Stranger Things
YOU ARE THE REASON
pixel skylines
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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
trying on a metaphor
@theartofmadeline
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Monterey Bay Aquarium
KIROKAZE
Misplaced Lens Cap
AnasAbdin
titsay
NASA
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
oozey mess
Jules of Nature
roma★
Janaina Medeiros
blake kathryn
seen from Türkiye
seen from Singapore
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
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seen from India
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seen from United States
@sunsshinesunny
I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF
This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.
Then bring me luck
the day after I posted this last time I was notified that I was selected for a really cool mentorship gig and got an unrelated glowing review at work
Hey Potato, cure my -ing cold so I can have a good time while away.
Here's the potato. Make what use of it you will. :)
where's that native meme that's like "lol you worship the sun lmao" and they respond "ok. the sun is real"
hello i have this
Get-A-Load-Of-This-Guy Cam
If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.
Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.
I don't understand husbands who dgaf abt their wife's interests. you should be getting hard every time she nerds out, no exceptions
like to charge, reblog to cast.
This is Money Snake. She only appears every 312 years.
If you reblog her picture within the next twenty-five seconds you will have good luck and fortune for the rest of your life.
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
always reblog money snake
reblog to give somebody a fucking hug because we are all struggling to get through it. solidarity in this tough ass world.
This is Money Snake. She only appears every 312 years.
If you reblog her picture within the next twenty-five seconds you will have good luck and fortune for the rest of your life.
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
Not worth taking the risk
Worth a shot.
what is the worst that can happen, right?
please money snake, bestow on me your blessing
the prince of monaco - cl16
pairing: prince! charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which a sad prince and a common girl cross paths or charles and you find yourself in a forbidden romance warnings: ANGST, smut, language!!! idk what else I'm missing. ANGST ANGST ANGST. not proofread. word count: 5.6k authors note: SURPRISEEEEEE! FIRST CHARLES FIC OF THE YEAR FINALLY. i hope you guys like it & i know you might haaate my guts after but it had to be done LOL. let me know what you think!! love hearing from y’all ALWAYS. xoxo
The palace was too quiet at night. Not peaceful — hollow.
The kind of silence that rang in your ears and made your own breath sound like betrayal.
Marble floors stretched endlessly beneath Charles’s bare feet, cold and gleaming under the antique chandeliers. He wandered them like a ghost — aimless, invisible, half-dead in a gilded cage. A prince draped in silk robes and golden obligations, walking the halls of a kingdom he no longer wanted.
Every corridor smelled like lemon polish and old money. Every portrait he passed stared down with painted eyes— kings and queens carved from duty, immortalized in oil and expectation.
But Charles wasn’t thinking of them.
His mind was across the city, far from the manicured courtyards and diplomatic smiles. He was with you.
In that cramped little room above Le Vieux Lion, where the wallpaper peeled and the sheets smelled like your perfume.
Where the sea didn’t sparkle for tourists— it slapped the dock with rage. Where the nights weren’t silent — they breathed. They lived.
Where he remembered what it felt like to be wanted, not needed.
He hadn’t seen you in a week. Not since the news.
His father— Sovereign Prince of Monaco— had announced the engagement over dinner, voice as calm as a guillotine dropping.
An alliance. A family legacy. A strategic merger in the form of a wedding.
His mother didn’t blink, just reached for her wine. His sister, seated to his left, squeezed his hand beneath the table— the only rebellion anyone dared to offer.
Charles didn’t say a word.
Not when they showed him the ring.
Not when the date was set.
Not even when the royal tailor measured him for the suit he’d wear to sign away the rest of his life.
He waited. Watched. Swallowed it all.
And then he left.
He didn’t take the servant’s route. Didn’t don a disguise.
He walked straight out the east wing, through the marble archway, silk robe replaced by a hoodie— soft, frayed, yours.
He pulled it tight around himself like armor and slipped into the black car waiting at the edge of the drive. No driver asked where he was going. The guards didn’t move. They knew better than to ask.
-
Two Years Earlier
The night air outside was warm and heavy with salt— one of those late summer nights where the heat stuck to your skin like a secret. Inside the bar, the ceiling fan creaked in slow, useless circles, stirring nothing but stale smoke and the lingering bitterness of spilled gin.
You were behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, fingers aching from a double shift. The radio played some old French crooner, warbling about heartbreak and cigarettes like he’d invented them. A few regulars lingered, quiet and slumped, clinging to their glasses like lifeboats.
That’s when the door creaked open, and he walked in.
Not stumbled— walked. Like he owned the damn place. Like Monaco wasn’t five miles of tight streets and old money and marble prisons, and he wasn’t one of the poor bastards with a crown stitched into his skin.
He looked wrong in the best way.
Dark jeans, leather jacket that probably cost more than your rent. Hair slightly tousled like he wanted it to look like he hadn’t just stepped out of a car worth six figures. And that face— familiar in the way a storm cloud is familiar. You know it’s going to ruin you before it even arrives.
He had that smile. The kind women warn their friends about. Lazy. Expensive. Designed for headlines.
“Got anything that won’t kill me?” He asked, voice smooth like old bourbon, like he already knew you’d give him what he wanted.
You didn’t even glance up. Just kept wiping down the bar with a rag that had fought too many battles.
“That depends,” you said flatly. “You allergic to alcohol, or just fragile?”
The silence that followed was sharp—brief—then broken by a laugh. Low. Rich. Surprised. Like no one had spoken to him like that in years.
“I like you already,” he said.
“Tragic,” you muttered, finally giving him a look. “I already want you to leave.”
He blinked, caught off guard. And then his grin widened, teeth white against the soft shadow of stubble on his jaw.
“What’s your name?” He asked, eyes flicking down, then back up—slow, deliberate, like he was cataloguing you.
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What’s yours?”
“Charles,” he said smoothly, like the name should mean something.
You gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. “Charles. No last name? No title? You forgot the part where you tell me you’re a libra and looking for a real connection.”
He leaned forward on his elbows, mouth tugging into a smirk. “I am a libra, actually.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
“Of course you are.” You turned, grabbing the cleanest glass you could fine, and poured something sharp and unmerciful into it. “Here. Drink. Leave, Or don’t. Just don’t flirt with me like I’m stupid.”
He took the glass, eyes still on you. Sipped. Winced, just slightly—not used to the burn—but didn’t complain.
He liked it.
You could tell.
You were already walking away when he said it, voice low but clear:
“You still didn’t tell me your name.”
You didn’t stop. Just threw a look over your shoulder, that half-smirk you saved for people who thought they were too clever.
“If you come back tomorrow,” you said, “maybe I’ll lie and give you one.”
He stayed until close.
-
The door opened with a soft groan—that old, familiar hinge that had screamed a hundred comings and goings. But this time, it was different. The air changed. You felt it before you saw him.
The hum of the bar dimmed. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed near the back. But your hands paused—just briefly—over the half-dried wine glass in your fingers.
And then, there he was. In the doorway.
He leaned against the frame like he had all the time in the world—wearing the same leather jacket, but tonight it was zipped halfway down, revealing a black shirt that clung just enough to his chest to make your stomach tighten. His hair was messier, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. Or maybe he wanted it to look like someone else had.
His eyes found you instantly. No scan of the room. No pretense. Just direct, deliberate contact, like he’d been thinking about you all day and came to see if the memory lived up to the real thing.
It did.
You didn’t look away. Didn’t smile. Just raised a brow and went back to your glass.
He crossed the room slowly, like he knew the weight of every step. Like he was aware that people were watching him but didn’t care. Or maybe he liked it. Maybe he liked knowing he could have anyone in the room—except the only one he wanted still hadn’t given him her name.
He slid into the same stool as the night before, elbows on the bar, that same infuriating smirk curling at his mouth.
“I came back,” he said. Voice low, warm. Like a promise you shouldn’t believe.
“I noticed,” you replied, not looking at him as you reached for a fresh glass. “Didn’t expect Monaco’s golden boy to slum it two nights in a row.”
He chuckled—and God, the sound was dangerous.
“Slumming it,” he echoed. “That what you think this is?”
You finally looked at him— fully, openly. And it hit you like a slow, burning wave. He was too close. Too handsome. Too confident in a way that wasn’t just money or power. It was something in his eyes—that flicker of hunger, of loneliness, of knowing what he wanted and hating himself for wanting it.
“This isn’t your world,” you said quietly. “You don’t belong here.”
He leaned in a little. Not enough to touch. Just enough that your breath caught.
“No,” he murmured. “But it’s yours.”
Your heart stuttered. You hated the way he said it—like it was a confession wrapped in silk. Like he didn’t mean to mean it, but he did.
You slid the drink in front of him, fingers brushing his just barely—and even that felt like too much.
“You being here is a bad idea.” You whispered.
His eyes were on your mouth now. His smile was gone. “Then stop me.”
You didn’t stop him.
And he didn’t leave.
-
He kept coming back.
Not with fanfare. Not like royalty.
But quietly. Always late, always alone.
There were no photographers waiting outside, no clipped palace escorts, no watchful guards trailing behind him. He wore anonymity like armor — hood pulled low, hands in pockets, head slightly down like he didn’t want the world to recognize him. Or maybe he didn’t care if it did.
He came as Charles. Not as a prince. Not as a future king. Just…Charles.
Worn leather jacket, soft hoodie, shadows beneath his eyes, and the kind of smile that looked like it had forgotten how to be whole. He smelled like night air and something faintly bitter—like espresso left too long in the pot. And every time he looked at you, it would felt like you were being read, not watched. Like he saw every layer you tried to keep hidden behind sarcasm and smoke.
You hated how much you liked it.
-
At first, he sat at the bar.
Always in the same stool, hands cradling a chipped tumbler of whiskey he nursed more for the comfort than the taste. He didn’t flirt. Not outright. He asked about your night, the music, the bar fights you’d broken up over that week. He smirked at your answers, raised an eyebrow at your insults. Said your name like he was trying to memorize the shape of it in his mouth.
You tried not to care.
Tried not to notice the way he leaned in, just slightly, whenever you spoke.
Tried not to wonder why a man with the world at his feet kept choosing your tiny corner of it.
But he did.
-
Then, one night, you turned around and he was behind the bar.
Not on the customer’s side, but on yours.
He leaned casually against the shelves like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just crossed the invisible line between your world and his.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You asked, arms crossed, not bothering to hide the irritation— or the pulse suddenly roaring in your ears.
He held up a wine glass and a dish rag with a crooked grin. “Thought I’d lend a hand.”
“You’re holding that like it insulted you.”
“Could be worse,” he said, examining the stem with mock seriousness. “Could be holding my dignity. But I think I left that back at the palace.”
You snorted despite yourself. “You’re useless.”
He leaned in closer, voice lowering just enough to stir something under your ribs. “And yet…you haven’t told me to leave.”
You said nothing. But your silence felt like permission.
-
He started coming earlier. Staying later.
He’d drift in before your shift ended, slip through the back door like he belonged there. Sometimes he brought pastries, sometimes coffee. Once, inexplicably, a worn book littered with his handwriting on the pages.
“Though you might like this one,” he’d said with a shrug.
He’d sit in your space like it was second nature—perching on the edge of the counter, watching you work, making soft commentary on your music taste.
“You play the same six songs,” he’d mutter, clicking through your ancient playlist.
“They’re classics.”
“They’re depressing.”
You glanced at him. “So are you.”
He smiled softly. “That’s probably why I keep coming back here.”
-
He asked you questions no one else dared.
Not the polite kind. Not surface things. He wanted the bones. The quiet hurts. The dreams you hadn’t spoken out loud before. Sometimes you answered. Sometimes you didn’t. But you never once, told him to stop asking.
And in return, he gave you pieces of himself. Unvarnished ones. The kind they didn’t print in the magazines.
“I hate the palace,” he confessed once, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach you. “Every room echoes. You start to wonder if you exist as all, or if you’re just…noise in a marble tomb.”
You didn’t reply. You just glanced at him until he did that thing with his jaw— the clench, like he’d said too much. Like he was scared of how much he wanted you to hear it.
-
There were moments when it felt like something would snap.
His hand brushing yours when you passed him a glass—not on accident, not anymore. His fingers would linger a fraction too long, just enough to let your pulse stutter, just enough to make you feel it later, alone in the dark.
The way he leaned in when he spoke, low and close, his breath grazing your neck, your jaw, the edge of your mouth like a secret he hadn’t confessed yet.
You stopped hearing his words. You only felt them.
You knew the shape of his mouth now. The way his bottom lip curved when he was trying not to smile. The faint pink of it after a drink. The way it moved when he said your name, like it was something he wanted, no needed, to taste.
And you hated it.
How much you wanted him to.
-
One night, while you closed up — the lights were low, doors locked, just you and the hum of the city outside—you caught him watching you.
Really watching.
He stood behind the bar, hands in his pockets, posture casual. But his eyes were anything bit. They followed you like he was hungry. Like he was memorizing the way your shoulders moved beneath your shirt, the way your fingers gripped the edge of the counter, the way your lips parted whenever you sighed without realizing it.
He looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop.
You leaned on the bar, trying to keep your voice steady, playful. “You always this much of a romantic?”
He didn’t smirk. Didn’t even blink. Just stared, his gaze flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes—so fast that you could’ve missed it. But you didn’t.
“No,” he said. His voice rougher than usual. “Just with you.”
Your breath caught. Just for a second.
Your lips parted, something sharp and stupid rising— a comeback, a deflection. But nothing came out.
Your lips moved, then stopped.
And he looked away, jaw tight.
Not because he didn’t want to see what you were about to say—but because he already knew. And he couldn’t bear it.
-
The bar was quieter than usual. Only the hum of the cooler and the occasional creak of the old wood floor filled the silence. Rain tapped softly against the windows, more mist than storm, casting blurry halos around the streetlamp outside.
