay? I know I did. I was supposed to come by last week, I wanted to come by, but then Lily—no, that’s not an excuse, I just—things got complicated, and time slipped away, and then I realized I didn't even—”
“Oscar.”
He stopped immediately, blinking at you.
“Slow down. Please.” you said gently, voice calm but firm. “You’re talking way too fast. I can’t understand you.”
He took a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. His eyes dropped to the floor for a second before meeting yours again. The look in them was a strange mix of guilt, sincerity, and exhaustion.
“I’m sorry.” He said again, but this time, more slowly. “I should've come earlier. Or at least called you. I didn't mean to forget your birthday.”
“I, uh,” you started, not really quite sure on what to say. “It’s fine, really. You didn't have to—”
“I did,” he cut in softly, shaking his head. “You always spend your birthday with me, and I just…I completely spaced out. I don’t even have a good excuse for it, to be honest. I just realized it too late, and I felt like crap the entire week about it.”
You stared at him, hand still resting lightly on the door. He shifted the paper bag again, holding it up to you slightly.
“So,” he said, lips twitching into a nervous half-smile. “I brought this for you. Lemon chiffon cake from your favorite bakery downtown. They were about to close, but I begged them to let me buy one. And, uh, there’s also that strawberry tart you like, and a few of those cookies with the chocolate center thing you always steal from me.”
“Oscar.” You murmured softly, glancing at the paper bag, then back to him. Not really knowing what else to say.
“I know it’s late. And I know I’m probably the last person you want to see after disappearing for so long. But I couldn't not come.”
You stood there for a moment, staring at him. In front of you was the boy who used to wait for you outside your classes, who would make sarcastic comments just to make you laugh, who used to know you better than anyone. And now here he was again, at your door, eyes sincere, and holding a paper bag full of the little things that reminded him of you. You let out a quiet sigh and finally stepped aside.
“Come on in.” You said softly. “Before the neighbors think you’re some weird late night delivery guy.”
Oscar let out a small, sheepish chuckle before stepping inside. The faintest hint of relief flickering across his face.
You were not really dressed for the occasion—hair still messy from lounging on the couch, oversized sweater, and your pajama pants were wrinkled from laying on the couch for hours. You hadn't expected company, much less him. Oscar, meanwhile, stood by the door in his hoodie, jeans, and sneakers, looking entirely out of place in the softly lit living room that smelled faintly of cocoa and vanilla candles.
He closed the door gently behind him, offering you a small, awkward smile before walking towards the dining table. You followed him, a few steps behind, watching as he carefully set the brown paper bag on the table. He carefully set the brown paper bag on the table, and opened it, pulling out a box and two small containers—the lemon chiffon cake, strawberry tart, and cookies.
“You really didn't have to—” you started, but he was already halfway through unpacking.
“Yeah, I did.” He simply said, not even looking at you, voice low and steady. “Trust me.”
You pressed your lips together and leaned against the counter, watching him silently as he opened the cake box. Oscar looked oddly concentrated, brows furrowed slightly, tongue poking the inside of his cheeks as he carefully peeled back the parchment paper. You noticed then that he was handling the cake as if it were some fragile, priceless artifact.
Oscar reached back into the bag and pulled out a handful of small, thin candles—so many of them that for a second, you actually thought he was joking.
You blinked, confused. “Uh, just how many candles did you buy?”
He gave you a brief glance, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Twenty-four.”
“Twenty-four?” Your eyes widened. “Are you serious? That cake is going to melt before you can even light the last one.”
“The bakery ran out of those number candles,” he said, completely unfazed as he started sticking them one by one into the cake. “So I thought, why not just go classic? One candle for every year.”
“That’s insane.” You muttered as he continued arranging the candles in uneven circles. “You’re going to burn the house down before we even finish singing.”
Oscar just laughed under his breath. “Relax, I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you? Really?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Because that looks like a fire hazard waiting to happen.”
“Trust me, I’ve handled worse.” He said, looking up briefly at you, the glint of amusement in his eyes softening the tension that had been sitting between you. “Remember that time you almost set your lab coat on fire?”
You frowned, though there was a reluctant smile that tugged at your lips. “That was one time, Oscar. And I was under pressure.”
“Sure, future doctor.” He chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
You sighed and rolled your eyes at him, and didn't say anything else. Instead, you just stood there and watched him work—placing each candle carefully, adjusting their angles, and occasionally stepping back like he was inspecting an art piece. There was something strangely comforting about seeing him like this again, moving around your kitchen like he had done it a hundred times before, with the quiet hum of familiarity filling the room.
When Oscar was finally done, he took a small step back, exhaling softly. The cake looked ridiculous, it was like a bunch of tiny white candles scattered all over like some chaotic constellation, but there was something endearing about it too. You opened your mouth to tease him again, but before you could, Oscar turned towards you. His expression had changed, the playful glint was gone, and was replaced by something that’s quieter and heavier. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing softly.
“I’m sorry.” He said, voice low. “I know I already said it, but I need to say it properly.”
You blinked twice, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “Oscar, again, it’s fine. You don’t have to—”
“No.” He interrupted gently, shaking his head. “Please. Just let me.”
So you did. You hesitated, but nodded slowly anyway. He leaned against the edge of the table, eyes flickering briefly to the cake before settling on you.
“I was with Lily that day,” he said quietly, tone steady but filled with something that was almost akin to regret. “On your birthday. I shouldn't have been, but I was. And I’m not gonna make excuses for it.”
“It’s okay,” you said softly, forcing a small smile. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
He shook his head again, more firmly this time. “Yeah, I do. Because I think you deserve one—scratch that, you do deserve one.”
The air between the two of you was still. You could hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, the hum of the refrigerator, and the soft rustle of the candles’ wicks brushing against each other. Oscar took a quiet breath, voice dropping even more softer.
“I did try going out with her. I thought I liked her—I mean, I did like her, for a bit. She’s smart, kind, and easy to talk to.”
Okay, ouch? No need to rub it in, Oscar. No need to rub it in. You thought to yourself.
“But…it just didn't feel right. None of it did.”
You swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”
“I realized it that night.” He glanced up again, eyes meeting yours, earnest and unguarded. “I realized that after I dropped her off, I was driving home, and for some reason, it felt all…wrong. Like I was forcing something that wasn't supposed to fit. I didn't know why at first.”
You just stayed silent, pulse quickening, and unsure where this conversation was going. Oscar gave a quiet laugh, almost self-deprecating.
“And I looked at my dashboard screen. The last song that played in my car was that stupid song that you kept on listening to a thousand times on repeat. The very same one you’d put on every single morning on the way to uni. I never changed it. Never even realized it was still there.”
You were about to complain how that song is not stupid, and a complete masterpiece. But he beat you to it, silencing you, and your heart lurching slightly.
“I just sat there,” he continued softly. “Staring at it, and then I saw your tumbler lying on the floor of the backseat—the one you always bring to class. I know because it’s the one that has those stupid cute stickers from your favorite video game. I don’t even know how long it’s been there. But seeing it there, hearing that song again…it hit me.”
Oscar paused, voice dropping lower. “You’ve always been there. A constant. Even when I wasn't looking, or when I was too stupid to notice, you were just…there.”
You didn't move. Couldn't move.
“I don’t know how I missed it for so long. I thought Lily was what I wanted, but when I was with her, all I could think about was—” he stopped himself, pressing his lips together. “I just knew it wasn't her. It was never her.”
Your heart was pounding as you remained standing there—staring at him as the meaning of his words began to sink in.
Oscar met your gaze again, eyes soft. “It might've taken me too long to realize it, but I think it’s always been you.”
The silence that followed was heavy but tender. It’s filled with years of friendship, stolen glances, and everything unsaid that finally found its way out.
Oscar didn't give you any chance to speak, because the moment your lips parted, ready to say something, anything, he simply reached out and took your hand. His touch was gentle, almost tentative, as if afraid you might pull away. His fingers wrapped around yours, grounding you back into the moment. Without a word, he guided you towards the dining table. You followed, still a little dazed, air thick with the quiet warmth of everything he had just said. You could only watch as Oscar leaned forward and began lighting the candles one by one. The flicker of each tiny flame reflected in his eyes, softening his features, and casting a warm gold against his skin.
It was oddly mesmerizing—the way he moved with such care, and expression tender. You stood there silently, the flicking sound of the candle lighter filling the quiet between you. Twenty-four little flames soon came to life, dotting the top of the cake like a constellation of light. And when the last candle was lit, Oscar exhaled softly, the match burning out between his fingers. He looked up at you and gave a small smile, boyish smile before he turned towards the light switch and flicked it off.
The room was instantly bathed in soft amber hues, with the only source of the light now being the flickering candles and pale blue spill of moonlight streaming in from the window. The shadows danced gently across the walls, and you swore your heart started beating louder, faster—like it somehow understood what was happening before your mind could catch up. You were about to ask what he was doing when Oscar turned back towards you, stepping closer again.
“Come here.” He said quietly, reaching for your hands again.
“What are you doing?”
“Get up.” He said softly, not answering your question.
Your eyebrows furrowed. “Uhm what?”
“Up on the table.” He said with a small smile still playing on his lips. “Trust me.”
“Oscar, there’s a cake with twenty-four lit candles on there. I’m not climbing up anywhere near that—”
“I’ll guide you.” He chuckled, squeezing your hand. “I promise I won’t let you fall. Just trust me, okay.”
“If we end up setting your hoodie on fire, I’m not responsible for anything.” You muttered.
“I’ll take my chances.” He said softly, lips quirking upward.
Oscar guided you carefully, one hand steady on your waist, the other helping you step up onto the sturdy wooden dining table. The candles wavered from the soft movement, wax beginning to melt in thin streams down the sides, but they held steady. Once you were sitting on top of the table, a little unsure, Oscar looked up at you, eyes catching the light in a way that made your chest ache.
“Okay, careful.” He said softly as he removed his sneakers, setting them aside neatly before climbing up in front of you.
“Be careful Oscar!” You warned, voice a little panicked. “If you fall, I’m not calling an ambulance. I’ll just pretend I don’t know you.”
He laughed. “You’d really abandon me like that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re lying.” He gave you that lopsided grin that made your heart twist.
You huffed a quiet laugh, but your focus drifted again—to the cake between you, candles’ golden glow illuminating both your faces. The warmth of the light danced across the planes of his face, outlining his jaw, cheekbones, and the small curve of his smile. And then the realization hit you again.
The cake, flickering candles, sitting on top of the table, and the soft golden haze of light. It felt familiar, like a memory you had always loved.
“Oh my god…” you whispered softly, eyes darting between him and the glowing came. “This is—”
He smiled knowingly, finishing your thought. “Sixteen Candles.” He nodded, gaze locked on you. “You loved that movie so much. You even made me watch it with you, like, five times. You kept saying it was one of the most perfect endings ever filmed.”
“You remember that?”
“Of course I do,” he said softly. “You said it was your dream birthday scene—someone showing up after everything, lighting all the candles, and just being there.”
“I can’t believe you actually remembered that.” You murmured.
“How could I not?” He chuckled quietly. “You wouldn't shut up about it for weeks after we watched it. You said Jake Ryan was the gold standard of fictional boyfriends.”
“And you said he was overrated.” You laughed weakly, shaking your head.
Oscar grinned. “Yeah. Guess I didn't know what I was talking about back then.”
His eyes softened as he took in the sight of you bathed in the golden candlelight—your face glowing softly, and the flicker of the flames reflected in your eyes. For a long, quiet moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt warm, delicate—suspended in that fragile space between what had been and what was finally becoming.
“Make a wish.” He said softly.
You blinked, eyes flickering from the candles back to him. He was smiling, the kind of smile that didn't need words behind it—one that felt like an apology and a promise all at once.
“A wish?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “You have to, it’s your birthday.”
You looked down at the cake again, at the twenty-four flickering candles melting slowly into the frosting, wax dripping like liquid gold. For years, you had always had a wish ready—some small hope whispered to the air before blowing the candles out. But tonight, sitting on top of the dining table with Oscar, everything felt different. You felt full—overwhelmed, but in a way that made your heart ache softly instead of break. When you looked back up at him, your eyes glimmered with a quiet kind of certainty.
“I don’t have to.” You said softly.
Oscar frowned slightly, confused, a small crease forming between his brows. “Why not?”
“Because what I’ve been wishing for, it already came true.” You smiled faintly, voice barely above a whisper.
His expression softened completely, every bit of tension melting away. Oscar’s lips parted slightly, gaze locking on yours with that familiar warmth that used to make your heart race when you were younger, but now, it simply steadied it. You could see it in his eyes, the unspoken understanding, the apology, the realization that maybe he had always been moving toward this moment too, even if it took him a while to see it.
Oscar gently moved closer, his hand brushing against yours. Then another step, until you could feel the faint warmth of his breath against your face. Neither of you said anything. You didn't need to. He leaned in slowly, hesitating just an inch away—as if waiting for your permission, that this was okay. And in that moment, you met him halfway.
Your lips met softly. There was hesitation at first, then it became something deeper, warmer, and more sure. The world seemed to fade around you. The flicker of candles, faint scent of wax and lemon, the hum of the night—all of it melted into the quiet press of your mouths. It wasn't fireworks or fanfare, it was tender, like the calm realization of something that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.
When you finally broke apart, your foreheads stayed pressed together, breathing in the same small space, and smiling through the soft rush of emotions. Oscar’s thumb brushed against your cheekbone, tracing gentle circles along your skin as if memorizing it. His voice came out low and breathless when he finally spoke.
“It’s you.” He whispered.
“What?”
He smiled faintly, forehead still resting against yours, voice softer now—almost trembling with truth. “You’re the one I’ve been waiting for all of my life.”
“You really went there, huh?” You said in a quiet laugh.
“What?” He chuckled, brushing away a tear that you didn't know had slipped down on your cheeks with his thumb. “I figured it was fitting.”
“Of course you’d quote my favorite song now.” You rolled your eyes gently, still smiling.
“It’s been stuck in my head since the day I realized it was about you.”
Your breath hitched again, and for a second, you didn't know what to say. But maybe you didn't have to, because in that moment, everything you both had left unsaid finally made sense—every missed glance, every late night car ride, and every time you had chosen to stay when you could have walked away. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his once more, lips curving into a small, genuine smile.
“You’re late.” You whispered teasingly.
“Yeah.” He admitted quietly, smiling back at you, eyes soft and full of affection. “But I’m here now.”
The candles continued to burn between you, their flames swaying gently, reflections of the warmth that filled the quiet space. You still remained seated on top of the dining table—two people who had spent too long circling each other finally finding their way home. Oscar brushed his thumb along your jaw once more before leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. His lips lingered there for a moment, gentle and reverent.
“You know, this is exactly how I imagined it would feel.” You couldn't help but chuckle softly.
“Then I’m glad I got it right this time.”
Then, Oscar leaned back just a little, thumb brushing your cheek once more before a sly grin began tugging at the corners of his mouth. You knew that look very well—half teasing, half trouble.
“What?” You asked, brows furrowing slightly as you studied him.
“I just remembered something.”
“What is it?” You raised an eyebrow.
“You owe me.” He said simply as he leaned in a little closer, eyes glinting playfully under the dim candlelight.
You blinked, a little confused for a second before realization dawned. You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands as you laughed.
“Oh my god, you actually remembered that?”
“Of course I did.” He said, tone teasing but light. “You told me to text you what I wanted in return for all the times I drove you to uni. I just didn't text.”
“So what?” You peeked up at him through your fingers, still laughing. “You’re finally cashing it in now?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” He said, pretending to think about it. “And I’ve decided—and no, I don’t want coffee, or food, or free tutoring, or your first-born child, before you even offer it.”
“Oscar!” You burst out laughing, swatting at his arm lightly.
“What?” He asked, feigning innocence, though his grin was impossible to miss. “You said anything. I’m just narrowing down the list.”
“Alright, fine. If not any of those, then what do you want?”
“A date.” He said simply, direct to the point. “With you.”
“A…a date?” You repeated quietly, voice barely above whisper.
“Yeah.” He said, smiling. “A proper one. No car rides, no quick coffee runs between classes, no late night study sessions pretending we’re not tired. Just you and me. That’s what I want.”
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.” He nodded once, then grinned. “Unless, of course, you’d rather pay me back with tutoring. I’ll just probably get all the answers wrong on purpose just to spend more time with you.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He said, smiling widely. “But you like me that way.”
You rolled your eyes, trying and failing to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “You really don’t forget anything, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you.” He said simply.
The words hung in the air between you, soft and unhurried, sinking deep into the quiet space that only the two of you occupied. You felt something inside you settling—peace, warmth, and something like home.
“Alright.” You said softly, smiling. “A date.”
“Good.” He whispered, gaze flicking down to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. “Because I’ve been waiting a long time to ask you that.”
Before either of you could say anything else, the last of the candles flickered out between you—leaving the two of you standing in the soft glow of the moonlight, smiling. Hearts finally catching up to what your souls had always known.
Hear me out, if you're the kind of people to keep silent about their feelings to see the people you care about be happy, this is 100% you fic
If you are a die hard Oscar stan this fic is 100% for you
I felt reallyyyyyyy identified with the mc
And while I was reading I was remembering the times that I decided to swallow my feeling for the other person to be happy with someone else (but imagining Oscar in the position of the other person AND having a happy ending made this experience a thousand times better) so yeah, long fic (which I love) Oscar, angst and happy ending, love this for myself
PART 5....... guys help, i love them so much............ teen!max verstappen x exchange student!reader
part one part two part three part four part five
The last time you saw Max was in the airport. He was being shunted along by his dad to a boarding terminal, likely en route to meet the Junior Redbull team, when your eyes locked.
He exclaimed, pointing to you. Sophie smiled and waved, which broke your heart, but Jos kept walking.
‘Lieverd,’ she called, and you were only halfway to her when Max scooped you up in his arms, spinning you around.
‘I missed you.’ he mumbled, setting you down. You kissed his cheek.
‘Are you leaving?’ his mother asked, resting a hand on her son’s shoulder.
You nodded slowly, tears pricking your eyes at the look on Max’s face.
‘I will let you leave, lieverd. You two can say goodbye.’
She melted back into the airport crowd and you turned back to Max.
A single tear traced down the boy’s cheek. He held your hands desperately, as if he could anchor you to him permanently.
‘Good luck at Redbull,’ you managed, voice wavering. He just looked at you, trying to memorise your face. The first face he’d truly fell in love with.
‘Are you gonna win for me?’ and that got a laugh from him, no matter how dejected.
‘I will, schat. I will write your name on my champagne bottle.’
You giggled despite yourself. ‘I’ll make sure to watch that race.’
Max nodded vigorously. ‘Can you get tickets?’
The tears bubbled up again. Damn your poor family.
‘I probably won’t be able to, Max.’
He pointed to the phone in his pocket. ‘Money is not a problem for us. I will buy you tickets.’
You shook your head weakly, stepping closer so he could pull you into his arms. Silently sobbing into his shoulder as the airport bustled around you two.
‘Ik houd van jou,’ Max Verstappen whispered, his nose—his cute nose—pressed to the skin where your shoulder met your neck.
You only cried harder, managing a shaky ‘Ik houd ook van jou,’ in return.
‘Tell mamma I love her too.’ you were, of course, referring to Sophie Verstappen—your host mother.
He nodded, rubbing your back comfortingly, trying to swallow back his own tears.
Then, the overhead speakers crackled.
‘Flight 217 to—’ you grit your teeth when the woman said your connecting city ‘—board now through Terminal 7, please.’ and then repeated it in Dutch.
‘You could just… come with me,’ Max suggested, desperation in his voice. ‘We don’t have to—’
‘I’m sorry, mijn knap, I have to—’
He kissed you hard, smiling against your lips at your Dutch endearment—“my handsome”.
‘I’ll see you on TV, if I don’t see you again,’ you promised after he pulled away. ‘You’re going to be a famous Formula One driver, right? You can meet Sebastian Vettel!’
He nodded, squeezing your waist one final time. ‘I will tell him that my girlfriend loves him. Is that okay?’
‘And I will tell my parents my boyfriend races in Formula One.’
//
Max trailed back to his parents in boarding lounge 3, trying to dry his eyes. He hadn’t cried in many, many years—now was not the time, especially when he was about to be stuck on a plane with his father.
He’d managed to rub away all of the tears as his mother and father came back into sight.
Sophie stood up, wrapping the young boy up in her arms. He remained stiff, knowing his father, Jos, was watching with searching eyes.
She pulled away, sitting back down, and Max followed suit—ending up between his mother and a paunchy old man in the crammed boarding lounge.
Soon enough, the woman’s voice rang out again. It was time for them to get on the plane.
Destination: Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire, England—and the Redbull Junior Team. Max Verstappen’s way into F1.
They were on the flight in minutes, Max staring out the window at an aircraft currently taking off.
Schat, he had called you. Darling. And you’d called him handsome in his own language.
He had to fight back the tears once more, watching as your plane disappeared into the stratosphere.
One hand gripped the tiny windowsill with white knuckles. Now kilometres away, you did the same.
You both turned your heads back forward at the same moment, trying to force down the identical lumps rising in your throats. You, however, had the freedom to cry.
Max didn’t.
He had a career to start.
And Jos was watching like he always did from across the aisle. He knew Max would benefit from losing something he loved dearly. In his twisted mind, the ex-driver could see the machine his son was about to become: quick, blunt, and ruthless, and most important of all in his eyes, selfish.
Because in Max’s position, Jos would have been ruined. As a child, he was volatile, meaning things like this made him slowly lose faith in the world.
Luckily, Max was a teenage boy with the unfaltering faith of his mother. Like Sophie still believed in Jos, Max believed in you.
He would see you again, he told himself. He would force that event into existence with his bare hands if he had to.
The kid was determined. And best know your name was making it onto that Chandon bottle.
tags for you wonderful people sticking around to read my bs <3 love y'all
girl I have a face FULL OF MAKEUP I can't cry because of a fanfic
But the fanfic is about Max being a little boy and his first love and this is a straight up punch in the feelings and I think that is a good enough reason to cry, right? RIGHT????
I swear that I'm sobbing while writing this, pls, give me more, I'll gladly take it, thank you😭
Summary: You’re Max Verstappen’s assistant, hardworking, hyper-organised, and the only person who can tell him to shut up without getting fired. He’s a world champion, a headline magnet, and a shameless womaniser. It’s strictly professional… until he starts to realise that you’re the only thing in his world he can’t afford to lose.
A/N: this is very tony x pepper coded (spot the dialogue)
5.8k words / Masterlist
Max Verstappen could not find his passport.
Or his wallet.
Or somehow his jacket.
And somehow this was your fault.
“I swear I left it on the counter,” he mutters, already halfway through tearing apart his living room.
You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh into the phone. “You left it at the hotel in Paris. I shipped it to your flat the next day. I’d bet it’s currently on your kitchen table under a takeout menu from that terrible Italian place you insist on ordering from.”
There’s a beat of silence. You can picture him standing there, mouth slightly open, blinking at the exact place you described.
You wait.
He exhales through his nose. “Found it.”
“Shocking.”
“You’re kind of scary,” he admits, but it’s warm, teasing.
“I’m efficient,” you correct. “And clearly the only reason you’ve ever made it through airport security.”
There’s a pause. Then he laughs full-bodied and genuine.
“What would I do without you?”
“It’s a scary thought.”
“You don’t think I could manage on my own?” he says, mock-offended.
“I don’t think you could tie your shoes without my help.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Debatable.”
“Is it?”
You can hear the smile in his voice before he speaks again. “Touché.”
Working for Max Verstappen wasn’t in your five-year plan. Or your backup plan. Or your blackout-drunk in Ibiza plan.
But somehow you’re here, personal assistant, calendar wizard, social media wrangler, part-time therapist, and full-time fire extinguisher. On any given day you’re organising press conferences, rejecting offers from another gin brand who want Max to be their new face, and reminding him that ignoring the stewards is generally frowned upon.
You’re the one who handles all the chaos that surrounds Max, the media, the meetings, the endless parade of appearances and dinners and fake smiles. You schedule his life down to the minute, including what time he should eat, when to leave for press, and how to avoid women with Instagram bios that say “F1 obsessed.”
He’s a womaniser, flirtatious to the point of reckless. Models. Influencers. There’s always someone, always something, and it’s usually half-dressed and hanging off his arm before you’ve even finished your first espresso. You’re the one who fields the follow-up texts. The ones that say “Can you tell Max I left my earrings in his hotel room?” or “I think we really had a connection.”
You delete them. Like you delete everything that doesn’t fit neatly into the carefully managed image you’ve built around him.
Because that’s your job.
To clean up the mess.
To stay calm.
To stay separate.
He, predictably, doesn’t appreciate it. Not really.
He’s a handful. Several, really.
And you’re very, very good at handling him.
Which is probably why he won’t let you go.
“You know you’re not my prisoner,” you tell him one evening as you both recover from a brutal double-header. You’re sunburnt, jet-lagged, and your phone is still buzzing with notifications from a fire you put out six hours ago..
He’s sprawled across the sofa in his Monaco apartment, arms behind his head, still in Red Bull merch, hair slightly damp from the shower. “You say that but every time I try to hire someone else, they run screaming.”
“What’s that got to do with me? That’s because you ask if they know how to make tequila sunrises mid-interview.”
He lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It’s a fair question.”
“You don’t even drink tequila sunrises.”
He cracks one eye open. “No, but you do.”
You pause, turning your head slightly. “Wait. Are you… screening assistants for their compatibility with me?”
“Maybe.” He turns fully now, propping himself up on one elbow, suddenly more alert. “Got to keep the standards high. Wouldn’t want to hire anyone who can’t handle the real boss.”
You blink. “Me?”
Max grins. “Obviously.”
You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back he adds quieter, almost absentmindedly, like the words slip past his usual filter: “There’s no replacement for you anyway.”
Something in your chest stutters but you don’t let it show. You school your face into practiced neutrality while your pulse leaps. Max of course doesn’t even notice. He’s already found the remote, casually flipping through channels like he hasn’t just lobbed a live emotional grenade across the room.
You lean back into the cushions hiding the smallest of smiles.
“Damn right there isn’t,” you murmur.
He doesn’t hear you.
The thing is Max isn’t dumb. People sometimes think he is, because he’s flippant and flirty. Because he plays the part of the Dutch lion with the messy hair, the lazy grin, the couldn’t-care-less attitude. He shrugs off press drama and forgets half his scheduled meetings.
But Max? Max sees everything.
He just doesn’t always let on and the way he treats you is proof.
You get the best hotel rooms. You’re the only one who can yell at him without consequence. You have access to all his passwords (except one, which is suspicious and probably his gaming PC). He listens to you in ways he doesn’t listen to anyone else.
It’s not romantic.
It’s just… Max.
And it drives you mad.
Because you know how he is with women. Beautiful, disposable women who orbit around him like moths to fire. Girls who laugh too hard at his jokes, who post his watch on their story, who mistake proximity for permanence.
They see the world champion, not the man who carries stress in his shoulders like cement. Not the man who forgets to eat on race days unless you shove a protein bar into his hand with a death glare. Not the man who texts you from airports he doesn’t remember flying to just to ask if he packed socks.
Yet when he talks to you? There’s this something in his voice. A softness. An unspoken trust. Like you're not just his assistant. Like you're something else.
But he never says it and you’re smart enough not to ask.
You’re fixing his tie.
Again.
“Max,” you say with the patience of a teacher and the soul of a martyr, “this isn’t a hard skill to learn you know.”
He’s smirking, of course. Standing in the middle of his Monaco apartment, one hand buried in his pocket, the other scrolling aimlessly on his phone.
“But that’s why I have you,” he says, not even looking up.
You tug the knot tighter than necessary. Not tight enough to actually choke him but it’s a close call.
“You can’t rely on me for everything.”
“Can and will.”
Now he does glance down, eyes amused and warm, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in that lazy, infuriating way he’s perfected over the years.
You sigh, stepping back to assess your handiwork. The tie is perfect. Centered, crisp, symmetrical. Because of course it is. You did it.
You grab the printed event invite off the kitchen island and slap it lightly into his chest. “Charity gala. Black tie. Actual grown-up behavior required. And Max?”
He raises a brow.
“You’ll need to show up on time.”
He gives a lazy shrug, fingers closing over the invite without even looking at it. “You coming with me?”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” you reply, already moving toward the kitchen to clean up the mess he left behind.
“But you plan everything,” he says behind you.
When you turn he’s closer than he was a moment ago. His voice drops, soft and low, the air between you suddenly weighted and still.
“Wouldn’t be the same without you.”
It’s infuriating.
And disarming.
And very Max.
He just grins, all teeth and trouble.
By the time you arrive at the gala you’re already regretting your decision to come.
Not because of the event itself your dress is beautiful, the champagne is cold, and the venue is glittering in a way that makes everyone feel more important than they actually are. You’ve already charmed two sponsors Max will absolutely forget by morning, and your heels haven’t started to blister yet.
No. The problem, as always, is Max.
He’s magnetic in the way that only men who know they are can be. All ease and confidence, effortlessly weaving through the crowd with his trademark smirk and too-expensive suit, stopping to offer shoulder squeezes and half-hugs to women whose names he definitely doesn’t know. Flirting like it’s part of his job description.
But every few minutes he glances back at you.
Like he’s waiting for something.
Approval? Amusement? Jealousy?
You’re not sure, and you hate that you’re even wondering.
You’re posted up by the bar when he finds you again. He appears at your side like he always does quietly, confidently, like he belongs there.
“You haven’t danced,” he says, offering his hand without preamble.
You arch a brow, sipping your drink. “Neither have you.”
“Well,” he says, head tilting just slightly, “let’s fix that.”
You hesitate. His hand stays out and his expression shifts. An echo of sincerity that rarely surfaces in public.
So you take it.
The music is slow. Old-school. Something classic that wraps around you both like silk.
Suddenly he’s closer than he’s been all night. One hand on your waist, the other holding yours gently, like he's afraid to startle you. You’ve touched Max a hundred times, fixing his mic, dragging him by the sleeve, slapping his arm when he says something stupid.
But this?
This is different.
His thumb brushes across your knuckles not by accident.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs.
Your heart stutters. You glance up at him too fast, too unguarded and that’s when you feel it. That terrifying tilt in the air between you, the way something shifts out of place and threatens to become something else entirely.
So you do what you always do when things start to feel like something they’re not supposed to.
You break it.
“It’s just a dance,” he says lightly, forcing your gaze to him.
Max doesn’t let go. Not entirely, but you feel the change the slight pause, the faintest shift in pressure at your back, the way his fingers curl.
You keep talking. Rambling now, trying to plug the leak in your chest.
“No it’s not just a dance. You don’t understand, because you’re… you. And everyone knows who you are, how you are, with women… and that’s fine, that’s completely fine. But me… I’m your assistant Max. You’re my boss. I’m supposed to be on the schedule. Not on the dance floor with you.”
He’s silent. Really silent. That rare kind of Max Verstappen quiet where even his breathing seems to slow. Where you know, you know, he’s listening and trying to understand.
“You’re not just dancing with your boss.” His voice is lower now. “You’re dancing with me.”
You stare up at him. Your brows furrow. Your stomach flips.
“Exactly,” you whisper. “That’s worse.”
A beat. Then he chuckles, dry and quiet. “Is it?”
“Yes,” you say, the word leaving your mouth with more force than intended. You step back before he can stop you, before the moment pulls you in too deep.
His expression flickers like you’ve genuinely hurt him and maybe, in a way, you did. But you don’t say anything else. You walk away instead.
Because if you don’t…
You might stay.
And you’re not sure what that would mean.
Back in Monaco a few days later things go back to normal.
Almost.
The routine is still the same, early meetings, sponsor calls, team briefings, the endless churn of a season that never truly pauses but he isn’t. Max is quieter, less reactive, less Max. His usual flirtations have faded into something far more restrained, almost cautious, as if he’s holding something back without fully knowing what it is.
And you? You’re working harder than ever not to notice.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That you prefer it this way, less tangled, less confusing, less like something you don’t know how to name, but there’s a heaviness to it now, a tension that lingers in the spaces where his jokes used to live.
You can’t help but wonder if you broke something.
By the time you arrive in Zandvoort the chaos swallows everything else.
The Dutch fans are out in full force, loud, loyal, relentless. There’s orange smoke in the air, Max's name on banners and caps, entire families dressed in matching team merch. It’s overwhelming in the way all home races are, but this one more than most. The pressure is different here. He is different here.
You see it in the way he moves through the paddock head high, expression exact, every step calculated like he’s walking a tightrope in front of the world. He’s calm, but not relaxed. Controlled, but not comfortable. You know him well enough to recognise the strain in his shoulders and the slight twitch in his jaw when another camera gets shoved too close.
You keep your head down, buried in logistics: finalising his press schedule, adjusting sponsor timings, scanning incoming weather reports, and fielding yet another round of phone calls from people who can’t take no for an answer. You’re on your third Red Bull and halfway through reworking the team’s outbound travel manifest when someone taps your shoulder.
You expect an intern. Maybe a member of security.
You do not expect Charles Leclerc.
He’s standing just behind you, hands casually in his pockets, the grin on his face irritatingly sun-warmed and relaxed. He looks far too at ease for a man who just stepped off a media gauntlet.
“Hey,” he says, eyes flicking over your screen before settling on your face. “You look more stressed than usual.”
You offer him a polite, practiced smile the kind you keep in your back pocket for drivers who aren’t yours. “That’s because I’m currently doing the work of three people while also trying to stop a certain driver from throwing jabs at Max in front of a live mic.”
Charles chuckles. “You should transfer to Ferrari. Our drama is internalized.”
“Tempting,” you say, your voice dry.
He laughs again, leaning against the wall beside you, arms folding as he studies you. “You know, I never see you relax.” There’s a beat, just long enough for your guard to slip half an inch. “We should change that.”
You blink. “Sorry?”
You weren’t expecting that. Not from him, not today. It’s not that you’ve never been flirted with in the paddock God knows the ratio alone makes that inevitable, but this is Charles and for once you're the one caught off guard.
Before you can find a response another voice cuts through.
“She’s busy.”
You turn and immediately regret it.
Max is standing behind you, arms folded, expression unreadable but sharp around the edges. He’s close not quite in your space, but close enough to make a point and he’s staring at Charles like he's considering whether to shove him into the nearest wall.
“Am I?” you say, your tone frostier than you intended.
Max doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain locked on Charles, his stance radiating a quiet, simmering challenge.
Charles raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin unfading but softer now, more cautious. “Okay, okay,” he says with a small laugh. “Message received.”
He pats your shoulder lingering just for a moment and walks away. You feel Max track his every step until he disappears around the corner. Then you turn to him.
“Seriously?”
“What?” he replies, tone flat.
“‘She’s busy’? Really?” You cross your arms. “Do I work for you, or do you own me now?”
He shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. “You do work for me.”
You stare at him. “Right. And I also have free will. Which means I get to decide who I talk to without your permission Max.”
He doesn’t flinch, but something shifts in his jaw. “Charles knows what he’s doing.”
“So do I.”
You let the words hang there, heavy and deliberate.
He doesn’t respond.
You take a step closer, eyes narrowing. “Say it.”
His brow twitches. “Say what?”
“That you didn’t like him flirting with me.”
He scoffs, defensive now. “I didn’t like him distracting you.”
You tilt your head. “Try again.”
Max opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks away, blinking hard like the sun’s too bright or the conversation too dangerous.
Right there in the silence, in the refusal, you get your answer.
He won’t say it.
Because if he does, everything changes and neither of you are really ready for that.
Not yet.
Later that evening you don’t come to his hotel room to go over press notes in person.
You almost always do. Even when you’re tired, even when he’s late, even when you both pretend it’s strictly business and not the quietest part of his day.
This time you email them.
Just a PDF. No notes in the body of the message. No dry comment about the journalist who always misspells everyone’s names. Not even your usual "please read this before tomorrow, don’t make me chase you" line.
He stares at the attachment, unread, the cursor hovering over it like maybe if he waits long enough you’ll show up after all.
You don’t.
He frowns and picks up his phone.
Calls you.
It rings until voicemail.
He tries again.
Still nothing.
He lowers the phone, jaw tight, thumb hovering over your name as if the third call will fix it.
It won’t. Because this is how you operate when you’re pissed, professional, polite, perfectly distant. You don’t yell or sulk you just shift into autopilot and stop giving him anything extra.
No reminders. No soft glances. No quiet sarcasm that only he gets.
Just the job.
Max, for all his victories, all his trophies, all his press-trained composure feels like he’s losing.
You don’t speak to Max the entire next morning.
Not really.
You respond when necessary because you have to, but it’s short and clipped, eyes on your tablet or phone or anyone but him. You’re professional.
And he hates it.
You can tell by the way he keeps glancing over during meetings, like he’s waiting for a joke or a sideways comment that never comes. His knee bounces through the strategy debrief. He forgets his water bottle. He asks a question someone already answered ten minutes ago.
After the final media round-up, you hand him a neatly typed itinerary and don’t wait for a thank you. You’re already halfway out of the hospitality tent when you throw over your shoulder, “Flight’s at seven. Be packed on time.”
“Wait.”
He sounds... hesitant like the word caught on the way out. You turn slowly, folding your arms ready to remind him that you still have fifty unread emails and no patience left but he looks genuinely uncomfortable which is uncommon.
“I was out of line yesterday,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like it physically pains him to admit it.
You raise an eyebrow but say nothing.
“I know I don’t have the right to tell you who you can and can’t talk to. I just—Charles is…” He exhales sharply, searching for the right words like they owe him money. “He flirts with everyone. I didn’t think he should be doing it with you.”
You blink once. Then again. “Why?”
Max falters. His eyes drop for a second and when they lift again there’s something unguarded in them.
“Because you’re not…” He trails off, swallowing like the sentence got stuck somewhere between his mouth and his chest. “You’re not like them.”
You study him carefully, resisting the urge to cross your arms tighter. “What am I like then?”
He shrugs, helpless in a way that’s rare for him. “You know me.”
You look at him for a long time, long enough to feel the edges of your frustration begin to soften because he means it. Even if he doesn’t know what to do with it.
You let out a slow breath. “Let’s just forget it.”
Max doesn’t move. He looks like he wants to say more but as always he stops just short. You shake your head and walk away, the tension lingering behind you like smoke.
You’re not sure if he’s convinced.
You’re not sure you are either.
That night alone in your hotel room you lie in bed longer than you mean to, scrolling aimlessly on your laptop rereading emails you’ve already answered. At some point you check your phone one last time before you put it on charge.
There’s a new message from Max.
Just a photo.
Your favourite snack the one brand you always complain you can’t find here sitting neatly on your desk in his motorhome.
You stare at the screen for far longer than necessary.
You forgot to put it on a plate. I taught you better.
His reply comes immediately.
Thought I’d leave you something to scold me about otherwise I might miss it.
You don’t sleep well after that, but when you do drift off, you dream of him.
You should’ve known. The moment Max mentioned “just a small thing” on his yacht between races, you should’ve known.
You should’ve blocked off the date in his calendar, faked a scheduling conflict, pretended the boat had mechanical issues. Hell you should’ve burned the entire Monaco marina to the ground.