You should’ve been locking up. Should’ve told him to go.
But he was sitting at the bar again, legs swinging slowly, drink untouched, eyes on you like he was waiting for something neither of you could name.
And you weren’t moving. Not really.
You were pretending to count the bottles behind the counter, pretending your hands weren’t trembling just slightly, pretending you didn’t feel the way the air between you hadn’t changed.
Thicker now. Heavier. Laced with heat.
“I think about you,” he said suddenly, voice low—like he hadn’t meant to speak but couldn’t hold it back anymore.
Your fingers pause over a single bottle.
“In meetings. In cars. In rooms where I’m supposed to be someone I don’t even recognize anymore.” His voice dipped, softening, unraveling. “I think about this bar. About you.”
You swallowed hard. “Charles—“
"I know,” he cut in. “Don’t say it. Don’t say we shouldn’t.”
He slid off the bar in one fluid movement and stepped around it— slow, deliberate, as if trying to give you every chance to stop him. You didn’t.
Now he was standing in front of you. Too close.
The kind of close where the heat of him was brushing against your skin, where you could smell the rain still clinging to his clothes and the hint of citrus on his breath.
His hand hovered between you. Not touching. Just hanging there in the space that ached for more.
“Just…let me look at you.” He mutters, eyes sad.
You didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe.
His fingers rose—slow, reverent— the knuckles of fingers brushed your jaw. Barely. Like even that felt too intimate. Too much.
But it wasn’t enough. God—it wasn’t even close to enough.
His hand turned, fingertips now tracing the line of your cheekbones. Featherlight. The kind of touch that wasn’t claiming, just asking.
He steps closer, close enough that your chests are nearly pressed together with every breath of air.
His thumb slid under your jaw, tilting your face up, and God—his eyes were fire and ruin and something devastatingly gentle all at once. Like he wanted to memorize you the way people memorize song lyrics. The way they memorize prayers.
His lips part and your heart nearly stops.
Then— he pulls back. Just an inch.
Just enough to break the spell. He stared at you like he hated himself for stopping.
His hand drops to his side like it weighed too much to carry.
Then, just barely, you whisper, “why didn’t you kiss me?”
He sighs, like your words physically pain him.
“Because if I do,” he says, voice wrecked. “I won’t stop.”
-
It was the first time in weeks you’d let yourself be seen.
You didn’t know if it was the dress—midnight black, backless, clinging to you like it had been painted on— or the third drink warming your veins, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t thinking about him.
Or at least, you were trying not to.
The music was low and sexy, something bass-heavy that made conversation impossible but movement effortless. Your friends circled you, glittering and laughing, pulling you toward the edge of the dance floor under the pink-gold haze of the club lights. You let them. You let yourself move. Let yourself laugh. Let your head tilt back when that guy—Luca—said something cocky but charming into your ear.
His hand found your hip, just light enough to feel like suggestion, not possession. And you let him keep it there.
Because Charles wasn’t here.
Because tonight, you weren’t the girl in the back of the run-down bar, aching for something she couldn’t have.
You were fun. You were untouchable. You were free.
And then— you felt it.
The shift in the room was subtle at first—like a low pressure drop before a storm. You felt it in your spine. In the way the air thickened, charged. In the sudden awareness that someone was looking a you.
You turned. Slowly.
And there he was.
Charles.
Backlit by golden light, framed by the glint of glass and sweat and movement, he looked like something that didn’t belong here. Or maybe something that the room had been waiting for.
Black shirt open at the collar, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair falling just wrong over his forehead. Jaw tight, mouth set in something between a smirk and a snarl— like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust himself to do it.
He looked like sin. Like power on the edge of unraveling.
And his eyes. Locked on you.
Not the room.
Not the crowd.
Not even Luca.
Just you.
And when his gaze dropped—to the hand on your waist, the fingertips sprawled against your waist, to the way Luca leaned in a little too close—something dark flickered across his face.
Something in him burned. You saw it. Felt it.
Like a wire snapped behind his rubs and now he couldn’t breathe.
His jaw locked. His chest rose once, slow and sharp, like even breathing had become too dangerous. Like just standing there and not touching you took every ounce of control he had left.
The heat in his stare could’ve burned a hole through you.
Luca leaned in. “You okay?”
You blinked and swallowed. Tried to smile. “Yeah,” you said. “Just—“
Your eyes flicked back to the bar. He was still there. Still watching. Still not moving.
Luca turned to follow your gaze. “I can’t believe he’s here. That’s so cool”
“Yeah…me either.”
People moved out of his way without realizing they had. They parted instinctively, like water bending around stone. Like the room itself knew who he was.
They didn’t see the crown. They felt the weight of it.
Royalty cloaked in rage and want, striding toward the storm.
Toward you.
-
The air was hot and heady, choked with perfume and alcohol and the sound of people trying too hard to feel something. The lights pulsed like a heartbeat—too bright, too fast—reflecting off glass and skin.
He didn’t want to be here. But anywhere was better than the palace.
He spotted her instantly—like his body already knew where to look before his eyes did. The same way it always did. Like your presence had carved out a space in him long before he even touched you.
You stood near the edge of the crowd, black dress hugging you like a second skin, eyes bright, mouth curved in something that looked like a laugh.
And beside you—another man.
The hand on your waist, the smug, lazy confidence of someone who didn’t know how precious what he was touching actually was.
The way he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, like your body was already his to own.
Like your heart didn’t already belong to someone else.
Charles stopped breathing.
The sound around him blurred into static. His hands curled into fists in his pockets, nails biting into his palms.
Something sharp twisted low in the pit of his stomach.
Jealousy wasn’t the word for it.
This was grief. This was rage. This was how dare you.
How dare you let someone touch you where he should’ve touched you.
How dare you pretend you’ve forgotten what it’s like to stand one breath from kissing.
-
The club was still pushing behind you—laughter and sweat and lights bleeding through the walls—but here, in this narrow, dim corridor, it was just the two of you.
Too close. Too quiet.
Too dangerous.
He’d pulled you through the curtain without a word, fingers laced with yours like a vice, dragging you past confused glances and stunned silence. You’d followed—furious, breathless, burning.
Now, you were pressed against the wall, your back flush to the cold stone, your heart thundering like it wanted out of your chest.
And he was standing in front of you. Pacing. Seething. Unraveling.
“What the fuck was that?” He hissed, his voice low and sharp enough to draw blood. “Letting him touch you like that—was that supposed to hurt me? Was that the point?”
You scoffed, folding your arms to keep from grabbing him by the collar. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
He stopped pacing. His head turned slowly, jaw locked tight.
“You think I don’t see it?” He growled. “The way you look at me? Like you’re still waiting for something to happen, even though you know it can’t?”
Another step. His body inches from yours.
“You shouldn’t have worn that dress.”
Your voice shook when you said it: “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“I know.”
His hand slams against the wall beside your head, not to scare you— just to steady himself. His face was too close now. The warmth of him coiled into your skin. His eyes search yours, wild and desperate and so goddamn full of want that it hurt.
“You’re not his,” he whispered.
You stalled. “Im not yours, either.”
He leaned in closer — mouth almost bursting yours, his breath warm and ragged.
“Say that again,” he dared.
You couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you.
“I hate you,” you breathed.
“I know,” he said, voice breaking.
And then he kissed you.
Hard. Desperate. Starving.
His hands cup your face like he’d dreamt of this a hundred times and never thought he’d actually get to feel it. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, yanking him closer, closer—mouths crashing like waves, clashing with every single ounce of frustration and ache.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t even polite.
It was heat and fury and I’ve wanted this for so long tangled in every brush of lips, every muffled groan, every helpless moan he pulled from your throat.
He kissed you like it hurt.
Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.
-
You don’t remember the walk to your apartment. Just the quiet tension between you. The warmth of his hand brushing yours but never holding it. The hum in your chest that hadn’t stopped since he kissed you.
You unlocked the door with trembling fingers. Left the light off. You didn’t need to see the room. You needed to feel him.
You tugged at his shirt, breath hitching as your fingertips brushed skin. His hands were all over you now, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted them — your back, your hips, your jaw, gentle and desperate at once.
He knew he shouldn’t be here. Not in your apartment. Not in your bed. Not looking down at you like you were something he’d prayed for and never dared to ask.
But he was. And he couldn’t stop if he tried.
You were under him, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, your breath catching every time his fingers traced skin. And all he could think— over and over— was mine.
You arched into him, and he couldn’t stop the sound that tore from his throat.
Every inch of you was fire and familiarity, like his hands memorized your body before even touching it. Your thighs wrapped around his hips, nails dragged down his back.
He groaned into your skin, forehead pressed to your collarbone.
“Are you sure?”
She nods, breathless. “You’re already here.”
It was more than permission. It was a confession.
And when he sank into you—slowly, carefully, reverently— the world full on stopped.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed.
It was slow. Intimate. Almost painful in how good it felt—like every thirst was peeling back layers they’d spent building.
Moans swallowed into kisses. Skin against skin. Fingers tangled. Whispers like promises neither of them could keep.
He touched her like she was scared. She kissed him like she’d never get the chance again.
“You look so good like this,” he murmured, voice thick with awe—like the sight of you beneath him had knocked the breath clean from his chest.
His lips trailed along your jawline, slow open-mouthed kisses dragging fire across your skin. He wasn’t in a rush. He wanted to taste every inch of you. To savor.
You gasped softly when he reached the hollow beneath your ear, and he felt it. The sharp intake of breath, the way your body arched, the flutter of your pulse under his tongue.
His hand slid along your waist, fingers pressing gently into your hip as he anchored himself to you, like he didn’t trust that this moment was real.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you.
Your eyes were heavy, glazed with want, lips parted and trembling.
And he couldn’t help it. He smiled. Not his royal smile. Not the careful, curated one they taught him to wear.
This one was raw. Private.
Just for you.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, brushing his nose along yours.
Your fingers reached up, sliding into his hair, and you pulled him back down. Kissed him like he was air, like he was yours.
And Charles, normally composed, trained, restrained. Melted.
Right there, into your mouth. Into your body. Into you.
-
Present Day
You’re pacing now, your bare feet silent on the floor that suddenly feels too cold, too clean, and your hands are shaking. Not violently or visibly, but enough that you can feel your pulse throb between your fingers.
“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice not quite a scream but not quiet.
You turn to face him and he’s just standing there. Standing in the middle of your living room like he doesn’t belong to any part of it, like he’s not the reason everything in your body burns and aches.
“You should’ve looked me in the eye,” you breath is shaking now, “and told me you were going to marry her before I had to read it on a fucking television screen.”
He winces. But he doesn’t argue.
Of course he fucking doesn’t.
He never fights when it counts. He just lets things happen.
“I was going to tell you,” he says quietly. As if saying it softer will make it less cruel.
“Oh,” you laugh now. It’s sharp and ugly. “You were goingto?”
You arms fold across your chest because you need something. Anything. To hold on to.
“When?” You ask. Its a quiet kind of fury, tighter and more precise. “After the ring was on her finger? After the palace sent out save-the-dates? Or were you planning to do it after your wedding night, when you needed someone else to fuck.”
His eyes flash and there’s something wild there now, wounded and defensive, but he doesn’t move.
“You don’t get to do this,” your voice trembles. “You don’t get to kiss me, hold me, say things to me like they meant something, and then just leave.”
His jaw tightens but his hands are clenched at his sides. He won’t interrupt you and it only makes you angrier. Because he’s so calm. So composed.
“You were never a detour,” he says. Finally.
“Then what was I?” You ask, and your voice breaks. “What the fuck was I to you?”
His voice rises now, like he’s been holding it in for hours, for years.
“I didn’t want this!” He shouts. “Do you think I wanted to fall in love with you? To walk into a bar and meet someone who made me question everything I’ve spent my whole life being told I have to be?”
You blink, completely startled by the honesty in his voice. With the way it sounds like he’s choking on his words.
“Then why are you still choosing her?” Your voice softer. “Why are you marrying someone you don’t love?”
He looks at you like he’s bleeding. “Because I don’t have a choice. Because if I don’t marry her, everything I’ve spent my entire life preparing for. The crown, the country, the people. It all falls apart.”
“No,” You say, eyes locked on him. “It doesn’t fall apart. You’re just afraid.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“God,” you laugh. “You’re a fucking coward.”
He’s still just standing there. Looking at you like he’s drowning, like he knows what he’s about to do will haunt him forever. But he’s going to do it anyways.
That’s what love looks like.
A crown. A cage. And the person you would burn for walking away because the fire scares them.
“You don’t get to look at me like that.”
His brows furrow, “Like what?”
“Like I’m the one breaking your heart.”
He flinches. Just barely.
But you see it. You always do.
You walk to the sink, turning away from him, and turn the faucet on just to do something. “I hope she’s worth it.”
Charles swallows hard. “Don’t do that.”
You spin, your hands still dripping with water. “Don’t what? Don’t act like I’m the one being unreasonable while you walk away from the only thing that ever made you feel something?”
“I feel everything with you!” He yells, words bursting from his throat. “Every time I’m with you, I can’t fucking breathe. I can’t think. I can’t fucking sleep. I walk into the palace and I feel your hands on me like they’re branded there. I see your face in every goddamn crowd. I dream about you when I have to lie next to her, and I hate myself for it.”
You blink. Staggered. But he’s not done.
“You think this is easy for me?” His voice breaks now. “You think I don’t want to choose you? That I haven’t stopped and stood in front of almost every mirror rehearsing how I’d say the words I’m done? That I haven’t imagined running—just running— until I could crawl into your bed and never leave?”
“Then do it,” you cry. “Fucking do it!”
He stares at you, breath heaving, soaked in silence.
And then softly—too softly— he says:
“I'm not brave enough.”
And that’s what finally does it. Your heart breaks in full. Like a dam giving way.
You let out a harsh sob that tastes like surrender. You push past him, hand over your mouth, body shaking as you try to hold yourself together.
But he follows.
“Don’t,” you say. “Please don’t—“
But his hands are already on you. Not to claim, not to kiss. Just to hold. Just to feel you. His arms wrap around your back like he doesn’t know what to do. His face buries into your neck, and you feel it. His breath hitching, his shoulders trembling.
He’s crying.
“I love you,” he says, muffled. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
And you sob harder. Because that’s what makes it worse.
Because he means it. And it’s still not enough.
Im sorry??? Sleep Token came out with a song that talks about their creepy stalker fans???
Go off, my good dude.
Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader
summary: she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling.
content: sad/comfort, slow burn, he falls first, stuck in bad relationship (non-graphic), mutual pining, mention of fish!
AN: I was having a nostalgic day and suddenly I remembered Shawn Mendes exists. listened to Treat You Better and now boom this was made. big kiss to you all!! don't forget you deserve someone who makes you smile <3
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The Hôtel Hermitage had a way of dressing the evening in silk and scent—amber light dancing off champagne flutes, velvet murmurs weaving between notes of string quartets, the faint hush of the sea just beyond the terrace.
You arrived on your boyfriend's arm, perfectly polished, smelling faintly of oud and confidence. Your gown—a midnight blue silk with delicate beading at the shoulders—glistened like the reflection of stars on still water. He, in a tuxedo he hadn’t even ironed himself, gave you a cursory once-over, the kind usually reserved for window displays or weather forecasts.
"You clean up well. When you try," he remarked, the words soaked in backhanded charm and just enough volume to make the sommelier glance over with subtle disapproval. "Didn’t expect that dress to actually work on you."
Then he kissed your temple like one might stamp a document—detached, obligatory—and peeled off toward a group of men with hedge funds and zero personalities, tossing the comment like a grenade dipped in cologne. He chuckled at his own wit before they even reacted, already anticipating the hollow laughter of men who mistook cruelty for charisma.
You blinked once, twice, then turned on your heel and made for the bar.
"One strawberry martini, please," you said to the bartender, your voice calm and glossy, though your chest felt like it was holding its breath. The bartender gave a subtle nod and began working in quiet sympathy.
You leaned your elbow on the marble and exhaled. Your reflection in the mirrored back wall looked elegant and mildly amused. That, at least, you could live with.
"Your boyfriend’s tux looks like it’s been through customs, dry-cleaned with a rock, and ironed with a shoe."
You turned. The man beside you held a glass of something expensive and looked far too pleased with himself. He was, annoyingly, the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. Hair—perfectly careless. Smile—dangerously self-aware. The overall vibe? Trouble, tailored in what I assume is Tom Ford.
You laughed, sharp and immediate. "Do you know I spent half the afternoon trying to convince him to iron that shirt? Offered him a steamer. He looked personally victimized by the concept of chores. Hopeless."
He looked delighted. "So this was a collaborative failure. Now I feel bad for mocking it. Sort of."
"Don’t. I made one polite suggestion and he acted like I’d insulted his entire lineage. I refuse to be held responsible for his fashion choices," you said, the corners of your mouth finally giving in to a smile. The knot in your chest loosened just a little—this was the most fun you’d had all evening.
"I can’t tie my own ties," he offered casually. "So really, who am I to talk?"
"What do you do, then? Just let your girlfriend do it for you?"
"No girlfriend, just clip-ons. Or my mate George. He’s so posh he probably learned to tie a bow tie before he could tie his own shoes."
You laughed again, lighter this time. The sound surprised you with how easy it felt.
"Well," you said, "I can't even walk in my So Kates for an hour, so I’m in no position to judge anyone tonight."
His eyebrows lifted like you'd said you walked here barefoot. "That’s borderline inhumane. Those are incredibly uncomfortable, right?"
"Horrible," you admitted, sipping your drink. "But the real perk is that I now have a perfectly valid excuse to leave this party in about thirty minutes."
He tapped his glass against yours. "To noble suffering."
"And men who can’t tie ties."
"Ouch. That was personal."
You grinned, the martini smoothing out something tight in your chest. The conversation rolled along like it had always been waiting for an excuse to begin.
"Lando," he said suddenly, extending a hand.
"Nice to meet you, Lando," you replied, taking it, your grip easy, your smile laced with light amusement.
You tilted your head slightly. "I think I recognise you—from the racing, right?"
His brow quirked, caught somewhere between pleased and intrigued. "Guilty."
You sipped your drink, eyes glinting. "Well, it’s easy to remember a face like that."
"In the positive way?"
You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."
His posture straightened just a touch. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something about it softened at the edges.
"I’ll try not to let that go to my head," he said, a beat late, his voice just a little warmer, his eyes twinkling amused.
"You already did."
"Unfair. That was disarming. You’re very good at this."
"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.
"Catching me off guard in a way that’s... annoyingly effective."
"I have a talent," you said, sipping your drink.
"You do," he replied, gaze lingering just a second too long before he added, "and you’re very distracting."
You arched a brow. "Good distracting or 'tripped-over-my-own-feet' distracting?"
"Bit of both. Still deciding."
You laughed, shaking your head, the edge of your smile refusing to leave.
And just like that, the night took on a different hue. The room still sparkled, but its edges softened. You talked about Monaco in winter, about awful hotel carpets, about how Lando once tried to cook pasta in a kettle. There were no pauses, no polite silences. It was ridiculous and lovely and utterly unserious.
At some point, your boyfriend reappeared in the distance, laughing too loudly with someone whose blazer had dragons embroidered on the sleeves.
Lando clocked it instantly. "Should I spill something on him? Not on purpose, obviously. But also maybe very much on purpose."
"Tempting," you said.
He set his glass down. "But we’re too elegant for that."
"Allegedly."
The music swelled, a slow turn from something glittering into something that signaled the end of the night.
You sighed and glanced at the crowd. "I should go find him."
Lando leaned against the bar with a smirk. "Are you sure? He gives off strong 'brings up his net worth in casual conversation' energy."
You smirked. "You’re terrible."
"But right."
"No comment."
As you walked away, he called after you, "Next time, I’m bringing backup shoes for you."
You didn’t turn. But your smile stayed with you, long after the violins began their last swell.
…
The paddock terrace buzzed with the sort of energy only Monaco could host—where money didn’t whisper, it practically shouted through linen suits and Hermès bags, and everything smelled faintly of jet fuel and overpriced champagne.
You arrived on your boyfriend’s arm, your heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, your dress catching the breeze in a way that had drawn more than a few glances already. The adrenaline in the air was contagious. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. This was your home turf, after all. Monaco at its absolute peak.
You leaned over slightly, catching your first glimpse of the pit lane just below the terrace’s glass railing. The sound, the scent, the movement—it all made your heart flicker.
“This is amazing,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can actually feel the vibration of the engines from here.”
Your boyfriend barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah it’s whatever,” he muttered. “Look—those guys in the corner, that’s who I need to speak to. Go entertain yourself, will you?”
You opened your mouth, but he was already off, striding toward a group of Loro Piana-clad finance types who looked like they’d never broken a sweat in their lives. One of them gave you a cursory glance before turning his attention back to whatever new tax loophole they were dissecting.
Left alone, you drifted toward the edge of the terrace, your fingers lightly brushing the glass. You looked in the distance, taking in the beautiful track. The air that smelled like tyre smoke. Somewhere, a commentator’s voice crackled through loudspeakers.
Then you heard it—cutting through the din like it was aimed just for you.
“Hey, Strawberry!”
You blinked, turned your head.
Down in the pit lane, Lando was looking directly at you, leaning casually against the garage barrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin that bordered on criminal. “Good to see you again!” he called up, already looking far too pleased with himself.
Your smile widened despite yourself.
He pointed upward, voice still carrying. “What? You thought I’d forget your cocktail of choice? Strawberry martini, wasn’t it?”
You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. A few heads turned to see who he was yelling at. You gave a little wave, pretending not to enjoy the attention.
"Fancy seeing you here."
“You look bored up there!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth for dramatic flair. “Wanna come down and see where the fun actually happens?”
You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.
He motioned toward the stairs behind you. “Come on, Strawberry. I’ll even let you wear the team radio.”
You glanced back toward the terrace. Your boyfriend was still deep in conversation, probably pitching himself like a startup, laughing with one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a drink he hadn’t even offered you.
So, you turned back to Lando—who was now dramatically miming putting on headphones like he was in a music video—and tilted your head like you were still considering it.
"Alright then," you called down. "But if I trip in these heels, I’m blaming you."
"I'll catch you," he yelled back, utterly unfazed. “Or I’ll sue the FIA for putting stairs in a paddock. Either way—worth it.”
You made your way down the metal staircase, the heels clicking like castanets, and by the time you reached the bottom, Lando was already holding out a pair of headphones and an access bracelet with a kind of smug reverence.
“For you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your official ticket to the chaos.”
You took them with a smile, already feeling a little lighter.
“For the record,” he said, holding out the headset, “I don’t offer these to just anyone.”
You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”
“Undoubtedly.”
You slipped the headphones on as he stepped back, hands in the pockets of his race suit, clearly satisfied.
“Let me guess,” you said, voice a little louder now with the headset in place, “you do this for all the guests who look mildly unimpressed by the view upstairs?”
“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just the ones I secretly hope stick around.”
You gave him a look—curious, not skeptical—and he added quickly, “Because you’ve got good race-watching energy. Very calm. Slightly elegant. Makes the garage look better.”
“Right,” you said, clearly amused. “You just want me to make you look cool.”
“Impossible task,” he admitted with a grin. “But I admire your optimism.”
The garage buzzed around you—technicians moving with purpose, radios crackling, tyres getting shuffled like oversized poker chips. And yet, somehow, everything in your little corner felt... light.
“Not gonna lie,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “I like stealing a few quiet minutes when I can.”
You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot during weekends like this I can imagine.”
He glanced at you, thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask something but decided against it. Then his expression shifted back to its usual mischief.
“Want to see something fun?”
You blinked. “Fun in a normal person way, or in a ‘you drive 300km/h for fun’ way?”
“Both,” he said, tilting his head toward the car in the middle of the garage—sleek, low, and absolutely radiating menace. “Come on. Get in. You’ve earned it.”
You blinked. “Earned it how?”
“For surviving the upstairs crowd without launching yourself off the terrace,” he said, already grinning. “Also, I feel like you'd suit it.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You just want to see me try to climb into that thing in a dress.”
“Maybe,” he shrugged, unapologetic. “But I’ll make it look like I’m being a gentleman helping you in. Good for my PR.”
You laughed but still let him offer his hand. His grip was steady, warm, guiding you in with an ease that made the whole moment feel weirdly... natural.
Inside, the cockpit felt surreal—like slipping into another universe. Tight, sharp, oddly comfortable in a way that made you sit up straighter.
You looked up at him. “I feel like I need clearance from air traffic control.”
Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”
You raised a brow. “Is this part of your usual garage tour?” He grinned. “Only the deluxe version. Very limited availability.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He crouched beside the car, arms resting on the edge, expression suddenly playful. “Alright—race start. Lights out. Whole world watching. What’s your move?”
You pretended to think. “Adjust my lip gloss. Then floor it.”
He burst out laughing. “Unreal. No notes.”
You smiled, settling back slightly in the seat, the hum of the garage around you fading into a softer kind of focus. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, making you feel a bit warmer than you would’ve liked to admit.
“Okay,” you said eventually. “I like your version of fun.”
“Told you.”
Just then, you heard your name.
Lando glanced up behind you, his smile dimming just slightly.
You followed his gaze.
There, at the top of the stairs, your boyfriend had finally noticed. Arms folded. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to show a flicker of something more than irritation.
You shifted slightly in the seat, your back instinctively straightening, your smile thinning.
“I should probably head back,” you murmured, glancing up again. “Before that turns into a thing.”
Lando’s eyes were still on you.
“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I kind of like that I get under his skin.”
You gave him a warning look, but your smile gave you away.
“He’s... not great with this sort of thing.”
Lando leaned one arm casually against the car, just close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of yours. “What sort of thing? Someone actually talking to you? Enjoying you?”
You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”
“He didn’t look all that interested twenty minutes ago.”
You didn’t respond.
Lando straightened up slightly, his grin flickering into something more assured, less teasing. “You don’t have to explain it. But I’m not sorry for this.”
You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you forgot the tension humming above the pit lane.
You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he said, grinning.
You climbed out carefully—again with his help, though he tried very hard not to smirk when your heel caught slightly on the floor.
“Thanks for inviting me down,” you said, adjusting your dress.
He nodded. “Anytime. Next time you should stay for the race.”
You paused at that, surprised, amused, and... something else. Then you turned, stepping away, the noise of the pit building back around you.
“Bye, Strawberry!” he called after you, voice light and full of sunshine. “Try not to break hearts on your way up!”
…
The lunch reservation was for 13:00. The cancellation came at 12:52.
“Something came up. Just a quick game at the club. Have to raincheck.”
You stared at the message like it might change if you blinked hard enough. It didn’t. The text sat there on your screen, casual and infuriating, like a shrug in Helvetica.
The maître d’ at the café had already asked if you’d like to be seated twice. You smiled politely, murmured a no thank you, and slipped out before you started feeling more humiliated than hungry.
The sky was unfairly pretty for a bad day—clear and soft, with sunbeams brushing the cobblestones as if Monaco itself had no idea someone had just bailed on you for nine holes and overpriced cigars.
You didn’t want to go home. You weren’t angry, not quite. Just tired in a way that lingered behind your ribs. So, instead, you wandered a few streets over—past a bookstore, a gelato stand, and finally, a small flower shop with wide windows and hydrangeas stacked like frosting.
You paused. Then pushed the door open.