Instead you nodded because you were tired. Because it was late and he looked at you with that grin, the one he wears right before doing something reckless and deeply annoying.
And now?
Now you’re standing on the top deck of his floating monument to excess while EDM thunders through your skull, champagne pours into the sea, and someone truly is trying to light a cigar with a firework.
This isn’t a party.
It’s a disaster.
And you're part of it.
“Max!” you shout, pushing through a crowd of strangers, models, vaguely European tech bros, influencers who’ve filtered their faces into the same perfection.
Someone offers you a suspicious looking drink. You give them a look so cold it could freeze the Mediterranean.
You find him eventually near the bar of course. Halfway through a bottle of something so gold it probably shouldn’t be drinkable, laughing with unbridled energy.
He sees you.
And he smirks.
Bad sign.
“You’re here!” he calls over the music, all bright eyes and flushed cheeks.
“How drunk are you?”
He grins wider. “I’m celebrating.”
You glare. “What are you celebrating exactly? Your complete inability to respect any boundary I set?”
His smile falters. Just slightly.
You’ve been firm with him before snippy, tired, annoyed but you’ve never snapped. Not until now.
“I asked for one thing,” you continue, voice low but lethal. “No big party. No cameras. No press. No footage that I have to spend the next week cleaning up or spinning into something palatable for your sponsors.”
He tries to laugh it off. “Come on, it’s not that bad—”
“Max someone is filming an OnlyFans collab on your stairs!”
Max blinks.
“And I just got a message from your sponsor liaison asking if you’ve officially pivoted to a career in nightclub management.”
“Okay,” he says, straightening. “Okay, I’ll—I’ll fix it.”
You laugh and it’s not nice. “You won’t. You never do. You apologise make a joke promise to do better and then you forget by morning.”
He frowns. “Don’t be dramatic—”
“Dramatic?” You stare at him, stunned. “Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I want to spend my life putting out fires you set? Cancelling meetings because you’re too hungover to stand? Rearranging entire weekends because you feel like playing captain on your floating ego trip?”
He opens his mouth, but you’re not done. Not even close.
“I have spent years of my life making yours easier. Cleaner. Simpler. And you keep acting like the world owes you something just for showing up.”
His expression shifts. Defensive. Confused. Hurt.
“I’m done Max.”
He stills. Completely. “What?”
“I quit.”
The words come out steadier than you expect, but the air around them changes like something’s been dislodged in the center of your universe.
Max laughs once short and disbelieving. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
That silences him. You watch as the fight drains out of his expression.
“I—” he starts, then stops. His eyes search your face like maybe there’s a version of this where you're bluffing.
You say it again.
“I’m done.”
Then you see it like you’ve pulled a single thread and suddenly the whole fabric of his world is unraveling at the seams.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice thinner now. He’s not posturing anymore. He’s barely holding it together. “You always say that when you’re mad.”
“I’ve never said that before.”
He swallows hard. “So what—this is it?”
You shrug, even as your throat burns. “You’ll be fine. You always are. You’ll hire someone else. Someone who won’t push back every time you act like the rules don’t apply to you.”
“No,” he says, quickly. Too quickly. “No I won’t.”
“Max—”
“I can’t do this without you.”
The air stills.
His voice is different now quiet and hoarse, almost boyish in its honesty.
“You think I’d function without you?” he says, stepping toward you there’s nothing arrogant in the way he moves. Just desperation. “You think I’d remember to eat? To breathe?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
“You talk to me like I’m a person,” he continues, “not a headline. Not a paycheck. You don’t care what they think. You care what I see. What I feel. You make me show up. Not just on the track but here.”
He’s close now. The party hums behind you like a distant world you’re no longer part of.
“I know I act like I don’t notice but I do.” His jaw tics. “I see everything you do. Every crisis you fix. Every time you deal with the shit I create and still somehow look at me like I’m worth something.”
You blink too fast. Look away. You can’t cry not here. Not in front of him.
Max reaches out but he doesn’t touch you, won’t, but his hand hovers like he wants to, as if he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
“Please don’t go.”
His voice is barely audible now. Just you and him and the ache you’ve been ignoring for far too long.
“I can’t lose you,” he says. “Not you.”
You don’t quit.
Not that night.
Not the next day either.
There are at least seven different moments where you almost do. Like when you’re up until 3 a.m. fielding calls from media, sponsors, and one very irate PR rep who uses the phrase "brand suicide" twice, or when you’re forced to sort through tagged Instagram stories showing Max grinning next to a man who brought an albino snake to the yacht.
But you don’t quit.
The press coverage is messy, but it’s manageable. The headlines are brutal, but you’ve weathered worse. Damage control becomes your entire personality for 48 hours straight.
Max shows up to a sponsor event. On time. Wearing the suit you picked. Sober. Hair styled.
When he’s asked about the party, about the chaos, about the videos that went viral he doesn’t deflect or smirk, he doesn’t make a joke about being “young” or “Dutch.”
He just says, clear and steady. “It got out of hand. I’ve learned from it.”
You almost drop your phone.
The next time you see him he’s slouched on a couch in the motorhome wearing sunglasses indoors like a hungover rockstar and holding a cup of something hot with all the enthusiasm of a man gripping poison.
“You’re not fired,” you say, setting his briefing packet on the table beside him.
He doesn’t look up. “I should be.”
“You’re not.”
This time he does glance at you. Over the rim of his sunglasses, his eyes meet yours.
“Why’d you stay?” he asks.
There’s no sarcasm or deflection just the honest question. A little lost.
You pause. There are a hundred reasons you could give. Because the whole team needs you. Because you love your job. Because walking away felt a lot more impossible than staying.
But none of them are the truth.
You hesitate, then answer quietly. “Because you matter to me.”
Max stares at you for a long beat and then—
He smiles, it’s not his usual smirk. Not cocky or smug or teasing. It’s soft a little unsteady around the edges.
It stays that way for the rest of the week.
No more parties, no more headlines, no chaos. He listens more and shows up to everything early which is frankly unsettling. He still pushes your buttons. Still forgets to charge his phone. Still asks if the catering crew can “just once” serve stroopwafels for breakfast, but it’s different.
You’re not sure what it means, only that for now you’re still here and so is he.
It’s been a week since the yacht party. Seven days since you nearly walked away from Max Verstappen. From your job. From whatever fragile, unspoken thing has been humming beneath the surface between you for far too long.
He’s been… different. Not in some dramatic, overnight transformation way he’s still Max, still occasionally infuriating, still drinks Red Bull for breakfast like it’s water and forgets his lanyard at least once a day but something has shifted.
No more brushing off your reminders with a smirk. No more groaning when you hand him briefing notes. He shows up early. He wears what you recommend out without comment. He sits in strategy meetings and asks questions instead of zoning out halfway through.
Most notably he doesn’t flirt.
Not with models.
Not with heiresses.
Not even with the stewardess who accidentally-on-purpose dropped her hotel key into his lap.
It’s unsettling. What’s worse is the way he looks at you now. Like he’s waiting. Watching. Like he’s afraid to push, but even more afraid to be shut out again.
He doesn’t crowd your space, doesn’t bait you into conversation the way he used to but every time you’re near walking past him in the garage, passing him his schedule in the motorhome, adjusting his earpiece before media he’s there, tracking you like he’s trying to memorise you in case you do disappear.
You don’t make it easy because the truth is, you’re still mad. Not in the white-hot yelling kind of way. That’s passed. This is quieter. More dangerous. You’re mad because he made you care too much because you think he might actually mean it the apology, the softness, the please don’t go, and now you don’t know what to do with that hope.
Worse still: you’re scared.
Because if he keeps this up, if he keeps acting like someone who could be serious, someone who could make space for you, not just as the person who organises his life, but as something more then you just might let your guard down.
Max doesn’t always understand half the things you do. He doesn’t know how you manage four calendars, so many time zones, and still remember to order his mum’s birthday flowers with a handwritten card in Dutch. He doesn’t know how you can sit through hours of briefings, bookings, and back-to-back calls and still have the presence of mind to pull him aside and remind him to breathe.
He knows this… he almost lost you, and it scared the hell out of him. That moment on the yacht when you said “I quit” with your voice steady and your eyes too bright it stuck in his ribs like shrapnel. He’s never seen you walk away from anything. Not a mistake. Not a crisis. Not him.
Something about it broke the rules he’s been pretending don’t exist.
He doesn’t know what to call this thing between you. The pull. The ache. The way he can feel you in the room before you speak, but he knows he can’t afford to lose it.
It’s the paddock walk in Sao Paulo and media is swirling like sharks. Max is flanked by his Red Bull team, walking with quiet confidence as cameras flash and fans scream from every barrier. You're behind him, checking notes, earbuds in, filtering out chaos like always.
One of them nods toward you as he walks alongside Max. “She’s very good. Efficient. Not a lot of assistants that can handle as much.”
Max just nods, focused ahead.
The guy smirks. “So… what is she to you anyway?”
Max stumbles. Just slightly. Blinks.
The man doesn’t notice. Keeps talking. “Girlfriend? Or is this like a long con assistant-with-benefits situation?”
Max stops walking.
The team slows.
The man looks confused. “What—did I say something?”
“She’s not a long con,” Max says, his voice flat.
The man raises his eyebrows. “So… girlfriend?”
Max opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
Because he doesn’t know how to answer. Because you’re not his girlfriend. You’re not just his assistant.
You’re not just anything.
You’re everything.
You notice it later, in the way Max is quiet through the entire strategy meeting. How he doesn’t argue when the tyre compound is changed last-minute. How he nods absently through the briefings but keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. His knee bounces under the table not like he’s impatient, like he’s unraveling.
Afterwards you’re packing up your things halfway through sending a message to the press team when he clears his throat.
“Can I talk to you?”
You glance up. “Now?”
He nods.
You follow him down the corridor, past media personnel and catering carts, until he slips into a small side room off the hospitality unit, quiet, air-conditioned, the faint scent of stale coffee and printer paper hanging in the air. He closes the door behind you, doesn’t turn around right away.
You wait with your arms crossed. Guard up.
He paces once. Twice. Then stops.
“I froze,” he says, suddenly. “Earlier.”
You blink. “What?”
“When that guy asked what you are to me.”
You don’t answer just lower your arms slightly. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I should’ve said something… but I didn’t know how to explain it.”
“You don’t have to explain anything Max. I work for you. That’s the end of it.”
He turns toward you. Takes a step closer. His voice drops. “Is it?”
You hate him a little in that moment. For asking. For hesitating.
For almost being ready and still not getting there.
You shake your head, tight and slow. “Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer.”
He doesn’t move. Just looks at you, jaw clenched, hands at his sides like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reach for you or let you go.
You turn to leave and then his hand wraps gently around your wrist. Not pulling. Holding you there.
“Don’t walk away.”
You look down at where his fingers touch your skin then up at his face. His eyes are wide open.
“I need you,” he says. “I’m trying. I want to try.”
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy enough to buckle your knees.
You pull your hand free softly.
“I know Max.”
Then you leave, because if he doesn’t know what you are to him yet…
He’s not ready.
You’re not going to fall for someone who’s still figuring out if he can catch you.
Summary: Touch has always been your love language, until one overheard conversation makes you question everything. When you start to pull away Max realises just how deeply he’s come to need it.
2.7k words / Masterlist
Max always says you’re like a blanket come to life.
You cling. You cuddle. You drape yourself across him the second the opportunity arises. If Max’s lap is free you claim it without hesitation. If he’s stretched out on the couch you’re pressed against his side before he even blinks. Your hand finds his thigh during dinner, your fingers sneak into his back pocket when you’re walking together, and every morning, like clockwork, your nose tucks into the curve of his neck.
It’s not something you think about, it’s instinct. It’s how you express the things you sometimes struggle to say. How you offer comfort. How you say I love you.
And for the longest time Max never says a word about it.
He lets you curl up beside him during movie nights. He leans into your touch when you rub lazy circles into the back of his neck while he’s gaming, or when you lace your fingers with his under the table at dinner.
So you think, this is us. You think, this works.
Until one night, when you overhear something you weren’t supposed to.
It’s nothing serious. At least, not really.
You’re padding back from the kitchen with a cup of tea, bare feet muffled by carpet when you hear Max talking on the phone on the balcony. His voice is low, casual. He’s talking to Daniel you think. Laughing at something.
And then you catch it.
“Yeah, you noticed huh? No she’s super touchy, always has been. Like, always on me.”
A beat.
“No, I don’t mind it. It’s just... I’m not really used to it, you know?”
You freeze, feet still against the carpet. The tea sloshes slightly, forgotten in your hands.
He laughs again, easy and relaxed. “She’s like a human magnet. If I’m sitting, she’s sitting on me. I swear sometimes I think she’d climb into my skin if she could.”
Daniel says something you can’t hear. Max chuckles. “No, she’s not annoying. She’s just... really affectionate.”
You don’t stay to hear the rest.
Your fingers tighten around your mug as you quietly retreat, heart a little heavier than before. You curl back into bed without saying a word, staring at the ceiling while your tea goes cold on the nightstand.
You’re not angry. He didn’t say anything cruel. Not really.
But for the first time questions being to lodge in your chest like a thorn... do I touch him too much? Does he just tolerate it because he loves me?
And just like that, something in you begins to shift.
You're still beside him. Still laughing at his jokes, still making him breakfast. You kiss him good morning and smile across the table. From the outside nothing changes, but the little things in all the tiny invisible places, the things that used to come so naturally they stop.
You don’t climb into his lap while he’s watching race replays, don’t tuck your face into the slope of his shoulder like you used to. You don’t slide your hand beneath the hem of his hoodie when you hug him from behind in the kitchen, fingers sneaking against warm skin. You don’t curl into his side when the movie starts, don’t tuck yourself under his arm like you belong there.
Instead you sit beside him on the couch with your legs tucked neatly under you, wrapped up tightly in a blanket like armour. A careful distance. A subtle retreat.
You keep your hands in your lap at dinner. You nod and listen and smile, but your fingers don’t find his thigh. You don’t reach for his hand beneath the table.
You still want to. God, do you want to.
Your whole body aches to reach for him, to run your fingers over his jaw, to smooth back his hair, to trace lazy shapes across his stomach. You miss the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.
You miss being held without thinking twice, but now that you’ve heard him say it out loud, that he’s not used to it, that he’s not like you, you can’t unhear it. It loops in your mind when the silence stretches between you.
Slowly you start to convince yourself you’ve been suffocating him. That maybe the way you love is too much for him. That maybe softness, when it clings like yours does, feels like smothering.
So you pull back, quietly, carefully, and hope he doesn’t notice how much it hurts. Or worse that he does, and lets you do it anyway.
Max doesn’t say anything at first, but after a few days he starts to notice.
A few inches of space on the couch. Your hand not finding his like it usually does. The way you don't crawl into his lap during breakfast, don't lean into his side during movies, don't rest your hand on his leg during long car rides.
At first he tells himself maybe you’re tired from work. Maybe it’s just one of those quiet moods that passes like the weather. He gives you space, the way people are always saying partners should.
But the distance doesn’t fade.
It expands.
One morning he slips behind you in the kitchen to steal a piece of toast. Normally you’d laugh, you’d wrap your arms around his waist and bury your nose in his hoodie, but this time you step aside without touching him.
He frowns, just a quick flicker, then hides it, but his stomach twists violently anyway.
It’s not like Max to spiral. He’s not wired for emotional uncertainty he prefers problems he can fix with strategy, planning, control.
But this?
This isn’t a problem he knows how to solve.
The way you sit on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone like it’s more comforting than him. You barely brush his arm when you slip into bed at night. When he tries to kiss your neck absentmindedly like he always does you duck away, not unkindly, but enough to make him panic
He tries not to panic, but that’s what this feels like panic.
It gnaws at him over the next couple days. The silence between your fingers and his. The distance that didn’t use to be there. The way you won’t look at him for too long, like he might read too much in your eyes.
Max isn’t good with emotional guessing games. He’s never been the type to bottle things up or pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t. He doesn’t do insecure. He confronts things. Fixes things. Puts it all on the table and makes it make sense.
And Max doesn’t know how to read silence the way he reads telemetry. He doesn’t know how to fix something when he doesn’t know where the break is.
He replays your interactions hunting for the mistake. Did he forget something important? Miss a signal? Are you sick or bored?
Is she pulling away because she’s planning to leave?
The thought stops him in his tracks. His chest aches with it, sharp and sudden. He sits with it, stunned, rubs at his sternum like he can soothe the ache.
You’re still sweet. Still say good luck before he gets into the car. Still text him updates about your day, what podcast you listened to, what ridiculous thing your coworker said. Still fold his shirts when he leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed. Still laugh at the stupid jokes he makes when he’s overtired. You're still there.
But it’s different. Your body has gone quiet, your touch has gone still. Less warm. Less you.
And Max, who never thought he’d crave something so soft, so intangible starts to feel the absence like a phantom limb, it feels like someone turned off the sun and expects him not to notice. And it terrifies him because he doesn’t know what he did to lose it, or how to ask for it back.
You can feel the ache in your chest growing stronger every day.
You don’t want to stop touching him. You miss touching him. You miss his warmth, the way he instinctively leans into your touch even when he’s focused on something. You miss curling into his lap without thinking, his fingers combing through your hair like it’s second nature.
But now? Every time your hand so much as twitches toward him, doubt rushes in like cold water.
Am I smothering him again? Is this too much? Is this what he meant?
You thought you were just adjusting. Giving him the space you assume he needs. You told yourself it was mature, respectful, kind, but it’s starting to feel less like an adjustment and more like a punishment.
Every second you don’t touch him? It hurts. In tiny, deceptive ways like a thousand paper cuts.
By the end of the next week, you’re sitting on the hotel bed in Jeddah, scrolling through your phone in silence, without reading a word, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells like his aftershave. Max pauses when he sees how far you’re sitting from the edge of the mattress. From him.
That’s when he finally speaks.
“Did I do something?”
You blink. “What?”
“You’ve been...” He trails off, eyes searching yours. “Distant.”
You hesitate. “No, I’m just tired.”
He studies your face for a long moment hoping you’ll offer somthing more, but when nothing comes he doesn’t push. Just nods slowly, then climbs into bed beside you.
You don’t cuddle him that night.
You face the other way, pretending to scroll while your chest feels like it’s being wrung out.
Max doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift, the slight dip of the mattress, the warmth of his body inching closer in the dark, not quite touching. He stops just shy of you, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around and meet him there.
It takes until Sunday night, after the race for everything to crack open.
You’re both back at the hotel. Max steps out of the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, sweatpants slung low on his hips. You’re perched on the window seat, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting forgotten in your lap as you stare out over Jeddah’s lights.
You think maybe you’ll just go to sleep early. Then Max sits beside you.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits close enough to feel the heat off your arm. He’s never been good at this part, the vulnerable bit. The what if it’s in my head bit. The what if I’m asking for something she doesn’t want to give me anymore bit.
The part where he has to name the thing that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. The part where he has to admit he's scared he’s already lost something and just hasn’t caught up to it yet.
He’s spent enough time memorising the way you speak when you're lying. You don’t flinch or fumble. You just get quieter. Softer. Like you’re afraid the truth will hurt more than the silence.
But he needs the truth now, because he’s been tying himself in knots trying to figure it out. Replaying conversations in his head, wondering if he forgot someone’s birthday or crossed a line or said something he shouldn’t have.
And now all he wants is to be close. To be touched. Held. Seen.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
“Yeah…” you say, trailing off.
And then, when you don’t say anything else, something in your eyes flickers and he just knows.
Max’s heart kicks hard in his chest, the kind of lurch he only gets right before lights out. He swallows, throat dry, like he’s one bad move away from losing something he doesn’t know how to live without.
“I miss you,” he says, voice quiet. “Even when you’re right here.”
You close your eyes. Then you look at him, really look, and something in you gives. Like you’ve been carrying a weight for days and it’s finally too much to hold, too much to hide.
“I heard you,” you say.
His brow furrows. “Heard me?”
“On the phone,” you clarify. “With Daniel. A couple of weeks ago”
Max’s pauses for a second, trying to remember, and then his stomach drops.
“You heard that?”
You nod slowly, eyes still on the window. “You said I’m always on you. That I’m really touchy. That you’re not used to it.”
His expression shifts, jaw tight, eyes suddenly filled with something that looks a lot like guilt.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I wasn’t trying to. But after that...” You pull your sleeves over your hands, voice quieter now. “I started wondering if I’d been overwhelming you. If I was too much—”
“Wait, baby—”
“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, force you into something you don’t want.” you rush on. “So I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
Max’s heart actually hurts.
He didn’t even realise how it might’ve sounded. He remembers the conversation now, half-distracted, casual, him laughing while Daniel joked about your human magnet tendencies. It hadn’t meant anything to him, just a passing comment… but it had meant everything to you.
“Hey,” he says, reaching for your hand. “Look at me.”
You look up. Max’s brows are drawn together. He looks devastated.
“I swear I never meant that in a bad way,” he says. “I wasn’t complaining. I was just… explaining it. I’ve never been with someone as affectionate as you, it caught me off guard at first sure. But I love it. I love the way you love me.”
A beat. His voice softens.
“When you stopped reaching for me, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been going crazy wondering why it felt like you were slipping away.”
You bite your lip, blinking quickly. “I thought I was just annoying you, that you were putting up with it because you love me, not because you wanted it.”
His forehead drops to yours, hands sliding to your waist, holding tight. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s the best part of my day. You crawling into my lap, always reaching for me. It makes me feel wanted... like I matter, like I make you feel safe.”
He leans back just slightly, fingers sliding to your jaw, cradling it gently.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “If I made you feel like you were too much. If I made you doubt what we have. That was never what I meant. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you thought you had to pull away from me just to make me comfortable.”
Your lips part slightly, like you're shocked by the weight of his words.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he admits. “Watching you pull away, thinking maybe I’d done something. I was scared I lost you and didn’t even know when it happened.”
“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I swear I wasn’t pulling away from you… at least not like that, I just thought I was doing the right thing.”
“I know that now,” he says. “But please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop”
Your arms are around him before he finishes the sentence.
He exhales into your neck, like he’s been holding his breath for days. Pulls you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. His hands spread across your back, and for the first time in a while something in him settles.
You crawl further into his lap like it’s where you belong. Arms around his neck. Fingers threading into his hair. He exhales like someone finally handed him back something precious.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.
“I’m right here.”
He pulls back, eyes soft. “Don’t stop being you, okay? Promise me.”
You nod. “Promise.”
Later, curled up in bed, you trace lazy lines across his chest with your fingertips.
“You really don’t mind?” you ask sleepily.
“Mind?” he echoes, mouth brushing your forehead. “I crave you.”
You smile into his skin, small and shy.
He kisses your hair again. “You ruined me.”
“Good,” you murmur, already drifting.
You’re here. Wrapped around him, where you belong.
And Max? Max feels like he can finally breathe again.
This gave me goosebumps, the good kind, and my eyes teared up a little because I'm a really touchy person and this hit me in all the insecurities, so cuuute
summary: yuki's worst habit starts to have influence on you
content/warnings: languageeeee
word count: 2.5 k
pairing: yuki tsunoda x teacher!reader
a/n: i love yuki so much i truly feel like a conversation with him would change my life
Summers were very sacred to you. You were a lower school teacher after all, and that meant summer break was the only time throughout the year that you didn’t have to worry about 20 screaming children every single day. You didn't have to worry about grading papers you could barely read or comprehend. You didn’t have to deal with difficult parents who couldn’t seem to understand why they couldn’t send their child to school without shoes on, or why they needed to make sure their children were actually, regularly, on time.
You were also, sometimes sadly, very committed to teaching. More importantly, you were committed to the equality and thought that if your students had to be there every day-you did too. And that meant that the only time you were able to accompany your boyfriend, Yuki, to his Grand Prixs was during your summer break. Your summer break was the most time you could really spend with him throughout the whole year, truthfully. Your school calendar always seems to start back just as his summer break is starting. As the season was ending, you got a break for the holiday season, but it started right back again in January, while he was able to relax until at least the middle of February.
You both lived for the week-long breaks in between races because you could both just go back to his apartment in Italy and spend quality time with one another. Or you two could pick a whole new country to go and explore for a week, which was the route that you decided to take more of this year.
Yuki had developed a passion, as he would refer to it, for golf somewhere in between the Monaco and Montreal Grand Prixs. You were very quick to call it what it actually was, though, and that was an obsession. He never would tell you exactly which driver you could “thank” for the newfound hobby, probably too scared you would get onto them in your signature gentle parenting ways.
So instead of getting to cuddle on Yuki’s extremely comfortable couch in between races this summer, you were forced into the hot sun, driving rented golf carts for your boyfriend while he updated his friends on his score every. single. hole.
You looked towards the bright sides, though, which was something you had become increasingly good at thanks to your job. You were still spending time with Yuki, albeit a lot quieter than normal since he claimed talking threw his focus off. You were at least able to wear some cute golf outfits.
And as much as you hated to admit it, that was about it on the bright sides. You were visiting beautiful countries and cities, many of them new to both of you. But instead of going to see museums, going shopping, or even generalized sightseeing, you were stuck on some tour de golf. Sure, you could have told him to drive his own cart and see things yourself, but that took away the act of you actually getting to see and spend time with him.
So, you put up with it.
And as the weeks went on, surprisingly, the tour de golf outings did start to get better. Yuki became more confident in his swing and started to not care about you two goofing off with each other. You started to appreciate the beauty and differences of each course and how much time was put into the upkeep of each and every one.
You had even started to get in on the action at a few holes. You had tried golf, maybe, a grand total of twice in your life, and decided it just wasn’t a sport you enjoyed. But golfing with Yuki? Well, that was something you were starting to enjoy. You would blush like a little kid every time Yuki would come up behind you and put his hands on yours to help adjust your shot like you two hadn’t been in an established relationship for years. You loved hearing his loud laugh every time you missed a shot or lost a ball somewhere in a pond, even though he was definitely laughing at you and not with you.
While you were surprised about how much you were starting to love the golf dates, you were more surprised about the bad habit you had seemingly begun to pick up from Yuki.
If there was one thing everyone knew about Yuki, it was his habit of cussing. Nothing seemed to bring out the habit more than golfing. People who thought his racing radios were bad? Their jaws would be on the ground after he hit a ball into the sand trap. You had long lost tally of just how many fucks and shits he would shout throughout the courses.
Cussing was the one area where you and Yuki were completely and totally opposite. Wanting to be, specifically, a lower school teacher, you had practically sworn it off in college. You didn’t want to risk the words finding their way into your everyday vocabulary, because the last thing you would need to do at your job is say fuck in a room full of 8-year-olds. You easily replaced words at this point, shoot instead of shit, booty instead of ass, tinkle instead of piss, witch instead of bitch-the list went on and on.
You weren’t sure if it was the competitiveness in you or if it was truly that Yuki’s colorful language was finally starting to rub off on you after all of these years, but golf started to bring out the worst vocabulary in you.
You would never forget the first time you screamed fuck after you had sent yet another ball way off track. You were sure Yuki had given himself whiplash with how fast he had snapped his neck to look at you, pupils wide, mouth wide open.
It happened again, a mere two holes down, this time the word of choice was shit, though, when you sent a ball into the water. You once again looked over at Yuki, who was, once again, looking at you with eyes and mouth wide open.
And the colorful language continued again, and again, and again. Even if you had a good shot, you had gotten in the habit of screaming a fuck yeah into the sky.
Without fail, Yuki continued to be surprised each and every time you muttered a curse word. How could he not be? Throughout the years of your dating, you had only ever let a handful of explicits leave your mouth.
“Am I a bad influence?” He asked as you drove to the next hole after letting a string of fucks and shits leave your mouth after not making par.
You playfully knocked your shoulder into his, “Maybe you finally are.”
That was what summer break was all about at the end of the day-spending time with Yuki. So what if he had rubbed off on you? That just meant that you two were together most of the time, and that was the greatest feeling in the world to you.
But as Geoffrey Chauncer writes in Troilus and Criseyde, all good things must come to an end.
You reach up and turn on the projector in the middle of your classroom. It was finally Friday, the end of your first week back at school. The first week was always hard; you had 20 new names and faces to memorize, 20 new personalities to figure out, 20 new little humans that you were responsible for.
One of the perks of having you as a teacher? If a free practice session was taking place during school time, you would let your students watch it with you. Sure, it was a little self-indulgent, but you had convinced your administration that it was a STEM learning opportunity.
Your eyes flicker to the screen, which is now showing a close-up of the track. Your students yell at you to move out of the way so they can see, which you greatly oblige. You move to the front door and flick the lights off, and make your way back over to your desk, ready for all of the questions about to come your way.
You were practically a world book of F1 knowledge at this point. One of your favorite things about teaching was how curious the children were, and nothing sparked that curiosity better than showing them a bunch of men in very fast cars. The questions would range from simple “How fast are they going?” and “What is that thing sticking out of the back?” to harder “What is the DRS?”
For most of the practice, you sat there, being berated, in a good way, by the very curious questions of 8-year-olds.
Yuki was doing great, one of the top 10 fastest cars on the track. Both you and your students were excited, cheering him on every time the cameras caught his car.
Until you spotted his name quickly dropping down the ranks. The camera switched to his on-board as his car came to a complete and total stop-engine failure.
You sigh and lean back in the desk chair. Engine failure was never something you wanted to see. In the moment, you let out one simple, short word that perfectly encompassed what you were feeling, “Fuck.”
It seemed like a simple word in your mind, at least. But once it escaped your lips, you instantly regretted it. For a second, you hoped that your kids didn’t hear it, that you had said it quietly enough, or that they were too engulfed by the cars to notice.
You were so very wrong, though, judging by the ensuing “Ooohs” that came out of their mouths after. Children normally reserved that for when another student was called to the office, or when you had to raise your voice at them-it had never been pointed at you before.
You quickly muttered an apology to your students and turned off the practice. There wasn’t much use in you watching it now that Yuki was out.
For the rest of the day, your little slip-up was all that you could think about. You just kept replaying the moment over and over again. You could practically hear the kids tell their parents, “My teacher said a bad word today,” before they would repeat the word themselves to prove their points.
Your students have already been gone for around 25 minutes, but you still sat at your desk, attempting to confirm the details of your lesson plan for next week. You couldn’t, though, your mind was in another universe. You sigh, standing up from the desk and grabbing your bag before slowly, trudgingly, making your way to the head admin office.
You had gotten so lucky with your lead administrator; she had taken you under her wing your first year of teaching, something you so greatly appreciated. She had become like a second mother to you at this point.
You stood in front of her door to her office and knocked before hearing her yell a quick, “Come in.”
You quickly enter and dramatically fall into the very ornate chair in front of her desk, slumping over. She quickly glances at you before returning to her monitor, typing.
“I did something really bad,”
She takes her glasses off, now fully giving you her attention, “Do I need to be prepared for a lot of paperwork?”
You quickly nod back at her, “I said fuck in front of the kids today.”
She let out exactly one, dramatic laugh before putting her glasses back on and turning back to the monitor. You sat there, mouth wide open, in shock and confusion. Was she not concerned?
She turns back to you a little, noticing your state of confusion, before fully rolling her chair to be in front of you again. “If that’s the worst thing you do all year, then you should win teacher of the year.”
“But the parents”
She loudly clasps her hands together, staring into your soul, “When you have a child, would you be angry if their teacher said shit in front of them, only once?”
You quickly shook your head no, if your future child was half Yuki, you weren’t sure its first word wouldn’t be fuck.
She leans back in her chair, “Exactly. Teachers are humans and mess up sometimes. Nothing to be worried about. If a parent is mad, direct them to me. I’ll tell them how you are one of our very best.”
Now, she fully goes back to typing away on her computer, stealing a slight glance back at you, “I’m sure you were just upset about something,” she added.
You nod your head, “Yuki had an engine failure in free practice.”
“Well, then it sounds like you should be talking to him right now and not me.” She says, looking at you above her glasses.
She was right, you were too engulfed in your day to have even thought about how Yuki must be feeling right now. You nodded your head again and grabbed your bag, walking out of the office into the hallway.
You weren’t even fully out of the school building before you were calling Yuki. It only took two rings before he picked up on the other line. And before he could say anything, you spoke first, “I fucking love you.”
It was a pause, just a few seconds of silence before he answered back, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just thought you needed to hear that today.”
You hear him sigh before answering a simple, small, “yeah.”
Before he had the chance to spiral into the events that transpired in his day, you quickly confess to the antics of your day, “I said fuck in front of the kids today.”
That earned a laugh from him, “Really?”
“Yep, we were watching FP1.”
“Is admin mad?”
“Not at all, she said if that's the worst mistake I make this year, then I could still be teacher of the year.”
Yuki let out a small laugh again, “I agree.”
A smile creeps up on your face. Yuki was always so supportive of you, even when you thought you didn’t deserve it.
There was a moment of silence before Yuki said the dreaded words, “Team meeting soon, I need to go.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, offering a quick hum in response.
“I fucking love you. I fucking miss you. I can’t wait to fucking see you.” He says. You could hear the sincerity and sadness in his voice.
You couldn’t help but smile again, “I’ll see you so fucking soon. I love you so fucking much.”
He let out another laugh, a true laugh this time, before hanging up.
SUMMARY: You and your enemy-teammate Max Verstappen accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolate at a boring gala, then get "forced" to share a hotel room.
PAIRING: max verstappen x reader
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, accidental aphrodisiac consumption, oral sex (m receiving, f receiving), degrading dirty talk.
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
You hated Max Verstappen with every fiber of your being.
He was arrogant, entitled, insufferable, a walking ego wrapped in a racing suit who believed the entire grid existed solely to worship at his altar.
From the moment you’d signed with Red Bull, he’d treated you like an unwelcome guest in his house: subtle digs in strategy meetings, “helpful” comments about your lines that were anything but, the way he’d lean back in briefings with that smug half-smile whenever someone praised you, like he was doing you a favor by letting you breathe the same air.
You didn’t speak to him unless absolutely necessary. He, on the other hand, spoke to you constantly, always trying to get under your skin just to watch you snap.
“Careful, schatje,” he’d murmur when you passed in the garage, “don’t want you crying on the podium again.”
You’d once thrown a water bottle at his head after quali. He’d caught it one-handed.
Tonight was another mandatory team gala neither of you wanted to attend.
You stood side-by-side on the red carpet because the photographers demanded it, his hand ghosting the small of your back for exactly three seconds before you stepped away like he’d burned you.
Inside, the ballroom was suffocating too many people, too much perfume, too much forced civility.
You were starving. And bored out of your mind.
The dessert table was the only thing that looked tolerable. A neat arrangement of dark chocolates, glossy and tempting.
You didn’t bother reading the tiny gold-embossed card propped beside the platter.
You just took one, bit into it, let the bitter-sweet melt on your tongue. It was good really good. Max appeared at your elbow a moment later, plucked one for himself without asking, chewed once.
Neither of you noticed the label read: Aphrodisiac- Dark Chocolate Infused. Consume sparingly. Effects may be intense.
The hotel fiasco came later.
“Full occupancy,” the team rep had said apologetically outside the venue. “You’re teammates. We booked one suite. Two beds. It’s only one night.”
Max had just shrugged. “Don’t worry. I don’t bite.” A pause. “Unless asked nicely.”
You’d walked ahead without answering.
The suite was beautiful and horrible at the same time.
Two perfectly made king beds separated by a pathetic nightstand that might as well have been made of glass for all the privacy it offered.
You changed in the bathroom, came out in an oversized tee and sleep shorts. Max was already in boxers and nothing else, sprawled on his bed scrolling his phone.
You crawled under your covers without a word. Lights out.
The heat came slowly.
At first you thought it was the air-conditioning being crap. Then it became a slow burn under your skin, spreading from your chest downward until your thighs felt restless, your nipples tight against cotton, your clit throbbing with every shift of your hips.
You squeezed your legs together. It didn’t help. It made it worse.
Across the room Max turned over. Then again. A low, frustrated exhale escaped him. He wasn’t sleeping either.
You lasted maybe twenty minutes before you couldn’t stand it. You slipped out of bed, tiptoed to the bathroom, locked the door.
Leaned against the sink. Shoved your hand into your shorts. Circles on your clit, two fingers inside...nothing.
It felt good for ten seconds and then it felt like gasoline on a fire. You were panting, forehead pressed to the mirror, but the edge stayed maddeningly out of reach. You gave up, washed your hands, opened the door.
Max was sitting up in bed. Sheets low on his hips. One hand under the covers, moving slowly. He froze when he saw you, yanked the sheet higher to cover himself but not before you caught the outline of him, thick and straining.
You both stared.
“What the hell did we eat?” he rasped.
You crossed your arms. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”
“You’re flushed. You’re breathing hard.” His voice was rougher than usual. “You’re wet, aren’t you?”
“Fuck off, Verstappen.”
“I can’t sleep either,” he said, almost conversational. “Feels like my skin’s on fire.”
“Not my problem.”
You climbed back into bed, back to him, pulled the covers up.
The ache between your legs was unbearable now. You were shaking. Without thinking, your hand slipped under the waistband again. You tried to be quiet small, desperate circles. It wasn’t enough. You were going to lose your mind.
“That won’t work,” Max said from the dark. Low. Certain. “You’ll just make it worse. You know what will fix it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do.”
Silence stretched. Twenty agonizing minutes. You were rocking against your own palm now, biting your lip so hard you tasted blood. You were going to cry. Or scream. Or die.
“Okay,” you whispered finally, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. I feel like I’m dying. What do I do?”
A beat.
“Come here.”
You hesitated. Then your legs moved before your brain could stop them.
They felt like jelly. You crossed the small space between beds and crawled onto his mattress. The moment your knees hit the sheets, the heat of his body hit you like a drug. You whimpered just from proximity.
He was rock-hard against your thigh when you straddled him. You both groaned at the contact.
“Help me first,” he said quickly, “and I’ll help you.”
He guided your hand down, wrapped your fingers around him. Thick. Hot. Pulsing. He rocked into your grip once, twice, setting the rhythm then let go so you could stroke him while his hand slid between your legs.
His fingers were better than yours. Rougher. Surer. He circled your clit exactly how you needed it, slipped two fingers inside with an obscene wet sound. You moaned into his shoulder. He groaned against your neck.
Somehow you ended up on your knees between his legs. His hand fisted in your hair, not gentle. Guiding. You took him deep, hollowed your cheeks, worked him with tongue and throat until his hips jerked.
“Oh fuck—fuck—” His voice cracked. “Guess we finally found something you’re actually good at. That how you got the seat? Sucking dicks?”
You bit down. Not enough to maim. Enough to make him hiss and buck.
He came hard, flooding your throat. You swallowed reflexively, coughing when he finally let you pull back.
“Fucking—slut, don’t bite—”
He shoves deeper. Your eyes water instantly. Throat burns. Tears stream down your cheeks.
“Look at my eyes while you suck me.”
You glare up through tears, pure hate. That look breaks him.
“You look so pretty like that,” he rasps. “Can I take a photo?”
You bite again, harder.
“Ahh, fuck don’t do that. Okay, I get it.” He slaps your cheek lightly, twice, more warning than pain.
He flipped you onto your back so fast your head spun. Peeled your clothes off inch by torturous inch, like he was savoring your frustration. When he reached for your thighs you clamped them shut on instinct.
He raised an eyebrow. “Thought you wanted help. Or should I leave you like this? Dripping. Empty. Aching.”
You opened your legs.
The orgasm ripped through you so violently you screamed. He didn’t stop. Lapped you through it, then gave you another with his fingers, then one more with his mouth again until you were sobbing, boneless, trembling.
His fingers slid in easily two, then three curling, stroking, obscene squelch filling the room. Then his mouth replaced them. Tongue flat, relentless. You grabbed his hair, shoved his face deeper, thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t fight it.
He sucked your clit hard, pinched it between his fingers and you shattered.
When it was over you both collapsed, chests heaving. Sweat-slick. Breathing ragged.
The silence was deafening.
You stared at the ceiling, trying to process what just happened. You’d just let your worst enemy make you come three times. And you’d swallowed his load.
Max turned his head. Voice hoarse. “I’m hard again.”
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Pippa Norris (Original Character)
Summary:
Pippa Norris never came to her brother’s races—until Monaco 2025. She expected noise, cameras, and chaos. She didn’t expect Oscar Piastri. One glance in the paddock is all it takes, and suddenly love at first sight doesn’t feel so impossible.
The only problem?
Lando.
Warnings and Notes:
This is part of the 5K Chaos Celebration on my Tumblr.
The prompt:
May I please request another drivers sister pairing 😈 maybe Lando’s sister is always coming to the races (like his parents do) and her and Oscar get close and end up together? And Lando is absolutely DRAMATIC about it?
-🐀
Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂
Pippa Norris had told herself she wasn’t going to be nervous.
Lando had said it at least six times on the phone the week before. “It’s just media day, Pips. Nobody cares about you, promise. They’ll be after me, not you. You’ll sit in hospitality, drink something fancy, and go home.”
Easy.
Except nothing about Monaco ever felt easy. The paddock wasn’t a paddock so much as a glossy catwalk pressed into the harbor, all mirrored sunglasses and yacht shoes and women who looked like they belonged on magazine covers. And Pippa, in her carefully ironed sundress and sandals, felt like an imposter trailing behind their parents.
She kept her laptop in her tote bag like a talisman. Normal life still exists. Code still exists. DNS still exists.
“Relax,” Lando had texted that morning. “You’ll be just fine.”
Her fingers were still itching to throw her phone in the Mediterranean.
She tucked in tighter behind her mum as they were ushered through the chaos of cameras and PR handlers. The air smelled like sunscreen and expensive cologne, and Pippa kept her eyes down, focusing on the cracked cobblestones rather than the swarm of attention around them.
And then—
She looked up.
Across the paddock, in McLaren papaya, Oscar Piastri was talking to a reporter. His accent carried faintly across the din—steady, a little shy. He laughed at something, eyes crinkling, and then turned his head just slightly.
And his gaze caught hers.
Pippa stopped breathing. For half a second, the noise and heat of Monaco dropped away, and there was just… him.
His expression shifted—confusion, recognition, and then something warm and startled, like he’d been caught off guard by sunlight.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Oh no.
She hadn’t believed in clichés, but this felt like stepping into one of those awful romance novels her sisters left lying around. Love at first sight. Just add champagne and a pastel cover.
Oscar blinked, tilted his head as though to make sure she was real, and then—smiled. Not the polite smile he gave the cameras. Something softer.
And that was it. Pippa knew, with a certainty that terrified her, that she was ruined.
Her mum nudged her elbow. “Pip? You all right, love?”
Pippa swallowed, heat climbing her cheeks.
“Yeah,” she managed, voice thin. “Just… I think I need some water.”
But really, she needed to figure out how to survive the rest of the weekend when Oscar Piastri had just looked at her like that.
***
Oscar Piastri had never believed in love at first sight.
It sounded like something out of a bad movie, the kind with implausible plotlines and dramatic orchestral swells.
He was a pragmatist, not a romantic.
A racing driver, not a dreamer.
Love, as far as he was concerned, was meant to build slowly—practice laps before the race.
Until it didn’t.
He was halfway through a media hit when it happened, standing in the glare of the Riviera sun, repeating the same polished answers he’d given all season. And then—mid-sentence—he looked up.
She was there.
Walking just behind Cisca and Adam Norris, looking like she’d rather melt into the cobblestones than be seen.
She wasn’t dressed like the other women in the paddock—no flashy heels, no designer sunglasses, no carefully orchestrated image. Just a simple sundress, sandals, a tote bag hanging off her shoulder.
And yet—he couldn’t look away.
Something hit him in the chest, sudden and impossible to name.
Recognition. Certainty.
A thought so wild and irrational he almost laughed aloud: Oh. There you are.
He stumbled over the rest of the answer, the journalist glancing at him curiously, but he barely noticed. Because she’d looked back at him, eyes wide, as if she felt it too.
Oscar managed to wrap up the interview, but his pulse was still hammering as he slipped away from the cameras. His feet seemed to move of their own accord, carrying him across the paddock towards the McLaren motorhome.
And there she was again, half-hidden by a column, clearly trying to pretend she belonged in this circus.
He stopped a polite distance away. “Hi,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be. His palms were suddenly clammy inside the fireproof gloves still shoved in his back pocket. “I’m Oscar.”
She blinked at him. For a second, he thought he’d made a mistake, that he’d misread everything, but then—her mouth quirked.
“Yeah,” she said, a little wryly. “I know. Unfortunately, I’m—” she hesitated, grimaced—“Lando’s sister. Pippa.”
Oscar felt his stomach swoop. “Unfortunately?”
Her lips twitched. “He’s not exactly a great sales pitch.”
Oscar laughed—an unguarded sound, more honest than anything he’d said in his interviews all day. And she laughed too, and it was the kind of sound that made him want to hear it again. And again.
Somewhere, deep inside, he was aware that this was a terrible idea. It probably should have stopped him. But it didn’t.
Because Oscar had never believed in love at first sight.
Until now.
***
Cisca Norris had raised five children, and she liked to think she knew their tells.
Lando was obvious—his moods broadcast in every gesture, every grin, every sulk.
Pippa, though, had always been the quiet one.
She built little walls of sarcasm and code around herself, hiding away with her laptop, content to live far from the noise of her brother’s world. Cisca had long since stopped trying to drag her into the spotlight.
So when Pippa agreed to come to the Monaco Grand Prix for the first time, Cisca hadn’t expected much. A few polite hours in hospitality, maybe a faint grimace during the driver parade, and then she’d retreat back to England with relief.
But then Oscar Piastri walked across the paddock.
Cisca saw it instantly—the way Pippa straightened, eyes widening, and the way Oscar faltered mid-step, as if someone had pulled a handbrake inside his chest. It was subtle, but to a mother, it was obvious. The kind of obvious that made Cisca’s lips twitch against a smile.
By the time they actually ended up face-to-face outside the motorhome, Pippa was fidgeting with her tote bag strap like she used to with her school satchel, cheeks faintly pink. And Oscar—sweet, steady Oscar—was looking at her as though the entire paddock had disappeared.
Cisca slipped her hand through Adam’s arm, leaning up just enough to murmur in his ear. “Do you see that?”
Adam followed her gaze, brow furrowing, then softening. His mouth curved. “Well,” he said quietly. “That didn’t take long.”
And they did. Pippa’s laughter came, unguarded and a little shy, and Oscar’s eyes lit in response. It was the kind of exchange that made everything else—the cameras, the chaos, the race weekend—fade into the background.
Adam squeezed her hand. “Wonder how long it’ll take Lando to notice.”
Cisca chuckled, already imagining her son’s horrified expression. “Oh, love. With the way those two are looking at each other? Not long at all.”
***
Lando Norris had a sixth sense for trouble.
Usually it came in the form of Max binning it in a simulator race at 2 a.m., or Flo accidentally setting the smoke alarm off in Mum’s kitchen. But this—this was a different category of disaster altogether.
He’d only stepped into the motorhome to grab his phone charger. Two minutes, tops. And then he froze in the doorway.
Because there, by the corner table, were two of the people he least wanted to see together in the entire universe.
Oscar Piastri.
Pippa Norris.
His teammate and his little sister.
And they were… smiling at each other. No—worse. They were doing the look. The soft-eyed, half-smile, secret-language-of-two-people-who-just-fell-into-a-romcom look.
Oscar was leaning in just slightly, saying something that made Pippa laugh, and Pippa—his quiet, tech-gremlin, very-off-limits little sister—was looking at Oscar like he’d just hung the bloody moon over the Riviera.
Lando blinked. Shook his head. Blinked again.
Nope. Absolutely not.
“Oi,” he blurted, louder than he meant to. Both their heads jerked up, identical startled expressions plastered across their faces. “What is THIS?”
Oscar straightened immediately, the picture of guilty politeness. “Nothing,” he said too quickly.
Pippa bit her lip, eyes darting to her tote bag like she might climb inside it.
Lando’s stomach dropped. “Oh my god. No. No, no, no. This is not happening.”
“Lando—” Pippa started, tone defensive.
“Don’t ‘Lando’ me! You—” he jabbed a finger at Oscar, who looked like he wanted to disappear through the floor. “You’re my teammate. And you—” he turned on his sister, who had the audacity to smirk now—“you’re my sister. You don’t mix teammates and sisters!”
Pippa raised a brow. “Is that a written rule?”
“Yes!” Lando snapped, flailing a hand. “It’s—well, it should be!”
Oscar coughed, clearly fighting a smile, and that was the final straw. Lando groaned, dragging both hands down his face.
“Nope,” he muttered, spinning on his heel. “Absolutely not. Not dealing with this right now. Monaco’s cursed enough as it is.”
He stomped out, already composing a furious text to his mum about how bringing Pippa to a race was the worst idea in history.
Behind him, he could hear Pippa laughing again—and Oscar’s soft reply—and Lando thought grimly that this wasn’t over.
Oscar: hey. quick question.
do you guys think love at first sight is real?
Hattie: ???
where is this coming from
Mae: 👀 ohhh my god who did you meet
Edie: spill. now.
Oscar: no one. just. hypothetical.
Nicole: Hypothetical, my foot.
Who is she?
Chris: Your mum’s right. You don’t ask that kind of question unless you’ve got someone in mind.
Oscar: 🙄 why can’t i ever ask a normal question without an interrogation
Hattie: because you’re the least hypothetical person alive.
Mae: so who is it??
tell us tell us tell us
Edie: It’s Monaco weekend.
Has to be someone there.
Nicole: Darling, you don’t need to be embarrassed. Just tell us who caught your eye.
Oscar: …fine.
Lando’s sister.
Hattie: LMAO YOU’RE DEAD
Mae: 😭😭😭 not the teammate’s sister oh my god this is amazing
Edie: Oscar, you absolute menace.
Chris: …Does she like you back?
Oscar: I think so.
we talked and it just… clicked. like i’ve known her forever.
Nicole: Oh sweetheart 🥹 that’s wonderful.
Hattie: mum don’t encourage him he’s literally signing his death warrant
Edie: Love at first sight is real, apparently.
Too bad you’ll be buried by Lando before you can prove it.
Mae: worth it tbh
Oscar: exactly. worth it.
Chris: Well. If it’s worth it, then it’s worth fighting for. Just… maybe wear extra padding at the next race.
***
Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Nicole Piastri
Nicole: Sweetheart, I just wanted to ask you quietly, without your sisters teasing.
Are you all right?
Oscar: Yeah, Mum. I promise.
I just…
I’ve never felt something like this before.
Nicole: You sounded very sure, Oscar. That’s not like you to throw words like love around lightly.
Oscar: I know.
That’s what’s scary.
It wasn’t… gradual. It was just—
There. Like I’d been waiting for her without realising.
Nicole: Oh, love. ❤️
If that’s how you feel, then maybe it’s real.
Oscar: You think so?
Nicole: I know my son.
You overthink everything, you weigh every decision like it’s a contract negotiation.
If you’re this certain this quickly… it’s not nothing.
Oscar: …thanks, Mum.
Nicole: But you also need to tread carefully.
This is Lando’s sister, and it will get messy if you rush.
Take your time. Respect her.
And if you truly care for her, it’ll show.
Oscar: I do.
I already do.
Nicole: Then I trust you.
But Oscar—please don’t get yourself killed before Sunday.
Oscar: 😂 No promises.
***
Text Messages: Pippa Norris & Flo Norris
Pippa: flo.
i’m in trouble.
Flo: what kind of trouble
like broke your laptop again or forgot your charger kind of trouble?
Pippa: no. worse.
boy trouble.
Flo: 👀 spill.
Pippa: i met oscar today.
and.
he looked at me.
Flo: …
and???
Pippa: like i was the only person in monaco.
like he already knew me.
like—
ugh. flo. it was ridiculous. i couldn’t breathe.
Flo: oh my GOD you’ve got it bad 😭😭😭
Pippa: i knowwwww.
and i barely said two words before lando stormed in like the fun police.
Flo: classic. 😂
but pips… be honest.
you like him.
Pippa: …
yeah.
i really really do.
Flo: then don’t fight it.
just maybe don’t kiss him in front of lando unless you want a paddock brawl 🤷♀️
Pippa: noted. 🙃
Flo: also?
i’m calling dibs on maid of honour when you marry him.
Pippa: FLO. STOP. 😳😳😳
Flo: never. 😈
***
The Norris family had commandeered a quiet corner table in the McLaren Hospitality for breakfast. Pippa was halfway through buttering her croissant when she felt it—eyes on her.
She looked up.
Across the room, Oscar had just walked in with a McLaren polo and messy hair that suggested he’d overslept. His tray had only coffee and toast, but the second he spotted their table, he hesitated. His gaze landed on her, and there it was again—that stupid, devastating smile.
Her heart tripped. She smiled back before she could stop herself.
And that’s when Lando noticed.
“NO,” Lando barked, loud enough that several other guests turned their heads. He pointed at Oscar like he was calling a penalty. “ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
Oscar blinked, caught mid-step, coffee cup in hand. “I was just—”
“Nope,” Lando cut in, jabbing a finger at his sister this time. “Pippa, no. Not him. He’s banned. I’m banning him. Go back to your corner, Oscar!”
Pippa groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” Lando demanded. “He’s my teammate. He’s practically family already, and I don’t need him actually becoming family—”
“Lando.” Adam’s voice was calm, dry, the same tone he used when his kids were being especially dramatic. “They’re adults.”
“If they like each other, that’s none of your business,” Cisca said firmly, as if speaking to a sulky teenager instead of a Formula One driver.
Adam sipped his coffee, eyes twinkling. “Besides, it’s rather sweet.”
“Sweet?!” Lando gawked at his father. “He’s my teammate! She’s my sister! This is like—like against the Geneva Convention or something!”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Cisca muttered.
Pippa, unable to stop herself, let out the tiniest giggle. Oscar’s lips twitched in reply.
“See!” Lando jabbed a finger at them. “They’re doing it again. The heart eyes. Right in front of me!”
Adam raised his paper like a shield. “Better get used to it, son.”
“THANK you,” Pippa muttered from behind her croissant.
“No!” Lando slapped the table, scandalised. “Mum, Dad, you’re supposed to be on my side!”
“We’re on the side of common sense,” Cisca said mildly. “And Pippa’s happiness.”
Pippa peeked up, cheeks red but eyes shining. Oscar, across the room, was trying very hard not to laugh into his coffee.
Lando threw his arms in the air. “This family is insane. I’m the only normal one here!”
***
Monaco GP – Friday Driver Press Conference
Journalist 1: “Lando, your sister Pippa was spotted in the paddock yesterday and again this morning. She doesn’t usually come to races—what’s brought her to Monaco?”
Lando: (smiles a little too tightly) “Uh, yeah. Family wanted to come, I guess. First time she’s braved a race weekend, so… yeah.”
Journalist 1: “She seemed to be spending quite a bit of time in the McLaren motorhome with Oscar—”
Lando: (interrupts immediately) “NO.”
(room bursts into laughter, Oscar shifts awkwardly in his chair)
Journalist 2: “Sorry—‘no’? Could you elaborate?”
Lando: (shaking his head furiously) “There’s nothing to elaborate on. Absolutely not. Next question.”
Oscar: (quietly, under his breath but picked up on mic) “Bit harsh.”
Lando: (turns to glare at him) “Don’t. Start.”
Journalist 3: “Oscar, maybe you can comment—”
Lando: “NO HE CAN’T.”
(more laughter; Oscar looks like he wants the ground to swallow him, while Charles two seats down is grinning like it’s the best entertainment of the season)
Moderator: “Alright, let’s move on before we start a paddock family feud…”
(Lando mutters into his mic: “It’s already a feud.” Oscar hides a smile. Cameras catch it instantly.)
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/gridgirl1989: 🚨 lando just yelled “NO” in the middle of the press conference when asked about oscar spending time with his sister pippa 💀💀💀
@/monacogptea: lando: “NO.”
journalist: “could you elaborate?”
lando: “absolutely not. next question.”
😭😭😭 bro is fighting for his life
@/f1memelord: charles in the corner watching lando’s family drama instead of answering tyre strategy questions: 😏🍿
@/paddockwatcher: the way oscar went “bit harsh” under his breath and lando IMMEDIATELY snapped “don’t. start.” … boyfriends brother-in-law energy already
@/norrisnation: pippa norris showing up to ONE race weekend and already causing absolute chaos >>>>>>
@/papayafan123: “NO HE CAN’T” – lando shutting down a journalist trying to ask oscar about pippa is the funniest thing i’ve seen all year 😭😭😭
@/gridchaos: lando: not in front of the cameras
pippa + oscar: 👀👀👀
@/sillyseasonrumors: putting £100 on “lando’s sister dating oscar” being the next silly season bombshell
@/papayachaos: lando: NO.
journalist: could you elaborate—
lando: NO.
oscar: breathes lando: NO.
@/pitlaneprincess: the way oscar quietly went “bit harsh” under his breath HELP.
that boy is GONE for her.
@/tyrelap: charles leclerc grinning in the background like he just got front row tickets to a netflix drama 😭
@/safebrake: petition for mclaren to set up a live stream of lando trying (and failing) to stop his sister from dating his teammate.
@/f1lorekeeper: cameras caught oscar smiling when lando said “don’t start” and i think that man has already picked out a ring.
@/gridgossip: honestly lando yelling “NO” is the most sibling energy i’ve ever seen in a press conference. protectiveness + sheer panic.
@/codemonaco: imagine being pippa: you come to one (1) race and suddenly you’re the main character of the entire grid.
@/PapayaPanic: not lando gatekeeping his sister from his own teammate 😭😭😭
@/MonacoMischief: the way oscar muttered “bit harsh” into the mic AND IT PICKED UP I’m cryingggg
@/ChaoticCharles: Charles Leclerc in the background trying not to laugh is killing me.
@/gridwives: me: omg who’s dating who?
netflix: we’ll tell you
lando: NO.
@/papayagossip: “don’t. start.” – lando to oscar, 2025 (colourised)
@/just_a_paddock_mum: honestly if oscar and pippa are a thing i’m rooting for them. she looked so sweet and normal compared to the usual circus.
@/landoapologist: lando screaming NO is peak older brother energy. man’s fighting for his life.
@/MonacoChaos2025: petition to rename this weekend: the Grand Prix of Lando Losing His Mind.
@/gridgirl95: The way Oscar muttered “bit harsh” and Lando looked ready to throw hands??? I’m crying 😂😂😂
@/teamradiofail: lando: NO
pippa & oscar: yes ❤️
@/maxisahazard: petition to mic up lando 24/7 because this is comedy gold.
@/fernandoismydad: Lando screaming NO is the new Kimi “leave me alone, I know what I’m doing.”
@/f1shipwars: Calling it now: #Pipscar is endgame. Sorry Lando 🤷♀️
@/oscarstan27: “bit harsh” OSCAR PIASTRI YOU’RE NOT HELPING YOURSELF 😭😭😭
@/pipfanclub: pippa norris: shows up at one (1) grand prix
the entire paddock: THIS IS A LOVE STORY
@/danielriclol: petition to rename “Drive to Survive” to “Lando Tries (and Fails) to Stop a Love Story”
@/f1chaos: it’s official. oscar + pippa is the romcom subplot of the 2025 season. calling it now.
***
The McLaren garage between sessions was a kind of organized chaos: mechanics with headsets darting in and out, the low hum of generators, data screens flickering with lap times and telemetry.
To Pippa, it felt like stepping inside her brother’s brain—numbers, lines, speeds all alive at once.
She wasn’t supposed to be here, not really. She should probably hide in hospitality with her laptop, coding something mundane while the world spun around her. But her Mum had shoved her toward the garage earlier with a pointed “Go watch, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
So now she stood near the back, pressed against the wall, trying not to look too out of place. And then Oscar appeared.
Helmet off, balaclava hanging loose in his hand, hair damp with sweat. He caught sight of her instantly, like the rest of the garage didn’t exist.
“Hey,” he said, weaving through mechanics until he was at her side.
Her stomach flipped. “Shouldn’t you be debriefing or something?”
“I’ve got five minutes.” His grin was quick, crooked, private. “Besides, I’d rather talk to you.”
Pippa laughed, embarrassed, ducking her head. “That’s dangerous talk. Don’t let my brother hear you.”
Oscar leaned a little closer, dropping his voice like it was their secret. “Your brother’s too busy yelling at his engineer right now. I think we’re safe.”
And just like that, she relaxed. They talked—nonsense, really. She told him about her freelance work, the endless websites for small businesses, and he actually listened, eyes lit with interest. He asked about her favorite designs, the kind of code she liked, and when she admitted she had a thing for making sleek, hidden systems that worked flawlessly behind the scenes, he said softly, “That sounds a lot like you.”
Her breath caught.
She looked up at him, and the garage noise seemed to blur, fade. His smile was shy, earnest. And she realized, with startling clarity, that whatever had sparked yesterday wasn’t fading—it was only growing.
Somewhere nearby, she heard Lando’s voice rising over the radio and Cisca’s laughter floating from hospitality. The real world still spun on. But right there, in the corner of the McLaren garage, Pippa felt herself falling.
And the scariest part was that she didn’t want to stop.
***
The McLaren garage was a blur of motion: mechanics leaning into the car, engineers hunched over laptops, the hiss of tyre blankets and the low rumble of generators. Normally, Oscar thrived in that chaos. He could tune it out, focus on the data, prepare for qualifying.
But not today.
Because the moment he pulled off his helmet and scanned the back of the garage, he saw her.
Pippa Norris.
She was half-hidden against the wall, hands clasped around the strap of her tote bag like she was bracing herself against a storm. But when she saw him, her shoulders eased just a little. And suddenly Oscar wasn’t thinking about tyre deg or brake balance. He was thinking about her.
He crossed the garage without hesitation. “Hey.”
Her smile was quick, uncertain. “Shouldn’t you be… busy?”
“I’ve got five minutes.” He tried to keep it light, casual, but his heart was hammering in his chest. “Besides, I’d rather talk to you.”
The way her cheeks flushed nearly undid him.
They talked, and it was nothing and everything all at once—her websites, her design work, the quiet pride in her voice when she explained how she built things no one noticed, but everyone relied on. Oscar listened, really listened, and the words slipped out before he could stop them: “That sounds a lot like you.”
Her eyes widened, soft and startled, like he’d pulled a truth out of her she hadn’t meant to show. And he knew, in that moment, he was gone. Completely gone.
Around them, the garage carried on—Lando’s voice crackled sharp over the radio, an engineer shouted tyre temps, someone laughed at a bad joke. But Oscar didn’t hear any of it.
All he could hear was Pippa’s laugh, low and nervous and beautiful.
He wanted to stay there, anchored in that small space beside her, forever. But a hand clapped his shoulder—an engineer calling him back to reality, reminding him qualifying was minutes away.
Oscar gave Pippa one last look before he turned away. And she gave him one back.
It wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t just nerves.
It was the beginning of something neither of them could pretend away.
***
Lando Norris was buzzing.
Pole position in Monaco. Pole. He’d threaded the needle around the barriers, kissed the apexes, wrung everything out of the car, and when the chequered flag fell, it was his.
He could barely feel his legs as he climbed out of the cockpit, cheers erupting from the garage. The mechanics were pounding him on the back, Zac was shouting something unintelligible, and Andrea was beaming like a proud dad.
This was it. His moment.
And then, as the adrenaline settled, he caught sight of them.
Pippa, tucked just off to the side of the garage, looking at him with warm, proud eyes—good, that was what sisters were meant to do. But standing next to her, too close, was Oscar. And Oscar wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at her.
Still in his fireproofs, still sweaty from the car, and he was smiling at Pippa like she was the only person in the world. Pippa, of course, was smiling back, shy and pink-cheeked, fiddling with the strap of her bag like she did when she was nervous.
Oscar.
Oscar, who was supposed to be sulking about qualifying P3 or whatever, was instead standing much too close to Lando’s baby sister, leaning down to say something that made her laugh. Laugh. In his garage. At his pole position party.
Lando’s grin faltered.
No. Nope. Absolutely not.
He stalked over, still in his race suit, helmet tucked under his arm like a weapon. “Oi! Pole sitter here!” he announced, waving an arm. “Bit of attention? Maybe?”
Pippa looked at him, unbothered, smile soft. “Congrats, Lan.”
Oscar smiled too, like the smug little menace he was. “Congrats, mate.”
Lando squinted. “Don’t you ‘mate’ me while you’re making heart eyes at my sister.”
Pippa flushed. Oscar blinked, clearly fighting a laugh.
Before Lando could launch into a full tirade, a hand landed on his shoulder. His mum, Cisca, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, Lando. Let them be. You’ve got pole. Isn’t that enough?”
“Mum! Dad!” Lando rounded on his parents, who were standing nearby looking utterly unbothered. “Are you seriously letting this happen?”
Cisca pressed her hands together, eyes sparkling. “They’re very sweet, darling.”
Adam’s mouth twitched as he tried—and failed—to hide a laugh. “Honestly, I haven’t seen Oscar this animated all season.”
“WHAT?!” Lando threw his arms out. “This is my weekend! I got pole in Monaco! And all you care about is—” he gestured wildly at his sister and his teammate, who were now pointedly not looking at him—“whatever that is!”
“Pole’s brilliant, son,” Adam said calmly, patting his shoulder. “But this is better entertainment.”
Cisca nodded sagely. “Don’t be such a grump. You can have pole and let your sister be happy.”
Adam chuckled into his coffee cup like this was the best entertainment Monaco had provided in years. “Honestly, son, you should be flattered. He’s a good lad.”
“Dad!”
But they were both smiling, both clearly delighted, and Lando felt like he was the only sane one left in Monte Carlo.
Pole in Monaco. He should have been on top of the world.
Instead, he was trying to figure out how to file an official complaint against Cupid.
***
The paddock was already buzzing, the air sharp with sea salt and the smell of fuel. Race day nerves hung everywhere, thick enough that even Pippa felt it, though she wasn’t the one strapping into a car.
She lingered just outside the McLaren garage with their parents, watching as Lando and Oscar finished final prep with their engineers. Both looked serious, focused, but when they stepped out, Pippa found herself smiling.
“Good luck,” she said softly, first to Lando, then to Oscar.
Oscar blinked, surprised, then gave her a small, grateful grin. “Thanks, Pippa.”
Lando, on the other hand, recoiled like she’d just handed Oscar a winning lottery ticket. “He doesn’t need luck!” Lando snapped, throwing an incredulous look at her. “He’s the championship leader!”
“Lando—” she began.
“No, seriously,” Lando cut in, gesturing at Oscar like he was presenting Exhibit A in a trial. “Why would you waste luck on him? He’s fine. He’s—he’s ahead of me. If anyone needs luck, it’s me!”
Pippa rolled her eyes. “You’re both driving through literal chaos at 300 kph. You both need luck.”
Oscar coughed into his fist, but there was a suspicious twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Lando narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t you dare smile. Don’t even look at her.”
Oscar immediately looked down at his race boots, expression saintly.
Adam chuckled, shaking his head. “For god’s sake, son. Just take the good wishes and get in the car.”
Cisca, ever calm, kissed Lando’s cheek. “She’s being kind. You could try it too.”
“Unbelievable,” Lando muttered, stalking back toward the garage. “Pole in Monaco, and apparently I’m the sideshow.”
But when Pippa glanced at Oscar again, he was still smiling faintly. And her heart was gone all over again.
***
The race had been brutal.
Monaco always was. Ninety minutes of pure concentration, walls closing in with every lap, tyres screaming for mercy. Oscar climbed out of the car sweaty, exhausted, but buzzing with the high of survival and points in the bag.
He pulled off his helmet, handed it to a mechanic, and let the noise of parc fermé wash over him—engines cooling, media swarming, fans screaming from balconies.
And then his eyes scanned the crowd. Instinctively. Uncontrollably.
For her.
It was ridiculous—seconds ago he’d been threading a car through the tightest corners in motorsport, but now his chest was hammering harder just looking for a glimpse of Pippa Norris.
There.
She stood just beyond the barricade, tucked between Cisca and Adam, her sundress catching the sunlight, laptop still slung in its ever-present tote. She caught his gaze almost instantly, like she’d been looking too, and smiled.
Oscar felt the whole world tilt. The exhaustion, the noise, the sting of sweat—gone. Just her.
He took a step toward the barrier.
And then—
“NOPE.”
Lando Norris materialised out of nowhere, sweaty race suit and all, still vibrating with the adrenaline of victory. He threw an arm across Oscar’s path like a physical blockade.
“Uh—congrats, mate?” Oscar said carefully, trying to sidestep.
Lando stepped with him, glaring. “Don’t. Even. Think about it.”
Behind him, Pippa sighed, folding her arms. “Lando, you’re being ridiculous.”
“I just won Monaco!” Lando barked. “I get dibs on family time! You—” he jabbed a finger into Oscar’s chest—“go do your media or whatever.”
Cisca’s voice floated dryly over the noise. “Honestly, you’d think he’d lost the race, not won it.”
Adam chuckled, shaking his head. “Son, you can’t keep them apart forever.”
Oscar swallowed, trying not to grin as Pippa rolled her eyes fondly behind her brother’s shoulder. She mouthed later at him, just a flick of her lips, and he felt something low in his stomach ignite.
Later.
Oscar nodded once, accepting the barricade for now. But he knew—Lando could block him all he wanted. The race was already over. The real story had only just begun.
***
The restaurant buzzed with the kind of energy only Monaco could create after a Grand Prix: champagne flowing, laughter echoing off marble walls, flashes of paparazzi cameras just beyond the terrace. Inside, McLaren had claimed a long table for family, friends, and celebration.
At the head sat Lando, basking in the glow of his first Monaco win, glass of champagne permanently in hand. He was grinning so hard his face might crack, replaying overtakes and pit calls for anyone who would listen.
And just to his right—Pippa.
And just to her right—Oscar.
It hadn’t been planned. At least, not by Lando. But Cisca had steered Pippa to the empty chair, and Adam had “accidentally” guided Oscar into the one beside her, and by the time Lando noticed, it was too late.
They spent the entire evening side by side, leaning close to talk over the din. Pippa told Oscar about her freelance projects, mimicking difficult clients with such dry humor he nearly choked on his water. He, in turn, tried to explain race strategy in layman’s terms, only to dissolve into laughter when she said, “So basically: don’t crash.”
Every time she laughed, Oscar felt it like a spark under his skin. And every time he looked at her, Lando narrowed his eyes from across the table, as if sheer willpower could wedge a chasm between them.
Dinner stretched long into the night, plates cleared, dessert devoured, the champagne bottle count climbing. Pippa felt warm, almost lightheaded—not from the wine, but from the quiet joy of Oscar’s hand brushing hers under the table when he passed her a napkin.
And then, inevitably, Lando stood. A little wobbly, a little flushed, but beaming. He clinked his glass with a fork until the table hushed.
“To Monaco,” he declared grandly. “To my first win here. To McLaren!”
Cheers rang out, glasses raised. Lando drained his champagne, slammed it down, and then turned—with the laser focus of a slightly tipsy older brother—towards Oscar.
“FINE.” His voice rang over the laughter. “FINE. If you two want to make heart eyes all bloody evening, go ahead.”
Pippa froze, mortified. Oscar went red to the tips of his ears. The table erupted in giggles.
Lando jabbed a finger at Oscar, swaying just slightly. “BUT. Don’t. You. Dare. Hurt. Her.”
The laughter softened into a murmur of “awws.” Pippa groaned, hiding her face in her hands.
Oscar, however, straightened in his chair. He met Lando’s gaze, steady and sure, and said quietly, “I won’t.”
Something in his tone must have landed, because Lando blinked, then sat back down with a dramatic sigh. “God, this is going to be a nightmare.”
But when Pippa peeked at Oscar from behind her hands, he was still looking at her like she was the only person in the room. And for once, she didn’t care who saw it.
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/gridgossip: pap pics just dropped of oscar piastri + pippa norris leaving the same restaurant in monaco tonight 👀👀👀
[📸 blurry pap shot: Oscar in a white button-down, Pippa beside him in a sundress, her hand brushing his arm as they walk toward a car]
@/papayafan44: HELLO??? they look like they’re in a romcom walking out of dinner together 😭
@/lanstans: lando screaming “NO” in the press conference two days ago and now THIS… sir ur battle is already lost
@/f1wagsunited: ngl Pippa looks gorgeous. sundress, messy bun, no pap awareness whatsoever. Oscar looks like he’s escorting her home from prom 🥹
@/monacogpqueen: lando norris wins monaco but the real story is his sister and his teammate falling in love in the background 💀
@/gridgeek27: look at their body language tho. not just friends. NOT just friends.
@/oscarpiastriluv: idc what anyone says… she looks HAPPY. and so does he.
@/oscarstan27: look at oscar opening the door for her 😭😭😭 boy is GONE
@/pipfanclub: pippa norris casually showing up to one (1) grand prix and bagging herself the championship leader… legend behaviour 💅
@/landoNOrris: thinking about lando at the press conference screaming “NO” while these two are out here giving romcom energy on the monaco streets 😭
@/norrissisarmy: the way oscar is looking at her… that is not casual. that is “already writing our vows” behaviour.
@/papayalover44: they look so soft i can’t 😭😭😭
@/verstappensburner: lando celebrating monaco but his sister celebrating oscar >>>>
@/teammclarenfan: so is oscar gonna have to start calling lando “bro” on and off track or what
@/piposcar: new ship unlocked: #PipOscar 💛🧡
@/f1chaosqueen: NOT THE HEART EYES IN 4K 😭😭😭
[pic zoomed in of Oscar looking at Pippa like she hung the moon]
@/charlesleclurrr: petition to rename DTS season 7: “Lando Norris’ Worst Nightmare”
@/mclarendrama: how long before lando combusts live on tv again: place your bets
@/f1memelord: monaco 2025 podium:
lando norris 🏆
oscar + pippa’s love story 🫶
netflix producers getting fed
@/f1memelord: lando: “NO OSCAR” oscar: walks out of dinner with pippa 💀
@/pipfanclub: not the way he’s LOOKING at her 😭😭😭 that’s not casual, that’s ROMANCE
@/honeybadgerstan88: petition for netflix to call the 2025 season “Norris v. Piastri: Brother-in-Law GP”
@/oscarstan27: okay but real talk… they’re actually really cute together.
@/papayastan44: NOT THE HANDS ALMOST TOUCHING 😭😭😭
@/monacogirl92: look at her face… she’s glowing. that’s not a first-date smile, that’s an i’m gone smile
@/landochaos: lando: “NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
also lando’s sister: (leaves dinner with oscar piastri hand-in-hand almost) 💀💀💀
@/gridtea: i need DTS cameras on the Norris family table immediately because imagine the CHAOS
@/oscarpiastriluv: he looks so soft??? like?? he’s usually so neutral-faced but look at him looking at her 🥺
@/dnfenergy: monaco has cursed many drivers but i think it just blessed piastri and pippa
@/f1memelord: petition to rename “Oscar Piastri” to “Oscar Norris” by the end of 2025
@/mclarengirl: lando better start preparing his speech for the wedding toast now 💅
summary: you can only see in black and white until you touch your soulmate for the first time, and you're starting to wonder if you've ever actually touched alex before.
contains: soulmate au, race engineer!reader, friends to lovers, cursing, fluff!!!, use of y/n and l/n (sparingly),
word count: 3.3k + social media au.
playlist: take a bite — beabadoobee; disco — surf curse; I can see you — taylor swift
a/n: this is the first installment of my soulmate series to celebrate 1k followers! I've wanted to write for Alex for a bit, and I'm SO excited about this. ALSO this is me manifesting the Albon podium for the 2026 Australia GP. I hope you enjoy!
series masterlist! ◦ masterlist!
liked by alex_albon, yourusername and 216,345 others
f1updates @.williamsf1official has announced Alex Albon's race engineer for the upcoming F1 season will be Williams' Y/N L/N. The engineer has been working for Williams for 4 years, and will already step into the new role for the first GP of 2025.
username1 oh come on
username2 THE WOKE ARE KILLING F1
username3 some of you acting as if they picked a rando off the street and ignoring the fact y/n has been a reliable engineer for the team for years… grow up
username4 I'm SO excited to watch her work with Alex!!!
username5 chat are we for real?
username6 YESSSS WOMEN ON F1!!!!!
liked by alex_albon, williamsf1official and 108,948 others
yourusername I'm so beyond honored and excited to start this year as an F1 race engineer! The biggest thanks to @.williamsf1official for this opportunity and to @.alex_albon for trusting me with this very important job. 💙
alex_albon I'm so excited to work with you! ♡ liked by yourusername
williamsf1official 💙💙💙 ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername GO WILLIAMS!!!!
username1 I'M GONNA SAY IT AGAIN: THE WOKE ARE KILLING F1
georgerussell63 Congratulations!!! ♡ liked by yourusername
lauramuller YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername LET'S FUCKING GO!!!!!!!!!!!!
username2 alright…
It's not that you've given up on your love life, per se.
It's just that you're preoccupied with other things.
"Bearman is 1.7 seconds behind you, Alex."
Such as doing your goddamn best to help Williams be an upper midfield F1 team.
"Bearman has activated DRS, Alex."
And, most of all, trying to get Alex Albon somewhat closer to a podium.
"And Bearman overtakes Albon after another brilliant lap! Haas' work this season has been truly stellar—"
Which is proving itself to be a little complicated.
"Sorry."
"Nothing to apologize for, Alex. We'll get him in a few laps."
"The car sucked today."
You sigh deeply at that, hands on your waist as you watch Alex take off his helmet, his brow furrowed with frustration.
"I know," your tone is apologetic, but you know that doesn't change anything. "You did well either way."
His brow furrows further.
"We didn't even finish inside the points."
"You're being too hard on yourself," you try, one of your hands rising up to touch his arm, feeling his race suit's resistant material under your fingertips, "you said it yourself. The car sucked. You can't do miracles when the car sucks, Alex."
"Bearman can," is his annoyed answer, and you can swear you see a few tears accumulate on the corners of his gray eyes. You know the string of bad races are taking a toll on him. "Doesn't matter. We'll do better next weekend."
Your chest feels heavy at the disappointment that lingers in the space between his words, in the furrow of his eyebrows, in his posture. You're not sure how to make him feel better — not when you keep losing the chance to get any points, not when he keeps finishing P12, P14, P17.
It's not his fault, but you don't know what to do either.