The scent hit you first—green, sweet, almost cold from the water buckets lining the floor. Peonies, roses, lavender, tulips. All in quiet conversation. The florist gave you a gentle bonjour from behind a counter cluttered with ribbon and stems.
You wandered aimlessly. No plan. No occasion. You just needed to feel like something soft could still be held in your hands.
You reached toward a bouquet of pale pink peonies—petals feathered and ruffled, like they were mid-sigh.
“I was hoping you’d go for those.”
You turned—half startled, half already smiling.
Lando was standing in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, a grin threatening the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a zip-up and trainers, casually gorgeous in the way some people just are when they’re not trying.
“I was going to say,” he added, stepping further inside, “you look like someone who could use a bouquet.”
“You following me now?”
He shrugged. “Just happened to be across the street. Monaco’s small and you have a way of catching my eye.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.
Lando stepped past you and plucked the peonies from the bucket like he’d been sent here by divine instruction.
“Don’t,” you started, watching as he pulled out his card.
“I insist,” he said smoothly, not even looking back. “They look like you.”
That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”
He smirked. “Chic, delicate, vaguely intimidating… but in a very classy way.”
You huffed a laugh and shook your head as he paid, thanked the florist with a grin that probably earned him three free carnations, and handed the bouquet to you like it was an Olympic medal.
“You really didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
You looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I was just trying to walk off a lunch that didn’t happen.”
“Rough day?”
You nodded once.
He hesitated. Then: “Come on. Let me walk you home. Or somewhere. I’m excellent at distracting people.”
You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”
“Not even a little.”
You stepped outside together, the late sun catching the edge of your bouquet. He fell into step beside you like it was instinct.
“So,” he said, as you turned the corner, “what car would you never be caught dead in?”
You squinted. “Like… ever?”
“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”
You thought. “Anything that looks like it was designed by someone who hates joy. Or a Fiat Multipla.”
“Very specific. I respect it.” He nodded solemnly. “For me, it’s the ones with faces. Like, cartoon villain faces. Headlights that judge you.”
You burst out laughing. “What kind of car trauma are you working through?”
“Deep and unresolved,” he said gravely. “I once had a rental that made me feel like it wanted to eat me. Never again.”
The conversation spiraled from there—into ugly rims, hideous spoilers, the tragedy of beige leather interiors. Every few steps, Lando pointed out a car and gave it a nickname.
"That one’s definitely a Greg. Greg works in insurance and never tips."
You laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that catches you off guard and warms your ribs a little.
And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.
You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.
Lando noticed the pause.
You looked at the call. Then pressed the side button, letting it disappear. You didn’t say anything about it, and he didn’t ask.
But he smiled. Just slightly.
It was the quietest rebellion you’d made in a while. And it felt... right.
A few minutes later, as you reached your street, you slowed.
“This is me.”
He nodded, eyes flicking up toward the front of your building like he was memorising it for later. Or just being nosy. Hard to say.
“Thanks for—well, for all of that,” you said, lifting the peonies slightly.
“Anytime,” he replied, and you believed him.
You turned to go.
“Oh, and hey,” he called, stepping backwards down the street, that familiar grin slipping into place. “If you ever need help judging more terrible cars…”
You raised an eyebrow, amused.
He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it lightly in your direction. You caught it—his number, scribbled on a business card with Lando (flower expert) scrawled beneath in messy handwriting.
“…now you know where to find me,” he finished.
You looked down at the card, then back up.
“I do now,” you said, smiling—soft, amused, and something else you didn’t want to name yet.
And you didn’t look back until your door had closed behind you—and the peonies were already in water.
…
Your birthday started with a buzz—literally, from your phone. Noon. A text.
Happy bday x
No call. No emoji. No punctuation enthusiasm. Just lowercase indifference and a kiss like a formality. Like he'd done his civic duty and could now go about his day in peace.
By the time your boyfriend actually arrived at the party—a whopping two hours late, no explanation—you were already knee-deep in hugs, flowers, Aperol spritzes, and the cake was nearly finished.
The rooftop was busy. Sun-drenched. Monaco glittered in the background like it knew it was part of the aesthetic. Friends mingled, music hummed, someone had started making mimosas in a blender for reasons no one could quite explain.
And then there was Lando.
He’d arrived on time, casually cool in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses perched in his curls.
You hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But you’d invited him anyway—half as a joke, half because he was one of the only people lately who made things feel lighter. Since the flower shop, you’d been texting—mostly memes, random complaints about ugly cars, and his very intense opinions on croissants. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d started looking forward to his name lighting up your screen more than you should’ve.
So when he appeared with a cheeky smile and a gift bag in tow, you nearly forgot to keep pretending you weren’t waiting for him.
“Hey, birthday girl,” he said, putting the bag on the gift table. “No refunds or returns.”
You grinned. “Perfect. I was just saying how I wanted to make my own life harder today.”
“Glad to contribute.”
Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.
No apology, no excuse. Just sunglasses, a glance around, and a distracted kiss on the cheek before he handed you an envelope.
Inside was a gift card. For skincare.
“I figured you’d appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. “Don’t want an old lady by my side, yeah?”
Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.
You smiled. Thinly. The kind that feels more like a paper cut than anything resembling joy.
“Thanks,” you said quietly, folding the card and tucking it into your bag.
Lando had seen it. The whole thing. He didn’t say anything at first—just sipped his drink, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.
A few minutes later, he drifted close, nudged your elbow lightly, and said, “Mind if I borrow the birthday girl for a sec?”
You blinked. “Sure?”
He led you away from the crowd and toward the quieter corner of the terrace, near the railing. The music faded behind you. The breeze picked up, cool against your neck.
“I really wanted to personally give this before I have to leave.”
He pulled something small from his little gift bag.
A Cartier box.
You looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Lando, what—”
“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t mortgage a yacht or anything.”
He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.
Inside: a sleek, elegant watch—timeless and perfectly understated, the metal catching the sunlight just enough to glow. When you looked closer, you spotted it—on the back of the face, engraved in the corner, a tiny strawberry.
You looked back up at him.
He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “So you know when it’s time to leave,” he said lightly, then winked. “Or when it’s time to stay.”
You laughed, a real one this time, head tipped back just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I should be offended,” he murmured, carefully fastening the clasp around your wrist. “But you are right.”
“Don’t say anything yet,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I have a speech.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” He stepped a little closer, enough that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to keep looking at him. “Won’t say it’s well prepared, though.”
You glanced up. “No?”
He shrugged, then looked at you—not performative, just sincere with a glint of trouble behind it. “I figured you already knew. That you’re kind. And bright. And that you maybe make half of Monaco feel slightly boring in comparison.”
Your eyes caught his, something warm pooling between the humour and whatever was quietly rising beneath it.
“But also,” he added, tone shifting back to the familiar grin, “you’ve tolerated me for weeks, so I figured you deserved a prize.”
“Ah,” you said. “So it’s a pity watch.”
“It’s a prestigious pity watch,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“It’s perfect,” you said, fingers brushing over the charm. “Truly.”
A few friends called your name in the distance, but you didn’t move yet.
When you finally hugged him goodbye, it lingered. A second too long. Not enough to make it obvious—but enough that you both noticed.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hand pressed lightly against your back, and neither of you made a joke this time.
And that’s when it hit you. That soft, uncomfortable, quiet truth slowly creeping up on you.
You didn’t want to go back to the party.
You didn’t want to go back to him.
You just wanted to stay in that warm, safe, ridiculous moment a little longer.
…
It had been one of those dinners where the wine flowed more freely than the conversation, where the seating was all wrong, and the playlist too curated to feel spontaneous. You’d arrived on time, makeup set, dress clinging just right, genuinely hoping the night might turn things around.
He had promised he’d come.
You’d waited. You made polite conversation with strangers. You checked your phone under the table every ten minutes. At 10:14pm, a message finally came.
Running late. Take a cab? x
You stared at it. The ‘x’ annoyed you most—like it could soften the blow. Like it meant anything at this point.
You slipped out quietly, offering the host a graceful excuse. No one really noticed. You walked down the hill alone, heels clicking against wet stone. The rain started halfway to the road—first soft, then persistent, warm but unrelenting.
By the time you reached the corner, you were soaked. Your jacket was thin and decorative. Your hair clung to your cheeks. A cab passed. You raised your hand too late. Another didn’t even slow.
Then headlights curved around the bend.
A sleek black car eased up to the curb, quiet and smug.
The window rolled down.
“Need a ride, Cinderella?”
Lando.
You blinked at him through the rain.
He was in a hoodie, hair damp, wearing Nike slides like he’d rolled straight out of a student flat. His smile was all teeth and trouble, curls damp at the edges, and yet he looked exactly like what you didn’t know you needed.
You exhaled through a laugh. “What are you even doing here?”
“Padel,” he said simply, “with the boys. Charles insisted we needed some cardio. Alex brought protein shakes. It was big.”
You didn’t move.
He nudged the door open from the inside. “Get in. You look like a drenched sad poodle.”
You slid into the passenger seat, wet fabric against warm leather. The door thunked shut, muting the storm instantly.
The cabin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sweat and jasmine air freshener. It was... comforting.
Lando glanced over. “You alright?”
You nodded, even though the answer was somewhere closer to no.
“Why were you walking?” he asked.
You stared out the window. “My ride bailed on me.”
He didn’t reply right away. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter.
Then, quieter: “Right.”
You could feel the temperature drop half a degree in the silence that followed.
He turned onto a quieter road, headlights sweeping over puddles, rain tapping steadily on the roof.
Then he cleared his throat. “Padel really roughed us all up today.”
You blinked. “Aren’t you professional athletes?”
“Oh, yeah. You’d think we’re all coordinated and elite and whatever,” he waved vaguely with one hand, “but I’ve never seen grown men lose their dignity faster than when we play anything outside of racing.”
You laughed softly. “You’re telling me Charles Leclerc isn’t good at everything?”
“God, no,” Lando said, perking up. “Charles is awful at most sports. He insists though he could’ve been a pro footballer. Brings it up every time he can.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”
“Dead serious,” Lando grinned. “He once missed three serves in a row at padel, slammed the racket down, and said, ‘It’s because my reflexes are trained for football.’”
You snorted. “He did not.”
“And then there’s George,” Lando said. “Who, by the way, calls padel ‘cheap tennis for the common folks’ but still never declines an invitation.”
You laughed. “I assume this is the same George that helps you tie your bows?”
“Absolutely.” Lando continued, “And then there is Alex who has the coordination of a baby giraffe. He runs like he’s buffering.”
You were laughing now, fully, warmth curling in your chest.
“So what about you?” you asked, glancing sideways. “How much do you suck?”
“I’d like to think I’m one of the better ones in the group,” he said confidently.
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s definitely not true.”
“I’m amazing at everything, especially other sports.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a god at golf,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Elite. Practically unbeatable. Some say Tiger Woods retired just to avoid me.”
“Some say?”
“Me. Just me. But I say it with conviction.”
You grinned, resting your head against the seat, the storm outside softening under the steady purr of the engine.
“You’re good at this,” you said after a pause.
“At what?”
“Distractions.”
He smiled, but didn’t answer.
A few minutes passed like that—quiet, easy, the kind of silence that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to break.
Then Lando turned off the main road.
You lifted your head. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he said, flashing you a quick glance. “Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you. Yet.”
“That’s reassuring.”
Two turns later, he parked in front of a small café tucked between shuttered boutiques. Soft orange light glowed from the windows. The sign above the door read Clémentine in fading script.
“I need hot chocolate,” he said. “And you, tragically, look like you do too.”
You laughed. “This your secret spot?”
He grinned. “Sort of. George’s girlfriend loves this place. Alex’s girl says it feels like a Wes Anderson film. Charles’s thinks they do the best croissants in Europe—which is wrong, but she’s charming so we let it slide.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So this is… an exclusive tier”
He gave a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah. You’d fit right in.”
You blinked, heat creeping up the back of your neck.
He looked over the roof of the car and winked. “Let’s go, Strawberry.”
…
Inside, the café was quiet and warm, the kind of place that smells like something’s always in the oven. The barista gave Lando a knowing nod.
“Deux chocolats chauds, extra cream, and an extra cookie, please,” he said as you slid into a corner table.
Your dress was still damp at the edges, and your heels had started to pinch, but the chair was soft and the lighting was kind.
You watched him as he pulled off his hoodie—without a word—he held it out to you across the table.
“You’re shivering,” he said simply.
You hesitated, then slipped it on. It was warm, oversized, and smelled faintly like him—cologne, laundry detergent, and something like orange peel. It pooled around your wrists like it belonged there.
He dropped into the seat across from you, in a plain white t-shirt slightly creased and still damp at the collar. He looked maddeningly effortless.
When the drinks arrived, he handed yours over carefully, fingers brushing yours as he passed the mug.
“I think you forget how extraordinary you are sometimes,” he said.
No grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just sincerity, like it had been sitting quietly on his tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment.
You looked at him.
And for a heartbeat too long, the world went still.
Then, gently, you lowered your gaze, your hands tightening around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.
Something softened in your chest. Something that hadn’t for weeks.
…
The invitation had come via text, in true Lando fashion.
Hiya there’s this art auction Friday. Charles’s girlfriend’s hosting. Could be fun. Come with? Low pressure, high snacks.
You hadn’t even known Lando liked art, let alone attended charity auctions hosted by the Monaco elite, but the message made you smile. You’d read it twice. Maybe three times.
He followed up, minutes later:
Bring your boyfriend, if he won’t spontaneously combust in a room without talking about stocks.
That was how you ended up on the guest list for a night you weren’t supposed to remember as the one where everything finally snapped.
You didn’t know Alexandra—not really. You’d seen her tagged in posts with Charles, always in Dior or vintage Alaïa, always looking like she’d been drawn rather than born. But the invite felt personal in a way you couldn’t explain. Like Lando had meant for you to have something nice.