You open your mouth to answer, and then Alex is pulled away from you and dragged to interviewers. Your heart clenches at the bad timing of it all, but the social media manager barely spares you a glance, and you resort to going back into the garage to speak to the engineering team about the race, about the car, about ways to erase that look on your driver's eyes.
liked by albonfan1, username2 and 27,897 others
f1updates After a disappointing race, Alex Albon gives Sky Sports an exclusive interview about his struggles with the car:
🎙️ "The team worked really hard, but ultimately I just wasn't comfortable with the car today. It wouldn't be fair to just say the car sucked and that's why we did badly, but I have to admit my issues with it were definitely an important factor in our results. I'm hoping we can fix some of these problems before the next race."
username1 I know he's saying the issue was the car but tbh I feel like his little race engineer was no fucking help as usual
↳ username2 brother that's not the case AT ALL
username3 I mean… they did say the woke would kill F1 and specially Williams…
username4 it's really telling that you only see these "engineers" in midfield to objectively bad teams. you'd never see something like this in McLaren lol
↳ username5 wow literally shut the fuck up
username6 Alex explicitly says the team worked hard and he just wasn't comfortable in the car and yet you guys are talking shit about unrelated stuff this is ridiculous
username7 IT'S OKAY HE'LL DO BETTER IN THE NEXT RACE
liked by yourusername, georgerussell63 and 204,731 others
alex_albon We'll do better next time. Special thanks to @.yourusername for leading me so brilliantly through such a complicated race.
username1 you guys don't know how to behave so he had to make a post making it clear y/n isn't the problem 😭😭😭 embarrassing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
username2 chin up alex you're the goat
username3 THE CAR SUCKS BUT YOU DON'T!!!!!!!!!
yourusername Proud of you like always ❤️ ♡ liked by alex_albon and 1,003 others
When Carlos gets his first podium with Williams a few weeks later, Alex is ecstatic.
He celebrates. He hugs his teammate. He parties with his team. He doesn't even look you in the eye the entire night, and you know he's getting into his own head.
You'd been one of Williams' engineers for his side of the garage for years, so he knew you before this season, of course he did. He smiled brightly when he was told you'd be on his radio for the next season right after one of the last races during the prior year, his still gloved hand shaking yours excitedly.
Truly, Alex is your friend. Moreover, Alex feels like he's disappointing you.
"I'm sorry," are the first words out of his mouth when he finally sits down next to you in whatever random club you're at, many hours after the race ended and too many drinks later. "I'm sorry I sucked today. And on many other days."
You immediately shove his shoulder, touch burning under the soft white shirt he's wearing. Feels like cotton.
"Shut up, Albon. It's not your fault." Your words are a little slurred and so are his and neither of you mind. "We'll get there too."
He breathes sharply, throwing his head back to look at the ceiling, back resting against the couch you're sharing.
"I hope so," he turns his neck so he can stare at you. "Maybe we need more team bonding."
You laugh at that, propping up your elbow against the couch as your chin rests on your free hand. Your other hand holds a half empty glass.
"Oh, yeah?" You take a long sip of your drink. "What kind of team bonding are you thinking?"
"I don't know," he admits, "any kind."
You laugh again, and a shadow of a smile takes over his face. He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. It feels peaceful, to just sit here with you for a second, listening to the noises of the club, feeling like they're far away, a quiet buzz from the alcohol swimming through his veins.
He opens his eyes.
"What color are the lights?"
You blink in surprise at the question.
"What?"
"What color are the lights?" He repeats, and you look around the club to check.
Just like in any other places, your eyes travel around the space to find different hues of black, white, and gray. You can see light flashing brightly closer to the dance floor, but they are as monochrome to you as everything else. You wonder if they're red, or purple, or blue. You wouldn't know if you could see them — wouldn't recognize the colors you've never seen before.
You know the stories. One miraculous touch from your universe-assigned soulmate, and the entire world would explode in color. You only know it to be true because it has happened to too many acquaintances and friends and family members to be false.
Some look for their soulmates their entire life. You're preoccupied with other things.
It's not that you don't care or that you don't want to look for your soulmate. You like to think you're just — not obsessing over it. If it's meant to be, if you're truly meant to find this perfect person who will quite literally bring color to your life, they'll show up. You won't have to look for them.
Yet you've heard F1 cars are different colors, and that must make them easier to differentiate, specially when they're going too fast for you to read the numbers and sponsors. So maybe that'd be helpful.
"I wouldn't know." You finally look back at him just to find him studying you, his dark gray eyes mapping every inch of your monochrome face. "All black and white to me."
"Really?" He sounds somewhat surprised, and you chuckle.
"Really."
Usually, this is the moment when two strangers look at each other awkwardly and touch hands just to see, chuckling even more awkwardly when nothing changes.
You and Alex don't need to, though, so you don't. Because you're pretty sure you've already touched him many times before — you work together, you're his race engineer, you've clapped his back and given him high fives and shaken his hand.
So the two of you keep conversation going for the rest of the night, coming up with team bonding exercises and discussing race strategies until the topic shifts towards childhood memories, his first karting win, your time in university, the way his parents always said his favorite color would probably be blue when he could see it.
Your body is warm from more than just the buzz of your drinks, and, when you finally leave, hand in hand with some girl from the social media department who you always share hotel rooms with, you offer him a grin.
And he grins right back, waving you goodbye, shoulders lighter than before.
It starts to nag at you, day after day.
Have you actually touched Alex before?
You're not sure why the question rises up inside your mind. You have, right? You must have. You've known him for years. you're his race engineer. You must have.
Why can't you remember a single time you actually did, though? Every single touch you can think of happened with gloves, on his race suit, his hand on your shoulder on top of your clothes. Why can't you remember a single time you touched skin to skin?
What if you haven't?
That's a good question, what if. What if… what? It's not like he could be your soulmate. There's no spark. There's no—no chemistry.
Well, there is a little chemistry. There has to be because you're his race engineer and you need to work well together, to have some sort of understanding. It's not—it's not like that, though.
You would know if Alex was your soulmate. You'd feel it somehow. You must've touched at least once, a brush of fingers, anything. You would know.
"Alex, Antonelli coming up behind you."
"How far?"
"3 seconds, but he's closing the gap really fast."
Your eyes fly across the many screens in front of you, from Alex's vitals to the state of every single screw and bolt on the car to the live stream of information that shows Mercedes' number 12 inching closer and closer to your number 23.
"Antonelli is 2.1 seconds behind."
"Fuck!"
"Take it easy, Alex. Just focus on defending. You're doing great today. We only have 3 more laps, come on."
You watch the screen attentively. You count down the seconds to Alex on the radio as Antonelli grows closer, but Alex manages. He moves the car deliberately, forcing the Mercedes driver to wear out his tires, avoiding an overtake until you're screaming into the radio microphone, smiling wildly.
"P5, Alex! You're P5! Good fucking job!"
He gives you a high five when he's finally out of the car and you're acutely aware of his gloves, of how his skin doesn't actually touch yours. Even when you take a picture with the team to celebrate his position, his arm resting across your back, it only comes in contact with your dark gray shirt.
It's weird, now. Noticing it.
It's weirder when he reaches out for you in the way he does after almost every race, a bright grin on his face as his hand comes up to touch your clothed shoulder.
Even still, you grin back at him.
"Great job today, Albon." His fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder, and, for some strange reason, it sends a spark of electricity through your body that absolutely terrifies you. "I told you you'd get back into your rhythm, didn't I?"
"Our rhythm." His eyes sparkle with excitement. "You did amazing today, truly. Couldn't have done it without you."
You punch him in the arm playfully, your skin touching his race suit. Your fingers seem to tingle.
"Stop it. You were the one driving the car. I was just yelling in your ear."
He laughs at that, pulling you in for a hug. Your body immediately tenses up, eyes wide open as you wait for it, for something, for anything.
Nothing happens. His arms touch yours, the fabric of his race suit rubbing against your skin. It almost feels unlucky, in a way, and then you're chastising yourself — you've hugged before. Surely, you've touched then. You're just making up a problem that doesn't exist.
You hug him back. Your heart beats wildly inside your chest.
You're going fucking insane.
liked by yourusername, georgerussell and 305,716 others
alex_albon Really good work today!! More points in the bank 🤌💙
username1 y/n looks amazing and then there's alex
username2 am I the only one who thought they were lowkey flirting in the radio today…
↳ username3 bestie you're insane actually
williamsf1official Great work, Alex!
yourusername ALBOGOAT ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,518 others
username4 no because why am I sort of obsessed with the dynamic between alex and his race engineer… do you guys think they could be soulmates…
↳ username3 BFFR
liked by georgerussell63, albonfan1 and 456,321 others
alex_albon Enjoying the holidays before we head back to work 🏎️
username1 THIS YEAR IS ALEX ALBON'S YEAR
username2 ALEX WDC IDC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
albonfan1 omg that meat looks so good………..
username3 man's an eater truly
It's late one night when Alex searches you out in the Williams headquarters, probably already past midnight. He's in for simulator work, discussing his issues with the car with the engineers while you're on endless meetings with the team's strategists, debating pit preferences and quali orders.
It's pre-season. To your relief, the season ended soon after your—your silly crisis, and you had quite a bit of time to recenter yourself.
You're not avoiding Alex. That would be really fucking stupid. You're just—getting into your own head. It's fine. It's fine! You're not that close either way. You're just friends. Coworkers. Acquaintances.
You should not be this stressed out over the hypothetical (and probably inaccurate) possibility of not having touched Alex Albon skin to skin. Of maybe, perhaps, being his soulmate. It's fucking stupid.
You are, though. He's cute, you've noticed. And he's always nice — to you, to the other engineers, to Carlos. He's really funny and sweet. You really enjoy listening to him speak on the radio. It's—yeah. Yeah.
"Hey." He smiles when he finally gets to you, not even noticing the way your eyes widen in surprised and wrongly-placed panic. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."
A soft chuckle leaves your lips, and you smile back, looking down at your notebook. "Yeah, it's been a while." You look back up at him. "Did you have a nice break?"
"I did, yeah." He shoves his hands inside his pockets. "You?"
"Yup." You nod a little too enthusiastically. "Hung out with my family. Saw some friends. It was great."
"I'm glad." His smile is so genuine your heart skips a beat, and you can't even believe how silly you're being. "I hope you rested well, because we'll have a lot of work this season."
"Yes, we will." Your fingers tap against your notebook, and you force yourself to relax a bit. "Give me a podium on Australia, will you?"
Alex laughs, and the sound is really nice. You can't believe you've never noticed how nice his laugh sounds before.
You can't believe you're thinking about any of this. You need to get your shit together and act normal.
"Yes, ma'am. Still counting on that team bonding, though."
A snort escapes you.
The two of you snap your heads towards one of the other engineers as Alex's name is called from the sim room, and he gives you a playful nod before running back. You manage to offer him a small wave, chest clenching as he leaves even while your body relaxes.
You're genuinely losing your mind.
liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 603,980 others
alex_albon Pre-season
tagged: yourusername
username1 HUM?
username2 best Williams duo back at it again ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,603 others
↳ alex_albon Damn right
↳↳ carlossainz55 Excuse me? ♡ liked by alex_albon and 13,518 others
username3 they came back from break attached at the hip omg
username4 i love how literally every single picture we get of alex from testing and every social media thing he shows up in, y/n is right beside him. they're literally best friends they'll kill it this season
yourusername GET BACK TO THE SIM ♡ liked by alex_albon and 1,347 others
↳ alex_albon 🫡🫡🫡
↳↳ username5 chat is this… flirting…
liked by alex_albon, williamsf1official and 20,741 others
yourusername Australia here we come!! 💙
alex_albon YESSSSSSSSSSSS ♡ liked by yourusername
lauramuller Looking so good! Good luck to Williams this season! ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername Good luck to Haas too!!!!!!!!!!
username1 I LOVE her style I have to say
username2 what a cutie!!!
username3 FACE CARD NEVER DECLINES
username4 I'm obsessed
username5 why no pictures with Alex? we know you have them
liked by yourusername, williamsf1official and 56,714 others
alex_albon Confident in the car, confident in my team. Australia here we come!
yourusername you stole my caption…
↳ alex_albon perhaps
username1 WILLIAMS WCC!!!!!!!!!!!! ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,603 others
username2 SO EXCITEDDDD CAN'T THE SEASON START ALREADY
username3 confident in the car?????????????????????????? has a williams driver ever said this before??????????? historical
williamsf1official 💙💙💙 ♡ liked by alex_albon and 5,214 others
"Alex, Piastri has overtaken Antonelli and is 4 seconds behind you."
"4 seconds? That's a lot."
You roll your eyes, a grin taking over your face.
"It's his home race, Alex. Don't be mean."
"What position are we in?"
You look at all the screens in front of you.
"P4. Really good result for the first race of the season, if you can keep it up." There's an edge of teasing to your voice, but he barely notices it.
"There's still a bunch of laps. Who's P3?"
You blink. "Russell. 3.4 seconds ahead."
"I'm coming after his ass."
A surprised laugh escapes your lips. "So 4 seconds is a lot, but 3.4 isn't?"
"I promised someone an Australia podium."
Your cheeks flush at that, and you ignore the side-eye you get from a few of your colleagues, fingers tightening on the notes sprawled on the table in front of you as you watch your screens.
It happens slowly.
The gap decreases lap by lap, until Alex is just 3, 2, 1.7 seconds away. He always puts in a lot of effort, but this time he chases Russell like a hunter, calculated turns saving every millisecond they can until he's so close you can taste the champagne on your tongue. He chases hungrily, and you match his hunger easily in the same way you seem to always match him, counting down the seconds and speaking in sharp, precise bursts of words, making sure not to throw him off.
"You're less than half a second away, Alex." You're aware he knows, you're aware he can see George right in front of him, you're aware the front of his car is already aligned with the back of Russell's, but you can't help but say it out loud, eyes wide with excitement.
"I know," and he knows you know, but he can't help but say it out loud either.
It's glorious. Your heart is out of your chest and reaching out to him and you're sure his ears must hurt when the Williams pit wall explodes in cheers the second Alex concludes the overtake. Your hand comes up to your mouth and your eyes fill with water and you can hear his voice screaming into the radio, and you don't care about anything else in the world.
The checkered flag is waved and it takes Alex mere moments until he runs towards your team by the boxes, jumping up and down by the race track when it's finally over. His gloved hands hold your wrists and your hands hold his helmet, staring into his gray eyes through the glass as the two of you yell at each other, tears streaming down your face and both screaming complete nonsense before he's dragged away to the cool-down room.
Everything happens too fast. Before you know, you're looking up at the podium, and he looks straight down at you before Great Britain's national anthem ends, eyes sparkling with joy and excitement and something else, and then he's spraying you with champagne, and you laugh, and laugh, and laugh, eyes burning from the alcohol, grin hurting your cheeks, so happy you can barely breathe.
Coworkers and engineers from other teams congratulate you as you walk through the crowd to the back of the podium where you know he must be, and you smile widely — you're on a mission. Alex's first podium with Williams. Your first podium ever. You're fucking ecstatic.
He's looking for you, too. You find each other in the middle of a random hallway, both searching, both shaking with excitement, and he's pulling you into his arms before you can react, naked hands coming up warm and tight against your back while yours come around his shoulders.
"I told you—"
"I can't believe—"
"Thank you so much—"
"You're—"
When you pull away enough to look at him, your hands automatically come up to cradle his jaw, holding his face just like you held his helmet minutes after the race, in a way that feels so natural, so instinctive, that you barely notice your own movements.
And the world explodes.
You can't name any of the colors you see. You've never seen them before. It's bright — so bright, overwhelming, makes your retinas hurt. Your breath catches, and Alex's eyes go impossibly wide.
His eyes are dark. Not gray, like before. You immediately want to know the name of this color — still dark, but warmer. Softer. Sweeter. It matches his hair. He looks good in Williams colors, whatever they are.
You can't manage to process anything else other than this — the soft warmth of his eyes, the way it matches his hair, the way every single color in the world seems made just for him, created exclusively to look nice around him.
You laugh. You laugh, and he's laughing too, and you're pulling him into another tight hug, and your head hurts from all the brightness and you can't name a single thing you're seeing, but it's perfect, isn't it? It's perfect.
When you pull away again, his eyes seem to sparkle in an even more beautiful way, lighting up their deep color, and he grins, and it's perfect.
"I hoped it was you," he admits. Your heart seems to burst. You laugh once more, loudly, your entire body burning hot, your eyes burning from the champagne, your heart burning from seeing him in his entirety.
"I'm glad it's you," it comes out choked, and you might be crying again. He lets out something between a sigh and a chuckle, and, before you know it, his lips touch yours softly, as warm as the color of his eyes. You don't care if anyone sees it, you don't care that you're standing in the middle of a hallway in the paddock, you don't care about any consequences or logistics — you can only see his colors.
You've heard stories of soulmates. Of this moment. You've never searched for it, not intentionally, and yet it came to you. Just like you believed it would.
You pull your lips away and his follow. You stare at him again, you commit his colors to memory. It's all so overwhelming you can barely think.
"Congratulations on the podium," you manage, and he grins so big you can feel your face flushing, "really good race."
"You're so stupid," his voice is smothered with affection, and a giggle escapes you before his mouth slants over yours, his hands resting on the back of your neck and sending a pleasant shiver up your spine.
Your eyes close as you sigh into his kiss, turning off the colors that stay engraved into your mind. He sighs too, and it feels bright. Brighter than the world around you, brighter than anything you've ever seen or felt before.
It's stupid, yes. It's perfect, too.
liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63 and 547,364 others
yourusername touched this guy by accident and now everything's too bright
tagged: alex_albon
username1 WAIT DO YOU MEAN
username2 OH MY GODDDDDDD
username3 I KNEWWWWWW THERE WAS SOMETHING GOING ON
username4 first time you post him properly and it's a soulmate reveal oh my god I'm obsessed
alex_albon you're my favorite color
↳ yourusername OH......
↳↳ alex_albon IS THIS A BAD THING? DON'T REACT LIKE THAT ♡ liked by yourusername
liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 893,064 others
alex_albon hard launch
tagged: yourusername
georgerussell63 CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!! ♡ liked by alex_albon and 13,248 others
carlossainz55 Okay maybe you can be the best Williams duo ♡ liked by alex_albon and 25,147 others
username1 oh they look so good together
username2 finding your soulmate is such a beautiful experience I'm so happy for you guys ❤️
yourusername you're MY favorite color ♡ liked by alex_albon and 18,316 others
↳ alex_albon SEE IT'S CUTE WHY DID YOU SAY OH
check out my masterlist!
I HOPE YOU ENJOYEDDDD SORRY FOR DISAPPEARING FOR A LITTLE WHILE, MANY MORE TO COME <3
Ngl I felt really desperate at their lack of physical contact
Like, mates, please JUST TOUCH ALREADY
But the waiting and frustration really paid off, this was so sweet, and I really felt in line with the MC and the WHOLE focus she puts in one supposedly passing thought, like, she was sooooo relatable for me and I enjoyed it a lot more
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Sabrina Clarke (Original Character)
Summary:
Sabrina Clarke is sure Oscar Piastri hates her—he either ignores her, runs away, or responds like a malfunctioning robot.. In reality, Oscar has a massive crush… and is the most socially inept man on the planet. Enter Lando Norris, self-proclaimed matchmaking genius, and suddenly, all of McLaren is watching their disaster of a love story unfold.
Warnings and Notes:
Happy Race Weekend! To celebrate, here are 10k of socially awkward Oscar 😂 Warnings: Other than Oscar being an idiot and not being very nice...not really? Unless you count Lando being a menace.
(Also it's Lando (Car) because Ken's job is Beach. Get it? 😂)
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Running Tally of Oscar’s Most Awkward Moments Around Sabrina
(Maintained by McLaren Staff, because they are way too invested)
Sabrina: “Morning, Oscar!”Oscar: blinks three times, nods, walks into a doorframe.
Sabrina sneezed. Oscar panicked and said “Congratulations.”
Sabrina asked if he wanted a snack from the media lounge. Oscar responded with “Thank you, you too.”
Sabrina tripped on a cable. Oscar, trying to help, tripped over the SAME CABLE. They both ended up on the floor.
Sabrina was filming content and asked, “Oscar, do you have a fun fact for the fans?”
Oscar: “No.” (And then just walked away.)
Sabrina put a hand on his arm while laughing. Oscar’s brain fully rebooted. Lando had to snap in front of his face to get him to respond.
She handed him a water bottle during a shoot. Instead of taking it, he just… held out his hand next to it like a Sims character waiting for an animation to load.
Sabrina: “Hey, Oscar, can I ask you something?”
Oscar: “No.” (Then realized what he said and immediately walked away.)
He got caught staring at her during lunch. When she asked what was up, he picked up a random spoon and said “This is nice.”
Sabrina: “How are you feeling today?”
Oscar: “Yes.”
Sabrina: “Do you need anything before the press conference?”
Oscar: “Uh… oxygen?”
Lando asked Sabrina to pass Oscar a clipboard. Oscar fumbled it so badly it ricocheted off the table and hit him in the stomach.
Sabrina: “Hey, Oscar, do you have a charger?”
Oscar: “I have… no.” (He had one in his hand.)
She asked what he was listening to in his headphones. Oscar blurted out “the national anthem” for no reason.
Sabrina: “Oh, Oscar, you have something on your face.”
Oscar, instead of asking where, just froze and stared at her like a deer in headlights until Lando wiped it off for him.
She walked into the room while he was drinking a smoothie. He immediately forgot how to use the straw and inhaled half of it into his lungs.
Oscar was tying his shoes when Sabrina walked by and said, “Hey, Piastri!” Oscar just… stayed crouched on the ground like a gargoyle until she left.
Sabrina: “You look tired, did you sleep well?”
Oscar: “No thanks.”
Sabrina: “Oh, I love that hat on you!”
Oscar: “You too.” (She wasn’t wearing a hat.)
She waved at him during the drivers’ parade. Oscar waved back but was so distracted he almost fell off the float.
During a McLaren team lunch, she asked, “Oscar, do you want ketchup?”
Oscar: “I don’t know.” (?????)
He saw her struggling to carry some equipment and instead of offering to help, he just stood there stress-blinking until Lando stepped in.
Sabrina asked, “How’s your day going?”
Oscar: “It’s Tuesday.” (It was Sunday.)
He walked into a doorframe because Sabrina smiled at him.
Sabrina: “Good luck out there!”
Oscar, despite knowing how to form sentences, somehow responded with, “Yeah, you too!” (She was not driving.)
During a chaotic debrief, she passed him a pen. He took it, then immediately handed it back to her without using it.
Sabrina complimented his driving. Oscar panicked and said, “Thanks, I try to be fast.” (Oscar. You drive F1. That is the point.)
They accidentally reached for the same energy drink. Oscar let go immediately, then left to get a different one from the other side of the garage, as if the fridge had personally betrayed him.
He tried to be polite and open a door for her. Somehow ended up standing directly in the doorway instead, effectively blocking her path.
Sabrina: “Are you busy later?”
Oscar: “Yes.”
Sabrina: “Oh, with what?”
Oscar: “I don’t know.” (SIR.)
Oscar tried to make a joke during a group conversation with Sabrina. He messed up the punchline, got flustered, and then said, “Never mind,” and fully walked away.
Sabrina: “That was a great race!”
Oscar: “Thank you, you too.” (AGAIN, SHE WAS NOT RACING.)
He was standing near the coffee machine when Sabrina approached.
Oscar: “Oh, do you want coffee?”
Sabrina: “Yeah!”
Oscar, despite standing closest to the machine: “Okay, cool,” and then just walked away without making her one.
***
Oh.
Oh no.
Oscar would rather face a wet track on slicks than a conversation with Sabrina Clarke. Unfortunately, she was walking straight toward him, all sunshine and good intentions, and he was fresh out of exit strategies.
Oscar should have seen it coming.
He should have known the exact moment he stepped out of the McLaren motorhome that fate would betray him.
Because there, standing directly in his path, was her.
Sabrina, the McLaren Social Media Admin with the sunshine personality and way too much energy at ungodly hours of the morning. Sabrina, who always had a camera in his face and a teasing smile. Sabrina, who made his brain short-circuit every time she so much as said his name.
Sabrina, with sparkling blue eyes and blonde hair and a smile that made him forget everything.
Sabrina, who Oscar was utterly, hopelessly, embarrassingly into.
Which was a problem, because every time she tried to talk to him, he went completely blank. Like an idiot.
He could already feel his brain preparing to betray him. Sabrina Clarke was too nice, too bright, too pretty, too much—and he was about to be too awkward, again.
Sabrina Clarke had the kind of energy that made people gravitate toward her. Oscar, meanwhile, was actively considering throwing himself into a bush, so he didn’t need to talk to her.
He didn’t even have time to process it before—
"Oh! Hey, Oscar!"
—brain malfunction.
His heart did something weird. His palms went sweaty. His ability to form words? Gone. Completely erased.
Sabrina was smiling at him, completely oblivious to the fact that he was internally combusting.
Say something, say something, SAY SOMETHING—
"Move."
Sabrina blinked. "What?"
Oscar wanted to die.
"Uh—" he cleared his throat, staring anywhere but at her. "You’re. In the way."
(She wasn’t. Not even a little bit.)
Sabrina’s face immediately dropped. "Oh—sorry?" she said, stepping aside quickly.
Oscar didn’t even acknowledge it. He just walked past her. Like a complete asshole.
It took every ounce of self-control not to physically sprint away.
Behind him, he could hear her mutter, "Okay, what did I even do?" under her breath.
He hated himself.
And then—
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"
Lando’s voice boomed from behind him, but Oscar refused to stop walking.
Lando, however, had zero intention of letting him get away.
"OI, PIASTRI, GET BACK HERE!"
Oscar sped up.
Lando broke into a jog.
"Why are you like this?!" Lando shouted as he fully started chasing him.
Oscar turned a corner—bad idea. It was a dead end.
Lando caught up in seconds, skidding to a stop, hands on his hips, staring at him like he was some kind of scientific anomaly.
"Dude. WHAT. WAS. THAT."
Oscar, still pretending he had any dignity left, shrugged. "Nothing."
Lando threw his hands in the air. "NOTHING?! You literally just behaved like the biggest arsehole this side of the Atlantic!"
"Lando, leave it."
Lando did not leave it.
Instead, he physically grabbed Oscar by the shoulders. "Okay, I let the last seven incidents slide, but THIS? Mate, you just bulldozed past her like she wasn’t a human being."
"I panicked."
Lando threw his hands up. "Oscar. Mate. Why are you like this?"
Oscar checked his imaginary watch. "Oh wow, look at the time. Gotta go."
Lando stepped in front of him. "Oh no, you don’t. You’re going to explain why every time Sabrina so much as looks at you, you lose all brain function."
Oscar pressed his lips into a thin line.
Lando’s eyes widened. "Wait—OH MY GOD."
Oscar knew exactly when realization hit.
Lando’s face lit up with the force of a thousand light bulbs.
"You LIKE her."
Oscar immediately attempted to escape.
Lando tackled him.
Well—not tackled, but he grabbed Oscar’s arm in a death grip.
"You actually like her. This is golden," Lando cackled, shaking him slightly. "You absolute idiot. Oh, I have to fix this."
"No."
"Yes."
"Lando, I swear—"
"Don’t care, already decided. Operation Get Sabrina and Oscar Together is a go."
Oscar groaned, tilting his head back against the wall. "I hate everything."
Lando clapped a hand on his shoulder. "No, you love Sabrina. And I’m making sure she knows it."
He closed his eyes. Oscar knew—deep in his soul—this was only the beginning of his suffering.
***
Sabrina stormed into the media office, tossing her iPad onto the desk with a dramatic sigh. She spun around in her chair, hands flung into the air.
"He hates me. He HATES me."
Her colleague and friend, Gabby, barely looked up from her laptop. "Who hates you?"
Sabrina let out an exasperated laugh. "Oscar! Piastri! Did you not just see what happened out there?"
Gabby frowned, finally paying attention. "Uh, no? What did he do?"
Sabrina turned in her chair so fast it nearly tipped over. "I was literally just walking to the garage—MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS—and he comes out of nowhere, and tells me to move. Because I am in his way. He makes direct eye contact, glares at me like I personally offended his ancestors, and then just—walks away. No words. Just pure, unfiltered hostility in his eyes."
Gabby blinked. "That’s… weird."
"RIGHT?" Sabrina threw up her hands again. "At this point, I feel like I must've wronged him in some past life. Like, maybe I cut him off in traffic when we were both pigeons or something, because there is no other explanation!"
Gabby let out a short laugh. "I don’t think that’s how reincarnation works."
"Well, something happened, because I have never seen someone so fundamentally allergic to my existence!" Sabrina groaned, dropping her head onto the desk.
"Maybe he’s just awkward?" Gabby suggested.
Sabrina lifted her head, narrowing her eyes. "No. No, he is actively avoiding me. Like I carry some kind of Oscar-specific plague. And today? Today was a new level! He looked pissed off! What did I do?!"
Gabby considered it for a moment before shrugging. "I mean, if he really hated you, he’d probably just be indifferent. Maybe he’s just bad at talking to people he doesn’t know well?"
Sabrina gave him a flat look. "We have worked in the same paddock for over a year. If he wanted to know me, he could just, oh, I don’t know—say words instead of burning a hole through my soul with his death glare!"
Gabby held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, you have a point."
Sabrina groaned again, leaning back in her chair and covering her face with her hands. "God, I swear if I find out I somehow insulted his entire bloodline without realizing it, I’m quitting."
Gabby smirked. "No, you’re not."
"Okay, but I’ll think about it dramatically," Sabrina muttered.
Gabby patted her shoulder. "I believe in you."
Sabrina sighed. "Well, someone has to."
***
Lucy (Engineer): Okay, someone PLEASE explain what just happened with Oscar and Sabrina in the paddock??
Jordan (Marketing): Oh my god, yes. I saw that. What was that???
Matt (Mechanic): He just… bulldozed past her like she was invisible.
Adam (Hospitality): No no, he looked directly at her, said ‘Move’ and WALKED AWAY.
Lucy (Engineer): ???????????????
Adam (Hospitality): I was standing right there. Sabrina just went “What did I even do?” and looked genuinely hurt.
Gabby (Social Media): She thinks he hates her.
Jordan (Marketing): I mean… fair assumption.
Gabby (Social Media): Is Oscar beefing with our own social media team? Did we post something offensive about him?
Emily (PR): I NEED TO KNOW BECAUSE IF HE IS, THAT IS A NIGHTMARE WAITING TO HAPPEN.
Lando (Car): GUYS
Lando (Car): YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHAT I JUST DISCOVERED
Jordan (Marketing): Lando, if you’re about to say Oscar hates Sabrina, we already know.
Lando (Car): NO. THAT’S NOT IT. HE LIKES HER.
Matt (Mechanic): Sorry.
Matt (Mechanic): HE WHAT?
Emily (PR): Be so serious right now.
Lando (Car): DEAD SERIOUS. He has a stupid crush on her, and every time she talks to him, he just completely SHORT CIRCUITS.
Emily (PR): So what you’re saying is—he wasn’t just being an asshole for no reason today.
Lando (Car): CORRECT. HE WAS AN ASSHOLE BECAUSE HE IS A SOCIAL DISASTER WITH A CRUSH.
Matt (Mechanic): Wow. That is somehow worse.
Jordan (Marketing): So all those weird, awkward interactions we’ve been tallying up for the last month…
Matt (Mechanic): WERE BECAUSE HE LIKES HER???
Lando (Car): YES. I CAN’T BELIEVE IT TOOK ME THIS LONG TO FIGURE IT OUT.
Gabby (Social Media): Okay but. Someone has to tell Sabrina this because I think she genuinely believes she has committed a crime against him in a past life.
Jordan (Marketing): Lando. Do something.
Lando (Car): Oh don’t worry. I’m already matchmaking.
***
Oscar Piastri had a massive crush on Sabrina.
Unfortunately, Oscar also had the social skills of a malfunctioning toaster when it came to talking to her. The guy could navigate an F1 car at 200 mph with the precision of a machine, but the second Sabrina so much as looked at him? Catastrophe.
Which was exactly why Lando—being the helpful, selfless friend that he was—decided it was time to intervene.
Sabrina was standing by the McLaren garage, chatting with one of the engineers, her laugh carrying over the hum of activity. Oscar was approaching from the other side, completely oblivious to her presence.
Lando saw an opportunity.
"Oscar, mate," he said, slapping a hand on his shoulder. "Come with me real quick."
Oscar barely had time to react before Lando was steering him directly toward Sabrina.
Oscar immediately stiffened. "Why are we going this way?"
"Because," Lando grinned, "you need to learn how to talk to her like a normal human being."
Oscar immediately started looking for an escape route. "Nope. No. Absolutely not."
But it was too late. They were already there.
"Sabrina!" Lando greeted cheerfully. "Oscar has something to say to you."
Lando nudged him, eyebrows raised. Dude, say something.
Oscar’s brain panicked. "I—uh—" He swallowed. "—nothing. It's fine."
Sabrina’s smile faltered. "Oh… okay?"
Lando blinked. "That’s not what you were gonna say, mate."
Oscar refused to make eye contact. "Nope, I’m good. I should—uh—go."
Sabrina’s confusion deepened. "Did I do something?"
Oscar whipped around, eyes wide. "What? No! No, you’re fine. It’s just—uh—" He struggled. "It’s me."
Sabrina hesitated, her expression unreadable. "Right."
Lando watched in horrified fascination as Oscar, now fully committed to fleeing, muttered a quick, "Okay, bye," and walked away.
Just like that.
Sabrina blinked after him. "Did… did he just leave?"
Lando dragged a hand down his face. "Oh my God."
Sabrina turned to him, exhaling sharply. "Lando. Be honest."
"Mm-hmm?"
"Does Oscar hate me?"
Lando choked. "What? No! No, he—" He stopped himself, then groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Oh, this is so much worse than I thought."
Sabrina frowned. "I don’t understand. Every time I talk to him, he either ignores me, barely acknowledges me, or runs away."
Lando shook his head. "He doesn’t hate you."
Sabrina crossed her arms. "Then what’s his problem?"
Lando hesitated. Then, exasperated, he muttered, "He has a massive crush on you."
Sabrina laughed out loud. "No, he doesn’t."
Lando threw his hands up. "Sabrina, think about it. He’s fine with literally everyone else, but the second you show up? He turns into an awkward disaster and flees."
Sabrina gave him a deeply skeptical look. "That means he likes me?"
Lando nodded. "He is so down bad, it's pathetic."
Sabrina shook her head. "Or, he just hates me and doesn’t know how to tell me."
Lando groaned. "This is a nightmare."
Sabrina sighed. "Look, Lando, I appreciate the optimism, but from where I’m standing? Oscar Piastri despises me."
Lando desperately needed to fix this.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and opened the McLaren group chat.
***
Lando (Car): I have failed. Sabrina 100% thinks Oscar hates her. This is worse than I imagined.
Gabby (Social Media): How did you fail?
Lando (Car): I TRIED TO HELP. I walked Oscar right up to her. I gave him the perfect opportunity.
Jordan (Marketing): And??
Lando (Car): And he stared at her like a deer in headlights, muttered some nonsense, then WALKED AWAY.
Emily (PR): …Like just walked away?
Lando (Car): Just turned and LEFT. Like a weirdo.
Gabby (Social Media): Oh my god.
Emily (PR): Does he think she’s Medusa or something? Why does he keep acting like she’s about to strike him down?
Matt (Mechanic): At this point, I’d believe it.
Lando (Car): AND THEN Sabrina ASKED ME IF OSCAR HATES HER.
Lucy (Engineer): Oh no.
Jordan (Marketing): HE WHAT???
Lando (Car): I TRIED to explain but SHE DOESN’T BELIEVE ME.
Jordan (Marketing): I mean… can we blame her??
Lando (Car): GUYS. HE DOESN’T HATE HER. HE LIKES HER. HE LIKES HER SO MUCH IT HURTS TO WATCH.
Matt (Mechanic): I need receipts. How do you know?
Lando (Car): HAVE YOU SEEN HIM AROUND HER? HE CAN’T FUNCTION.
Jordan (Marketing): I thought maybe he was just awkward in general, but no. He is specifically incapable of speaking to Sabrina.
Emily (PR): This is so embarrassing for him.
Lando (Car): RIGHT?
Gabby (Social Media): So what do we do?
Lando (Car): FIX IT. We need to get them in a situation where Oscar CAN’T ESCAPE.
Lucy (Engineer): Like what? Lock them in a room?
Lando (Car): …Not a bad idea.
Lucy (Engineer): HR would not approve.
Lando (Car): Ugh, fine. But we need a Plan B. I REFUSE to let Oscar fumble this forever.
Emily (PR): I’m just fascinated by the fact that Oscar Piastri—who is literally one of the most composed drivers on the grid—completely crumbles in front of Sabrina.
Jordan (Marketing): I KNOW RIGHT.
Matt (Mechanic): Someone needs to record this for science.
Lando (Car): You guys don’t understand. He’s DOOMED. And she genuinely thinks he LOATHES her.
Lucy (Engineer): This is actually tragic.
Lando (Car): I AM TAKING MATTERS INTO MY OWN HANDS.
Lucy (Engineer): Oh no.
Gabby (Social Media): This will end in flames.
Jordan (Marketing): Can’t wait.
Lando (Car): Watch and learn, people. 🚨
***
Sabrina slumped into her chair, rubbing her temples like she was nursing the world's worst headache. Across from her, Gabby leaned against the desk, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation.
“So, let me get this straight,” Gabby said slowly. “Lando Norris—who is the human embodiment of chaos—just waltzed up to you and said Oscar Piastri has a crush on you?”
Sabrina groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Yes.”
Gabby blinked. “Oscar Piastri.”
“Yes.”
“The same Oscar Piastri who, just today, physically recoiled when you asked if he needed anything?”
Sabrina let out a hysterical laugh. “YES.”
Gabby whistled. “Wow. You’re right. He definitely has a crush on you.”
Sabrina shot her a glare. “Be serious.”
“I am serious.”
Sabrina threw her hands in the air. “How does that make any sense?! He doesn’t even look at me for more than two seconds. Every time I speak to him, he either ignores me, stares like I’ve just grown a second head, or runs away like I’m carrying the plague.”
Gabby hummed. “Yeah, that does sound like a man with a debilitating crush.”
Sabrina let out another groan and dropped her head onto her desk. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I believed Lando for even a second.”
“Did he at least have evidence?”
“His exact words were: ‘He doesn’t hate you, Sabrina. He likes you. He likes you so much he’s malfunctioning.’”
Gabby snorted. “That sounds like Lando.”
“Right?” Sabrina threw up her hands. “And when I told him Oscar’s actively avoiding me, he just went, ‘No, no, that’s just because he’s awkward and nervous.’ As if that’s supposed to be reassuring!”
Gabby tapped a finger against her chin. “I mean. That does check out.”
Sabrina gaped at her. “You’re insane.”
Gabby just shrugged. “I’m just saying—if I were you, I’d consider the possibility.”
Sabrina groaned dramatically. “Or, hear me out—he just hates me.”
Gabby gave her an exasperated look. “Sabrina, no one has ever hated anyone the way Oscar Piastri allegedly hates you.”