You showed up with your boyfriend.
He was already half-distracted before you arrived, scrolling his phone as the car pulled up outside the villa, barely glancing at the curated sculpture garden or the warm lighting glowing out from the glass facade.
“Art shows, what a waste of time and money,” he said, adjusting his watch, not even pretending to be excited about going with you. “Hope I can do some decent networking, make something of my night at least.”
As expected, he made a beeline for the restroom the moment you stepped inside. You hated how much relief washed over you—but deep down, you just didn’t want his sulking to cloud your first impression.
But then—you spotted Lando.
He was standing near the champagne tower, wearing a charcoal jacket with the sleeves half-rolled and a grin like he’d been waiting for you.
He caught your eye and made a show of pretending to squint. “Strawberry?” he said dramatically as you approached. “Wow. Look at you, pretending not to know me in front of the important people.”
You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping you’d stay over there a little longer.”
“That’s fair,” he nodded solemnly. “But then I wouldn’t get to tell you how unreasonably hot you look.”
You gave him a dry smile. “You’re terrible at compliments.”
“And yet, somehow, you keep showing up.”
Just then, a lilting voice cut in—velvety, amused.
“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”
You turned.
She was every bit the Monaco fantasy: Alexandra, in vintage Saint Laurent, hair pinned like a Vogue spread, a glass of champagne in one hand and the quiet confidence of someone who knew every art dealer in the room—and their secrets. And yet, the way she looked at you felt nothing but warm.
“I’ve heard things,” she said, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “Mostly from this one, who dramatically insists he doesn’t talk about you, and then does. A lot.”
You laughed, surprised. “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”
Lando raised his eyebrows in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable slander in my own presence.”
Alexandra gave you an approving once-over, eyes twinkling. “You look incredible, by the way. Please tell me you’re staying for the cocktails after. We have a pianist who’ll play Taylor Swift if you bribe him with compliments or €20.”
“That might be the most compelling reason I’ve ever been given to stay at a party,” you said, grinning.
Alexandra gave you a grin from ear to ear, amused. “I’m really so happy to finally meet you! I can already tell we are going to be great friends! You should meet my dog.”
You smiled. “I would love to!”
“Already regretting introducing you two,” Lando said. “Feels like I’m third wheeling.”
“That’s your own fault, Norris,” Alexandra said, sipping her champagne. “You have been hyping her up for weeks, of course I’m excited.”
You looked at him. “Oh really?”
Lando didn’t even blink. “All good things. Mostly.”
Alexandra raised her eyebrows at you. “He actually tried to be subtle about it. It was cute.”
You bit back a smile. “I can imagine.”
“I’ll come find you later,” Alexandra added, brushing your arm. “Got to make sure Charles hasn’t lost Leo yet. So nice to meet you, lovely!”
She slipped off into the crowd with the grace of someone born to host art auctions and mild chaos.
“She’s my new favourite person,” you said.
“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Lando said. “But only because you look stupidly good tonight.”
He sipped his champagne, eyes back on the crowd like he hadn’t just said something that made your pulse tick strangely in your wrist.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t think of anything clever fast enough.
But the flush in your cheeks said enough.
You gave him a side glance.
…
Laughter drifted lightly through the space, more polite than genuine, the kind of sound bred in auction houses and villas with good acoustics. You let yourself drift for a while, away from the main crush of guests and the low buzz of clinking flutes and unsolicited business pitches.
Lando had disappeared into a conversation across the room—arms folded, half-listening, already looking for an escape route. You wandered along the perimeter, letting your eyes pass over sculpture and canvas, nothing really sticking—until something did.
A Monet.
Not loud. Not the centrepiece of the evening. Just tucked off to the side, quietly luminous. The colour was soft, the light dreamlike, and it hit you all at once—how rare it was to stand still in front of something that didn’t need to impress anyone to be worth something.
You didn’t smile, but you didn’t move either.
And then, out of nowhere, a voice landed at your side.
“You’re not seriously getting emotional over that, are you?”
You blinked once.
Your boyfriend had materialised beside you, the corner of his mouth turned up in that smug, half-bored way he always wore at events that weren’t about him.
“It’s just some smudged garden scene,” he added, barely sparing it a glance. “Looks like the guy couldn’t be bothered to finish it.”
You said nothing.
He chuckled, nudging your elbow like he was letting you in on a joke. “Honestly, my niece brought home something just like this last week—finger paints, but same idea.”
You turned toward him.
And for once, your voice didn’t waiver. “Do you ever get tired?”
He raised a brow. “Of what?”
“Of being so obnoxious.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “I was joking—”
“I know you were not. You just have to be an asshole all the time,” you said, stepping back. “I’m so done with this.”
You handed him your untouched champagne without looking at him again.
And then you walked.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… forward. Certain.
Across the room, Lando caught sight of you. He paused mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly, eyes following the clean line of your exit. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew enough.
And he didn’t see the man behind you calling your name, confusion creeping into frustration, his voice rising in your wake.
…
The days following the gala blurred into a haze of solitude. You hadn't anticipated the weight of ending a relationship that had, for too long, been a source of discomfort rather than joy. Even though it felt like a relief to be free, the fresh perspective you had now gained made looking back on the relationship seemingly harder, being disappointed in yourself for sticking around so long.The walls of your apartment seemed to close in, each corner echoing with memories you'd rather forget.
Then, an unexpected message illuminated your phone screen. It was from Alexandra.
Hii! I know we've only met once, Charles is hosting a yacht party this weekend. I'd love for you to come. It'll be fun, and I think you could use a night out. What do you say?
A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Alexandra's warmth was palpable, even through text. The idea of attending a lavish yacht party was daunting, especially solo, but the prospect of genuine company was tempting. Before you could overthink it, you quickly responded you’d be there.
…
The evening of the party arrived with a golden sunset casting its glow over Monaco's harbor. As you approached the yacht, its grandeur was undeniable. Laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of music. Taking a deep breath, you stepped aboard, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you of the fluidity of the moment.
You hadn’t arrived with a dramatic entrance, but you may as well have. There was something in the way you carried yourself—unhurried, unbothered, glowing without trying—that turned heads. The white sundress moved like water around your legs. Your hair was soft, undone. You looked like summer had chosen you personally.
"Hey! You made it!" Alexandra's voice rang out, genuine delight evident as she approached, her embrace warm and reassuring.
She beamed the moment she saw you. “You look like revenge dressed in linen. Come ruin someone's night—in a good way.”
"So excited!" you replied, grateful for her presence.
She linked her arm with yours, guiding you through the throng. "Come on, let's get you a drink and introduce you to some people."
So you mingled.
You laughed. You listened. You accepted compliments with a smile that didn’t flicker with doubt this time. The isolation of the past few days had left you sharper, oddly steadier. You hadn’t expected to feel so… grounded. You were alone, technically. But not lonely.
And then—across the deck—you felt it.
Someone watching.
You didn’t need to look to know who it was.
But you did anyway.
Lando stood near the upper rail, half-leaning into conversation with Charles and George, drink in hand, curls damp like he’d only recently dried off. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without meaning to be, and he was laughing at something George was saying—until he saw you.
Then he stopped laughing.
His eyes softened. Lit up. Like you’d just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t finished having.
He didn't move immediately. Just watched. And when you finally gave him a smile—small, knowing—he excused himself, barely disguising it.
You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.
When he reached you, it was casual. Or it would’ve been, if not for the very specific way he looked at you. As if seeing you tonight had knocked the wind out of him slightly.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice easy, but with that familiar edge of amusement.
You tilted your head. “Trying my best. Alexandra told me to come ruin someone’s night tonight.”
Lando’s gaze swept over you, amused. “I’ve got a pretty good candidate.”
You met his look head-on. “You volunteering?”
“I’m begging.”
You took a step closer, just enough. “Careful. I take those kinds of requests seriously.”
His voice dipped. “I was hoping you would.”
You laughed.
He smiled, pleased.
“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, a little quieter now. “I didn’t want to push.”
“I needed a few days,” you replied honestly. “To unpick a few things.”
Lando nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something more, something gentler, but didn’t want to risk it here.
“Want to see the good part of the boat?” he offered instead, gesturing subtly toward the back. “It’s less busy, better view of the sea.”
“Are you offering a tour or an escape plan?”
“Both,” he said. “But this is not my boat so don’t blame me if we get lost mid-tour.”
You smiled, setting your glass down. “Alright. Lead the way.”
He offered his hand this time. Not his arm. His hand. Like it was only natural you’d take it.
And you did.
…
The further you got from the music and noise, the more the sea became the soundtrack. The laughter and clinking glasses behind you faded into something muted and unimportant. Lando walked beside you—not rushing, not talking. His thumb brushed against yours every few steps, like a quiet question he didn’t need answered yet.
At the stern, it opened up—a wide, quiet deck, low to the water, with just enough light to see but not enough to distract from the stars. The sea lapped gently around the hull. It smelled like salt and sun.
You leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze touch your skin. Lando stood beside you, but not too close.
“Nice out here,” you murmured, looking up.
He glanced over at you. “You suit starlight. That’s unfair.”
You gave him a look. “You’re laying it on thick.”
“Absolutely,” he said, eyes warm. “I’ve been holding back for weeks.”
You laughed, quiet and real. He grinned, pleased.
But then, after a second, he sobered. His gaze drifted down, toward the water, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted.
“You look happy,” Lando said lightly, almost teasing. “I almost didn’t recognise you without the polite ‘I’m-fine’ smile.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Don’t hold back.”
“I’m serious,” he said, this time softer. “It’s good to see you like this.”
You glanced at him, and for a moment, he didn’t try to dodge the feeling in the air. He looked out at the sea and back again.
“I hated seeing you pretend,” he said finally. “These past few months… at the garage, the brunch, the auction—you were always there, but it felt like part of you was somewhere else. You still smiled, still made jokes, still looked beautiful, but…”
He trailed off. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Just because he meant all of it.
You didn’t speak right away.
“You wanted to throw him in the harbour, didn’t you.”
A beat.
“Every single time,” Lando said, with no apology.
That made you laugh again, but quieter this time. Almost sad.
You looked down at the rail, fingers brushing the edge. “I wasn’t really fooling anyone, was I.”
“You fooled plenty,” he said. “Just not me.”
You looked away for a beat. Then quietly, “I haven’t been unhappy around you, though.”
Lando froze.
When you turned your head back, he was watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.
“Say that again,” he said, almost joking. Almost.
You smiled, small and real. “You’ve been the exception, Lando. You’ve always felt like... a relief. Like I could breathe.”
His expression cracked open at the edges—something flickering across it, equal parts surprise and affection.
“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s getting... impossible.”
You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”
He looked at you deeply, green eyes soft but with a sparkle. “Me. Definitely me.”
There was a beat of silence, hanging between you like a held breath.
“You just keep making it harder,” he added, almost laughing at himself. “Showing up looking like this. Laughing at my stupid jokes.”
You stared at him. He raised his hands, just slightly.
“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s easy to hide behind that. But I’m not playing with this. I’m not here to push or expect anything you’re not ready for.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I just… I need you to know. I’ve been falling for you since the gala.”
The words didn’t feel rehearsed or dramatic—just honest. And they landed like something you’d been waiting to hear without realising.
You stayed still, listening.
“Since the dress,” he went on, his smile tugging softly at the corner of his mouth. “Since the strawberry drink. Since you made fun of my bow tie.”
You laughed—quiet and barely there. But it was real.
“Since you made me want to stick around,” he added, “even when you were barely looking at me.”
His eyes met yours fully now. “You’re magnetic,” he said, simple as anything. “Warm. Sharp. And really hot even when you look like a drenched puppy.” He exhaled lightly. “And I just… I didn’t want summer to end without you knowing.”
You stepped closer.
Close enough to feel the change in the air, the shift in his breathing.
You placed your hand on his chest, light but certain.
“Lando.”
He didn’t move.
“If I kiss you, is it going to be a problem?”
His answer was immediate, and sure. “No.”
Then, softer. “But only if you want to.”
You looked at him for a long, quiet second.
“I do.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding it since May. Maybe longer.
And then you kissed him.
Slow, at first. Curious. The kind of kiss that asks before it takes. His hand hovered near your waist, the other brushing your jaw with the gentlest touch—as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.
But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted slightly, that control cracked.
His arm wrapped fully around you then, the kiss deepening with a sudden warmth that made your stomach twist. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks. Like he'd held every grin, every brush of your arm, every stolen look in his chest—and finally let them out all at once.
You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, in the way his mouth moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm.
When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.
His forehead leaned against yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then you smiled, just a little. “So… did I ruin your night after all?”
Lando let out a low, breathless laugh. “You can ruin my life, for all I care.”
He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.
And then he kissed you—like he had nothing left to hold back. Like the wait had been worth it. Like it had always been leading to this.
…
It was the kind of Sunday that felt like a secret. The kind where you woke up to Lando already beside you, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep as he offered to make pancakes—and then promptly convinced you to go out for groceries instead. A domestic detour. A small adventure disguised as an errand.
You hadn’t argued. Not really.
Now, somewhere between the mangoes and the melons in your favourite Carrefour, you were watching Lando shake a pineapple like it had personally offended him.
“That’s not how you check if it’s ripe,” you said, barely holding in a laugh.
He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s not? Then why did that woman on YouTube tell me to do it?”
“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”
“Research is key,” he said, placing it carefully into the cart. “Anyway, I came prepared.”
“You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You pick the snacks, I’ll handle dinner?”
He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then promptly wandered off to the crisps aisle like a man on a mission.
You lingered in the herb section, still debating parsley versus basil, when a voice behind you slid into your spine like cold water.
“Well. You look good.”
You turned.
He looked the same—your ex. A little too polished, sunglasses indoors, holding a bottle of overpriced green juice that screamed aesthetic punishment.
“Thanks,” you said simply. “I’ve been feeling better.”
It wasn’t petty. Just honest.
He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.
You were just about to step away when—
“Oh, no. No no no,” Lando groaned from the next aisle, appearing with a look of theatrical dismay. “There’s a full seafood crime scene back there. Half the ocean’s laid out. I think I saw a salmon judging me.”
He stopped short when he saw you. And him.
His entire posture shifted.
He stepped up beside you, one hand sliding effortlessly around your waist, grounding and easy. He didn’t force it. Just filled the space.
“Hi,” Lando said, his tone calm, eyes flicking to the man in front of you. “I’m Lando.”
Your ex gave a tight nod, straightening slightly. “We’ve met.”
Lando’s gaze dipped to the man’s basket—almond milk, snack bars, and two tubs of something suspiciously protein-packed and aggressively vanilla.
“Solid haul,” Lando said, casual. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I’d go easy on the sugar. Causes hair loss, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk it, considering your current situation.”
He didn’t smile. Just winked. Cheeky enough to pass for humour. Sharp enough to land exactly where it needed to.
Your ex blinked again. Offered no reply. Just turned back toward the juice aisle with the grace of someone trying not to trip over his own ego.
“Lovely to see you,” Lando called politely, already nudging the cart forward—his hand still warm around your waist.
You let him guide you down the aisle, heart flickering with quiet satisfaction.
“Hair loss?” you asked, giggling, once you were out of earshot.
He shrugged, eyes forward, lips twitching. “What? It was observational science.”
“You’re awful.”
“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. “But I’m yours.”
You laughed, soft and real, tucking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
sub needy op81?
♪ — 𝗗𝗢𝗘𝗦𝗡'𝗧 𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗖𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 sub!oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader ( smut ) fic summary . . . Oscar's too needy—whining, squirming, begging for more when he's already inside you, and it's driving you insane. You shut him up the best way you know (584 words)
( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )
CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut, dom/sub dynamics, desperate sub!oscar, riding, breath control, slight choking, overstimulation, praise & degradation, light manhandling )
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Oscar is already a mess beneath you—wrists pinned to the mattress, hips twitching up in a desperate attempt for more friction, more you. His breath stutters every time you move, a broken, pleading sound spilling from his lips like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
"You—" His voice cracks, head tilting back, eyes squeezed shut. His fingers flex uselessly where they’re trapped beneath your grip, body trembling, fevered with need. "Please, just—just let me touch you."
You press his wrists down harder, leaning over him, keeping him locked in place. "No."
His breath shudders out in frustration, a sharp whimper catching in his throat. He tries again, a weak, useless struggle against your hold, but you can feel it—he’s not really fighting. He’s testing, pushing, trying to see if you’ll break before he does.
Spoiler: you won’t.
His fingers twitch, straining, reaching like they could grasp you even with his hands pinned above his head. Like he could anchor himself in you, find some kind of relief from the overwhelming desperation clawing at his body. You could let him. You could let him wrap his arms around you, dig his fingers into your skin, but you don’t.
Because he’s already inside you, and yet it’s still not enough for him.
"Oscar," you murmur, and his eyes flutter open—hazy, unfocused, lips parted as he sucks in a shaky breath. He looks wrecked. Desperate. Like he’s on the verge of falling apart completely.
"Please," he whines, his voice so small, so pathetic. His brows knit together, mouth forming the shape of another plea before he even speaks. "I need you—closer—"
Your patience snaps.
Your free hand moves before you even think about it, wrapping around the column of his throat in a firm, deliberate squeeze. Not enough to hurt—just enough to make him still, to make him listen.
A sharp inhale catches in his chest. His lashes flutter. His whole body locks up beneath you like he can feel the shift in the air, like something in him is finally, finally understanding that this isn’t his to take—it’s yours to give.
"Oscar," you say again, softer this time, almost sweet. His lips part instantly, a high, needy whimper slipping out before he can stop it.
You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, tightening your grip just a fraction more, and he melts. His breath stutters, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps, his whole body thrumming under your touch.
"You’re literally inside me," you whisper, slow and deliberate, savoring the way he shudders, the way his lashes flutter like he’s already teetering on the edge. "It doesn’t get closer than this."
A broken, choked noise escapes him—somewhere between a whine and a whimper—his fingers twitching in frustration against the sheets. His hips jerk instinctively, a desperate attempt to do something, to get more of you, but you keep him pinned, unyielding.
He’s unraveling. You can feel it.
"Be good," you tell him, your voice a slow, deliberate drag, and you roll your hips in torturous circles, taking your time, making him feel every second of it.
His head falls back, mouth open, a strangled moan slipping from his lips. His whole body is trembling, his hands shaking where they’re still trapped under your grip, the effort of not touching you tearing him apart at the seams.
And then—finally—he stops fighting it.
Stops begging, stops whining, stops pulling.
Just gives in. Surrenders.
And that’s when you finally let him have what he wants.
but daddy i love him. part two - mv1
summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc:13.5k. READ PART ONE
folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!!! THE OTHER PART OF THEIR STORY !!! first of all i want to thank you all for the incredible support on part one, it was so nice to read all of your feedback ! please make sure to leave some feedback on this part as well. let me know ALL of your thoughts, and most importantly, ENJOY!
Monaco, 2021
The two weeks after Abu Dhabi are the longest of your life. Your phone remains silent - no late-night calls, no secret messages, no pictures of the cats that Max knows always make you smile. The space where he used to be feels enormous.
Your father is still dealing with the aftermath, appeals and media statements consuming his days. You watch him move through the house like a storm cloud, muttering about Masi and the FIA, and think about Max's words: "perfect Mercedes daughter."
You've never felt less perfect.
It's late one night when the doorbell rings. You're alone in the apartment - the one that's technically yours but has become a sanctuary for both of you over the past year. When you open the door, Max is standing there, looking as exhausted as you feel.
"Hi," he says softly.
You stand aside to let him in, heart pounding.
"I'm sorry," he says before you can speak. "I was cruel that night. You didn't deserve that."
"No, I didn't."
He runs a hand through his hair - a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "I was high on winning, angry you weren't there, and I took it out on you. But that's not an excuse."
"I'm sorry too," you move closer. "You were right about some things. I should have been there for your celebration. It was your moment."
"It wasn't just my moment though, was it?" He sits on the couch, looking up at you. "It was your father's worst nightmare. Lewis' heartbreak. The most controversial end to a season ever." He laughs quietly. "Not exactly the best timing to announce we're in love."
You sit beside him, careful to maintain a small distance. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying… you were right. Telling them now, with everything so raw… it would be like throwing fuel on a fire." He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. "I was so focused on finally being able to tell everyone, I didn't think about what that would mean for you. For your relationship with your dad."
"Max…"
"No, let me finish." His thumb traces patterns on your palm - another familiar gesture that makes tears prick at your eyes. "I've spent six years loving you. I can wait a bit longer for the timing to be right. For the wounds to heal a bit."
"What about what you said? About not being my dirty little secret anymore?"
"You're not keeping me a secret because you're ashamed," he says quietly. "You're protecting your family. And mine too, probably. Can you imagine Jos' reaction if we told him now?"
You both wince at the thought.
"So what do we do?" you ask.
He tugs you closer until you're against his chest, where you can hear his heartbeat - steady and strong and familiar. "We love each other. We wait for the right moment. And this time…" he kisses your head, "this time we decide together when that moment is. No ultimatums, no pressure."
"I missed you," you whisper into his shirt.
"I missed you too. These two weeks…" he shudders slightly. "Never again, okay? No matter how angry we get, no silence. We talk it out."
You lift your head to look at him properly. "Promise?"
Instead of answering, he kisses you - soft and sweet and apologetic. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
"I love you," he says. "Mercedes daughter and all."
You laugh through sudden tears. "I love you too. Even when you're being an insufferable World Champion."
"Speaking of…" he grins, that boyish smile you fell in love with all those years ago, "I believe this is the first time I'm kissing you as a World Champion."
"Technically you've already kissed me as a World Champion."
"Ah, but that was angry championship kissing. This is making up championship kissing. Completely different."
You roll your eyes but let him pull you closer. "Is that so?"
"Mhmm. Much better. Want me to demonstrate the difference?"
Later, curled up in bed together, you talk about the future - not just when to tell everyone, but what comes after. Houses and holidays and maybe someday kids who'll have Wolff determination and Verstappen speed.
"Your dad might actually kill me when we tell him," Max muses, playing with your hair.
"Probably. But at least by then he might have calmed down about Abu Dhabi."
"That's optimistic of you."
You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him. "Are you okay with waiting? Really okay?"
He considers this, serious now. "Yeah, I am. Because this time it feels different. This time we're deciding together." He touches your face gently. "And because this time I know you're not running away."
"Never again," you promise. "No more running."
As you fall asleep in his arms, you think about timing and choices and love that survives silence. Maybe it's not perfect - sneaking around, hiding from families, loving in the shadows.
But it's yours. And for now, that's enough.
2022
After Abu Dhabi last year, you and Max spent a quiet Christmas apart with your respective families, but managed to escape for New Year's. Away from the media frenzy and family tensions, you found peace in the simple moments - cooking together, watching movies, Max trying (and failing) to teach you sim racing.
On New Year's Eve, standing on your balcony watching fireworks illuminate the harbor, Max held you from behind. "This is how I want every year to start," he murmured against your neck.
"Just us?"
"Just us. No drama, no hiding, no championships on the line."
You turned in his arms. "Well, about that last part…"
"Okay, maybe some championships," he grinned. "But the rest… we'll figure it out, right?"
"We will," you promised, sealing it with a kiss as the clock struck midnight.
The first weeks of 2022 brought exciting changes. Susie announced her plans for the F1 Academy, a project aimed at supporting young female drivers, and immediately asked you to join her team.
"I need someone I can trust completely," she said during one of your planning sessions. "Someone who understands both the technical and human side of racing."
"Are you sure? It's a huge responsibility."
"YN, you're perfect for this. You've grown up in this sport, you understand the challenges these girls will face." Susie squeezed your hand. "Plus, you're the only person besides Toto who can match my caffeine consumption during race weekends."
Working closely with Susie brought you closer than ever. She became more than just your father's wife - she was your confidante, mentor, and friend. You spent long hours together, planning programs, reviewing applications, discussing how to break down barriers in motorsport.
Which made the current breakfast situation even more uncomfortable.
"Andreas has an impressive background in aerodynamics," Toto was saying, seemingly oblivious to your discomfort. "Oxford educated, worked with Ferrari's junior program…"
"Dad," you interrupted, pushing your eggs around your plate. "Can we maybe not?"
"I'm just saying, YN, you should give him a chance. He's exactly the kind of person who would understand your world."
Lewis and George exchanged knowing looks while Susie watched you carefully.
"The new regulations are keeping me busy enough," you tried. "Between that and the Academy with Susie…"
"There's always time for personal life," Toto persisted. "You're young, successful, beautiful. You shouldn't spend all your time buried in work."
After breakfast, Susie found you in your office, surrounded by Academy paperwork.
"Want to talk about it?" she asked, closing the door.
"About Dad's sudden career as a matchmaker?"
"He means well," Susie sat across from you. "He just wants you to be happy."
"Can you maybe… talk to him? Get him to drop it?"
"Why? Andreas seems like a lovely young man. Smart, ambitious…"
You set down your pen, heart racing. This was it - the moment to trust someone else with your secret.
"I… I already have someone."
Susie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? How did I not know about this?"
"Because…" you took a deep breath. "Because it's complicated. Really complicated."
"YN," Susie leaned forward, "you can tell me anything. You know that, right?"
"It's Max," you whispered. "Max Verstappen."
Susie's eyes widened, but she didn't immediately speak. She got up, locked your office door, and sat back down.
"How long?"
"Since 2015, on and off, you know that story. But seriously since I came back in 2020."
"Through everything? The championship battle?"
You nodded, tears forming. "It was… difficult. Especially Abu Dhabi."
"Oh, sweetheart," Susie moved to your side, pulling you into a hug. "That must have been awful for you."
"You're not… mad?"
"Mad? Why would I be mad?"
"Because he's Red Bull, because of everything with Dad…"
"Listen to me," Susie pulled back to look at you. "Love doesn't care about team colors. God knows this sport has enough rivalry without policing people's hearts too."
"I don't know what to do," you admitted. "We want to tell everyone, but after Abu Dhabi…"
"The timing's not great," Susie agreed. "But YN, you can't hide forever. It'll only get harder."
"I know. But Papa…"
"Your father loves you more than anything in this world. More than Mercedes, more than championships." She squeezed your hands. "Will he be shocked? Absolutely. Probably throw something expensive. But he'll come around."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I've seen how he looks at you - like you're still that little girl who used to fall asleep in the garage. He might not like your choice, but he'll respect it. Eventually."
"He was furious back then, said Max was too young, too reckless, that it would end in disaster. He threatened to send me back to boarding school."
"That explains a lot," Susie said softly. "Why he's been so pushy about these 'suitable' men lately."
"He thinks he protected me back then. Maybe he did - we were young, and things got messy. But now…"
"Now you're both different people," Susie finished. She was quiet for a moment, thinking. "You know what the real issue was back then?"
"That Max was the enemy?" you said dryly.
"No. That Toto couldn't control it. He's used to managing everything, planning ten steps ahead. But this…" she gestured vaguely, "this wasn't in his carefully constructed plan for you."
"I never wanted to disappoint him."
"Hey," Susie's voice was firm. "Loving someone isn't disappointing. It's probably the bravest thing we do."
"Thanks," you whisper, hugging Susie tightly. "For understanding. For not judging."
"Just... be careful, okay? And know that I'm here if you need to talk."
The conversation with Susie lifts a weight you didn't realize you were carrying. Having someone know, someone in your corner, makes everything feel more manageable.