“Exactly!”
“No, I mean, if he did actually hate you, he’d be way more normal about it.”
Sabrina blinked. “What?”
Gabby smirked. “If he truly disliked you, he’d be able to talk to you just fine. People don’t act weird around people they don’t like. They act weird around people who make them nervous.”
Sabrina opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “...No.”
Gabby just grinned. “Yes.”
Sabrina scowled. “You and Lando are both delusional.”
Gabby shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe you should test it.”
Sabrina narrowed her eyes. “How?”
Gabby’s grin widened. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just… talk to him again. See if he spontaneously combusts.”
Sabrina huffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. But when I prove you wrong, you’re buying me coffee.”
Gabby chuckled. “Deal. But when I’m right—I get to say ‘I told you so’ forever.”
***
Sabrina took a deep breath. Okay. This time, it’s going to be fine. It was just a normal conversation. Nothing weird. No running away. No painful silence. Just… normal.
Just Attempt #376 of Sabrina Laurel Clarke trying to have a normal Conversation with Oscar Jack Piastri.
She spotted Oscar standing by the coffee machine, looking at it like it had personally betrayed him. This was her chance. No escape routes. No distractions.
“Hey, Oscar,” she said, keeping her voice light and casual.
Oscar visibly flinched.
Sabrina hesitated, then pushed forward. “You okay?”
Oscar’s mouth opened, then closed. He blinked at her. Then, with the most robotic movement imaginable, he slowly turned back to the coffee machine. “Fine.”
Sabrina frowned. “Are you sure? You look—”
“I am fine,” he cut in, voice slightly too loud. “Totally. Completely fine. Nothing is wrong. Everything is great.”
Sabrina stared at him. “...Okay?”
Oscar jabbed a button on the coffee machine with unnecessary force. Nothing happened. His jaw tightened. He jabbed it again. Still nothing. Sabrina watched, mildly concerned, as he pressed the button three more times, increasingly frantic.
“Do you want me to—”
“No.”
“Oscar, I think it’s out of—”
“I said no.”
A beat of silence.
Then, because fate clearly had a sense of humor, the coffee machine sputtered violently—and exploded espresso directly onto Oscar’s shirt.
Sabrina gasped. “Oh my god.”
Oscar stared at himself, completely blank-faced, coffee dripping down his front.
Sabrina moved without thinking, grabbing a napkin from the counter. “Here, let me—”
But as soon as she stepped forward, Oscar jerked back like she was about to attack him. “I’M GOOD.”
Sabrina froze mid-motion, napkin in hand.
Oscar stood there, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, coffee-soaked, absolutely radiating panic.
Then, before she could say anything else, he spun on his heel and speed-walked out of the room.
Sabrina stood there, napkin still raised, mouth open in disbelief.
And that was when she heard laughter.
She turned to see Lando, cackling into his hand, watching the whole disaster unfold like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
“He hates me,” Sabrina muttered, dropping the napkin.
Lando wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Nah, mate. He’s just in love with you.”
Sabrina gaped at him. “Are you—did you see that?! He ran away from me like I was a literal threat to his safety.”
“Exactly,” Lando said smugly. “That’s not hate. That’s terror.”
Sabrina threw up her hands. “SAME THING.”
Lando just grinned. “Trust me. It’s really not.”
****
Lando: Oi.
Lando: Mate.
Lando: OSCAR.
Lando: ANSWER ME.
Lando: YOU RAN AWAY FROM HER LIKE SHE WAS THE GRIM REAPER.
Lando: BECAUSE OF A COFFEE MACHINE.
Lando: DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW INSANE THAT LOOKED.
Oscar: Leave me alone.
Lando: I will absolutely not.
Lando: You physically recoiled when she tried to hand you a napkin. A napkin, Oscar.
Oscar: I panicked.
Lando: NO SHIT.
Lando: She thinks you hate her.
Oscar: …
Oscar: That’s unfortunate.
Lando: UNFORTUNATE???
Lando: YOU ARE A DISASTER.
Oscar: I KNOW. STOP REMINDING ME.
Lando: Fix it.
Oscar: How?
Lando: Oh, I don’t know, maybe stop acting like she’s an apex predator every time she looks at you?
Oscar: That’s not helpful.
Lando: Neither are you, mate.
Oscar: I’ll figure something out.
Lando: You’d better. Because I swear, if you make her think you hate her one more time, I am personally locking the two of you in a room until you admit you like her.
Oscar: …
Oscar: You wouldn’t.
Lando: Try me.
***
Oscar knew—knew—that Lando was up to something the second he walked into the McLaren motorhome. The smug grin. The too-casual lean against the counter. The glint of mischief in his eyes that could only mean bad things.
Oscar didn’t have the patience for it today.
“What,” he said flatly.
Lando beamed. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking how tragic it is that you and Sabrina never seem to get much time together. What a shame.”
Oscar’s stomach dropped. “Lando—”
“So I thought,” Lando barreled on, ignoring him entirely, “why not fix that? Quality bonding time! No better way to build team spirit.”
Oscar took a slow, steadying breath. “Lando.”
“Which is why,” Lando continued, still smiling like a menace, “you and Sabrina are filming a ‘Try the Aussie Snack’ video together in five minutes.”
Oscar’s soul left his body.
“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“You are doing it.”
Oscar’s eye twitched. “I refuse.”
Lando clapped him on the shoulder. “Too late! Already confirmed. Sabrina’s setting up the camera.”
Oscar stared at him, betrayed.
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best,” Lando corrected. “Now go. And for once, try acting like a normal person around her.”
Oscar considered running. But before he could even attempt an escape, Lando grabbed him by the shoulders and physically steered him toward the media room.
This was going to be a disaster.
Oscar could already feel the impending catastrophe brewing as Lando shoved him into the media room.
Sabrina was there, sitting cross-legged on the couch, setting up the camera with an easy smile. That was already a problem.
Because Oscar, despite all his best efforts, forgot how to be a functional human being the second she smiled at him.
“Hey, Oscar,” she said, looking up. “Ready to try some weird snacks?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Lando, standing behind him, groaned. “Oh my god. Speak.”
Oscar managed a nod. A stiff, awkward nod that made Sabrina blink in confusion.
Lando sighed, already regretting everything. “Okay, I’m leaving before I get second-hand embarrassment.” He gave Oscar a pointed look. “Don’t screw this up.”
And then, just like that, he was gone.
Leaving Oscar alone. With Sabrina. On camera.
This was a nightmare.
Sabrina tilted her head, studying him. “You okay?”
“Yes,” he said too quickly. “Fine.”
She gave him a look, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press. Instead, she lifted the first snack—some kind of mystery Tim Tam flavor—and held it up. “Alright, first one up. Want to do the honors?”
Oscar nodded again, grabbed the package, and—
Immediately fumbled it.
The Tim Tams slipped right out of his hands, hit the table, and tumbled onto the floor.
Silence.
Oscar stared at them, horrified. Sabrina stared at him, confused.
Then, to make it worse, instead of just picking them up like a normal person, Oscar blurted out:
“I meant to do that.”
Sabrina laughed.
Like, full-on laughed.
And Oscar? He wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
Instead, he bent down, grabbed the fallen package, and shoved it back onto the table with unnecessary force. “Let’s just—let’s just get on with it.”
Sabrina was still grinning as she unwrapped the pack, clearly amused. “Sure, whatever you say.”
The rest of the filming went about as well as expected.
Which was to say: terribly.
Oscar stammered through half his sentences, nearly choked on a Wagon Wheel, and at one point, when Sabrina playfully nudged his arm, he nearly knocked over the entire table.
By the end of it, Sabrina must be fully convinced he was the strangest person alive.
And Oscar?
Oscar was fully convinced Lando Norris was going to die for putting him through this.
****
Lando (Car):
Lando (Car): I just did my best matchmaking work to date.
Emily (PR): Oh no.
Matt (Mechanic): Oh no.
Gabby (Social Media): Oh no.
Lucy (Engineer): Oh no.
Lando (Car): Why do you all react like that??
Emily (PR): Because your matchmaking has the success rate of a crashed simulator.
Matt (Mechanic): What did you do?
Lando (Car): I set up Oscar and Sabrina to film the snack taste test together.
Adam (Hospitality): Oh no.
Lando (Car): STOP SAYING THAT.
Adam (Hospitality): And how did it go?
Lando (Car): Not well.
Emily (PR): Define not well.
Gabby (Social Media): Wait. I just watched the footage.
Gabby (Social Media): The footage is completely unusable unless we want people to think Oscar is actively having a stroke.
Matt (Mechanic): What did he do??
Gabby (Social Media): He dropped the snacks, stumbled over every sentence, stuttered like 15 times, choked on a Wagon Wheel, and almost knocked over the table because Sabrina barely nudged him.
Matt (Mechanic): For fuck’s sake.
Gabby (Social Media): Sabrina literally came up to me after filming and once again was like, “I think Oscar genuinely hates me.”
Lando (Car): HE LIKES HER. HE JUST DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO FUNCTION.
Adam (Hospitality): This is the worst case of “boy failure” I have ever seen in my life.
Emily (PR): Can we salvage anything from the footage?
Gabby (Social Media): I mean. It is funny.
Lando (Car): Post the choking clip.
Emily (PR): We are NOT posting footage of one of our drivers choking on a Wagon Wheel.
Lando (Car): Cowards.
***
Sabrina wasn’t sure why Lando had insisted she sit next to Oscar at the team dinner, but she should have known it was a terrible idea.
The moment she slid into the seat beside him, he tensed like someone had just threatened to light him on fire.
“Hey,” she tried, keeping her voice light.
Oscar didn’t even look at her. “Hi.”
It was clipped. Sharp. Barely there.
Sabrina blinked. Okay, then.
She tried to brush it off. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe he was stressed. Maybe—
“Oh, Sabrina, you’ve gotta try this,” Lando announced, loudly enough for half the table to hear. He speared something off his plate and dropped it onto hers like he was a benevolent king bestowing a gift. “Oscar loves it. Right, Oscar?”
Sabrina glanced at Oscar just in time to see him staring at the food like it had personally offended him.
“…Sure,” he muttered, then grabbed his glass and took a sip of water like it physically pained him to be part of this conversation.
She hesitated. “I mean, if you like it, I’m sure it’s good—”
Oscar made a noise that was something between a cough and a laugh. “Yeah. Right.”
Sabrina froze.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Lando kicked Oscar under the table—Sabrina could hear it—but Oscar just shot him a glare and went back to stabbing at his food with a little too much aggression.
Okay. She’d give him one more chance.
Sabrina turned to him again. “So, uh, do you have any fun off-weekend plans?”
Oscar finally, finally looked at her.
“No.”
Then he immediately turned back to his plate.
Lando groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
Sabrina clenched her jaw.
She was done.
Every time she tried to talk to Oscar, he shut down completely. He either ignored her, barely acknowledged her, or treated her like she was a personal inconvenience.
And yet, for some insane reason, Lando kept pushing them together.
She shoved a forkful of food into her mouth, silently seething.
Lando was wrong.
Oscar didn’t like her.
Oscar Piastri hated her.
***
Lando (Car): I GIVE UP.
Lando (Car): I TRIED. I REALLY TRIED.
Lando (Car): AND HE JUST SAT THERE LIKE A F***ING STATUE AND MADE IT WORSE.
Matt (Mechanic): What happened??
Lando (Car): IT’S A DISASTER.
Lucy (Engineer): Oh no.
Emily (PR): What did he do this time?
Lando (Car): Sabrina tried to make conversation. Asked about his weekend.
Lando (Car): And this idiot just said “No.” AND WENT BACK TO EATING.
Jordan (Marketing): 💀💀💀
Emily (PR): You’re joking.
Gabby (Social Media): WHY IS HE LIKE THIS????
Lando (Car): I DON’T KNOW. I WISH I DID.
Matt (Mechanic): What did Sabrina do?
Lando (Car): She looked like she was seriously reconsidering her life choices.
Lando (Car): And I don’t blame her.
Gabby (Social Media): We’re gonna lose her. She’s gonna quit and it’s gonna be Oscar’s fault.
Jordan (Marketing): What if he actually does hate her? Like, genuinely?
Lucy (Engineer): No way. I caught him staring at her like a lovesick puppy two days ago.
Lando (Car): EXCUSE ME??????
Lucy (Engineer): Yeah. He was watching her across the paddock. Full-on, dazed, in a trance, staring.
Jordan (Marketing): So he likes her. But every time she talks to him, he malfunctions.
Matt (Mechanic): That’s what we’re saying, yes.
Lando (Car): I am going to fight him.
Emily (PR): How are you gonna fix this?
Lando (Car): I DON’T KNOW. HE WON’T LET ME HELP.
Gabby (Social Media): Maybe stop helping.
Lando (Car): NEVER.
***
Sabrina flopped down onto her bed with a deep sigh, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I’m actually starting to take it personally.”
Her roommate, Gabby, barely looked up from where she was scrolling on her phone. “What, the Oscar thing?”
“Yes, the Oscar thing,” Sabrina said, throwing an arm over her face. “It was funny at first. Like, ‘oh, haha, Oscar Piastri is awkward around me,’ but now—Gabby, I swear to God, I think he actually hates me.”
Gabby finally put her phone down. “He doesn’t hate you.”
Sabrina let out a humorless laugh. “He won’t even speak to me! Do you know what happened today? I asked him how his weekend was, and do you know what he said? No.”
Gabby blinked. “No?”
“Just ‘no’ and then he went back to eating like I didn’t exist.”
Gabby winced. “Ouch.”
Sabrina groaned, rubbing her hands down her face. “And then Lando looks like he’s ready to kill him, and I don’t even know why! Like, am I missing something?”
Gabby bit her lip, hesitating. “…Well.”
Sabrina turned her head to look at her. “What?”
Gabby shifted. “Lando did say Oscar has a crush on you.”
Sabrina just stared at her for a second. Then she scoffed. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.”
“That makes zero sense,” Sabrina argued, sitting up. “Who acts like that around someone they like? He actively avoids me! I feel like I’m in high school again and the guy I had a crush on would rather jump into traffic than have a conversation with me.”
Gabby sighed. “I know it’s weird, but maybe he’s just really, really bad at talking to his crush?”
Sabrina let out a small, sad laugh. “Well, whatever the reason, I’m kind of over it. I don’t like feeling like an inconvenience every time I open my mouth.”
Gabby gave her a sympathetic look. “Maybe you should just… stop trying?”
Sabrina flopped back onto the bed. “Yeah. I think I will.”
***
Sabrina had always prided herself on being professional. On handling things with grace. On not letting things get to her.
But tonight, Oscar Piastri had officially broken her.
She didn’t know why she even bothered anymore. She had spent months trying to be friendly, trying to smooth over whatever invisible tension sat between them, trying to convince herself that maybe—maybe—she was just imagining things.
But she wasn’t.
Because when she had reached out—again—to be nothing but nice to him, he had made it crystal clear how he felt about her.
It had been something so small.
She had only been trying to help.
They had all been standing around post-race, the energy in the McLaren garage a buzz of relief and exhaustion. She had noticed his water bottle was empty and, without thinking, had grabbed a fresh one off the table and handed it to him.
A normal, human gesture.
And then, Oscar—fucking Oscar—had recoiled.
Actually recoiled. Like she was something disgusting.
“I don’t need you to do things for me,” he had snapped.
Loud enough for people to hear.
Loud enough that Lando had blinked at him like he had lost his mind.
Loud enough that Sabrina had felt the words like a slap across the face.
It was the way he said it. The disgust. The finality. The absolute contempt in his voice, like she had committed some crime just by offering him a bottle of water.
Her fingers had gone numb around the plastic before she let it drop to the table, her throat so tight she thought she might actually choke on it.
For a second, she swore she saw regret flash in his eyes, but she didn’t care.
Because fuck that.
She had taken a step back, plastered on that bullshit little smile she had gotten too good at faking, and said, “Noted.”
Then she turned on her heel and left.
She didn’t stop until she was out of the garage, away from the noise, away from him, before her hands started to shake. Before the stupid lump in her throat finally won.
She had spent months trying to figure out what she had done to make Oscar Piastri hate her so much.
And now?
Now she was just done.
Sabrina barely made it around the corner before her breath hitched in her throat.
She had tried—God, she had tried—to keep it together, to swallow it down like she always did, to shake it off and pretend like it didn’t matter.
But it did.
Because she was so tired of this. Of trying, of second-guessing, of making excuses for why Oscar Piastri treated her like she was something he couldn’t stand to be around.
And tonight? Tonight, he hadn’t even tried to hide it.
A fresh wave of humiliation crashed over her, and suddenly, she was gripping the side of a metal barricade, blinking rapidly as tears burned in her eyes.
“...Sabrina?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her voice to come out normal before she turned. But one look at Gabby, her closest friend on the media team, and it all crumbled.
Because Gabby took one look at her face and knew.
“Oh, babe.”
That was all it took. The dam broke.
Sabrina let out a harsh, shaky breath, pressing her palms against her face as the tears finally spilled over.
“I don’t—I don’t know what I did,” she choked out, voice wrecked.
Gabby stepped in without hesitation, arms wrapping around her tightly, like she could shield Sabrina from the weight of it all.
“You didn’t do anything,” she murmured. “He’s just—he’s weird—”
“No, he hates me.” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head, pulling back just enough to look at her friend. “I don’t—why does he hate me?”
Gabby’s expression twisted, like she was trying to figure out the right thing to say. But there wasn’t a right thing to say, because there wasn’t a reason.
Sabrina wasn’t stupid. She knew not everyone had to like her. But this? This was something else. Something cruel, something that made her feel like she was some idiot constantly trying to reach for a friendship that was never going to exist.
And maybe she could’ve handled that.
But what she couldn’t handle was how much it hurt.
How much it made her feel like she was the only one in the world who didn’t understand why she deserved it.
Gabby exhaled, tightening her grip on Sabrina’s shoulders.
“You need to stop trying,” she said gently. “Because if he’s too much of a coward to explain himself, then he doesn’t deserve to have you wasting another second on him.”
Sabrina let out a wet, broken laugh, swiping furiously at her face.
“I wish I could,” she whispered. “I really do.”
***
Gabby (Social Media): LANDO. I AM GOING TO KILL YOUR TEAMMATE.
Lando (Car): …okay, so context would be great before I start panicking???
Jordan (Marketing): Seconded. What did Oscar do this time?
Gabby (Social Media): Oh, you mean aside from being a complete nightmare of a human being to Sabrina for MONTHS??
Lando (Car): Look, I know he’s socially incompetent, but what happened?
Gabby (Social Media): HE MADE HER CRY.
Lucy (Engineer): OH WHAT THE HELL.
Matt (Mechanic): Wait, actually cry? Not just frustrated huffing and ‘I’m gonna scream’ kind of cry?
Gabby (Social Media): FULL ON. TEARS. Lando, she thinks he hates her. She literally just said, “Why does he hate me?” THROUGH TEARS.
Lando (Car): …I’m going to kill him.
Gabby (Social Media): Not if I get there first.
Emily (PR): Oh my God. Sabrina is one of the nicest people here, what is WRONG with him??
Lando (Car): You guys. He doesn’t hate her. He likes her. He just has the social skills of a damp paper towel.
Gabby (Social Media): OH REALLY? You wanna come tell her that while she’s sobbing into my shirt??
Lando (Car): I—
Lando (Car): Okay yeah that’s really bad.
Adam (Hospitality): What the hell does he do to make her think he hates her???
Gabby (Social Media): Oh, you mean aside from looking like he’d rather walk into oncoming traffic than hold a conversation with her?? Or the fact that whenever she so much as breathes in his direction, he either ignores her or flees the scene like she’s a serial killer???
Matt (Mechanic): Tbf, he also does that when I ask him to sign merch for my niece.
Gabby (Social Media): THAT IS NOT THE POINT.
Lando (Car): I swear he’s just a nervous wreck around her.
Gabby (Social Media): Well, congratulations, your nervous wreck of a teammate has finally broken her.
Lando (Car): Okay, okay, I’m fixing this.
Gabby (Social Media): Fixing it how??
Lando (Car): Step 1: Yell at Oscar.
Lando (Car): Step 2: Figure out Step 2.
Emily (PR): This is going to be a disaster.
Matt (Mechanic): Someone record it.
***
Oscar barely had time to react before Lando stormed into his hotel room, slamming the door shut behind him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Lando demanded, eyes blazing.
Oscar blinked, still in his McLaren hoodie, halfway through removing his shoes. “Uh—”
Lando cut him off. “Sabrina is CRYING, mate. ACTUAL TEARS. Do you understand how hard it is to make someone like Sabrina cry? You have to be horrible. And congratulations! You did it!”
Oscar’s stomach sank. “She’s crying?”
“Yes, you absolute moron!” Lando threw his hands up. “Gabby just texted the group chat saying she’s full-on sobbing because she thinks you hate her.”
Oscar swallowed. “I don’t—”
“I KNOW YOU DON’T,” Lando yelled. “But do you know what she knows? That every time she tries to talk to you, you look like you’re being held at gunpoint and then RUN AWAY.”
Oscar rubbed a hand over his face, guilt pooling in his gut. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Well, guess what? Intentions don’t mean shit if the person on the other end is crying their eyes out in a hotel room thinking you despise their existence.” Lando grabbed Oscar’s arm and yanked him toward the door. “You’re coming with me.”
Oscar dug his heels in. “Lando—”
“No. I don’t care if you combust from secondhand embarrassment. You’re apologizing to her.”
Oscar sighed, defeated, and let himself be dragged down the hallway.
Sabrina looked up when the door swung open. Her eyes are still red-rimmed, and when she sees Oscar standing there, she stiffened immediately. Gabby, beside her on the bed, narrowed her eyes.
“What is he doing here?” Sabrina asked, voice hoarse.
“He has something to say,” Lando announces, shoving Oscar forward before leaning against the door like a prison guard. “And he’s not leaving until he says it.”
Oscar’s mouth went dry. Sabrina crossed her arms, waiting. Gabby glared.
“I—” Oscar started, but the words catch in his throat.
Sabrina exhaled sharply. “Let me guess. You want me to stop bothering you? You think I should take the hint?” She shook her head, voice cracking. “I get it, okay? I got it a long time ago. You don’t have to do this whole awkward pity act.”
Oscar felt like the world had flipped upside down. “Sabrina—”
“No,” she interrupted, standing up. “You’ve spent months making me feel like I’m less than nothing to you. Like I’m some annoyance you can’t wait to get away from. And now, what? You’re forced to be here, and I’m supposed to pretend it’s fine?”
“That’s not—”
“Then WHAT is it?” she snapped, eyes burning. “Because I have tried, Oscar. I’ve tried to be nice. I’ve tried to talk to you. And every single time, you look at me like I’ve killed your dog before you run away like you can’t stand to be in the same room as me.” Her voice wobbled. “Do you have any idea how much that sucks?”
Oscar was frozen, heart pounding. Sabrina’s chest rises and falls unevenly, her fists clenched at her sides.
“I don’t hate you,” he blurted.
Sabrina lets out a bitter laugh. “You have a really funny way of showing it.”
“I don’t—” Oscar ran a hand through his hair, exhaling harshly. “I like you, okay?”
The room went dead silent.
Sabrina blinked. “What?”
Oscar squeezes his eyes shut, then opened them again. “I like you,” he repeats, quieter this time. “That’s why I’ve been so—” He gestures vaguely at himself, expression pained. “Weird. I get nervous, and then I panic, and then I make everything worse.”
Sabrina just stares at him, speechless. Gabby’s jaw has dropped. Lando lets out an I KNEW IT under his breath.
Oscar shifted awkwardly. “I never meant to make you feel like I hated you. I just... didn’t know how to act like a normal person around you.”
Sabrina exhaled slowly, emotions warring on her face. Finally, she rubbed her hands over her eyes. “I cannot believe this.”
Oscar winced. “Yeah.”
Lando clapped his hands together. “Okay, well, I think this is a great development! Now that the truth is out, maybe we can all move past the months of absolute torture you’ve both inflicted on us.”
Sabrina glared at him. “Lando.”
“What?”
She sighed. “Shut up.”
Oscar was standing there like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. Gabby, sitting on the bed, was looking between them like she’s watching the most fascinating TV drama of the year.
“You like me,” Sabrina repeated, like she’s trying to process the words in real time. “That’s why you’ve spent months acting like I have the plague?”
Oscar shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking thoroughly miserable. “Yes?”
Sabrina stared at him, then threw her hands up. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”
Lando makes an exaggerated ding ding ding motion with his hands. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”
Oscar shot him a glare. “Not helping.”
Sabrina pressed her fingers to her temples, exhaling sharply. “Do you know how much I’ve stressed about this? How much I’ve analyzed every single interaction we’ve ever had, trying to figure out what I did to make you hate me? And the answer was just this?” She gestured at him, looking completely exasperated. “You like me?”
Oscar winced. “I panicked.”
“Oh my god,” she groaned, dropping onto the edge of the bed.
Lando leaned against the wall, looking far too amused by the situation. “I mean, at least we got to the bottom of it, yeah? No more crying, no more existential crises about why Oscar Piastri has been treating you like an actual curse.”
Sabrina glared at him again. “Lando.”
“What?”
“Go away.”
Lando blinked. “Excuse me?”
“This is your fault,” she said, standing back up and jabbing a finger in his direction.
Lando scoffed, offended. “I tried! Do you know how many times I’ve told Oscar to stop being a complete weirdo about this?” He turned to Oscar. “Tell her! Tell her how many times I’ve told you to stop being an idiot!”
Oscar sighed. “He has told me.”
“See?” Lando gestured dramatically. “I tried to help, but noooo, someone just had to be emotionally repressed and incapable of functioning like a normal human being around their crush.”
Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lando, leave.”
Lando raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. But you both owe me after this.”
He strided to the door, pausing dramatically with his hand on the handle. “Oh, and just so you know? The entire McLaren staff group chat is losing their minds over this. We’ve all been waiting for this moment for months.”
Sabrina groaned. Oscar looks like he might pass out.
Lando grinned. “Okay, now I’m leaving.”
And with that, he walked out, whistling cheerfully.
Gabby gave them one look before following behind him.
Once the door clicked shut, silence settled over the room.
Sabrina exhaled, looking up at Oscar again. “So.”
Oscar shifted uncomfortably. “So.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “What do we do now?”
He hesitated, then said, “I think this is the part where I properly apologise for being a complete asshole.”
Sabrina snorted, some of the tension finally easing from her shoulders. “Yeah. Probably.”
Oscar met her eyes. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like—like any of that. I was just so nervous all the time that I kept making things worse, and then it snowballed, and I didn’t know how to fix it.”
Sabrina watched him for a long moment, like she was deciding whether or not to accept that. Then she sighed. “Okay.”
Oscar blinked. “Okay?”
“I accept your apology,” she said, crossing her arms again. “But you really need to work on your people skills.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I’ve been told.”
She raised an eyebrow. “By Lando?”
“And everyone else.”
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “God. This is ridiculous.”
Oscar hesitated. “I, um. I get if this whole thing has been too much, and if you don’t want to—”
“Oh my god, just ask me out,” Sabrina interrupts.
Oscar stops. “What?”
Sabrina gestures vaguely. “You. Me. A date. Because if I have to spend one more week waiting for you to act normal, I will actually lose my mind.”
Oscar swallowed. “Would you say yes?”
Sabrina sighed dramatically. “After all of this? If I say no, I’d just be proving Lando right about us being a disaster.”
Oscar let out a short laugh. “So… will you go out with me?”
Sabrina rolled her eyes, but there was a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Yes, Oscar.”
Oscar exhales, something warm settling in his chest. “Okay. Good.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“OH MY GOD,” Lando yells from outside the door. “I KNEW IT.”
Oscar groans. Sabrina bursts into laughter.
And just like that, everything finally made sense.
***
Lando (Car): EVERYONE SHUT UP AND PAY ATTENTION. I HAVE DONE IT. I HAVE SUCCEEDED. I AM A GENIUS.
Lucy (Engineer): …What did you do.
Lucy (Engineer): Oh god, what did you break.
Adam (Hospitality): If this is about your fantasy football league, I’m muting you.
Lando (Car): NO. IT’S EVEN BETTER. I HAVE MATCHMADE. I HAVE FIXED OSCAR PIASTRI.
Lucy (Engineer): That’s a bold claim.
Matt (Mechanic): That’s an impossible claim.
Adam (Hospitality): Fixed in what way? Like, emotionally? That feels out of your skill set.
Lando (Car): OSCAR AND Sabrina ARE GOING ON A DATE. I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS. I AM CUPID. I AM INEVITABLE.
Lucy (Engineer): …What.
Jordan (Marketing): No.
Matt (Mechanic): This is a prank.
Lando (Car): ASK HIM. ASK HER. I DRAGGED HIM TO APOLOGIZE AND HE CONFESSED HIS CRUSH AND THEN SHE SAID YES AND NOW THEY’RE A THING.
Lucy (Engineer): Oh my god.
Adam (Hospitality): I feel like this should be impossible.
Emily (PR): Are we sure she’s not secretly plotting revenge?
Gabby (Social Media): Yeah, I feel like she deserves at least a week to recover from months of psychological warfare before making this decision.
Lando (Car): NOPE. IT’S HAPPENING. I AM A HERO.
Lucy (Engineer): I don’t think that’s the word I’d use.
Adam (Hospitality): Did Oscar even want you to set them up?
Lando (Car): LOL NO.
Matt (Mechanic): So you bullied him into a relationship.
Lando (Car): MATCHMAKING. NOT BULLYING. DIFFERENT.
Gabby (Social Media): Sabrina better make him suffer first, just on principle.
Lucy (Engineer): Yeah, she deserves to be emotionally compensated.
Emily (PR): Someone make sure Oscar doesn’t panic and ruin it before the first date even happens.
Lando (Car): DON’T WORRY. I AM HIS DATING COACH NOW.
Gabby (Social Media): That is so much worse.
Matt (Mechanic): This is a disaster.
Lucy (Engineer): I’m getting popcorn.
Jordan (Marketing): Oh, absolutely.
Adam (Hospitality): We should start a bet on how long it takes before Sabrina realizes dating Oscar is harder than working here.
Lando (Car): Y’ALL HAVE NO FAITH.
Emily (PR): Absolutely not.
Lucy (Engineer): None.
Adam (Hospitality): Zero.
Matt (Mechanic): We have seen him try to talk to her.
Lando (Car): WELL NOW THEY’RE DATING. SO I WIN.
Gabby (Social Media): Bold of you to assume she won’t dump him out of frustration within a week.
Jordan (Marketing): Honestly, I give it three days.
Lando (Car): Y’ALL ARE HATERS. I AM A LEGEND. OSCAR OWES ME HIS LIFE. Sabrina OWES ME HER HAPPINESS. THIS TEAM OWES ME A STATUE.
Matt (Mechanic): …
Lucy (Engineer): Muting him now.
Jordan (Marketing): Same.
***
Lando (Car): UPDATE. THEY ARE ON THE DATE. I REPEAT. THEY ARE ON THE DATE.
Lucy (Engineer): Are you watching them right now?
Jordan (Marketing): Are we… stalking them.
Matt (Mechanic): I just wanna know how long until Oscar panics and spills his drink.
Lando (Car): I’M NOT STALKING. I’M JUST… MAKING SURE MY HARD WORK PAYS OFF.
Gabby (Social Media): You are literally sitting two tables away from them.
Lando (Car): THAT’S CALLED SUPERVISION.
Emily (PR): This is deeply unethical.
Lucy (Engineer): Yeah, I’m pretty sure we’re violating like five HR policies right now.
Gabby (Social Media): If HR asks, I was not here.
Matt (Mechanic): So what’s happening?
Lando (Car): OKAY. So. Sabrina is talking. Oscar is nodding. HE HAS NOT SAID A SINGLE WORD.
Lucy (Engineer): Classic.
Jordan (Marketing): Sounds about right.
Lando (Car): Wait. WAIT. HE JUST TRIED TO TALK. HE OPENED HIS MOUTH.
Lucy (Engineer): And?
Lando (Car): HE KNOCKED OVER HIS WATER GLASS INSTEAD.
Lucy (Engineer): Of course he did.
Gabby (Social Media): That’s our boy.
Emily (PR): Was it a full glass?
Lando (Car): OH IT WAS VERY FULL. IT HAS NOW ENTERED Sabrina’S LAP.
Jordan (Marketing): Jesus Christ.
Lucy (Engineer): It’s over. She’s leaving.
Adam (Hospitality): There is no coming back from this.
Lando (Car): NO WAIT SHE’S LAUGHING.
Matt (Mechanic): What?
Lucy (Engineer): …Why??
Adam (Hospitality): Is she okay??
Lando (Car): I THINK SHE JUST ACCEPTED THAT HE’S A DISASTER AND IS EMBRACING IT.
Gabby (Social Media): Honestly, that’s the only way this relationship survives.
Emily (PR): I have no words.
Matt (Mechanic): Is Oscar okay?
Lando (Car): HE LOOKS LIKE HE WANTS TO CRAWL UNDER THE TABLE BUT SHE’S SMILING AT HIM. HE MIGHT SURVIVE THIS.
Gabby (Social Media): Sabrina is way too kind for this world.
Jordan (Marketing): Should we be worried about her decision-making skills?
Gabby (Social Media): Absolutely.
Lando (Car): GUYS GUYS SHE JUST PUT HER HAND ON HIS ARM. THIS IS PROGRESS.
Matt (Mechanic): Do you think he’s gonna pass out?
Lucy (Engineer): 50/50 chance.
Jordan (Marketing): Do we have a medic on standby?
Adam (Hospitality): I bet he overthinks it and freezes.
Lando (Car): HE’S JUST STARING AT HER HAND LIKE IT’S A COMPLEX MATH PROBLEM.
Matt (Mechanic): Yeah, that tracks.
Lucy (Engineer): What’s the over/under on him panicking and excusing himself to the bathroom for like ten minutes.
Adam (Hospitality): Already placing bets.
Lando (Car): I AM SO PROUD. MY BOY IS ON A DATE. HE’S FLAILING BUT HE’S ON A DATE.
Emily (PR): This is the single most unhinged group chat I have ever been part of.
Gabby (Social Media): Agreed.
Matt (Mechanic): Not even top five, honestly.
Lando (Car): I WILL UPDATE YOU ALL LATER. STAY TUNED.
Lucy (Engineer): God help us all.
Lando (Car): OKAY UPDATE. OSCAR SURVIVED THE HAND ON ARM INCIDENT. BARELY.
Lucy (Engineer): Define “barely.”
Matt (Mechanic): Is he still breathing?
Lando (Car): Yes. But he was so still for like a full 30 seconds that I thought he had short-circuited.
Adam (Hospitality): He probably did.
Gabby (Social Media): The man is a Windows XP loading screen in human form.
Lando (Car): Anyway. They’re talking again. I can’t hear what they’re saying but Sabrina just tilted her head like she’s curious about something.
Emily (PR): Oh god. What did he say?
Lando (Car): I HAVE NO IDEA BUT HIS FACE IS COMPLETELY RED.
Matt (Mechanic): He probably just apologized for spilling the water… again.
Lucy (Engineer): That’s fair. But also, is it too much to ask for him to just act normal for one date?
Gabby (Social Media): Yes.
Adam (Hospitality): Highly unrealistic expectations.
Lando (Car): HOLY SHIT WAIT. HE JUST MADE HER LAUGH. ON PURPOSE.
Lucy (Engineer): No way.
Matt (Mechanic): That doesn’t sound right.
Adam (Hospitality): Are you sure she’s laughing with him and not at him?
Lando (Car): It looked intentional???
Emily (PR): Are you absolutely certain?
Lando (Car): No.
Jordan (Marketing): Reasonable.
Lando (Car): BUT SHE’S STILL SMILING AND HE LOOKS LIKE HE MIGHT ACTUALLY BE RELAXING.
Lucy (Engineer): Impossible.
Adam (Hospitality): Sounds fake.
Matt (Mechanic): I won’t believe it until we see proof.
Lando (Car): WELL GOOD NEWS. I HAVE FOOTAGE.
Emily (PR): Lando, please tell me you did not just record them on their date.
Lando (Car): I may or may not have.
Jordan (Marketing): That is so creepy.
Lucy (Engineer): So send it.
Adam (Hospitality): Yeah, we need evidence.
Lando (Car): SENDING…
(Lando has sent one video.)
Matt (Mechanic): …Wait. Is this actually real???
Lucy (Engineer): He did make her laugh.
Jordan (Marketing): She leans in a little too.
Adam (Hospitality): This is history.
Emily (PR): I hate that we’re all so emotionally invested in this.
Lando (Car): GUYS WAIT—
Jordan (Marketing):: Oh no.
Matt (Mechanic): What?
Lando (Car): HE JUST LOOKED AT HER LIPS.
Lucy (Engineer): 😳
Adam (Hospitality): 😳
Jordan (Marketing):: 😳
Matt (Mechanic): 😳
Gabby (Social Media): …Are we about to witness Oscar Piastri actually kissing someone???
Lando (Car): I DON’T KNOW BUT HE IS THINKING ABOUT IT. I CAN SEE IT.
Lucy (Engineer): Oh my god.
Gabby (Social Media): Sabrina just tucked her hair behind her ear. That’s the universal “I like you” sign.
Matt (Mechanic): This is HUGE.
Lando (Car): GUYS HE’S GONNA DO IT. HE’S GONNA—
Gabby (Social Media): DON’T JINX IT.
Lando (Car): OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE. HE JUST PANICKED AND LOOKED AWAY.
Lucy (Engineer): Oh my god.
Adam (Hospitality): This idiot.
Matt (Mechanic): The sheer whiplash.
Lucy (Engineer): This is painful to witness.
Emily (PR): Someone go shake some sense into him.
Lando (Car): I AM SO MAD.
Gabby (Social Media): We were so close.
Lucy (Engineer): Classic Oscar Piastri.
Matt (Mechanic): What now.
Lando (Car): I AM FORMULATING A PLAN.
Jordan (Marketing):: God help us.
Emily (PR): Please don’t make it worse.
Lando (Car): I will get these two together if it’s the last thing I do.
Gabby (Social Media): Let’s be honest, it probably will be.
Lucy (Engineer): R.I.P. Lando Norris. Cause of death: excessive matchmaking attempts.
Gabby (Social Media): We’ll put it on your tombstone.
Lando (Car): YOU’LL THANK ME WHEN THIS WORKS.
Gabby (Social Media): Big if.
Emily (PR): Huge if.
Lando (Car): You’ll see. 😈
Lando (Car): OKAY. NEW PLAN.
Gabby (Social Media): Oh no.
Lucy (Engineer): Here we go.
Matt (Mechanic): I’m scared.
Jordan (Marketing):: We should be.
Emily (PR): Lando, I beg you to reconsider whatever you’re about to say.
Lando (Car): TOO LATE. I’M TEXTING OSCAR RIGHT NOW.
Adam (Hospitality): About what?
Lando (Car): ABOUT HOW HE NEEDS TO STOP BEING A COWARD AND KISS HER.
Matt (Mechanic): …During the date?
Lucy (Engineer): Oh my god.
Jordan (Marketing):: He’s going to see you texting him.