Bahrain, 2022
The morning of the Bahrain Grand Prix buzzed with the familiar nervous energy of a season opener. You were in one of the back offices of the F1 Academy, triple-checking schedules and programs for the upcoming season, when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.
"Shouldn't you be in pre-race prep?" you asked, trying to sound stern but failing to hide your smile.
"I have fifteen minutes," Max murmured, pressing a kiss to your neck. "Wanted to wish you luck. Big day for you too."
You turned in his arms. "Nervous?"
"About the race? Nah." He grinned. "About you stealing the spotlight with the Academy launch? Terrified."
"Idiot," you laughed, playing with the collar of his race suit. "As if anything could overshadow the great Max Verstappen."
"Hey," his expression turned serious. "What you're doing here… it's important. You're going to change lives."
"Now who's being dramatic?"
"I mean it," he insisted. "You remember what it was like, being the only girl in karting? These kids won't have to feel that way because of you and Susie."
"Well... I quit karting after a year," you joke and Max rolls his eyes, "Oh come on, just kiss me before you have to go all defending world champion on track."
And he does, but before you can go any further the door opened.
"YN, have you seen the timing sheets from- OH SHIT!"
George Russell stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide as saucers. You and Max jumped apart like teenagers caught by their parents.
"I… um… I should…" George stammered, pointing vaguely behind him.
"George, wait!" You rushed to close the door before he could escape. "Please…"
"This is literally my first day as a Mercedes driver and I'm already caught in..." he gestures wildly between you and Max.
"George," you step forward, "you CANNOT tell my dad."
"I... what... how long..." he stammers.
"Please," Max speaks up, "We'll explain everything, just... keep this between us?"
George looks between you and Max, then sighs dramatically. "Well, I guess this is one way to start my Mercedes career - harboring my team principal's daughter's secret relationship with our biggest rival."
"Welcome to Mercedes?" you offer weakly.
"Right," George shakes his head, but he's fighting a smile. "I'm going to leave, pretend I never saw this, and maybe drink enough tonight to forget it entirely."
As he turns to go, he pauses. "But for what it's worth? Your secret's safe with me."
The door closes behind him, and you collapse against Max, half laughing, half panicking.
"Well," Max says dryly, "that's one more person who knows. At this rate, the only person who won't know will be your father."
You looked up at him. "You should go. GP will be looking for you."
"Yeah," he sighed, but made no move to leave. "Good luck today. Show them what the Wolff women can do."
"Good luck to you too. Try not to make Dad throw anything at the TV?"
He laughed, kissing you quickly. "No promises. But hey," he paused at the door, "for what it's worth, George's reaction wasn't terrible. Maybe there's hope for the others too."
As you watched him leave, you couldn't help but smile. One more person in their corner, one more step toward not hiding. Maybe, just maybe, the universe was trying to tell you something.
Singapore, 2022
The humidity of Singapore still clung to the air as most of the paddock crowded into Marquee, celebrating another street circuit spectacle. The bass pulsed through the exclusive VIP section where drivers and key personnel gathered.
You were at the bar with Lewis when Andreas appeared, looking particularly polished.
"YN Wolff," he smiled, a bit too confidently. "I was hoping to find you here."
You caught Lewis' subtle eye roll as he conveniently spotted someone he "needed to talk to."
"Andreas, hi," you tried to sound polite but distant, very aware of Max watching from across the room where he sat with Lando and Charles.
"You looked beautiful today in the paddock," he moved closer. "That dress you wore to the team dinner…"
"Thanks," you cut him off, scanning for an escape route. You found none.
"Your father mentions you're still single," he continued, either oblivious to or ignoring your discomfort. "I find that hard to believe."
At the other end of the VIP section, Max's jaw clenched as he watched the scene unfold.
"Mate, you're going to break that glass," Lando noted, watching Max's white-knuckled grip on his drink.
"Who is that guy?" Charles asked, following Max's gaze.
"Some engineer Toto's trying to set YN up with," Lando explained, then froze, realizing what he'd revealed.
Charles' eyes widened. "Wait, why do you know that? And why does Max look like he's about to commit murder?"
Before Lando could deflect, Max stood abruptly as Andreas placed his hand on your lower back.
"Oh shit," Lando muttered.
"I don't understand," Charles said, watching Max stride across the room. "Why is he- oh. OH."
Back at the bar, you were trying to subtly remove Andreas hand when you felt a familiar presence behind you.
"Everything okay here?" Max's voice was controlled, but you could hear the edge in it.
Andreas looked annoyed at the interruption. "We're fine, thank you."
"I wasn't asking you," Max said coldly, then softer: "YN?"
You turned toward him gratefully. "Actually, Max, would you mind helping me with something?"
"Of course," he placed his hand where Andreas' had been, but this touch was different - protective, familiar, right.
Andreas looked between you two, confusion turning to understanding. "Wait, are you…"
"She's not interested," Max said simply. "Never was."
You let Max guide you away from the bar, very aware of the eyes following you. Lando and Charles weren't even trying to hide their interest now, and you noticed Carlos and Pierre joining them, speaking in hushed tones.
"You didn't have to do that," you said quietly.
"Yes, I did." Max's hand hadn't left your back. "I'm tired of watching guys hit on my girlfriend because they think she's available."
You reached the relative privacy of a corner booth. "Max…"
"I know, I know. We're being careful. But YN," he turned to face you, "half the paddock already suspects something. Charles and Carlos are literally taking bets right now."
You glanced over - sure enough, money was being exchanged. "Great."
"Would it be so terrible?" Max asked. "If people knew?"
"No," you admitted. "But Dad…"
"Will find out eventually. Wouldn't you rather he heard it from us than through paddock gossip?"
You were about to respond when George appeared, slightly out of breath.
"You two need to be more subtle," he hissed. "Lando just asked me if there was something going on between you."
"What did you say?" you asked anxiously.
"I'm a terrible liar! I just made a noise and ran away!"
Max couldn't help laughing. "Smooth, Russell."
"This isn't funny," George insisted. "Look!"
You followed his gesture. The other drivers were gathered together, all of them looking your way occasionally.
"Oh god," you groaned. "They all know, don't they?"
"If they didn't before, they do now," George confirmed. "Max's little knight-in-shining-armor act wasn't exactly subtle."
"He had his hands all over you," Max defended.
"His hand was on my back for two seconds!"
"Two seconds too long."
George looked between you, amused. "You two are ridiculous. Also, heads up - Lando is coming over."
Sure enough, Lando was making his way through the crowd. He slid into your booth without invitation, expression unreadable.
"So," he said calmly, "how long?"
You glanced at Max, who squeezed your hand under the table. "Since 2020."
"Through the championship battle?" When you nodded, Lando let out a low whistle. "Damn, girl. That must have been…"
"Horrible," you finished. "But we managed."
Lando studied Max for a moment. "You better be sure about this. Because when Toto finds out…"
"I am," Max said firmly. "We both are."
"Good." Lando smiled finally. "Because I'm pretty sure Daniel just started a betting pool on how Toto's going to react, and I've got money on him throwing his headphones."
"Lando!" you exclaimed.
"What? Might as well profit from the drama." He stood up. "For what it's worth, I think it's kind of perfect. In a weird, Romeo and Juliet way."
"They both died in that story," George pointed out.
"Details," Lando waved him off. "Come on, George. Let's go see what odds Daniel's offering."
As they left, you buried your face in Max's shoulder. "This is a disaster."
"Is it?" he asked, running his hand up your arm. "Look around - no one seems shocked or angry. Well, except maybe Andreas."
You peaked up - he was right. The drivers were all still watching, but their expressions were mostly amused or knowing. Carlos gave you a thumbs up when he caught your eye.
"I guess the secret's out," you sighed. "At least in this room."
"Good." Max tilted your chin up. "Because I really want to kiss you right now."
"Max! Everyone's watching."
"Let them watch."
And before you could protest, he kissed you. When you pulled back, Max was grinning. "See? World didn't end."
"No," you said softly, "It really didn't."
The night continued, but differently now. No more hiding in corners or pretending not to know each other. Just you and Max, surrounded by friends who were apparently more supportive than you'd imagined.
Now you just had to figure out how to tell your father that his entire team - including his wife - had known about your relationship before him.
A late afternoon in Monaco, in Toto's office overlooking the harbor. What had started as a routine pre-race weekend meeting had quickly derailed when Andreas' name came up again.
"He asked about you again," Toto said, shuffling some papers on his desk. "He's a good man, YN. Smart, ambitious…"
"Dad," you cut in, "I've told you, I'm not interested in Andreas."
"You haven't even given him a chance," he insisted. "One dinner…"
"No."
Toto sighed, that familiar mix of frustration and concern crossing his face. "Liebling, I worry about you. Ever since that rebellious phase with Verstappen when you were eighteen…"
You tensed, feeling your heart rate spike. In the corner, you saw Lewis shift uncomfortably - he'd been quietly reviewing race strategies, but now he was fully alert.
"Dad…"
"You haven't been serious about anyone," Toto continued. "I know that boy hurt you, but you can't let one teenage romance…"
"You don't know anything about it," you said quietly, dangerously.
"I know enough. I know he was reckless, impulsive. I know ending it was the right decision."
Lewis cleared his throat. "Toto, maybe we should focus on qualifying…"
But Toto was on a roll now. "Andreas is different. He understands our world, he's stable…"
"He's boring," you snapped. "And you don't get to decide who I date."
"I'm trying to protect you!"
"From what?" You stood up. "From making my own choices? From being with someone who actually makes me happy?"
"Max Verstappen did not make you happy!" Toto's voice rose. "He was a distraction, a rebellion…"
"He was everything!" The words exploded out before you could stop them.
The office went deadly quiet. Lewis had his head in his hands.
"What?" Toto asked softly, dangerously.
You swallowed hard, years of secrets sitting heavy on your tongue. "You didn't protect me back then, Dad. You forced us apart. But you want to know something? He was never just a rebellion."
Toto stands slowly, his expression unreadable. "What are you saying, YN?"
You take a deep breath, catching Lewis' subtle head shake in your peripheral vision. The words are there, the whole truth ready to spill out, but... not like this. Not in anger.
"I'm saying I'm not eighteen anymore," you say finally, your voice steady. "I'm a grown woman who runs part of this team, who's helping build the F1 Academy with Susie. I make my own choices - about my career, about my life, about who I date."
"I only want what's best for you," Toto says, softer now.
"Then trust me to know what that is." You move toward the door, pausing with your hand on the handle. "And please, stop trying to set me up with Andreas. Or anyone else."
Zandvoort, 2022
The Dutch air mingles with the lingering scent of champagne in Max's private motorhome. The celebrations outside are still going strong - Dutch fans painting Zandvoort orange in honor of their hero's home win - but here, in this quiet space, it's just the two of you.
"Happy birthday," Max says softly, pulling a small wrapped package from behind his back. You're curled up on his couch, still wearing his Red Bull team jacket that you'd snuck on after everyone else had left.
"You already said that this morning," you smile, but take the package. "And before the race. And after you won."
"Well, it's not every day you turn twenty-five. And it's not every day I win at home on your birthday."
The package reveals a delicate gold necklace with a tiny racing helmet charm. But when you look closer, you notice something engraved on the back of the helmet - 15.03.15.
"The day we met," you whisper, running your finger over the date.
"I thought about getting something more obvious, but since we're still keeping us quiet…" He takes the necklace, moving behind you to clasp it around your neck. "This way you can wear it without anyone asking questions."
You touch the charm resting against your collarbone. "It's perfect."
"Unlike the cake situation," he grins, glancing at the remains of what was supposed to be a homemade birthday cake on the counter. "I really did try."
You laugh, remembering walking in to find Max covered in flour, frustration etched on his face as he stared at the somewhat lopsided creation. "The thought counts. Though maybe stick to driving?"
"Hey, I won today! I deserve some respect."
"You always win here," you tease. "It's your home race."
"True." He pulls you closer, until you're practically in his lap. "But winning on your birthday makes it special. Even if I couldn't kiss you in parc ferme."
"Dad would have had a heart attack right there in the garage."
"Speaking of Toto…" Max's voice turns serious. "How was the birthday lunch with him?"
You think back to the awkward meal, where your father had once again tried to subtly mention Andreas. "Same as usual. He means well."
"Still pushing the Andreas agenda?"
"Mhmm. Though Susie shut it down pretty quickly this time." You play with the helmet charm. "Can we not talk about it tho?
Max kisses your temple. "Whatever you want. It's your birthday - you make the rules."
"In that case…" you turn to face him properly. "I want to dance."
He groans. "YN…"
"Birthday rules," you remind him, already standing and pulling out your phone. When the first notes of a slow song fill the motorhome, you hold out your hand. "Dance with your birthday girl, World Champion."
He takes your hand, pulling you close as you sway together. Outside, you can still hear the distant sounds of celebrating fans, but in here it's just the music, Max's heartbeat under your ear, and the weight of a tiny gold helmet against your skin.
"This is nice," Max murmurs into your hair. "Though if anyone sees the mighty Max Verstappen slow dancing…"
"Your reputation will survive." You lift your head to look at him. "Thank you for making my birthday special, even if we had to celebrate in secret."
"Next year," he promises, "we'll do it properly. Big party, everyone we love, no hiding."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He spins you gently. "But for now…" He dips you dramatically, making you laugh. "I kind of like having birthday girl all to myself."
You kiss him then, tasting chocolate and victory champagne and love that's grown from teenage rebellion into something unshakeable.
"Best birthday ever," you whisper against his lips.
Outside, Zandvoort celebrates its champion. Inside, in this quiet space that belongs just to you, you celebrate something else - another year of loving each other, of building a life in the spaces between public and private, of planning for a future where you won't have to choose between family and love.