Gabby (Social Media): Lando, no.
Lando (Car): Lando, yes.
(Lando has sent a screenshot.)
Lando (Car): SENT.
Matt (Mechanic): …“KISS THE GIRL YOU COWARD.”
Gabby (Social Media): That’s what you went with???
Jordan (Marketing):: Subtle.
Lucy (Engineer): Elegant.
Emily (PR): Deranged.
Lando (Car): Well, he just looked at his phone.
Gabby (Social Media): Oh god.
Matt (Mechanic): How’s he reacting?
Lando (Car): He blinked. Like, twice. Real fast.
Adam (Hospitality): That means he’s panicking.
Gabby (Social Media): Yeah, that’s a full system reboot.
Lando (Car): WAIT. HE JUST PUT HIS PHONE DOWN AND SAID SOMETHING TO HER.
Lucy (Engineer): WHAT DID HE SAY.
Lando (Car): I DON’T KNOW, I CAN’T LIP READ. BUT SHE’S SMILING.
Matt (Mechanic): HOLY SHIT.
Gabby (Social Media): If this works, I take back everything I said.
Lucy (Engineer): No you won’t.
Gabby (Social Media): Yeah, no I won’t.
Lando (Car): HE’S LEANING IN.
Gabby (Social Media): OH MY GOD.
Adam (Hospitality): I’M GOING TO THROW UP.
Gabby (Social Media): IT’S HAPPENING.
Jordan (Marketing): SOMEONE RECORD THIS.
Emily (PR): DO NOT RECORD THIS.
Lando (Car): I ALREADY AM.
(Lando has sent one video.)
Gabby (Social Media): HOLY SHIT HE DID IT.
Gabby (Social Media): I NEED A MOMENT.
Matt (Mechanic): HE ACTUALLY KISSED HER.
Jordan (Marketing):: I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS WORKED.
Emily (PR): Delete the video. Right now.
Lando (Car): Absolutely not.
Matt (Mechanic): He’s still alive, right? Like, he didn’t just immediately short-circuit and pass out?
Lando (Car): Barely.
Lucy (Engineer): I think we should all take a moment to recognize the true hero here.
Summary: you’re curvy, confident, and completely unprepared for the way a certain Ferrari driver forgets how to speak English the moment you climb out of the Mediterranean in that red bikini. Charles Leclerc turns into an absolute disaster around you. And honestly? It’s the most endearing thing you've ever seen. (Featuring summer in Sardinia, yachts parked a little too close, and a racing driver who can handle 350 km/h but not the way you smile at him. This is going to be a problem.)
Divided into two parts because this is long and tumblr hates me: read part I here 💙
Charles wakes up at six in the morning with the kind of energy that usually only comes from a double espresso and a front-row start. Except he hasn’t had any coffee yet and the season is on break, so this is purely adrenaline and the fact that he gets to see you again in a few hours.
He’s on the deck doing push-ups — because apparently his body doesn’t know what to do with all this excess energy — when Joris stumbles out in swim trunks and sunglasses, looking like death.
“What are you doing?” Joris croaks.
“Exercise.”
“It’s six in the morning.”
“I’m aware.”
“On vacation.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Joris stares at him for a long moment. “You’re doing push-ups because you’re excited about a girl.”
“I’m doing push-ups because I have energy.”
“Because of a girl.”
Charles drops down from his plank. “She said yes to today.”
“I know. You told me. At midnight. And then again at one when you came in to make sure I heard you.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were very enthusiastic about it.” Joris collapses into one of the loungers. “What time are you seeing her?”
“Eleven. We’re going to Phi Beach Club.”
“That’s in five hours.”
“I know.”
“So why are you awake now?”
Charles doesn’t have a good answer for that, so he just does another push-up.
By the time everyone else wakes up, Charles has swum thirty laps around the yacht, reorganized his cabin, answered emails he’s been ignoring for weeks, and is now staring at his wardrobe like it contains the secrets of the universe.
“It’s a beach club,” Andrea says from the doorway. “Swim trunks and a shirt. That’s it.”
“But which swim trunks?”
“Oh my god.” Andrea walks in and pulls out a pair of navy blue trunks. “These. Done.”
“What about the white ones?”
“The navy ones.”
“Or the-”
“Charles.” Andrea physically puts the navy trunks in Charles’s hands. “These. With the white linen shirt. You’ll look great. She’ll love it. Now stop spiraling before you give yourself an aneurysm.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’ve been awake since six doing push-ups.”
“How did you-”
“Joris told everyone. We have a group chat about your mental state now.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It’s extremely necessary.” Andrea heads for the door. “Be yourself. The version who can speak. You’ve got this.”
Charles is not entirely convinced he’s got this, but he showers and changes and manages to make his hair cooperate, and by ten-thirty he’s in the tender heading toward Dynasty with palms that are definitely not sweating.
You’re waiting on the swim platform when he pulls up, and Charles’s brain immediately short-circuits because you’re wearing a bikini — emerald green that makes your skin glow — with denim shorts and an oversized white shirt that’s unbuttoned and flowing. Your hair is down and wavy, and you’re wearing sunglasses pushed up on your head, and Charles forgets how to drive a boat.
He bumps the tender against the platform a little harder than intended.
“Smooth,” you call out, grinning.
“I’m very good at driving boats.”
“Is that what we’re calling that?”
“It’s my first time today. I need to warm up.”
“How many times do you need to warm up?” You step down into the tender, and Charles catches your hand to steady you. “Should I be concerned?”
“No concern. Zero concern. I’m an excellent boat driver now that I’m warmed up.”
You settle into the seat next to him, close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and something floral. “So where’s this beach club?”
“Phi Beach. It’s on the coast. Very nice. Good music, good food, good-” His brain supplies ‘good view of you in that bikini’ but he manages not to say it out loud. “Everything. Good everything.”
“You’re nervous again.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Your eye is doing that twitchy thing.”
“What twitchy thing?”
“That thing where it twitches when you’re nervous.”
Charles had no idea his eye twitched. This is terrible information to have. “It’s just the sun.”
“Sure.” You’re smiling as he starts the engine. “The sun.”
The ride to Phi Beach takes about twenty minutes, and Charles manages to maintain mostly coherent conversation the entire time. You tell him about the nightcap with your father last night, who apparently spent the entire time asking questions about Charles that you “refused to answer on principle.”
“What did he want to know?”
“Whether you’re serious or just a vacation fling.”
Charles’s hands tighten on the wheel. “What did you say?”
“I said it’s been two dates and he needs to calm down.” You adjust your sunglasses. “But for the record, what would you say?”
“To which part?”
“The serious versus vacation fling part.”
Charles’s heart is hammering. “I -I would like to be serious. If that’s something you also want. Not that I’m assuming. You can want whatever you want. I just—if you wanted serious, I would want that too.”
You’re quiet for a moment, and Charles is convinced he’s said the wrong thing, been too eager, scared you off-
“I’d want that too,” you say softly. “The serious thing.”
“Really?”
“Really really really.”
“That’s three-”
“I know how many reallys it is.” You’re grinning now. “Just drive the boat, Charles.”
Phi Beach is already busy when they arrive, but Charles has a standing reservation from last summer and they’re led to a spot right on the waterfront — two loungers, an umbrella, a small table already set with water and champagne in a bucket.
“This is gorgeous,” you say, looking around at the white sand, the turquoise water, the infinity pool that seems to blend into the sea. “Do you come here a lot?”
“A few times each summer. It’s relaxing.” Charles sets down the bag with towels and sunscreen. “And private. People mostly leave you alone here.”
“Is that hard? Being recognized everywhere?”
“Sometimes.” He settles onto one of the loungers. “But it’s part of the job. I knew that when I started.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not annoying.”
“It can be. But today-” He looks at you as you’re pulling off your shorts and shirt, and his brain flatlines again. “Today I don’t care.”
You’re arranging yourself on the lounger, all soft curves and glowing skin, and Charles is trying very hard to look at the ocean or the sky or literally anything else but it’s impossible because you’re right there and you’re perfect and-
“Can you help me with sunscreen?” You ask, pulling a bottle from your bag. “I can never reach my back.”
Charles’s brain shuts down entirely. “Your—sunscreen. Yes. I can do that.”
You hand him the bottle and turn around, moving your hair over one shoulder, and Charles stares at the expanse of your back like he’s never seen skin before. Which is insane. He’s seen plenty of skin. He’s been to beaches. He’s been to Monaco in the summer.
But this is different. This is your skin, your shoulders, the curve of your spine, and his hands are shaking as he squeezes sunscreen into his palm.
“You okay back there?” You ask.
“Perfect. Very okay. Just making sure I have enough.”
He touches your shoulder blade, and you’re warm from the sun already. He smooths the sunscreen across your back, trying to be efficient and professional and not think about how soft you are or how you hum contentedly when his hands work across your shoulders.
“That feels nice,” you murmur.
Charles makes a sound that might be words but probably isn’t.
“You can go lower.”
He’s going to have a heart attack. He’s twenty-eight years old and he’s going to die at a beach club in Sardinia because you told him he could go lower with the sunscreen.
He manages to finish without actually dying, though it’s a near thing. “Done.”
“Thanks.” You turn around, and there’s something in your smile that suggests you know exactly what you just did to him. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Sunscreen. Unless you want to burn.”
“I tan very well actually.”
“Charles. Turn around.”
He does, and then your hands are on his back, cool and sure, spreading sunscreen across his shoulders. Your fingers work into the muscles of his neck and he tries not to make any embarrassing sounds.
“You’re so tense,” you observe.
“I’m relaxed.”
“Your shoulders are up by your ears.”
“That’s just how they sit.”
“Liar.” But your hands work at the knots anyway, and Charles feels himself melting into the lounger despite every effort not to.
“Better?” You ask when you’re done.
“Much better. Thank you.”
You settle back onto your lounger with a satisfied smile, and Charles tries to remember how to act like a normal person at a beach club. A server comes by to take their lunch order — you get tacos with grilled fish, Charles gets a club sandwich — and you both order Hugo spritzes because it’s summer and you’re in Italy and it feels appropriate.
“So,” you say, adjusting your sunglasses. “Tell me about Maranello.”
“Maranello?”
“That’s where Ferrari is, right? I googled it.”
“You googled Ferrari?”
“I googled you. Ferrari came up.” You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. “When do you have to go back?”
Charles’s stomach drops. He’s been trying not to think about this. “Tomorrow. We have testing in a few days. I need to be at the factory.”
“Oh.” You’re quiet for a moment. “That’s soon.”
“I know.”
“Will you—do you come back here? After?”
“Not until next summer probably. The season starts again in a few weeks. It’s … the schedule is very full.”
“Right. Of course.” You lay back down, face tilted to the sun. “That makes sense.”
Charles can’t read your tone. Is that disappointment? Resignation? Acceptance? He’s suddenly aware of how little time they have left, how this perfect bubble of Sardinia and summer is about to pop.
“But you could—if you wanted-” He’s talking too fast. “Monaco is not far. From Tennessee. I mean it’s far but there are planes. If you wanted to visit. Not that you have to. But if you wanted to see Monaco-”
“Are you inviting me to Monaco?”
“Yes. No. Maybe? If you want to come, I would love—I would like that. Very much.”
You’ve pushed your sunglasses up to look at him properly. “You want me to come to Monaco?”
“Very much yes. If you want. Do you want?”
“I-” You’re smiling now. “Yeah. I think I want to see what Monaco is all about.”
Charles’s heart is racing. “Really?”
“Really. My dad keeps talking about extending the trip anyway. We could cruise over there. Would that be weird? Showing up on your doorstep on a yacht?”
“Not weird. Perfect. That would be perfect.”
“Even though you’ll be busy with work?”
“I’ll make time. I’ll make lots of time. All the time.” He’s definitely saying too many words but he can’t stop. “You can stay on the yacht or Monaco has very good hotels. The best hotels. Or you can—if you wanted—I have a spare room.”
Your eyebrows go up. “You’re offering me your spare room?”
“I’m offering—I’m trying to say-” Charles takes a breath. “I want to see you again. After Sardinia. I don’t want this to be just a vacation thing.”
“I thought we established it was serious?”
“We did. But … I want to actually be serious. I want to see where this goes.”
“In your spare room.”
“Or a hotel. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I just-” He’s floundering. “I like you. Very much. More than very much.”
You’re quiet for long enough that Charles starts to panic, and then you reach across the space between your loungers and take his hand.
“I like you too,” you say. “More than very much. And I’d love to come to Monaco. We can figure out the logistics later.”
“Okay. Good. That’s—okay.”
“But today,” you squeeze his hand, “let’s just be here. Deal?”
“Deal.”
The food arrives, and you eat and talk and watch the people around them. You tell him about growing up in Tennessee, about debutante balls that you hated and football games that you loved, about learning to navigate Southern society while also trying to be your own person. Charles tells you about karting in the rain and learning to lose before he learned to win, about the pressure of being the chosen one at Ferrari and the weight of an entire country’s expectations.
“That sounds exhausting,” you say, stealing a chip from his plate.
“It is. But it’s also when you’re in the car and everything clicks, there’s nothing else like it.”
“I’d like to see that sometime. You racing.”
“You’d come to a race?”
“If you wanted me there. Though I should warn you, I still don’t really understand the rules.”
“I can teach you.”
“Even the tire deg thing?”
“Especially the tire deg thing.”
You laugh, and Charles thinks about you in the Ferrari garage, wearing headphones, watching him race. The thought makes his chest feel too full.
After lunch, you want to swim, so Charles follows you into the water even though what he really wants is to keep watching you in that bikini. The Mediterranean is perfect — cool but not cold, clear enough to see the sandy bottom.
You float on your back, eyes closed, completely relaxed. “This is perfect.”
“It is.”
“I’m going to miss this when we leave.”
“When do you leave? Sardinia?”
“Few more days. We’re heading to Corsica next.”
“That’s close to Monaco.”
“Is it?”
“Very close. You could stop by.”
You open one eye to look at him. “Are you trying to stalk me across the Mediterranean?”
“I’m trying to extend the amount of time I get to spend with you.”
“Smooth.”
“I’m not smooth. I fell in the ocean last night.”
“Because I kissed you.”
“Because you surprised me.”
“Should I warn you next time?” You’ve stopped floating and are treading water now, close enough that Charles can see the water droplets on your eyelashes. “Give you time to prepare?”
“Next time?”
“You don’t want there to be a next time?”
“I want there to be many next times. All the next times.”
“That’s a lot of next times.”
“I’m ambitious.”
You laugh and splash water at him, and he retaliates, and suddenly you’re having a water fight like children. You’re shrieking and trying to dunk him, and he’s trying to shield himself while also not actually fighting back because he’s worried about being too rough, and it’s perfect and stupid and exactly what he needed.
Eventually you call a truce, both of you breathless and laughing, and Charles realizes you’ve drifted closer to him. Close enough that he could reach out and touch you. Close enough that when a wave comes, you grab his arm to steady yourself and don’t let go after.
“Charles?” You say softly.
“Yes?”
“I’m really glad I came to Sardinia.”
“Me too.”
“And that our yachts parked next to each other.”
“That was very lucky.”
“And that you fell in the ocean.”
“That was not lucky. That was humiliating.”
“It was adorable.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“They are when you do it.”
You’re looking at him in a way that makes Charles forget about the water and the beach and the other people around them. There’s just you and the sun and the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s falling in love with you after two dates, which is insane, but here he is anyway.
You swim for another hour, then head back to the loungers where you dry off in the sun. You read a book — something about Southern women and secrets — while Charles tries to read emails on his phone and fails because he keeps looking at you instead.
“You’re staring,” you say without looking up from your book.
“I’m appreciating.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
“You’re very appreciable.”
“That’s definitely not a word.” But you’re smiling as you set down your book. “What time do we have to leave?”
Charles checks his phone. “Not yet. We have time.”
“Good.” You stand and stretch, and Charles tries not to stare at the way your body moves. “I’m going to get another drink. Want anything?”
“Aperol spritz.”
“You’re very into spritzes.”
“They’re refreshing.”
“They’re bright orange.”
“Refreshingly orange.”
You laugh and head toward the bar, and Charles watches you go — watches other people watch you go, actually, and feels a surge of something that might be pride or possessiveness or just happiness that you chose to spend the day with him.
His phone buzzes. A text from Andrea in the group chat. How’s the date going?
Charles types back. Very well
Joris: Details
We’re at the beach club. It’s nice.
Arthur: That’s not details
What do you want me to say?
Lorenzo: Is she there right now?
She went to get drinks
Joris: And you’re texting us instead of staring at her?
Charles looks up to find you at the bar, laughing at something the bartender said, and yeah, he’d rather be looking at you.
Got to go
Andrea: Have fun. Don’t fall in any water
That was ONE TIME
He pockets his phone as you return with drinks, settling back onto your lounger with a contented sigh.
“Your friends texting?” You ask.
“How did you know?”
“You had that look. Like you were getting teased.”
“They’re asking about the date.”
“And what are you telling them?”
“That it’s nice.”
“Just nice?”
“Very nice.”
“How many verys?”
“All of them. All the verys.”
You laugh and take a sip of your drink. “For the record, I’m telling my dad it’s terrible and you’re boring and he should stop asking questions.”
“Is that what you’re telling him?”
“No. But he doesn’t need to know that it’s-” You pause. “Really nice.”
“Really nice or really really nice?”
“Definitely really really.”
The afternoon slides into evening, the sun getting lower, the beach club getting busier. You order more drinks, share a plate of fresh fruit, talk about everything and nothing. You tell him about your friends back home, about your best friend who’s getting married in the fall. Charles tells you about growing up with Lorenzo and Arthur, about Jules, about the people who shaped who he is.
“You should meet them,” Charles says. “My friends. My family. If you come to Monaco.”
“That’s very serious. Meeting the family.”
“We said serious, right?”
“We did.” You’re quiet for a moment. “I’d like that. Meeting them.”
By the time they head back to the tender, it’s past seven and the sun is starting to set. Charles helps you into the boat, hyper-aware that this day is ending, that tomorrow he leaves for Maranello, that the bubble is starting to deflate.
“Today was perfect,” you say as Charles starts the engine. “Like, actually perfect.”
“It was.”
“Thank you for bringing me.”
“Thank you for coming.”
The ride back to the yachts is quiet, comfortable. You sit close to him again, and at some point your hand finds his on the throttle. Charles keeps his eyes on the water and tries to memorize exactly how this feels.
Dynasty comes into view, and Sedici next to it, and Charles’s chest feels tight. He doesn’t want to drop you off. Doesn’t want to say goodnight. Doesn’t want to go back to reality where he has to leave and you have to go to Corsica and they have to figure out how to make this work outside of this perfect Mediterranean bubble.
He pulls up to your swim platform as gently as possible — no bumps this time — and ties off the tender. You don’t move immediately, just sit there looking at him with an expression he can’t quite read.
“Charles?”
“Yes?”
“I meant what I said. About Monaco. I want to come.”
“I want you to come. Very much.”
“Even though it’s complicated?”
“Especially because it’s complicated.” He turns to face you fully. “I know it’s fast. I know we just met. But I … I don’t want to just let this end when vacation ends.”
“Me neither.”
“So we figure it out? Together?”
“Together,” you agree.
You’re close enough that Charles can see the flecks of gold in your eyes, can count your eyelashes if he wanted to. His heart is hammering and he’s pretty sure he knows what’s about to happen but he’s also terrified of misreading the situation-
“Charles?” You say softly.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to kiss you now. On the mouth this time. Try not to fall into the ocean.”
“I’ll do my best.”
You lean in, and Charles’s entire world narrows to the point where your lips meet his. It’s soft and sweet and perfect, and he brings his hand up to cup your face, feeling you smile against his mouth. You taste like elderflower and sun and summer, and Charles thinks this might be the best moment of his entire life.
When you pull back, you’re both breathing hard.
“I didn’t fall,” Charles says.
“I noticed. Very impressive.”
“I’m learning.”
“Good.” You kiss him again, quicker this time. “Because I plan on doing that a lot more.”
“How much more?”
“So much more. An aggressive amount of more.”
“That sounds-” He can’t find the words. “Good. Very good.”
You climb onto the swim platform, and Charles follows, not ready to let you go yet. You’re both standing there in the fading light, and Charles can see your father moving around on the upper deck but he doesn’t care.
“Text me?” You say. “From Maranello?”
“Every day.”
“That’s a lot of texts.”
“I’m ambitious, remember?”
“Right. All the next times.” You squeeze his hand. “Go. Before my dad comes down here and asks about your intentions.”
“My intentions are very serious.”
“I know. That’s why you should go.”
One more quick kiss — Charles initiates this one, feeling brave — and then you’re heading up to your deck and Charles is climbing back into the tender with a dopey smile on his face that he can’t seem to get rid of.
He’s barely tied off at Sedici before his friends and brothers are there, all wearing matching grins.
“So,” Joris says. “How was it?”
“Really really really nice.”
“Three reallys,” Andrea observes. “That’s significant.”
“She’s coming to Monaco.”
Four pairs of eyebrows shoot up.
“Monaco?” Arthur repeats. “Like, to visit?”
“Yes. After Corsica. She’s coming to Monaco.”
“That’s-” Lorenzo looks impressed. “Fast.”
“It’s serious,” Charles says. “We’re being serious.”
“And you’re leaving tomorrow,” Joris points out gently.
“I know.” The reality of it hits him again. “But it’s fine. We’ll text. And she’ll come to Monaco. And we’ll figure it out.”
“You really like her,” Andrea says. It’s not a question.
“I really really really really like her.”
“That’s three reallys.”
“I know how many reallys it is.”
Charles looks back at Dynasty, where he can see you on the deck now, talking to your father. As if you can feel him watching, you turn and wave. Charles waves back, feeling like a teenager with a crush.
Which, he supposes, isn’t that far from the truth.
“Come on,” Joris says, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get food and you can tell us everything.”
“Everything?”
“Every detail. Arthur’s taking notes.”
“I’m not taking notes,” Arthur protests.
“You should be taking notes. This is a masterclass in how to fall for someone in three days.”
Charles lets himself be led inside, but he keeps his phone in his hand, waiting for your text. It comes ten minutes later. That was really really really really nice. Miss you already.
He grins and types back. Four reallys. That’s a new record.
Don’t let it go to your head.
Too late.
See you in Monaco, Charles Leclerc.
See you in Monaco, Y/N Y/L/N.
And even though he has to leave tomorrow, even though reality is waiting, even though this is complicated and fast and probably crazy — Charles falls asleep that night thinking about you in Monaco, in his space, meeting his people, being part of his real life and not just this summer dream.
He can’t wait.
***
Charles wakes up in Austin, Texas to the sound of you on the phone with someone, your accent thicker than he’s ever heard it.
“-I know, but I told you we can’t make it to brunch because he has the drivers’ parade at one —yes, I know your mama wanted to see me—well tell her I’ll come by next time, I promise-”
He cracks one eye open to find you pacing by the window of their hotel room, already dressed in jeans and a Ferrari crop top that you’ve somehow made look both casual and devastating. Your hair is down in loose waves, and you’re gesturing emphatically with your free hand in a way that he’s learned means you’re talking to family.
“-no, you cannot come to the garage, I already told you there’s no room—because I asked, that’s how I know-” You notice Charles is awake and mouth ‘sorry’ at him. “Look, I have to go. Yes. I love you too. Tell everyone I said hi. Bye.”
You hang up and flop dramatically onto the bed next to him. “Sorry. That was my cousin. Apparently half of Tennessee has driven to Austin for the weekend and they all want paddock passes.”
Charles pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck. “How many cousins do you have?”
“I stopped counting at thirty.”
“Thirty?”
“Southern families are big, baby. I tried to warn you.” You run your fingers through his hair. “How are you feeling? Ready?”
“Nervous.”
“About the race or about me being here?”
“Both?” He pulls back to look at you. “Mostly about you being here.”
It’s been three months since Sardinia. Two months of texts and FaceTime calls and you coming to Monaco twice — once right after Corsica like you promised, staying in his guest room for exactly one night before that became ridiculous and you moved into his room. The second time was two weeks ago, for five days that weren’t nearly enough.
But this is different. This is you at a race. This is you in the paddock, in the garage, in his world with cameras and questions and people who have opinions about everything, especially about who he dates.
“Hey.” You cup his face. “We talked about this. I can handle it.”
“I know you can. I just—I don’t want you to have to.”
“Charles.” You kiss him softly. “I want to be here. I want to see you race. I want to be part of this.”
“Even though people will be weird about it?”
“Especially then.” You grin. “Besides, I’m in Texas. This is basically home territory. I’ve got the home field advantage.”
“This is not American football.”
“Same principle. Southern girl in the South? I’m unstoppable.”
Charles loves you. He’s known it since Monaco, since you met his mother and she pulled him aside later and said “Don’t lose this one”. Since you curled up on his couch and fell asleep during a movie and he just watched you breathe for an hour like a creep. Since you FaceTimed him after a bad qualifying session and let him rant in a mixture of French and Italian and English and didn’t try to fix it, just listened.
He hasn’t said it yet. Neither have you. But it’s there, in every text and call and the way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention.
“Okay,” he says. “But if anyone says anything-”
“Then I’ll handle it. I’m not some delicate flower, Leclerc. I grew up with football players and debutantes. I can handle some racing fans.”
“Some racing fans are-”
“I know. I’ve seen Twitter. I’ve seen the Reddit threads.” You raise an eyebrow. “Yes, I looked. And yes, I know what they’ll say about me. And no, I don’t care.”
“You should care.”
“Why? Because some people think I’m not skinny enough or model-y enough or whatever enough?” You shake your head. “Charles, if I spent my whole life caring what people thought about my body, I’d never leave the house. So they can think whatever they want. I know what you think, and that’s what matters.”
“I think you’re perfect.”
“See? That’s all I need.” You kiss him again. “Now get up. We have a race to get to and I need coffee before I meet Fred.”
Right. You’re meeting Fred today. And Lewis. And basically everyone else on the team that you haven’t met yet. Charles’ stomach does a complicated flip.
“Stop panicking,” you say, reading his mind. “I’m delightful. They’ll love me.”
“I know they will. That’s not-”
“Then what?”
How does he explain that he’s worried about the photos, the comments, the inevitable comparisons to who he’s dated before? That he’s worried about you reading the things people will say and deciding this isn’t worth it?
“I just want this to go well,” he settles on.
“It will.” You pull him out of bed. “Because I’m here to watch my boyfriend drive a car really fast, and nothing is going to ruin that.”
***
The paddock is chaos.
Charles is used to this — the noise, the cameras, the people everywhere — but experiencing it with you is different. You’re holding his hand as they walk through the entrance, and he can literally feel the moment people notice you. The cameras that were just casually pointed their direction suddenly become very focused. Photographers start calling his name.
“Charles! Over here!”
“Charles, who’s your guest?”
“Can we get a photo?”
You squeeze his hand, and Charles glances at you to make sure you’re okay. You’re smiling — not a fake smile, a real one — and you look completely unbothered by the attention.
“You good?” He murmurs.
“I’m great. Are they always like this?”
“Usually worse.”
“Then this is easy.”
They make it to the Ferrari hospitality, where Fred is waiting with a knowing smile. “Charles. And you must be Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” You shake his hand with the kind of confident charm that Charles has learned is pure Southern breeding. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Charles talks about you constantly.”
“Does he?” Fred looks amused.
“Oh yes. ‘Fred said this about the strategy,’ ‘Fred thinks we should try that setup.’ You’re very influential.”
Fred actually laughs. “Well, I’m glad someone listens to me. Charles, you should bring her to more races.”
“I’m working on it,” Charles says.
Lewis appears then, fresh from a meeting, and his face lights up when he sees you. “Finally! The famous Y/N!”
“The famous Lewis!” You accept his hug. “I’ve seen the videos. You’re even funnier in person.”
“I like her,” Lewis announces to Charles. “She has good taste.”
“In comedy or in boyfriends?”
“Both, clearly.”
You fit in immediately, and Charles shouldn’t be surprised but he is anyway. You chat with the engineers about aerodynamics — turns out your MBA included some operations management that translates — and you ask Bryan questions about tire strategy that are actually intelligent, and you laugh at all of Lewis’s jokes even the bad ones.
“She’s great,” Lewis says when you’ve been pulled away by one of the PR people for a quick briefing. “Seriously, mate. Don’t fuck this up.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Are you worried? About people?”
Charles shrugs. “A little.”
“People are always going to talk. But she seems like she can handle it.” Lewis claps him on the shoulder. “And you’re happy. That’s what matters.”
“I am happy.”
“I can tell. You smile more. It’s weird.”
“I smiled before.”
“Not like this.”
***
The drivers’ parade is when it really hits.
You’re in the garage, wearing headphones and talking to one of the engineers, when Charles has to leave. He kisses you goodbye — just a quick peck, nothing dramatic — but he sees the cameras catch it. Sees the way people’s phones come out.
By the time he’s on the parade truck, his phone is already blowing up in his driver’s room. Messages from Arthur, from Joris, from his mother. He doesn’t check them. He knows what they say.
“That’s her?” Carlos asks, appearing next to him on the truck. “The girl from the summer?”
“That’s her.”
“She’s gorgeous, mate.”
“I know.”
“Twitter is losing its mind.”
“I don’t care about Twitter.”
“Good. Because they’re saying some-” Carlos stops. “Actually, you’re right. Don’t care about Twitter.”
But Charles does look, later, while he’s getting ready for the race. He knows it’s a bad idea but he can’t help it.
The photos are everywhere. You and him walking into the paddock, holding hands. Him kissing you in the garage. You laughing at something Lewis said. And the comments-
She’s not his usual type
Good for Charles for dating a real woman
Who is she???
She’s too big for him
She’s literally perfect what are you talking about
Charles Leclerc said curvy girls rights
I love that he doesn’t care what people think
Why would he care? She’s stunning
There’s more, worse things that he doesn’t read because Bryan literally takes his phone away. “Stop. You need to focus.”
“I am focused.”
“You’re looking at comments. That’s not focused.” Bryan sets the phone down. “She’s fine. I just saw her. She’s talking to your mother.”
“My mother is here?”
“Did you not know your mother is here?”
Charles did not know his mother is here. This is new information. “When did she-”
“About an hour ago. With Arthur and Lorenzo. They’re all in hospitality with Y/N.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It looked pretty good. There was laughing.”
Charles tries to decide if that’s comforting or terrifying. His mother meeting you in Monaco was controlled, planned. This is chaos. This is-
“Charles.” Bryan’s voice is firm. “Race. Focus on the race. Your girlfriend is fine. Your family is fine. Everything is fine. Now get your head in the game.”
Right. The race. He has a race to drive.
***
Starting P3 is good. Better than expected, honestly, after a messy Friday. Charles can see Max ahead of him on pole, Lando in P2, and his entire focus narrows to the lights, to the start, to the first corner.
The lights go out and he gets a perfect launch — actually better than perfect, he’s alongside Lando into Turn 1 and he knows this corner, knows this track, knows exactly how late he can brake-
He comes out P2.
The radio crackles. “Good start, Charles. P2. Gap to Max is 1.2 seconds.”
Charles doesn’t respond. He’s in the zone now, the place where everything else disappears. Not you, not the cameras, not the comments. Just the car and the track and the way the tires feel under him.
He chases Max for twenty laps, stays within DRS range, waits for his moment. The Ferrari is fast here — faster than he expected — and when Max runs a bit wide in Turn 15, Charles pounces.
He’s ahead. He’s actually ahead.
“P1, Charles. P1. Great move.”
Now he just has to stay there.
The race becomes a blur of managing tires and gap and fuel. Max is behind him, close enough to be annoying but not close enough to really threaten. He’s trying to get back past but Charles defends every time, clean but firm.
With ten laps to go, Bryan comes on the radio. “Gap to Max is 2.3 seconds. You’re doing perfect. Keep this pace.”
Charles does.
Five laps to go. Three laps. Last lap.
“Last lap, Charles. Bring it home.”
He crosses the line first, and for a moment he can’t quite believe it. He won. In Austin. With you watching.
The radio explodes. “YES! Yes, Charles! Perfect drive! Absolutely perfect!”
“YES! LETS GO!” Charles shouts back, and he can hear the team cheering.
He parks in parc fermé, and the first thing he does after getting out of the car is look for you. You’re there at the barrier with the team, and your face is—you’re crying. Happy crying, but crying, and Charles’s chest feels too full.
He goes through the motions — the weigh-in, the cool-down room with Max and Lando — but he’s distracted. He just wants to get through this so he can get to you.
The podium ceremony feels like it takes forever. The champagne, the anthems, the photos. Finally, finally, he’s released and he’s practically running back to the garage.
You meet him halfway, and he doesn’t care that he’s covered in champagne and sweat. He picks you up and spins you around, and you’re laughing and crying at the same time.
“You won!” You’re saying. “You actually won!”
“You saw?”
“Of course I saw! I watched the whole thing! Charles, that was incredible!” You pull back to look at him, and your eyes are shining. “You were amazing.”
“I had good motivation.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Pretty girl in the garage. Wanted to impress her.”
“Consider her impressed.” You kiss him, right there in front of everyone, and Charles can hear cameras clicking but he doesn’t care.
When you pull back, you’re grinning. “Your mom is crying. Like, happy crying. It’s very sweet.”
“Where is she?”
“Hospitality. Waiting with everyone else. They’re all very excited.”
Charles keeps his arm around you as they walk back, and he’s aware of people watching, phones out, cameras everywhere. You don’t seem to notice or care. You’re just talking animatedly about the race, about the start, about the move on Max.
“-and then on lap thirty-four when you defended against Max, I actually screamed. The engineer next to me jumped. It was embarrassing.”
“That was a good defense.”
“It was insane. I thought you were both going to crash.”
“I had it under control.”
“You went off the track!”
“Just a little bit.”
“Charles Leclerc, you had all four wheels in the grass.”
“But I kept the position.”
You laugh and shake your head. “You’re crazy. I’m dating someone crazy.”
His mother appears before they make it to hospitality, and she’s definitely crying. She says something in rapid French that Charles barely processes before she’s hugging him, then hugging you.
“I’m so proud,” she says, switching to English for your benefit. “So, so proud.”
“He was amazing,” you say. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“You should come to more races.” His mother looks between you and Charles with a smile that suggests she knows exactly what’s going on. “He drives better when you’re here.”
“Maman-”
“It’s true! Look at him. Look at this result.”
Arthur and Lorenzo appear then, both talking over each other about the race, about the start, about everything. You fit into his family like you’ve always been there, laughing at Arthur’s jokes and listening to Lorenzo’s detailed analysis of the strategy.
The team celebration lasts hours. Photos and interviews and debriefs and more champagne than is probably necessary. Through all of it, you’re there — talking to the mechanics, charming the sponsors, being perfect.
It’s late when you finally make it back to the hotel, both exhausted and happy. Charles collapses onto the bed still in his team polo, and you curl up next to him.
“That was the best day,” you say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Seeing you win, meeting everyone, being part of it-” You prop yourself up to look at him. “I get it now. Why you do this. It’s incredible.”
“Even with all the chaos?”
“Especially with all the chaos.” You trace patterns on his chest. “I saw the photos, by the way. We’re trending.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Mostly good. Some people are idiots, but what else is new?” You smile. “Your fans are very protective of you. They’re in my comments defending me from trolls.”
“Are there a lot of trolls?”
“Some. But honestly, Charles, I don’t care. Let them say whatever they want.” You kiss his jaw. “I’m here. You won. We’re happy. That’s all that matters.”
Charles rolls over so he’s looking down at you, and his heart is so full it might actually burst. “I love you.”
You blink up at him. “What?”
“I love you,” he says again, more certain this time. “I’ve loved you since Monaco. Maybe since Sardinia. I don’t know exactly when, but I know I do.”
Your eyes are shining again. “You love me?”
“So much. Too much. All the amounts of love.”
You laugh, and it sounds watery. “I love you too. Obviously. I flew to Texas to watch you drive in circles.”
“They’re not circles, they’re-”
“I know what they are.” You pull him down and kiss him. “I love you, Charles Leclerc. My crazy racing driver who falls into oceans and forgets English and wins races.”
“I’m your crazy racing driver?”
“All mine.”
“Good. Because you’re my-” He pauses. “What’s the Southern phrase? My belle?”
“That’s French, baby.”
“My Southern belle, then.”
“Better.” You kiss him again. “Now stop talking and kiss me properly. You just won a race. We should celebrate.”
So Charles does.
And later, much later, when he checks his phone, there are hundreds of messages. From friends, from fans, from people he hasn’t talked to in years. Photos of you and him everywhere, comments about how happy he looks, speculation about the future.
But there’s one message that matters, from his mother. She’s perfect for you. Don’t let her go.
Charles looks at you, asleep next to him, your hair spread across his pillow, and he thinks about Sardinia. About you climbing out of the water in that red bikini. About falling into the ocean. About every moment since then that’s led to this — you in Texas, him in love, both of you figuring out how to make this work.
He types back. I won’t. I promise.
And he means it.
Because some things are worth the chaos, worth the comments, worth the complicated logistics of dating someone who lives an ocean away. Some things — some people — are worth everything.
You shift in your sleep, moving closer to him, and Charles puts his phone away. Tomorrow you’ll deal with the media, with the attention, with figuring out when you can come to the next race. Tomorrow there will be more photos, more comments, more opinions.
But tonight, it’s just this: you and him and the fact that he won and you were there to see it.
It’s perfect.
Just like that day in Sardinia when you climbed out of the Mediterranean and into his life — perfect timing, perfect placement, perfectly imperfect in every way that matters.
His Southern belle and her racing driver, making it work one race at a time.
about the reading: landos girlfriend is a 10/10. she was everything he ever wanted and more. so why does he still have only eyes for you?
cards contained in this reading: lando norris x fem!leclerc!reader, 7,5k words, cheating lando, bratty manipulative reader, smuuuuut, oral m receiving, unprotected p in v, reader being called a slut, mention of readers nice ass, lots of lots of tension, please read authors note
a/n: i feel the need to say this since there is so much hate going around with magui at the moment which i do not support!!! reminding everyone that this is still fiction and not meant to harm or hate on anyone. my rules are still the same, hate of every form gets blocked. thank you for your understanding💋
lando norris had the perfect trophy wife material girlfriend. magui was everything he ever wanted. she was funny, blonde with big mermaid eyes that would look at him with so much adoration. when she laughed, her whole face would light up like sun would the sky and there was all in all nothing that he would change about her.
he was one of those guys that didn‘t even want a girlfriend for a very long time after he broke up with his last. he was just too busy and if he was being honest he enjoyed the single life very much. but nobody told him that it would get lonely indeed once every girl has left your bed the next morning.
in landos opinion they have crossed paths in the best time possible, and while magui already ticked all the boxes he secretly had, he did his best to win her interest. he has also found himself wondering stupid as one of the girls in his friend group has laid tarot on him and there were two female energies involved in his life. he can remember he scoffed at the mention, never believing anything hocus pocus right until this moment.
actually, the tarot has slipped his mind. magui has slipped his mind. but what didn’t slip his mind was you. he couldn’t even hear what was going on around him since your presence was louder than any other girls around here. and you didn’t even say anything.
magui was gorgeous, yes… alone. but next to you she looked like wallpaper. the sun couldn’t compare to the moon that had this gentle calm, the soft side that he lacked in his so chaotic every days. you were across the room, laughing with your brothers, wearing a red ferrari hoodie. did he already mention how good you looked in red?
“hey, are you listening?“ magui asked, waving a hand in front of his face with that small faltering smile that tells lando he hasn’t been so slick lately as he thought. crystal eyes snapping back to her in an instant and offering her a stretch of his lips she fell for so easily. “yes, princess. of course. you said you love the new cooperation and that they‘re flying you out to paris next week. i‘m sad you can’t be there for monaco‘s race“ lando says, lacing his fingers with hers and earning that satisfied nod he always gets when he listens.
yes, lando was a pro in multitasking. it was indeed a gift that his subconscious mind saved every information while his ears where not listening. there was a feeling akin to guilt that had him in a chokehold ever since you showed up at your brothers races. charles has never mentioned he has a sister and while they knew each other for so long it never came to mention?
if he was being real he could make out why. suddenly everyones attention was on you. everyone was so polite and attentive. carlos brought you a coffee, ollie saved you a seat at breakfast, and even lewis got you that very hoodie you were wearing. not charles. and your brother was so overprotective. immediately slipping into a role he didn’t know charles could take as he was glaring away everyone right on time.
you showed up to the japanese grand prix for the first time, having heads turn and mouths hang open. and he was no different. but he was proud to say he has never talked to you. lando was subtle about it. nope, he wouldn’t undergo the same mistake and he would try to block every emotion that came up when he would get the chance to see your pretty face. or hear your melodic voice. or see that-
“hey, i don’t think we two met?“ lando snaps out of his thoughts fast at your voice, your smile directed on him has his breath hitch enough that you notice. your smile morphs into a wicked one, but you cover it so fast with a nice expression he isn’t even sure if he just imagined it or if it really happened. you look at magui in the next moment, making him feel lost without your eyes on him. the glance you two shared was short and intense enough and it had him wonder if you felt the same. or if you even initiated it.
“i‘m charles sister,“ you introduce yourself, shaking maguis hand and her eyes light up at your name. “oh hey, i‘m magui, lando‘s girlfriend“ she gestures towards lando sitting opposite of her “your like… really really pretty,“ she compliments, having you almost forget the coil in your stomach about the mention of her boyfriend. but you school it with skilled expression, finding no need to destroy a picture of yourself by any means necessary.
“thank you so much, that’s so nice of you“ you say, before turning back to the curly haired boy who can’t seem to keep his eyes from you “lando, right?“ you don’t miss how his eyes light up when his name rolls from your tongue so effortlessly it sounds like a silver knife wrapped in velvet. he can’t put his finger on it, and maybe he is being delusional but something about you has an underlying sharpness he can’t tell.
“yeah, that’s me“ he smiles a little shyly, extending his hand too for you to shake. the handshake is quick and he can swear he feels your fingertips brush the inside of his palm deliberately when your hands part reluctant ways. “it‘s nice to meet you,“ lando didn’t know back then how he would eat his words up soon, begging this moment would have never happened.
your smile is something akin to a predatory one, eyes fixated on him like he is just another trophy, just another award you feel the need to claim. to show you can. as quick as that expression came as quick it is gone. “you’re doing a great job this season, outshining every other driver huh?“ you tease, giving him enough time to process his next words.
lando can feel his cheeks heat up at your teasing despite himself. praise is something he doesn‘t get often, not even from him own girlfriend yet here you are just having met him and telling him how good he is doing this year. “well, i‘m doing my best,“ he says, glancing back at magui who seems to be obvious to the silent passing between you two but is rather all in awe at your appearance just like everyone else. “actually, i have to credit my crew and strategy team for that-“ but the brit can‘t even seem to finish his sentence as you turn back to his girlfriend, “how does it feel to have such a talented driver as your boyfriend?“
one moment… how does magui feel? why aren’t you caring about how he feels? he is doing a great job! he is giving his all and he is having intense training to achieve his dreams… and your asking magui? lando doesn’t seem to notice that you play your cards just right. you know exactly what you’re doing by depriving your attention from him, leaving him yearning for your attention. why weren’t you giving your attention to him?
magui, just another pawn in your game feels almost honored that you indeed see her value in this too. she beams with pride, her smile lighting her face up when she reaches across the table to take landos hand “oh it’s amazing. he is very talented, no?“ she is squeezing his hand affectionately and he has to double take to make sure it‘s his girlfriend sitting before him. he always feels like it takes a lot to make her praise him. nonetheless he loves hearing it. it‘s just… unusual.
lando looks back up at you with an intense look and finds himself rather irritated when you wouldn’t meet his gaze again, leaving him starved for your attention. and you feel it. you feel every shift in his seat, every glance, every overlook he does on you. and it fills you with immense satisfaction. you have both right where you want them to be. “you’re really luck to have a boyfriend like him.“ you tell her, winking at her that has her giggling rather easily.
and magui wants to keep talking to you. she wants to know more and tell you how nice you are and that you should maybe catch up someday. but a nosy charles is poking his head through the cafeteria door, calling out for you. god forbid you stay unattended for more than five minutes. you bid your goodbyes to the pair and mind you only smiling at the blonde girl but not even sharing another glance with, lando you’re out the door.
he stares after you, watching that ass sway away in perfect jeans like they are waving him a mockingly that tells him he can never have it. “she’s really nice. right, baby?“ magui points out, lacing her fingers with landos but he is not here. again. far gone in a universe that evolves around you so effortlessly he doesn’t notice how he gets pulled in your web. however he snaps back before it can get suspicious enough, offering her a warm smile before his coffee cup takes his interest more than anything in this room could. “yeah she is… nice.“
…
there is no need to mention that monaco was crazy. the crowd was crazy and the vibes the drivers where met with. lando won the race, making it feel like a one in a lifetime experience with how over the top he felt. sad that magui can‘t be there he was fast to text her, sending her a picture of the trophy he was fast to receive a text and a virtual kiss. at least a reminder that he loved her.
he needed the reminder when the temptation walked into the club in a short sparkly dress, knee high leather boots and a face that makes every man turn. and that ass? absolutely unforgettable.
the road was clear without his girlfriend clinging on him and you were using every opportunity. and first, lando thought he was crazy. it looked like you were talking to him, when you weren’t. every time you walked passed you brushed his arm, his hip, his back. and on some occasions you winked at him. why he thought he was crazy? because no one seemed to notice. you had a way of playing the scene so perfectly it was driving him up the wall.
when you were standing outside the club, nursing your drink and typing away on your phone he has had enough. lando steps outside, frustration and irritation evident on his face. he approaches you, almost brushing against you but stopping short. “you really enjoy playing these games, huh?“ he asks gruffly, eyes zeroed out on you with something close to hatred. he hated you. no?
you raise an eyebrow, turning around unhurried at the sudden outburst happening right behind you. wrapping your lips around the straw provocatively lando follows the motion before quickly adverting his eyes. fucking tease. “games? what are you talking about?“ the feigned confusion in your face just makes the blood simmer under the surface more than he cares to admit how much you actually affect him.
landos jaw clenches. he looks up for a brief second, taking a big gulp of air and trying to contain himself. “don‘t play dumb. the little touches, the smiles… you know exactly what you‘re doing.“ he steps closer, voice dropping to a low growl almost.
you chuckle, not getting scared at all by this attempt of being intimidating. you know these games and how to play them. the best is to make them drool first before dinner is served. and right now it really seems that he is starting to foam at the mouth. lando norris might just be your master work of all times.
“are you not getting any attention, lando? why are you frustrated with me?“ you say taking another sip of your drink. you don’t think you have ever see clear blue eyes like his darken so fast it was deeper than the night itself. and maybe you should have felt bad at teasing this poor guy to a degree he couldn‘t even keep up anymore. but it was too delicious to just drop it. and besides you were in too deep to let it go.
landos look narrows at you, lowering his face to get closer. his fury seems to start boiling over slowly but surely. “i‘m not frustrated because i don’t get any attention. i‘m frustrated because you’re sending me mixed signals,“ he says through gritted teeth, feeling like he shouldn’t be even talking to you at all. he should just leave. never talk, listen or look at you ever again. it‘s like your hexing him, turning his head into a scary direction. and suddenly he has problems keeping his attention on one woman. or maybe you weren’t even a part of his mind trouble. you genuinely made him believe it would be his fault. “what do you want from me?“
your smirk widens into a mischievous grin, hand brushing his chest as you step probably impossibly closer. “what i want from you?“ your murmur and landos stomach clenches at the waft of your perfume, at your touch and that gorgeous face with big eyes only looking at him. fuck. he thinks no one has looked at him like this ever in his life.
“absolutely everything“
with that you brush past him, leaving lando speechless and spit drying in his throat. he follows you with his eyes until you disappear between people and he has to take a big breath. there was no one quite like you, he figured. and what he hated even more that he could never say this about his own girlfriend.
…
the monaco heat was burning down on the pavement and the free time period had lando get out of his apartment and roam the city a little. but he grew bored fast and realised that it would be much more realistic for him to just get on his yacht and let loose.
the facetime call connected and magui was talking animatedly how well the job went. she met some very nice girls on the trip to paris and even on set everyone was so nice it was all and all a good experience. and while lando listened attentively, placing all his belongings on the table under the deck his eyes wandered over the scenery. it was a beautiful weather to begin with. the sun lit up the sea in the most magical way, shining down on the landscape and your ass… wait.
landos eyes widened and first he thought it was a bad joke. on deck of the other yacht was no one else than your very naked body. because the tiny leo print bikini you were wearing left absolutely nothing to the imagination. the sun kissed your back while your eyes were hid by your channel sunglasses, soft rap music playing in the background. he was sure if he didn’t look away very soon he would start to drool. fuck… fuck fuck fuck. pathetic.
“yes, my love. i’ll be there. you want me to pick up the dress for you on my way there?“ god bless his subconscious. lando turns away quickly from the tempting sight, smiling at magui who was still on facetime. her smile only widened and he couldn’t stop the gnawing feeling of guilt bite away on his heart bit by bit. “that would be amazing. you’re the best, you know that?“ yep. guilt it was.
“i’ll see you soon, yes? go and get some rest from the long flight.“ lando says, waiting for her to blow her usual kiss before he ends the call. okay, now what? he totally forgot that charles yacht was docked right next to his and that you, in fact, still had been in monaco. there were only two options really. he enjoys the sunny day and ignores your very naked ass in that poor excuse of a bikini or he lets you play with his mind a little more. no, he wouldn’t give you any more space or opportunity to do this. lando was not going to be another participant in your games.
so he peeled his t-shirt off, changed into his swim trunks and took a good cool dip in the water before he lied down on the deck on one of the sunbeds. and you wouldn’t be attentively you if you didn’t already see him. pushing your sunglasses down your nose you smirked when you saw his tanned chest over the rim of your sunglasses. you could only imagine what it felt like sliding your hand up that faint line of abs to his silver chain, wrapping it around two fingers and pulling him in.
and the best thing about all this was that you didn’t even plan this. universe liked to play in your cards and while you had no idea who’s yacht belonged to who it was even more of a thrill to see the very muse of your desires share a sunny day with you. unhurriedly you turned around, propping yourself up on your elbows and fixing your bikini. he would be here soon anyway and you would have to do absolutely nothing. it’s just how your magic worked.
while lando would see that very differently since he promised himself long ten minutes ago that he wouldn’t waste any more thought on you, he had done a pretty good job not glancing over. he was enjoying the sun for five more minutes max before his phone send him an annoying message while he was mindlessly scrolling through it. 10% batterie. yes, he had ignored the first warning but letting it die was not an option. he had a dinner later and would need to have it with him. so he stood up, making his way inside and grabbing the empty space his charger is always placed in. he double takes to make sure but it still doesn’t appear at the double take.
he sighs in defeat. magui. she took it with her the last time they were here because she forgot her own at home. no… this is bad. this is so bad. head rising to look at the boat next to him he saw himself having no other choice. at least he can say he had strong fifteen minutes. now, no need to be nuts… he’s just gonna get over there and ask you for a charger… wouldn’t be that hard, no?
“i… forgot my charger… can i… like…. borrow yours?“ you tilt your head to the source of the voice, pushing your sunglasses up to your head. a big, annoyingly attractive grin spreads on your face when you realise who it is. lando holds up his phone as an explanation briefly, trying to not make it sound stupid how he found his way over here. and even when his expression stays gruff, his eyes hold a small spark of intimidation at your cocky glance.
“look what we have here… if i didn’t know better i might accuse you of stalking soon,“ you say, sitting up and fixing the bra of your bikini. landos cheeks flush slightly at the sight and your accusation. he feels the irritation flare already although you two have barely shared a few words. was there even a chance to not get irritated by you? he really wondered why everyone seemed to like you so much.
“don’t flatter yourself,“ he retorts dryly, crossing his arms over his chest “at least i am not the one flirting with a guy who has a girlfriend.“ all he earns from you is a laugh that is mocking him. a sound that comes deep within, telling him you’re never sorry. “you think i’m flirting with you?“ you ask, standing up from your spot and brushing past him deliberately, letting the skin on skin contact sizzle on your skin for the remaining moment “please… you’re mid at best“
lando can’t help but take your words as a hit to his ego. he follows you under deck, trying to not stare at that ass that looked at him first. mid? did you really think he was mid or were you toying with him? He was a fine man, he could only assume since so many girls wanted him. since his girlfriend wanted him. so why did you say he was mid? and why did he give a fuck?
walking over to the sofa you bend over deliberately to grab the charger from the small glass table. sure, you could have just walked around, but where’s the fun in that? and he sees the way your bikini pulls so faintly over the spot that has him weak in his knees. lando feels his dick stir and quickly draws a hand over his face. good god… the weather makes him delusional “you’re fucking distracting,“ he comments bothered, pinching the bridge of his nose to avoid looking at you.
a mindless chuckle leaves your lips and you turn around to him. you know he is afraid. afraid that he might find more interest in you than he would in his girlfriend. that his attraction to you is not so fleeting and accidental. but fact is, your games had burrowed itself like a woodworm into his brain, making him feel like he is portraying his insecurities on you. why else would he be so tense around you always? it doesn’t make sense. why isn’t it easy to brush you off? “compared to what? your girlfriend?“
lando steps forward, wanting to grab the charger from your hands but you’re quick to pull it behind your back. he looks down and sees pure challenge in your eyes while he is burning with impatience to get off of your boat and out of that venomous aura. “at least she’s not a manipulative little bitch like you.“
his words seem to have nothing on you. your smirk only widens. only when he steps closer but still attempts to not touch you. when all his brain does is contemplate to grab the charger or grab you. turn you around and spank that ass until it’s raw. good lord.
“now… you don’t bite the hand that gives you a charger. after all you’re in my space. you should be a little nicer. like say please and thank you,“ you say, making it very clear who has the upper hand, if it wasn’t clear already. even if lando liked to believe he had a strong character he felt absolutely helpless.
he tries to grab the charger again, but ends up having you pressed against him when you lean forward, hand with charger still behind your back “you know what i realised?“ you murmur voice low enough to make the hairs stand on his back in the most uncomfortable way. his eyes zeroing out on you while heat crawls up between you two. “that boys like you are so used to getting everything they want. you get away with absolutely everything… but the moment you don’t get what you want? you start to act like the topic is the problem… am i right?“
there it was again. that woodworm biting away on his sane thoughts. the woodworm that is you. his eyes narrow, hands bracing themselves either side of you on the sofa, fingers digging in so he can keep himself from grabbing your hips. he can’t decide it anymore. it’s like you brainwashed him. maybe it were his insecurities. maybe he was acting like a dick because he secretly wanted you and painted you the villain while it was him?
“why can’t you leave me alone? why can’t you leave my life alone? my thoughts…?“ his words low, a deep grumble that has you bite your lower lip in anticipation. you just wanted to press against him, feel that naked warm body and his large hands grabbing you roughly. “didn’t you came over? asking for my charger?“ you ask deliberately, letting the implication hang in the air once again. “and besides… i am not even doing much and yet here you are… trembling and thinking about another girl.“
landos frustration threatens to boil over once again faster than he can look, making it easy to almost loose his composure. the ice is so thin it could break any moment and he fears there won’t be dry land ever again if it once breaks. he leans in, aware that he’s stupidly playing into your cards, proving your point effortlessly. “i’m not trembling.“
your face is smug, holding out the charger to him “shouldn’t be a problem then to take this and go back to your own boat, am i right?“ you don’t move away from him, calling his bluff. you’re testing him and it gets harder to maintain whatever semblance of control he thinks he has. he doesn’t grab the charger right away but stays in the proximity like a frozen man.
you dare to go one more further, your free hand teases the hem of his trunks with your fingertips, two hooking into it only to pull him closer. breath hitching audibly, lando has to choke back a groan “are you not curious, lando?“ his name a soft purr on your tongue almost makes him fold. he swallows but stays quiet for his own sake while he can feel his dick react to your touch. “how it would feel to be with someone else? to bring some change into your life every now and then. the thrill, the excitement?“
he growls softly when you snap his waistband, letting a triumphant smirk appear on your face. fucking minx. “i’m not cheating on magui for a fuck.“ he says, taking the charger from your hands and stepping away. he prays you won’t see the ridiculous bulge in his trunks from such a brief touch and reminds himself to take a cool shower once on his boat. “don’t fucking play games with me!“ he points a finger at you before turning away quickly “leave me and my girlfriend alone.“
his warning has you chuckle as you watch him leave the underdeck with crossed arms. “don’t worry. I will,“ you say, knowing exactly it’s just a matter of time before he comes back. before he finds you again and before he falls for you again. and the next time you will make sure he doesn’t get away so fast. you’re counting the days already.
…
maguis birthday party was a big beautiful luxurious one. she rented a beautiful villa for that day and the setting sun complimented with bathing the beautiful surroundings in a pink and orange. more and more people started to arrive while the birthday queen herself was smiling from ear to ear. lando kissed her on the lip, gave her the present he had for her and started to mingle with her friends.
suddenly big laughter echoes from the hallway to the terrace and lando has to look to the cause of maguis sudden squealing. however he was definitely not prepared to see you hugging his girlfriend and wishing her the happiest birthday. his eyes widened when he saw the black lace top and leather pants that made you look so fucking hot it almost hurt. especially since he came close to knowing what was underneath it.
“fuck… she‘s fine, who’s that?“ one of maguis guy friends said, making lando clench his jaw. it was just so like you to pull all the attention on you wherever you went. “that‘s charles leclerc sister,“ he answers, acting unfazed while watching the liquor in his cup. he intentionally avoids your presence, darting it rather towards his drink then to his phone. but magui had other plans.
pulling you along towards lando and her friends she introduced you to them before turning to lando “look who made it to the party!“ she said happily and his heart almost broke at how happy she was. unbeknownst to her that she let the viper with toxic teeth and ill intensions inside her party. lando forced himself to smile, giving you subtle warning eyes “how come?“ he asks a little on the edge.
“oh, i invited her. and i‘m so happy you made it!“ she exclaims, hugging you again which you had to take and control your facial expression to not roll your eyes here on the spot. “besides, i love your lipstick.“
you smile at her, and only lando knows it‘s so fake. he knows exactly that you probably and most likely can’t stand magui. “thanks, it‘s dior. wanna get a drink?“
for the rest of the night lando falls into the habit of being an absolute dick on his girlfriends party. when magui wants to pull him to dance he fakes a smile, shaking his head. he ditches her kisses and acts uneasy all night. and what pisses him off even more is that ever since you left to get drinks with magui, you haven’t even looked once at him. you avoid him like the plague and the worst is you fucking act like you’re the kindest and nicest girl with the blonde.
aforementioned walks up to you with a new drink in hand, and a pout on that pretty face. you frown “what’s wrong, birthday girl?“ you ask, raising an eyebrow. she groans, rolling her eyes and offering lando a brief glance who stands by the bar and wears a sour expression.
“lando‘s being a moody bitch and i don‘t know whats wrong with him…“ she sighs, taking a sip from her drink in attempt to cool down. “besides… he keeps starring at you like he wants to kill you… creepy right?“ she chuckles which you mimic, looking up finally at lando who indeed glares at you. your smirk widens and you look back at the blonde “you want me to go talk to him? it‘s not okay for him to act like a bitch on his girls birthday,“ you click your tongue, but the fire that just lit up in your eyes is one that is unknown to the poor girl.
maguis look turns into delight and she smiles at the offer. "you would really do that? i mean… you really don’t have to deal with his mood swings.“
but you only chuckles, shaking your head. “please, believe me i know how to deal with moody men“ you say, placing your drink down on the nearby table. “you’re the best you know that?“ she says sweetly, hugging you before walking off to join her friends.
once she’s gone your smirk widens, and you lock eyes with an annoyed lando who follows you with his eyes inside the big villa. you make your way through the people, then upstairs into one of the bathrooms. it’s dimly lit and kept in dark tones just like the whole vibe of the villa is. one thing you have to give her, she has a very good taste. in houses and man.
pulling out our you lipstick from the small bag you start applying before the door opens and lando walks in without an invitation. and it only took him less than five minutes to follow you inside physically too. “you’re being a bitch on your girlfriend’s party….and she’s pissed about it“ you say unfazed, not glancing at him while applying the red lipstick in the mirror. and if you were honest you couldn’t care less about magui and who was being a bitch to her. but rather about the very man standing a few feet away from you.
lando crosses his arms over his chest, the black shirt stretching over his muscles a little too deliciously. “is she now? did you tell her why?“ slowly his hands find their way on the countertop on either side of you, caging you in. just like on the boat, your skin heats up again. he is so close, yet so far with the space he still tries to maintain.
you scoff, closing your red lipstick and placing it back in your mini bag besides the mirror “no, i couldn’t possibly know why you’re being moody… i can’t take a look in peoples heads, you know“ you answer, turning your head and smirking at him. your faces are only inches apart, a breath being exchanged to the other already felt like too much intimacy. your eyes darted down to his lips before back up, that cocky expression remaining.
his heart skips a beat at your look that doesn’t last long as you glance back into the mirror, fixing your make up “care to explain so i can tell her?“
lando leans in, desire and anger fueling his body from the insides when he smells your sweet perfume. it’s like fucking poison, drawing him in and has his eyes close for the briefest moment. he really tries to keep it together but fuck… that perfect ass is almost brushing against his hardening dick. “wouldn’t want you to ruin my relationship with your little manipulative games now, wouldt i?“ he murmurs, breath ghosting your ear like a taunt and you know you have him.
you lean back against lando, your back on his broad chest as you lock eyes with him intentionally in the mirror. “you want it too. you know you do…“ you whisper, and it feels like a spell he is completely hostage to. his hand grabs your jaw roughly in frustration, making you look at him. “want what exactly…“ he growls in question, suddenly realizing how easy it would be to bend you over and fuck that attitude out of you in a hard way. maybe then he will get you out of his system.
“everything i can give you..“ you hum, your breath on his lips “you want the thrill, you want the fire… you want to be bad for me.“
landos blue eyes bore into yours, the intensity between you two palpable. and he feels so pathetic for falling for it. if he thinks about it a moment more he believes that he never really stood a chance. just like any other man he let you spin him in your endless web of games and manipulation. and fuck yes, does he love the fire. he wants it. all of it. he wants you to be that cocky cheeky girl who understands him. who knows what he wants even if he doesn’t say it out loud. he wants to be a fool for your games only just so he can fuck you in every single way possible.
he feels his last restrains being cut off so easily by your eyes, red lips and body heat. he can’t even contain it anymore, his other hand grabbing onto your waist greedily has your smirk widen. “look at you… already grabbing onto me like you wanna fuck me…“
and god, does he want you to shut up. he wants you to shut up so bad he never has to hear that voice again that suddenly mirrors his own inner voice it’s too real. lando wants you to shut up so bad, he crashes his lips against yours in a hungry, needy kiss.
feeling triumphant to have finally broken the ice you turn around to him, wrapping your arms around his neck while pulling him closer. the kiss is messy, hot and either of you trying to dominate the other into endless submission. but both of you know already, that lando long lost this fight. even if he kisses you with all the pent up desire. all the pent up frustration that has been building in his core ever since he laid eyes on you.
his hands slide down, grabbing onto that ass he had always dreamed off. squeezing your cheeks he groans softly into the kiss. “you damn tease…“ he murmurs against your lips, letting you bury your hair in his curls to tug on them.
“please… you love the chase,“ you say in a confident tone, feeling his hands pull you closer to his rock hard cock you can make out through his pants. it presses urgently against your stomach, not leaving any room for further imagination. hard for you and your games, your chase and all the thrill you caused him. “you little manipulative-“
his words die in his throat when there is a knock on the bathroom door “lando?“ magui calls out, making his eyes widen. he tries to pull away from you, but you would never let it come that far. no, not when you played him down into a position like this. grabbing his collar you pull him back “if you don’t answer the door i’m sucking your dick.“
he can feel it twitch. responding to your very promise. lando almost feels bad when he doesn’t even think about it, only burying his face in your neck to leave wanting open mouthed kisses there. he pants heavily, like he is still trying to hold back to a degree. which only turns you on more.
your smirk widens, and your hands slide down to open his belt with a soft clink “it’s just me in here, mags…“ you call back, opening landos pants and feeling his tasty hard dick brush against your fingers “don’t know where lando went… he stormed away like a bitch after i told him off…“
landos growl is displeased against the skin of your neck. oh you’re having too much fun with this. and you’re probably going to milk it dry and tease him about it more than he would like it. but the moment you pull his boxers down and wrap your hand around it, his eyes roll back and he keeps himself from making any sounds.
he hears magui answer something that is too quiet for the rushing in his ears that he doesn’t even hear it. only when her footsteps fade into the distance you drop on your knees. lando looks down, eyes hooded already and hand burying in your hair immediately. “fuck… look at this hard cock. is it aching for me?“
you ask with a smirk, licking up the shaft and watch him struggle. his head falls back against the wall with a small thud while his fingers tighten in your hair possessively, afraid that you will stop and claim it as one of your games. “yes… oh god…“ he pants, all hot and bothered “…it is aching all for you. for your mouth, your tongue, your throat.“
he is being such a good boy you can’t even push the taunting more. wrapping your lips around his head you slowly take him inch by inch. hand working on the rest while his hard dick gets covered in your red lipstick. his pre cum on your tongue tastes like sweet victory and has your core pulsing to an itchy degree.
landos mouth is open in a silent moan, your lips and warm mouth feeling so heavenly on him. the way you suck lightly, hands gently playing with his balls has him believe he died and went to heaven while all he knows he is in hell. he looks absolutely wrecked. the kind of wrecked that makes him not give a fuck about anything else except fucking your mouth.
“holy fuck…“ he groans when he feels him hit the back of your throat. he looks down at you, looking up at him with those mischievous eyes while your mouth is stuffed full of his cock. “you love sucking cock like this, huh? little slut…“
you moan around him, not getting offended even the little bit. and while your goal was to suck him as dry as the desert you feel him pull your mouth off of him, tilting your head up. “bend over the counter before i loose my fucking mind…“ he warns, brushing your hair out of the way.
and you don’t need to be told twice. getting to your feet you earn a bruising kiss before his sloppy and impatient movements undo your pants along with your thong, letting you step out of them. lando turns you around, bending you over the sink.
you bite your lower lip when he grabs onto your ass demandingly, pulling you back immediately. you groan in satisfaction when he slides his hard dick through your wet folds. wet you're absolutely soaked. “like this, baby?“ you say with uncontained desperation in your voice, using the nickname deliberately. “see? i told you i don‘t need to run… you will come yourself.“
landos jaw clenches at the nickname, even if it sounds so good coming from you. but damn, he gets irritated at every one of your words. without a warning he slams all inside and it has you jolt forward and yelp. you have to take a few seconds to realise how full you feel. so blissful that your mouth hangs open, just soaking in the way his cock stretches you like you were made for him. he stays in this position, letting you adjust and watching that smart mouth going silent in the mirror. now he is the one to smirk, enjoying the change of dynamic so much.
“shut up and take it…“ he growls, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back inside. his hips start a slow but deep rhythm, his whole face contorted in pleasure at the sensation. it‘s better than anything he has ever felt. he is completely focused on you, forgetting an important someone that is still waiting for him on her own party. too lost to care.
“oh fuck…“ you whimper, the sound of your wetness being fucked so good echoes in the small bathroom. “is this what you wanted? getting fucked by a taken man? like a good slut?“ lando murmurs in your ear, leaning over and changing the angle just enough to make the breath knock out of your lungs.
“yes… fuck yes…“ before a loud moan can leave your lips, his hand clasps around those pretty lips that sucked him off just moments ago. lando picks up on speed, and grins when he hears your loud uninhibited moans are muffled against his palm. he should have known you‘re loud. and he really would have loved the whole show. but something about keeping you quiet after all the teasing, all the comments and all the drama has him use this to his very advantage.
the sight of you falling apart on his cock, enjoying every second is so filthy and beautiful it snaps something inside him. he thrusts his hips forward urgently, other hand on your waist to keep you exactly where you are while hitting your good spot over and over again. “take my cock… take it deep… fuck…“ he starts panting himself, wanting to blow all his load into you punishingly. he watches your gorgeous eyes water, mascara running down your face while he pushes you over the edge faster than you can realise.
your legs shake as you come, hungry moans against his palm as you shut your eyes for the remaining moment. it comes so damn close to an outer body experience the way he handles you and fucks you all through it. this man sure as hell knows what he is doing and you feel absolutely no shame in having pursued him for so long. not when this was the outcome.
feeling your pussy squeeze his cock like a vice makes his balls tighten instantly. burying his face in the crook of your neck landos groans have your stomach tightening. and the brit is so lost, he almost doesn’t pull out. nothing in him wishes he would.
nontheless he pulls out just in time, jerking himself off before finishing on that perfect ass and lower back. he lets go of your mouth, you small pants finding a way out of your body having you almost gasp for air at how intense the orgasm was. landos hot load covers your skin and you feel it dripping down between your cheeks. “look at that perfect ass..“ he pants, slapping your right cheek softly, making you giggle.
you look over your shoulder, lipstick smudged, mascara tears and the best fucked out expression he has ever seen on a woman. you’re sin embodied. he grabs onto your ass one more time, almost like memorising how it feels before he has to admire it from afar again. grabbing the towel he cleans you up gently, before swatting it one more time. “no word to magui… this never happened!“ he warns you in a low voice tucking himself away before leaving the bathroom as fast as he came.
you only grin to yourself, taking time to get dressed and fixed up again. oh yeah… for this comment he deserves to not being told one little issue that will give it all away. he should already know better than to fuck you over like this. he should already know you better than to mess with the master of the game.
no ten minutes left before you‘re all put together again, walking down the stairs only to hear arguing coming up in an echo. a temperamental voice that sounds much like maguis and landos irritated ones.
“...what the fuck do you mean? and who‘s fucking lipstick is that all over your mouth?“ she shouts, throwing her hands in the air. their eyes fall on you when you pass them with a small smile “i told you it’s dior,“ you answer before brushing past her and leaving the party. in disaster and flames. just like you were always known to be.
Summary: you’re curvy, confident, and completely unprepared for the way a certain Ferrari driver forgets how to speak English the moment you climb out of the Mediterranean in that red bikini. Charles Leclerc turns into an absolute disaster around you. And honestly? It’s the most endearing thing you've ever seen. (Featuring summer in Sardinia, yachts parked a little too close, and a racing driver who can handle 350 km/h but not the way you smile at him. This is going to be a problem.)
Divided into two parts because this is long and tumblr hates me: read part II here 💙
The Mediterranean sun beats down on the deck of Sedici, and Charles is exactly where he needs to be — nowhere. No strategy meetings, no simulator work, no debriefs about what went wrong. Just the gentle rock of the yacht, the sound of Joris and Andrea arguing about whether they should swim to that cove or the other cove, and the blessed absence of anything requiring him to think about apex speeds.
“I’m telling you, the water is better on the east side,” Joris insists, gesturing with a beer that’s leaving condensation trails across the teak deck.
“You said that yesterday, and there were jellyfish,” Andrea counters.
Charles sprawls across one of the sun loungers, arm thrown over his eyes, grinning. “There were three jellyfish. You screamed like-”
“I did not scream-”
“You absolutely screamed,” Arthur chimes in from the water, where he’s been floating on his back for the past twenty minutes. “I heard it from underwater.”
“It was a tactical warning shout.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
Charles laughs, the kind of loose, easy laugh that only comes during summer break when the championship standings feel like someone else’s problem. His mother had looked at him two weeks ago and said, “You need to rest, chéri. You look tired.” She was right. She’s always right. So here he is, doing absolutely nothing, and it’s perfect.
Lorenzo surfaces near Arthur with a splash that’s definitely intentional, based on Arthur’s indignant yelp. “There’s another yacht coming in,” he announces, shaking water from his hair.
“Okay?” Charles doesn’t open his eyes. Yachts come and go. That’s sort of how marinas work.
“Big one. American flag.”
“Très bien. Welcome to Sardinia, Americans.”
“She’s parking close,” Lorenzo adds, which is unusual because there’s plenty of space in this part of the bay, but whatever. Charles is too relaxed to care about maritime parking etiquette.
He must doze off for a bit because the next thing he knows, Joris is shaking his shoulder. “Mate. Charles. You have to see this.”
“See what?” Charles mumbles, not moving his arm from his face.
“Just trust me.”
There’s something in Joris’s voice that makes Charles actually sit up, squinting against the brightness. “What am I looking-”
And then he sees you.
You’re climbing out of the water onto the neighboring yacht’s swim platform, and Charles forgets how to finish his sentence. Actually, he might forget how to speak English entirely, which is concerning because he was relatively fluent in it this morning.
You’re laughing at something someone on your yacht said, head thrown back, water streaming down your shoulders, your curves, catching the sunlight like diamonds. Your bikini is tiny and red and completely devastating to his ability to form coherent thoughts. You’re not what anyone would call traditionally “yacht thin” — you’re soft and round and real in ways that make his mouth go dry.
“Charles?” Joris waves a hand in front of his face. “You okay?”
“I—yes. What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m not.” He absolutely is.
You wring out your hair, and the movement does things to your silhouette that should probably be illegal in international waters. You’re curvy in a way that makes him forget every type he’s ever claimed to have. His mind has gone completely blank except for a very loud internal voice screaming that he needs to meet you immediately.
“She’s pretty,” Andrea observes, coming to stand next to them.
“Pretty?” Charles finally tears his eyes away. “That’s—she’s-” What are words? He used to know words.
Joris grins, the bastard. “Oh, this is amazing.”
“What is?”
“You’ve forgotten how to speak.”
“I can speak fine.” Even as he says it, he knows it sounds defensive. “I speak very good.”
“‘Very good.’ Wow. Eloquent.”
Arthur and Lorenzo have pulled themselves onto the deck now, both tracking Charles’s line of sight. Arthur whistles low. “She’s not your usual type.”
“I don’t have a type,” Charles protests, but it’s weak. Everyone knows he has a type, or had a type, or thought he had a type until approximately three minutes ago when you climbed out of the Mediterranean looking like every summer fantasy he didn’t know he had.
“She’s American,” Lorenzo points out, as if this is a relevant concern.
“So?” Charles is still watching you. You’ve wrapped a towel around your waist now, though it doesn’t do much to help his concentration. You’re talking to someone who’s just emerged from the cabin. Older man, confident bearing, the kind of casual wealth that doesn’t announce itself.
“So your English gets weird when you’re nervous,” Arthur says.
“My English is fine.”
“Is it though?” Joris grins wider. “Say something complex. Right now.”
“I hate all of you.” But Charles knows they’re right. His English does get weird when he’s nervous. Or when he’s tired. Or, apparently, when there’s a gorgeous woman on the neighboring yacht who’s completely rewired his brain.
You disappear into the cabin, and Charles feels the loss like a physical thing.
“You should go over there,” Andrea suggests.
“And say what? ‘Hello, I forgot how to speak English because you’re in a bikini?’”
“Maybe more subtle than that.”
“Maybe lead with your name,” Joris offers helpfully.
Lorenzo leans against the railing. “The yacht is called Dynasty. Very American.”
“What does that mean?” Charles asks.
“Means they have money. Old money, probably.”
You reappear with a drink in hand, settling onto one of their loungers, and Charles watches you tilt your face up to the sun. There’s something unselfconscious about the way you move, like you’re not performing for anyone, just existing in your body with complete ease. It’s mesmerizing.
“Okay, new plan,” Joris says. “We throw a party. Tonight. Invite the neighbors.”
“That’s not subtle,” Andrea points out.
“It doesn’t have to be subtle. It has to get her on this yacht.”
Charles runs a hand through his hair, which is definitely not nervousness. “I don’t even know if she speaks French.”
“She’s American, she speaks English. You speak English. Mostly.”
“I speak perfect English.”
“Sure you do, buddy.” Arthur claps him on the shoulder. “That’s why you’re standing here like you’ve been hit by a car instead of going over there.”
“I’m not-” Charles stops. “I just. I don’t want to be weird.”
“Too late,” Lorenzo says cheerfully.
You laugh at something on your phone, and the sound carries across the water. It’s bright and genuine and makes something in Charles’s chest do a complicated thing that feels dangerous.
“She’s probably not even single,” he mutters.
“Only one way to find out.”
“By throwing a party?”
“By throwing a party,” Joris confirms. “Or you could swim over there right now and introduce yourself like a normal person.”
Charles looks at the gap between the yachts. It’s maybe fifteen meters. He could do it easily. He’s a good swimmer. He could just … swim over. Say hello. Be normal.
Except you’re standing up now, stretching, and the movement makes your towel slip a little, and Charles forgets how to swim. He forgets how to do anything except stare like an idiot.
“I’ll handle the party,” Joris says, pulling out his phone. “Andrea, you’re in charge of music. Lorenzo, Arthur — we need food. Lots of it.”
“What’s Charles in charge of?” Arthur asks.
“Not drowning in fifteen meters of water, apparently.”
“I hate you all,” Charles repeats, but there’s no heat in it. He’s too busy watching you settle back into your lounger, one leg bent, the other stretched out, like you’re posing for a painting titled Woman Who Has Destroyed a Racing Driver’s Peace of Mind.
Your father — it has to be your father — says something to you, and you respond with an animated gesture that makes it clear you’re telling a story. Charles wants to know the story. He wants to know all the stories. He wants to know why you’re in Sardinia and what you think about everything and whether you always laugh like that or if today is special.
“Charles.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You’re doing it again,” Joris says.
“Doing what?”
“The staring thing. It’s intense, mate.”
“I’m just—I’m looking at the yacht. It’s a nice yacht.”
“Sure. The yacht. That’s what you’re looking at.”
Someone from your yacht — crew member, probably — brings you another drink, and you thank them with a smile that Charles feels in his knees. This is ridiculous. He’s a Formula 1 driver. He’s been on podiums in front of hundreds of thousands of people. He’s done press conferences in four languages. He can talk to a woman on a neighboring yacht.
Probably.
Maybe.
You stand again, this time pulling off the towel, and Charles watches you dive into the water with a grace that seems impossible. You surface a few meters out, floating on your back, and he can see you’re comfortable in the water, natural in it, like you grew up on boats.
“Okay,” he says, surprising himself. “I’m going.”
“Going where?” Andrea looks suspicious.
“Swimming. It’s hot. I’m going swimming.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Near their yacht?”
“It’s a free ocean, Joris.”
His friends exchange glances that are extremely loud without being verbal.
“Don’t be weird!” Arthur calls as Charles moves to the swim platform.
“I’m not weird!”
He dives in before he can overthink it, the water cool and perfect against his sun-heated skin. He surfaces, shakes his hair out, and starts swimming in your general direction. Casual. Easy. Just a guy swimming in the Mediterranean. Nothing strange about that.
You’re floating maybe twenty meters from your yacht, eyes closed, completely relaxed. Charles swims closer, trying to figure out how to do this without seeming like a creep. Does he say something? Does he splash to announce his presence? Does he-
“If you’re trying to sneak up on me, you’re not very good at it.”
Your voice startles him so badly he actually inhales some water and has to cough, which is absolutely not the first impression he wanted to make. You’ve opened your eyes and are treading water now, looking at him with amusement that makes his embarrassment about eight thousand times worse.
“I wasn’t-” Cough. “I was just-” Cough. “Swimming.”
“Uh-huh.” You’re grinning now, and it’s not helping his ability to function. “You’re on that yacht, right? Sedici?”
“Yes. I’m-” Oh God, what’s his name? He has a name. He definitely has a name. “Charles.”
“Y/N.” You extend your hand, which is a funny thing to do while treading water, but he shakes it anyway. Your skin is cool from the sea, your grip firm. “Nice to meet you, Charles-from-Sedici.”
“Just Charles. Is okay. Fine. Just Charles is fine.” Dear God, someone end this.
But you just laugh, not meanly. “Okay, Just Charles. The water’s nice, huh?”
“Very nice. Yes. Perfect for …” What’s the word? What’s the thing you do in water? “… swimming.”
Your smile widens. “Swimming. Yeah, that’s generally what you do in water.”
Behind him, he can hear Joris and the others trying to contain their laughter. He’s going to murder all of them. After he figures out how to speak like a normal human.
“You’re here on vacation?” He manages, which is actually a complete sentence. Progress.
“Sort of. My family’s boat. We’re here for a few weeks. You?”
“Same. I mean, my boat. Not your family’s. My boat. With friends.”
“I figured it probably wasn’t my family’s boat.”
You’re teasing him. You’re definitely teasing him, and somehow that makes it easier. He finds himself smiling back, even though he’s pretty sure he sounds like he’s having a stroke.
“Where are you from?” He asks.
“Tennessee. You?”
“Monaco.”
“Fancy.” You flip onto your back again, floating. “Never been to Monaco.”
“Never been to Tennessee.” He wants to keep you talking. He also wants to rewind the last five minutes and start over with the ability to speak. “What brings you to Sardinia?”
“My dad wanted to cruise the Mediterranean. He’s obsessed with Italy. We’ve been island hopping.” You glance at him. “What about you?”
How does he explain summer shutdown without explaining Formula 1? Does he explain Formula 1? Do you know about Formula 1?
“Work break,” he settles on. “I needed to … not think for a while.”
“I feel that.” You’re quiet for a moment, just floating. “What do you do?”
Here it is. The moment where he has to decide. “I’m a racing driver.”
“Like NASCAR?”
“Formula 1.”
You flip back to treading water, looking at him with more interest. “Oh, shit. Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s so cool. I don’t know much about it, but my dad watches sometimes. Says it’s pure chaos.”
Charles laughs, and it comes out more natural this time. “Sometimes it is chaos, yes.”
“Do you like it?”
It’s such a simple question, but no one asks it like that. Everyone asks if he loves it, if he’s going to win the championship, if he thinks Ferrari can turn it around. No one asks if he simply likes it.
“Yes,” he says. “Most of the time.”
“And the other times?”
“The other times I come here and try to remember how to be a person who doesn’t think about tire deg and track limits.”
You laugh again, and Charles decides it’s his new favorite sound. “Tire deg?”
“Degradation. How the tires wear down.”
“That sounds stressful.”
“It can be.”
You study him for a moment, and Charles tries not to feel like he’s under a magnifying glass. “You seem pretty chill for someone with a stressful job.”
If only you knew that five minutes ago he forgot how to introduce himself. “Summer break is good for that.”
“Well, welcome to the neighborhood, Just Charles.” You start swimming back toward your yacht. “Try not to sneak up on any more unsuspecting swimmers.”
“I wasn’t sneaking-” But you’re already moving away, and he’s not sure if you’re dismissing him or just ending the conversation naturally, and his brain is too scrambled to figure it out.
He swims back to Sedici, where his friends are absolutely not trying to look like they weren’t watching the entire interaction.
“Well?” Joris asks as soon as Charles pulls himself onto the swim platform.
“Well what?”
“How did it go?”
“It went … fine.”
“Fine?” Andrea looks skeptical. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Her name is Y/N. She’s from Tennessee. Her family is here for a few weeks.” Charles grabs a towel, trying to act normal.
“And?”
“And what?”
“And are you going to see her again?” Arthur demands.
“I don’t know. Maybe. She went back to her yacht.”
Lorenzo grins. “So the party is definitely happening.”
“The party is definitely happening,” Joris confirms.
Charles wants to protest, but honestly, the party is definitely happening. Because you’re on that yacht, probably drying off right now, probably not thinking about him at all, and he’s already trying to figure out how soon he can accidentally-on-purpose run into you again.
This is going to be a problem.
A wonderful, terrible, completely unavoidable problem.
***
Charles has changed shirts three times.
This is a fact that Joris will absolutely never let him forget, but here he is, standing in front of the mirror in his cabin, pulling off a linen button-down and reaching for a different linen button-down that looks essentially identical to the first one.
“They’re the same shirt,” Arthur says from the doorway.
“They’re not the same. This one is-” Charles gestures vaguely at the fabric. “Different.”
“Different how?”
“The color.”
“They’re both white, mate.”
“This one is more … cream.”
Arthur stares at him. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“I haven’t lost anything.” Charles pulls on the cream shirt — which does look better, actually — and tries to make his hair do something other than what it’s currently doing. “Is everyone here?”
“Everyone who said they’d come. Plus like fifteen people no one invited.”
“How did that happen?”
“Because we’re in Sardinia in the middle of summer and word travels fast when there’s a party on a yacht.” Arthur leans against the doorframe. “Also I think Joris posted something on Instagram.”
“He what?”
“Relax. He was subtle. Just a story with some music playing. You can’t even tell it’s a party.”
Charles highly doubts this but doesn’t have time to worry about it because according to his watch it’s already past nine and the party started at eight-thirty and you still haven’t come over and maybe you’re not coming at all and maybe this entire thing was a terrible idea-
“She’ll come,” Arthur says, reading his mind.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t. That’s why you’ve changed shirts three times.”
“Twice.”
“I’ve been standing here for the third one.”
Charles gives up on his hair. It’s going to do what it wants anyway. “How do I look?”
“Like you’re trying too hard.”
“I’m not trying at all.”
“Then mission accomplished, I guess.” Arthur grins. “Come on. You’re hiding in here and it’s your party.”
The deck of Sedici has been transformed in the six hours since Charles went for that disastrous swim. There are lights strung everywhere, casting everything in a warm golden glow. Someone — probably Andrea — has set up a sound system that’s playing something electronic and French that Charles doesn’t recognize but sounds appropriately yacht-party-esque. There are people everywhere, and Charles genuinely doesn’t know where they all came from.
“Who are these people?” He mutters to Joris, who’s holding court near the bar.
“Friends. Friends of friends. That Swedish model Arthur met yesterday. Her friends. Some Italians from the marina. A couple Brits from that catamaran.” Joris hands him a drink. “You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For making this look like an actual party and not a desperate attempt to get your neighbor to come over.”
“I wasn’t-”
“Charles. Mate. I love you, but you’re a terrible liar.” Joris claps him on the shoulder. “Just relax. Have fun. If she comes, she comes.”
But Charles can’t relax because he keeps looking at Dynasty, trying to see if there’s any activity, any sign that you might be getting ready to come over. The yachts are close enough that he can see people moving around on your deck, but it’s hard to tell in the fading light.
“Stop staring,” Andrea says, appearing with a bottle of beer. “You look creepy.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re literally staring right now. I’m watching you do it.”
Charles accepts the beer because his hands need something to do. Someone calls his name and he gets pulled into a conversation about the racing season that he absolutely doesn’t want to have right now. He smiles and nods and says something about next year being the year, which is what he always says, and tries not to obviously keep looking toward Dynasty.
Forty-five minutes pass. Then an hour. Charles is starting to think you’re not coming, that maybe you just wanted to enjoy a quiet night on your own yacht, that maybe that conversation in the water was just politeness and nothing more-
“Charles.”
He turns, and Lorenzo is grinning at him with an expression that Charles immediately distrusts.
“What?”
“Tender approaching.”
Charles very carefully does not run to the railing. He walks at a normal pace, like a normal person who is not desperately hoping to see a specific person stepping off a tender.
And then he sees you.
If the bikini earlier broke his brain, the dress you’re wearing now completely destroys it. It’s short and black and clings to every curve, and you’re wearing heels that make your legs look about a mile long, and your hair is down and loose and catching the light from the string lights, and Charles forgets English. Then he forgets French. Then Italian. Then every other language he’s ever known, including the ones he made up with Arthur when they were kids.
“Breathe,” Joris murmurs next to him.
Charles realizes he’s actually forgotten to do that too.
You’re climbing onto the swim platform now, laughing at something the tender driver said, and then you’re on the deck and looking around with undisguised curiosity. Your eyes land on Charles, and you smile — actually smile at him — and he’s pretty sure his heart does something medically concerning.
“Hi,” you say, walking over. “Hope it’s okay I crashed.”
“No! I mean yes. I mean-” Charles takes a breath. “You’re welcome. Very welcome. We’re happy you’re here.”
“We?” You tease, glancing around. “This is quite a party for someone who needed to not think for a while.”
“My friends,” Charles gestures vaguely at Joris and the others, “they are very social.”
“I can see that.” You accept a drink from Andrea, who’s materialized with impeccable timing. “Thanks. I’m Y/N.”
“Andrea. This is Joris, that’s Lorenzo, and Arthur you’ll meet when he’s done pretending he’s not staring at the Swedish girl.”
You laugh, and Charles wants to record the sound. “Quite a crew you’ve got.”
“They’re terrible,” Charles says, which makes you laugh again, and okay, maybe he can do this. Maybe he can be normal.
“So Charles-from-Sedici,” you say, turning those eyes on him fully. “Give me the tour?”
“Tour. Yes. I can do tour.” Subject and verb. He’s basically fluent.
He leads you around the deck, hyper-aware of how close you’re walking, how your perfume smells like something expensive and summery, how your dress moves when you walk. He shows you the main deck, tries to remember the names of the various pieces of equipment, and definitely says “helm” when he means “bow” at one point.
“You okay?” You ask, and there’s amusement in your voice but also something that might be concern.
“Yes. Good. Just-” He gestures at the party. “Loud.”
“We can go somewhere quieter if you want.”
This seems like a monumentally dangerous idea for his ability to form sentences, but Charles nods anyway. “Upper deck?”
You follow him up the stairs, your heels clicking on the steps, and Charles tries very hard not to think about the fact that he’s leading you away from the party to a quieter, more private space. This is fine. This is normal. People do this at parties all the time.
The upper deck is empty and quieter, the party sounds floating up but muted. You lean against the railing, looking out at the lights of the other yachts, and Charles stands next to you trying to remember how conversations work.
“This is nice,” you say. “The whole setup. Sardinia. Must be a good life.”
“Sometimes.” He takes a sip of his beer. “Your yacht is very beautiful too.”
“My parents’ yacht,” you correct. “I’m just along for the ride.”
“What do they do? Your parents?”
“My dad owns a football team. American football. The Tennessee Titans.”
Charles blinks. He knows that name. “That’s … big.”
“Yeah, he’s done pretty well for himself.” You don’t say it like you’re bragging, just stating a fact. “Old Southern money mixed with new sports money. It’s a whole thing.”
“And you?”
“Me?” You turn to look at him. “I’m still figuring that out, honestly. Just finished grad school. MBA. Not sure I want to do the corporate thing, though.”
“What do you want to do?”
You consider this, swirling your drink. “Something that matters. I don’t know what yet. Maybe work with the team, maybe something else. My dad wants me to learn the business side, but …“ You trail off. “Sorry, this is probably boring.”
“No.” Charles says it too quickly, too intensely. “Not boring. I want to know.”
You study him for a moment, and Charles tries not to feel like you’re seeing through every awkward word to the disaster underneath.
“What about you?” You ask. “Formula 1 driver. That’s got to be intense.”
“It can be.”
“Do you love it?”
There’s that question again. You ask it like it matters, like the answer is important.
“Yes,” he says. “But sometimes I think I love the idea of it more than the reality.”
“What’s the idea?”
“The speed. The competition. The feeling when everything goes right and you’re on the limit and it’s just … perfect.” He’s talking with his hands now, can’t help it. “But the reality is a lot of — how do you say — politics. And pressure. And people always wanting something.”
“Like what?”
“Wins. Championships. Perfection.” He laughs, but it sounds bitter even to his own ears. “Sorry. This is a party. I should not be so …“
“Honest?” You supply. “I like honest.”
There’s a moment where you’re both just looking at each other, and Charles thinks maybe he should say something smooth or charming or at least coherent, but then someone calls his name from below and the moment breaks.
“Charles! Where are you? Some guy wants to take photos!”
He sighs. “I should-”
“Go be famous?” You’re smiling. “It’s fine. I’ll come with you.”
Back down at the party, there is indeed some guy with a camera who wants photos, and then there are more people who want to say hello, and Charles gets pulled into conversation after conversation while trying to keep track of where you are. You’re talking to Andrea now, then Joris, then you’re laughing at something Arthur is saying, and Charles is stuck nodding along to someone’s opinion about Ferrari’s strategy calls while wanting to be literally anywhere else.
“-don’t you think, Charles?”
“Sorry, what?”
The guy — Italian, yacht owner, something about his family making tiles — looks mildly offended. “About the upgrades? At Silverstone?”
“Oh. Yes. They were … good. Better than before.” Charles has no idea what this guy just said. “Excuse me one moment.”
He extracts himself and finally makes his way back to you. You’re standing near the railing again, looking at the water, and something about your posture makes him think you might be ready to leave.
“Hey,” he says softly, not wanting to startle you.
You turn, and your smile is genuine. “Hey yourself. Popular guy.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s your party.” You set down your empty glass. “I should probably get going anyway. It’s late.”
“No! I mean-” Charles scrambles for a reason for you to stay. “We have food. Have you eaten?”
“I ate on the boat.”
“Dessert? We have dessert.”
You laugh. “Do you even know what dessert you have?”
He doesn’t. He has no idea. “Good dessert. Italian dessert.”
“Compelling argument.”
“Please,” he says, and it comes out more desperate than he intended. “Stay a little longer?”
You tilt your head, considering. “Okay. But you have to actually talk to me instead of getting pulled away every five minutes.”
“Deal. I promise. No more interruptions.”
He leads you to the seating area at the stern where it’s quieter, and Andrea — bless him — appears with what looks like tiramisu and two spoons without being asked. Charles makes a mental note to never make fun of Andrea’s organizational skills again.
“So,” you say, taking a bite of the dessert and making an appreciative sound that Charles definitely doesn’t think about. “Tell me something real.”
“Real?”
“Yeah. Not the PR version. The actual version.” You gesture with your spoon. “What’s it actually like? Formula 1?”
Charles takes a moment, trying to figure out how to explain it. “It’s like … you know when you dream you’re flying? And it feels incredible but also terrifying because you might fall?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s like that. But the fall is very public and everyone has opinions about it.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Sometimes it is.” He takes a bite of tiramisu. “But sometimes you nail a qualifying lap and it’s perfect and everything else goes away.”
“Do you get nervous? Before races?”
“Every time.”
“Really?” You sound surprised. “You seem so confident.”
“That’s the job. Confidence is part of the job.” He smiles. “Inside I’m usually thinking ‘please don’t crash, please don’t crash.’”
You laugh, and Charles feels absurdly proud of himself for making it happen. “I feel like that’s probably smart when you’re driving three hundred kilometers an hour.”
“Three-fifty sometimes.”
“Jesus.” You shake your head. “That’s insane. You’re insane.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Definitely a lot.”
You talk for another hour, maybe more. Charles loses track of time somewhere between you asking about Monaco and him asking about Tennessee and discovering that you’re funny in a dry, unexpected way that keeps catching him off guard. You tell him about growing up with football players the size of houses and learning that Southern hospitality is a specific kind of warfare. He tells you about karting as a kid and how his dad used to drive him all over Europe in a van.
“That’s sweet,” you say. “My dad just threw money at things.”
“Did it work?”
“I mean, I got an MBA, so I guess?” You shrug. “But I don’t know if it made me happy.”
“Are you happy?”
“Right now? Yeah.” You meet his eyes. “This is nice. You’re nice.”
Charles’s brain short-circuits again. “I—thank you. You’re nice too. Very nice. The most-” Stop talking. “Nice.”
You’re grinning now. “Did you just call me the most nice?”
“English is not my first language.”
“What would you say in French?”
“That you’re …” He switches languages without thinking. “Tu es belle. Et drôle. Et je ne peux pas penser correctement quand tu me regardes comme ça.”
“I don’t speak French.”
“That’s probably good.”
“What did you say?”
“That the dessert is very good.”
“Liar.” But you’re smiling, and Charles thinks maybe you know exactly what he said.
The party has thinned out significantly. People are leaving, calling out goodbyes, and Charles realizes with something like panic that you’ll probably leave too, and he still hasn’t—he needs to—he should-
“I should go,” you say, confirming his fears. “It’s late and I promised my dad I wouldn’t stay out too late.”
“Wait-” Charles stands when you do. “Can I—would you want to-”
You wait patiently while he tries to remember how to ask someone out.
“Tomorrow,” he finally manages. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“Like from my yacht? You could wave.”
“No. I mean yes. I mean-” Deep breath. “Dinner. Would you want to have dinner? With me?”
“Are you asking me on a date, Just Charles?”
His heart is hammering. “Yes. I think so. Is it working?”
You laugh, and it’s not mean, just delighted. “Yeah. It’s working. Where?”
“There’s a restaurant. In Porto Cervo. It’s on the water. Very good food.” He’s talking too fast. “I can pick you up. With the tender. At seven?”
“Seven works.” You’re already walking toward the swim platform, and Charles follows like a puppy. “Text me the details?”
“I don’t have your number.”
“Then how will you text me?” You’re definitely teasing him now.
“I—can I have your number?”
You take his phone and type it in, and Charles watches your fingers move across the screen and thinks about absolutely nothing else. You hand it back, and your fingers brush his, and his brain flatlines.
“Text me so I have yours,” you say.
Charles types out a message with hands that are definitely not shaking. “Sent.”
“Perfect.” You step onto the swim platform, and the tender driver helps you in. “See you tomorrow, Charles.”
“Tomorrow,” he echoes.
You’re pulling away, the tender cutting through the dark water, and Charles stands there watching until your boat reaches Dynasty and you’re climbing aboard and disappearing from view.
“So,” Joris says from behind him. “That looked like it went well.”
Charles turns. His friends and brothers are standing there with identical shit-eating grins.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to hear you completely butcher asking her out,” Arthur says. “That was painful, mate.”
“But effective,” Andrea adds. “She said yes.”
“She said yes,” Charles repeats, and it’s hitting him now that tomorrow night he has to actually take you to dinner and be charming for an entire evening and not sound like he’s having a stroke.
“You’re panicking,” Lorenzo observes. “I can see you panicking.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You absolutely are.”
“What if I forget how to speak again?”
“Then mime,” Joris suggests unhelpfully. “Women love mimes.”
“I hate all of you.”
“You love us,” Arthur corrects. “And we just helped you get a date with the gorgeous girl from the neighboring yacht, so you’re welcome.”
Charles pulls out his phone and looks at your contact. You’ve entered your name as Y/N (the most nice) and he groans.
“She remembered that?”
“She definitely remembered that,” Andrea confirms.
“I’m never speaking English again.”
“Too late. You have a date tomorrow. In English.”
“Maybe I can convince her to learn French overnight.”
“That seems realistic,” Joris says. “Or, and hear me out, you could just relax and be yourself.”
“Myself forgets how to talk when she’s around.”
“Then be the version of yourself who remembers words. Fake it till you make it.”
Charles looks back at Dynasty. The lights are still on, and he can see figures moving around on the deck. Maybe you. Maybe not. Tomorrow he’ll know for sure. Tomorrow he has to pick you up and take you to dinner and somehow convince you that he’s worth a second date despite the fact that he apparently loses seventy IQ points whenever you’re within ten meters.
This is going to be a disaster.
A wonderful, terrifying, completely unavoidable disaster.
“I need to plan what to say,” he announces.
“Oh no,” Arthur mutters.
“I’ll make a list. Topics of conversation. In English. I’ll practice.”
“Please don’t do that,” Lorenzo begs.
“I have to do something. I can’t just show up and forget how to speak.”
“You could try just having a normal conversation,” Andrea suggests. “Like you did tonight. That seemed to work pretty well.”
But Charles is already pulling up his notes app, typing out conversation starters, and his friends exchange looks that very clearly say they think he’s doomed.
Maybe he is.
But you said yes.
And tomorrow night, he’ll figure out how to string enough words together to make you say yes again.
***
Charles has been awake since five-thirty in the morning, which is absolutely insane because the date isn’t until seven in the evening and he’s already running through everything that could possibly go wrong.
“You’re pacing,” Joris observes from where he’s sprawled on one of the deck loungers, wearing sunglasses despite it being barely sunrise. “It’s annoying.”
“I’m not pacing.”
“You’ve walked past me seventeen times in the last ten minutes. That’s pacing.”
Charles stops mid-step. “I’m just … thinking.”
“You’re spiraling. There’s a difference.” Joris pushes his sunglasses up to look at him properly. “It’s a dinner date. You’ve been on dates before.”
“Not like this.”
“What’s different about this one?”
Everything, Charles wants to say. The way you laugh. The way you looked at him last night like he was interesting instead of just famous. The way his brain stops working when you’re around. The way he’s pretty sure he’d drive the tender straight into a dock if you smiled at him while he was steering.
“Nothing,” he says instead. “It’s the same.”
“Terrible liar.” Joris closes his eyes again. “Just be yourself. The version of yourself who can complete sentences.”
“What if that version doesn’t show up?”
“Then you’ll have a very quiet dinner.”
Charles resumes pacing.
By noon, he’s tried on six different outfits. By two, Andrea has physically removed him from his cabin and forced him to go swimming to “calm the fuck down.” By four, Lorenzo has confiscated his phone because he keeps reading and re-reading your text messages like they contain secret codes.
“There’s nothing to decode,” Lorenzo says, holding the phone out of reach. “She said ‘looking forward to tonight’ with a smiley face. That’s good. That’s a good text.”
“But what kind of smiley face? Is it just polite or is it-”
“It’s a smiley face, Charles. It means she’s smiling. That’s literally what it means.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand that you’re being insane.”
Arthur appears with a beer. “Still spiraling?”
“Aggressively,” Lorenzo confirms.
“Maybe we should cancel,” Charles says. “I could tell her I’m sick. Food poisoning. Everyone gets food poisoning on vacation.”
“You’re not canceling,” all three of them say in unison.
“But what if-”
“No.” Joris sits up. “Listen to me. You are going on this date. You are going to be charming and funny and yourself. You are going to have a good time. And you are not going to fall into the ocean or forget your name or spontaneously combust.”
“Those are very specific concerns,” Arthur mutters.
“I’m covering all the bases.”
By six o’clock, Charles is showered, dressed in linen pants and a blue button-down that everyone agreed “brings out his eyes” (which felt like a weird thing for five grown men to discuss but here they are), and staring at himself in the mirror trying to remember how to be normal.
“You look good,” Andrea says from the doorway. “Stop messing with your hair.”
“It’s not sitting right.”
“It’s fine. It’s hair. It’s sitting the way hair sits.” Andrea comes in and physically turns Charles away from the mirror. “You need to leave now or you’ll be late.”
“What if I’m too early?”
“Then you’ll wait. Like a normal person.”
“What if-”
“Charles.” Andrea puts both hands on his shoulders. “Breathe. You’ve got this. She already likes you. She said yes to the date. The hard part is over.”
Charles nods, not at all convinced that the hard part is over. The hard part feels like it’s just beginning and will continue for the next three to four hours until he hopefully manages to get through dinner without embarrassing himself.
The tender is waiting, and Charles climbs in with legs that feel unreliably stable. Joris gives him a thumbs up from the deck. Arthur salutes. Lorenzo shouts something that sounds like “don’t drown!” which is extremely unhelpful.
The short ride to Dynasty feels both too long and too short. Charles’s heart is hammering as he pulls up to their swim platform, where one of the crew members is waiting.
“Evening,” the guy says — American accent, probably early thirties, professional smile. “You must be Charles. I’ll let the family know you’re here.”
Family. Right. Your father is on that yacht. Your father who owns an NFL team and probably has very specific opinions about who his daughter dates and Charles is going to have to make conversation with him and/
“Charles!”
He looks up, and you’re there at the railing, and his brain immediately flatlines.
You’re wearing a dress that’s somehow both casual and devastating — white, flowing, with thin straps that show off your shoulders and arms, hitting just above your knee. Your hair is pulled back on one side, and you’re wearing gold jewelry that catches the early evening light, and Charles forgets every single conversation topic he spent all day memorizing.
“Hi,” he manages.
“Hi yourself.” You’re smiling as you make your way down to the swim platform. “Right on time.”
“I’m—yes. Time. I’m on it.”
You laugh, and Charles wants to die a little. Behind you, an older man appears — tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of presence that suggests he’s used to owning rooms. Your father.
“Dad, this is Charles,” you say. “Charles, this is my dad, Y/F/N Y/L/N.”
Charles extends his hand, trying to remember how handshakes work. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise.” Your father’s grip is firm, assessing. “Y/N tells me you’re a Formula 1 driver.”
“Yes, sir. For Ferrari.”
“Ferrari.” Your father nods approvingly. “I respect that. Classic team. Though I’ve got to say, I’m more of a Mercedes man myself.”
Charles isn’t sure if he’s being tested. “They’re … very good. Very fast.”
“Dad, stop interrogating him,” you say, but there’s affection in your voice. “We’re going to be late for our reservation.”
“Just making conversation.” Your father looks at Charles. “You’ll have her back at a reasonable hour?”
“Dad.”
“I’m just asking.”
“We’re not in high school.”
“Humor your old man.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “I’ll be back when I’m back. Don’t wait up.”
Your father chuckles and extends his hand to Charles again. “Take care of my girl.”
“I will, sir. I promise.”
Charles helps you into the tender — you take his hand and step down gracefully despite your heels — and then he’s starting the engine and pulling away from Dynasty while very aware that your father is probably watching them leave.
“Sorry about him,” you say once they’re clear of the yacht. “He thinks he’s intimidating.”
“He is a little intimidating.”
“Really?” You sound delighted. “I’ll tell him. He’ll love that.”
The restaurant is only about fifteen minutes away by tender, right on the water in Porto Cervo with a private dock for boats. Charles has been here before — the food is incredible, the atmosphere is romantic without being stuffy, and most importantly, it’s not the kind of place where people will bother him for photos every five minutes.
He’s pulling up to the dock when he realizes he’s been so focused on not crashing the tender that he hasn’t said anything for the entire ride.
“Sorry,” he blurts out as he ties off. “I should have talked. During the ride. I just—I wanted to make sure we didn’t crash.”
“Into what?” You look around at the completely empty water. “The air?”
“There could have been … obstacles.”
“In the middle of the sea?”
“It’s better to be careful.”
You’re grinning now as he helps you onto the dock. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re definitely nervous.”
“I’m just—I want tonight to be nice. Good. Perfect.” He realizes he’s still holding your hand and drops it quickly. “Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.” You link your arm through his instead. “And relax. It’s just dinner.”
Just dinner. Right. Just dinner with the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen who makes him forget how to speak in multiple languages. Totally casual.
The restaurant is everything Charles hoped it would be — soft lighting, tables scattered across a terrace overlooking the water, string lights creating a warm glow, the sound of jazz playing quietly in the background. The host recognizes him immediately but is professional about it, just a quick “Welcome back, Mr. Leclerc“ before leading them to a corner table with a perfect view of the sunset.
“This is gorgeous,” you say, settling into your chair. “How did you find this place?”
“I came here last summer with my family.” Charles accepts a menu from the waiter. “The food is incredible. Everything is fresh. Local.”
“What do you recommend?”
“The pasta alle vongole is very good. And the branzino. Actually, everything is good. You can’t go wrong.”
“That’s helpful,” you tease. “So just point at the menu randomly?”
“Yes. Exactly. That’s a perfect strategy.”
You laugh, and Charles feels some of the tension in his chest ease. Maybe he can do this. Maybe it’ll be fine.
The waiter comes back, and you order the pasta while Charles gets the branzino, and they share a bottle of white wine that the waiter recommends. Once they’re alone again, you prop your chin on your hand and look at him in a way that makes him extremely aware of every single thing about himself.
“So,” you say. “Tell me about Monaco.”
“Monaco? It’s … small. Very small. You can walk across it in an hour.”
“Do you like living there?”
Charles considers this. “It’s home. But sometimes I miss … space. You can’t really have space in Monaco.”
“Do you need space?”
“Sometimes I think I do. Other times I like that everything is close.” He takes a sip of wine. “What about Tennessee? Do you like it?”
“It’s complicated.” You lean back as the waiter sets down bread and olive oil. “I love it because it’s home and my family is there. But it also feels … small sometimes. Not physically. Just like everyone knows who you are and has expectations.”
“I understand that.”
“Yeah?” You meet his eyes. “I guess you would. The whole F1 thing.”
“It’s not the same. Your father, he built something. I’m just driving a car.”
“Just driving a car.” You shake your head. “I watched some videos today. Of you racing. It’s insane what you do.”
Charles feels heat creep up his neck. “You watched videos?”
“Of course I watched videos. I wanted to see if you were actually good or just cocky.”
“And?”
“You’re actually good.” You tear off a piece of bread. “Also maybe a little cocky. You smiled at the camera after that overtake at — where was it? Austria?”
He remembers that overtake. Remembers the rush of it, the satisfaction. “That was a good move.”
“You went on the grass!”
“Just a little bit on the grass.”
“Your wheel was completely off the track!”
“But I made the corner.” He’s grinning now. “And I didn’t crash.”
“That’s your bar? Not crashing?”
“In Formula 1, that’s a very respectable bar.”
You laugh, and Charles thinks he could listen to that sound for the rest of his life and never get tired of it.
The food arrives, and it’s every bit as good as Charles remembered. You insist on trying his fish, so he tries your pasta, and somehow they end up sharing both plates between them while talking about everything and nothing — your MBA program, his training schedule, your complicated relationship with Southern society, his even more complicated relationship with Italian media.
“They love you or hate you,” he explains. “There’s no middle ground. One race you’re a hero, the next you’re the reason everything is wrong with Ferrari.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is. But it’s also-” He searches for the word. “Motivating? When they say you can’t do something, you want to prove them wrong.”
“Spite as motivation. I respect that.”
“What motivates you?”
You think about this, swirling the wine in your glass. “Honestly? I’m still figuring that out. I did the MBA because it seemed like the smart thing to do. My dad wanted me to understand the business. But now I have it and I’m not sure what I want to do with it.”
“You have time to figure it out.”
“Everyone keeps saying that. But I’m twenty-six. Shouldn’t I know by now?”
“I’m twenty-seven and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”
“You’re a Formula 1 driver.”
“But is that who I am or just what I do?” Charles surprises himself with the question. He doesn’t usually talk like this. “Sometimes I think if I stopped racing tomorrow, I wouldn’t know who I was.”
You’re quiet for a moment, and Charles worries he’s said too much, gotten too heavy for a first date. But then you reach across the table and squeeze his hand.
“I think you’d figure it out,” you say softly. “You seem like someone who would.”
The sunset has painted the sky in shades of pink and orange, and the lights of the other boats are starting to glow across the water. The waiter comes by to clear their plates and suggest dessert, and Charles orders the panna cotta because you can’t come to Italy and not have panna cotta, and you get the tiramisu because you’re “developing a tiramisu addiction since arriving in this country.”
“It’s only been a few weeks,” Charles points out.
“A few weeks of very good tiramisu. Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging. Tiramisu addiction is very reasonable.”
You talk through dessert, through coffee, through the restaurant slowly emptying around them until Charles realizes with a start that they’re one of only two tables left and it’s past eleven.
“We should go,” he says reluctantly. “Before they kick us out.”
“Would they kick out Charles Leclerc?”
“They would kick out anyone when they want to close.”
The tender ride back is different than the ride there. You sit close to him this time, close enough that he can smell your perfume over the salt air, close enough that when the boat hits a wave you grab his arm to steady yourself and don’t let go after.
Charles drives slower than necessary. He’s not ready for the night to end. Isn’t ready to drop you off at Dynasty and go back to Sedici and spend the rest of the night reliving every moment and analyzing every word.
“This was really nice,” you say as Porto Cervo’s lights fade behind you. “Like, really really nice.”
“Really really nice?” Charles glances at you. “That’s two reallys. That’s very many reallys.”
“It was a two-really kind of night.”
“Good. I wanted—I hoped it would be good.”
“Your English gets better when you relax,” you observe. “Earlier you were speaking in fragments. Now you’re using complete sentences.”
“Earlier I was terrified.”
“Of what? Me?”
“Yes. No. Not of you. Of-” How does he explain this? “Of messing up. Of saying the wrong thing. Of you deciding I’m stupid and boring.”
“Charles.” You shift to face him more fully. “You’re not stupid or boring. You’re sweet and interesting and funny when you’re not overthinking everything.”
“I overthink a lot.”
“I noticed.” You’re smiling. “It’s kind of endearing actually.”
“Endearing like a puppy or endearing like someone you might want to see again?”
“Definitely the second one.”
Charles’s heart does something complicated in his chest. “Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s only one really.”
“I’m rationing them. Can’t give you all the reallys on the first date.”
“What about a second date?”
“Are you asking me on a second date before the first one is even over?”
“Is that wrong?”
“No.” You touch his arm. “It’s actually really really really nice.”
“Three reallys.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
But Charles is grinning like an idiot, and he doesn’t even care. Dynasty is coming up ahead — he can see it lit up against the dark water, can see Sedici next to it, can see this perfect night coming to an end.
He pulls up to your swim platform as gently as possible, killing the engine and tying off. The crew member from earlier is there, offering his hand to help you up, but you ignore him and turn to Charles instead.
“Thank you for tonight,” you say. “For dinner and the boat ride and the conversation and everything.”
“Thank you for saying yes. For coming. For-” Charles’s brain is short-circuiting again because you’re very close and looking at him in a way that makes him forget how words work. “For being you.”
“For being me?” You’re smiling. “That’s smooth.”
“I’m not smooth. I’m the opposite of smooth. I’m—what’s the opposite of smooth?”
“Rough?”
“I’m very rough.”
You laugh, and then you’re leaning in, and Charles’s entire body goes rigid because is this happening? Is this actually happening?
You kiss his cheek — soft and quick and devastating — and Charles forgets he’s on a boat.
He jerks back in surprise, his foot catches on the rope, his arms windmill in a way that’s absolutely not graceful, and then he’s falling backward into the Mediterranean with a splash that’s probably audible from shore.
The water is shockingly cold and also he’s an idiot and also he’s definitely just ruined everything.
He surfaces, sputtering, to find you leaning over the edge of the tender with your hand over your mouth, eyes wide.
“Oh my god! Charles! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine!” He tries to sound casual while treading water in his nice dinner clothes. “This is fine. I meant to do that.”
“You meant to fall into the ocean?”
“It was hot. I was hot. This is … refreshing.”
You’re trying not to laugh — he can see you trying — but then you lose the battle and double over, and Charles can’t even be embarrassed because the sound of your laughter is worth being soaking wet in the middle of the night.
“I’m so sorry,” you gasp. “I shouldn’t laugh. Are you actually okay?”
“My pride is wounded but everything else works.” He swims back to the tender. “Can we pretend this didn’t happen?”
“Absolutely not. I’m telling everyone.”
“Please don’t tell everyone.”
“I’m already composing the story in my head.” You’re grinning as you reach down to help pull him up. “So there I was, on this romantic date, and I kissed his cheek, and he literally fell into the ocean.”
Charles hauls himself back into the tender, water streaming off him, his nice shirt completely ruined. “It was a very surprising kiss.”
“I can see that.”
“I didn’t expect it.”
“Clearly.”
“You’re very beautiful and I wasn’t prepared.”
You stop laughing at that, and something shifts in your expression. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“You—yes. Obviously. Very beautiful. Have you seen you?” Charles is shivering now, whether from cold or nerves he’s not sure. “The most beautiful. That’s why I fell. Because of the beautiful.”
“Because of the beautiful,” you repeat, and you’re not laughing anymore, just looking at him with soft eyes. “You’re soaking wet.”
“I noticed that, yes.”
“And you’re shivering.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“You should go back to your yacht and change.”
“I should.” But he doesn’t move. Neither do you.
“Charles?”
“Yes?”
“For the record, I think you’re beautiful too. Even when you’re dripping seawater all over your boat.”
His heart stutters. “Really?”
“Really really.”
“That’s two reallys.”
“I know.” You lean down — carefully this time, probably to avoid causing another maritime disaster — and kiss his cheek again, slower. “Goodnight, Charles.”
“Goodnight,” he manages.
You climb onto your swim platform, and the crew member is definitely trying not to smirk as he helps you up. You turn back once, wave, and then you’re gone, disappearing into Dynasty, and Charles is sitting in the tender soaking wet and probably in shock.
He somehow makes it back to Sedici where Joris is waiting on the swim platform.
“How did-” Joris takes in Charles’s soaked clothes and dripping hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“I fell in the ocean.”
“I can see that. Why?”
“She kissed me.”
“She kissed you so you jumped in the ocean?”
“I didn’t jump. I fell. There’s a difference.”
“That’s the difference you’re focused on right now?”
Charles climbs onto the deck, leaving puddles everywhere. “She said yes to a second date.”
“Before or after you fell in?”
“Before. Technically during? I don’t know. Time was confusing.” He starts walking toward his cabin. “I need to change.”
“Charles.”
“What?”
“Did you have a good time? Before the ocean incident?”
Charles thinks about your laugh, your smile, the way you held his hand across the table, the softness in your eyes when you called him beautiful.
“The best time,” he says. “The absolute best time.”
He’s halfway to his cabin when his phone buzzes. A text from you. Sorry for making you fall into the sea. Still want that second date?
Charles types back with shaking hands. Yes. Tomorrow?
Your response is immediate. Eager much?
Very eager. Too eager?
No. Tomorrow works. But maybe we stay on land this time.
Probably safer.
Definitely safer. Goodnight, Charles.
Goodnight, Y/N.
He falls asleep with his phone in his hand and a smile on his face, and if his dreams involve you and boats and not falling into the ocean, well, that’s between him and the Mediterranean.
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