For now, though, you're content to dance in a motorhome, wearing his team jacket and a gold helmet that carries your history, celebrating not just your birthday but everything you've built together.
Monaco, Summer 2023
The sleek car glides through Monaco's winding streets, but you can barely focus on the stunning views. Max's mysterious smile has you intrigued and slightly nervous - he's been unusually secretive all day.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" you ask for probably the tenth time, fidgeting with the sleeve of your sundress.
"Patience," he says, taking one hand off the wheel to squeeze yours. "We're almost there."
"You know I hate surprises."
He laughs. "No, you love surprises. You just hate not being in control."
He turns onto a quiet street lined with elegant villas, each one more beautiful than the last. The Mediterranean stretches out below, a perfect azure canvas. Your heart starts racing when he pulls into a driveway. The house is stunning - modern yet classic, with large windows and a terrace overlooking the sea.
"Max…" you start, but he's already out of the car and opening your door.
"Come on," he says, taking your hand. His excitement is palpable as he leads you to the front door. "Close your eyes."
"Really?"
"Trust me."
You do as he asks, letting him guide you forward. You hear keys jingling, a door opening, then his soft "Okay, open them."
The interior takes your breath away - open and airy, with natural light streaming in from every angle. But it's not just the architecture that catches your attention - there are small touches that feel incredibly personal. Racing memorabilia tastefully displayed, a few framed photos you recognize from your own collection.
"I bought it," Max says softly, watching your reaction. "For us."
You turn to face him, eyes wide. "What?"
"I want this to be our home," he continues, his voice full of emotion. He takes both your hands in his. "Where we can grow old together, maybe raise a family someday. No more sneaking around, no more hiding. Just us."
"But… when? How?"
"I've been working with a realtor for months. Remember all those 'simulator sessions' I had to do?" He grins sheepishly. "I was actually house hunting."
"You sneaky…" You trail off, speechless.
"Want to see the rest?" He's practically bouncing with excitement now. "There's a home gym downstairs, and the kitchen is amazing - I know how much you love to cook. And wait until you see the master bedroom…"
Tears start falling before you can stop them. Max reaches up to wipe them away, but you catch his hand.
"You bought us a house," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "You planned this whole future for us, and I can't even tell my dad about us."
"Hey," he pulls you close, one hand cradling the back of your head. "It's okay. We'll figure it out together, like we always do."
"No, it's not okay." You pull back to look at him. "You've been so patient, Max. For years. And I've been such a coward."
"You're not a coward," he says firmly. "Our relationship is complicated. I understand that."
"Still." You shake your head, suddenly determined. "I'm telling him tomorrow."
"YN, you don't have to—"
"I want to." You look around at this beautiful space he's created for your future. "You've given us a home. The least I can do is be brave enough to fight for us."
"Are you sure?" His eyes search yours. "Because if you're not ready…"
"I'm sure." You walk to the windows, taking in the view. "Besides, can you imagine trying to explain why I'm suddenly moving to a new house without telling him why?"
Max comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "We could tell him you've developed a sudden passion for real estate investment."
You laugh despite your tears. "Yes, because that would totally explain why half my clothes are already in that closet I spotted upstairs."
"You noticed that, huh?"
"The Dior dress from the FIA gala was a bit of a giveaway." You turn in his arms. "How long have you been moving my things in?"
"A while," he admits. "Susie helped."
"Of course she did." You shake your head fondly. "Any other conspirators I should know about?"
"Well, Lewis might have helped coordinate the furniture delivery…"
"Lewis?!" You pull back to stare at him. "Lewis Hamilton helped you furnish our secret love nest?"
Max winces. "Please never call it that again. And yes - turns out he has great taste in interior design."
You laugh, really laugh, and it feels like releasing years of tension. "This is insane. We're insane."
"Maybe," he agrees, pulling you close again. "But it's a good kind of insane, right?"
You look around at this beautiful house - your house - taking in all the thoughtful details. The photos telling your story, the mix of both your tastes in the décor, the way the space already feels like home.
"The best kind," you whisper, and kiss him.
Max kisses you back, soft and sweet, and you can feel his smile against your lips. When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours.
"So," he says, "want to see our bedroom?"
"Our bedroom," you repeat, testing the words. "I like how that sounds."
"Me too." He takes your hand, leading you toward the stairs. "Though fair warning - I let Lando help with the media room setup, so that might need some adjustments."
"Oh god."
"Yeah, there may be more gaming consoles than strictly necessary…"
In this moment, in your new home, tomorrow's confrontation feels less daunting. After all, you've built something real and lasting here - something worth fighting for. And as Max leads you through your future together, room by room, you can't help but think that maybe it's time for everyone to know.
You've been standing outside your father's office at Mercedes for what feels like hours, but the watch on your wrist says it's only been ten minutes. Taking a deep breath, you finally knock.
"Come in," his familiar voice calls out.
Toto looks up from his desk, his face brightening when he sees you. "Schatz! What a lovely surprise." He stands to greet you, but pauses when he notices your expression. "What's wrong?"
"Papa, I need to tell you something." Your voice trembles slightly. "And I need you to listen. Really listen."
He gestures to the chair across from his desk, concern etching his features. "Of course. You can tell me anything."
You sit, hands clasped tightly in your lap. "I'm in love."
His face relaxes into a smile. "Is that all? Liebling, you had me worried. Who's the lucky—"
"It's Max." The words come out in a rush. "It's always been Max."
The silence that follows is deafening. You watch as confusion crosses his face, followed by understanding, and then something darker.
"Max… Verstappen?" He says the name like it tastes bitter. "This is a joke."
"No, it's not." You straighten your spine. "We've been together for two years. Actually, we never really stopped loving each other after… after what happened when we were eighteen."
Toto stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair. "This is impossible. You can't be serious."
"I am. And there's more." You take another deep breath. "We're moving in together. He bough a house for us, because he wants us to build a future together."
"No." His voice is sharp. "Absolutely not. I forbid it."
"I'm not asking for permission, Papa. I'm telling you."
He turns to face you, and the hurt in his eyes makes your heart ache. "How long have you been lying to me?"
"Since 2020," you admit quietly. "When I came back… we tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn't."
"So what, you've been sneaking around behind my back all these years?" His accent grows thicker with emotion. "Meeting in secret like teenagers?"
"We didn't have a choice."
He's quiet after that, and you can almost see the storm inside his head.
"Who knows?" The question is sharp, hurt evident in his tone.
"I told Susie last year. Lewis has known almost from the beginning. George found out in Bahrain. Some of the other drivers..."
"So everyone but me?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My own wife, my drivers, half the paddock knew my daughter was in a relationship with Max Verstappen, and no one thought to tell me?"
"They were respecting our privacy. Our choice."
"Our choice?" He stands again, agitated. "He's Red Bull, YN! Our biggest rival! The same team that's been fighting us for years, the same driver who—"
"Who makes me happier than I've ever been," you interrupt. "Who loves me for who I am, not whose daughter I am. Who's supported my career, my dreams, everything I want to do."
"And the team rivalry? The competition?"
"We've managed it for years, Dad. We know how to separate personal and professional."
"All those times I tried to set you up with other people..."
"I know you meant well."
"And Susie?" His voice catches. "She knew and didn't tell me?"
"She said it wasn't her story to tell. That I needed to be the one to tell you when I was ready."
Toto runs a hand over his face. "And now you're ready because...?"
"Because I'm tired of hiding. Because Max and I have built something real and beautiful, and I want you to be part of it." You stand, moving around his desk to touch his arm. "Because you're my father, and despite everything, I want you to know me. All of me."
"And if I can't accept it?"
The question hangs heavy in the air. You feel tears threatening but force them back.
"Then that's your choice. But I won't give him up. Not again. Not for anyone."
Toto is quiet for a long moment, staring out at the factory below. When he finally speaks, his voice is tired. "You really love him?"
"More than anything."
He turns to look at you, really look at you, maybe for the first time seeing not his little girl but the woman you've become. "And he makes you happy?"
"Yes." Your voice is firm, certain.
Another long pause. "I need time."
It's not acceptance, but it's not rejection either. You nod, wiping away a stray tear. "Okay."
"Does he…" Toto clears his throat. "Does he treat you well?"
"Better than I deserve sometimes."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "No one could ever deserve better than you, Schatz."
You close the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him. After a moment, his arms come around you too, holding you like he did when you were small.
"I'm still angry," he murmurs into your hair.
"I know."
"And hurt."
"I know that too."
He pulls back, cupping your face in his hands. "But you are my daughter. My precious girl. Nothing will ever change that."
Fresh tears spill over. "Papa…"
"I can't promise to like this. Or him. But…" He sighs deeply. "I will try. For you."
It's more than you dared hope for. "Thank you."
As you leave his office later, you know this isn't the end of it. There will be more conversations, more tensions to navigate. But for the first time in years, you feel truly free.
The Monaco sunset paints the dining room in warm hues as you clear the plates from dinner, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. Lewis lounges in his chair, gesturing with his glass as he speaks.
"Still can't believe Toto didn't notice for two years, honestly," he chuckles. "I mean, you two weren't exactly subtle at the Saudi GP last year."
Max groans. "That was YN's fault. She's the one who kissed me in the paddock."
"After you won! Away from everyone," you defend yourself from across the table. "Besides, Papa was too busy arguing with Christian to notice."
"Lucky for us," Max mutters, but he's smiling.
"How is he taking it now?" Lewis asks, his expression growing serious. "It's been what, two weeks?"
You exchange a look with Max. "Better, I think. He's… processing."
"He called me yesterday," Max adds quietly. "First time ever."
Both you and Lewis straighten up. "What? You didn't tell me that!" you exclaim.
Max shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you can see the tension in his shoulders. "It was brief. He just said that if I ever hurt you, they'll never find my body."
Lewis nearly chokes on his wine. "Classic Toto."
"I'll get the dessert," you announce, standing. "And Max, we're talking about that phone call later."
As you head to the kitchen, you can hear their voices carrying through the open-plan space.
"Seriously though," Lewis' voice drops lower, but not low enough. "You need to be prepared. Toto might try to…"
"Separate us again?" Max's voice is steel wrapped in silk. "I'd like to see him try."
"I'm just saying, be ready. He did it once before."
"We were kids then. It's different now." A pause. "I'm different now."
"I know you are, mate. That's why I helped with the house. But Toto… he can be protective."
"Lewis." Max's voice is deadly serious now. "I would rather end my career tomorrow than lose her again. She's… she's everything."
You freeze in the doorway of the kitchen, tiramisu forgotten in your hands.
"I know what it did to her last time," Max continues, unaware of your presence. "What it did to both of us. But I'm not that scared teenager anymore, and she's not that girl who was afraid to stand up to her father. We fought too hard to get here."
"Good." Lewis' voice is warm with approval. "Because if you hurt her, Toto won't have to hide your body. I'll do it myself."
Max laughs. "Get in line. Susie already called dibs."
"Speaking of Susie, how's she handling being in the middle?"
"Better than any of us deserve," Max sighs. "She's been amazing. Especially with YN. When Toto first found out…"
"That bad?"
"YN cried for hours after telling him. I've never felt so helpless." Max's voice cracks slightly. "All I could do was hold her."
"Sometimes that's enough," Lewis says softly. "Sometimes that's everything."
You wipe away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. The tiramisu trembles slightly in your hands.
"I'm going to marry her someday," Max says suddenly. "I already have the ring."
The tiramisu nearly slips from your grasp.
"Does she know?" Lewis asks.
"Not yet. I wanted to wait until things settled with Toto. She deserves a proper proposal, not one overshadowed by family drama."
"Smart man." Lewis pauses. "You really have grown up, haven't you?"
"Had to. She deserves the best version of me."
You can't take it anymore. You walk back in, pretending you haven't heard a word. "Who wants dessert?"
Both men straighten up, but you catch the knowing look Lewis gives Max. As you serve the tiramisu, Max's hand finds yours, squeezing gently.
"Everything okay, liefje?" he asks softly.
You look at him - this man who's grown and changed and loved you through everything - and feel your heart swell. "Perfect," you whisper, and mean it.
Lewis watches you both with a soft smile. "You know," he says, "I think Toto will come around eventually. He may be stubborn, but he's not blind. Anyone can see what you two have is real."
"Real enough to redecorate my gaming room?" Max asks hopefully.
You laugh, the emotional moment breaking. "Nice try. But Lando's RGB setup stays."
"It gives me a headache!"
"Should have thought of that before letting him design it," Lewis points out.
As they fall into friendly bickering about proper gaming room aesthetics, you sit back and take it all in - this beautiful home, these people you love, this life you've built. It hasn't been easy, but everything has been worth it.
Your phone rings just as you're finishing up some work in your home office. Seeing your father's name on the screen makes your heart skip.
"Papa?"
"Schatz." His voice is carefully neutral. "Are you free tonight?"
"I… yes?"
"Good. You and Max will come to dinner. Eight o'clock."
It's not a question. You glance at the clock - it's already 4 PM. "Tonight?"
"Unless you have other plans?"
"No, no plans." You swallow hard. "We'll be there."
"Good." A pause. "And YN?"
"Yes?"
"Tell Max to breathe. It's just dinner."
The line goes dead before you can respond. You sit there for a moment, phone still in hand, before rushing downstairs to find Max.
He's in the gym, finishing up his workout. One look at your face and he's pulling off his headphones.
"What's wrong?"
"Papa called. He wants us for dinner. Tonight."
Max freezes mid-stretch. "Tonight? As in… tonight tonight?"
"Eight o'clock."
"Fuck." He starts pacing. "Fuck fuck fuck. This is it. He's going to murder me. He's probably got a plan to make it look like an accident. Lewis will help him hide the body—"
"Max."
"—probably already has an alibi arranged. Susie will vouch for him, of course—"
"Max!"
He stops pacing. "What?"
"He actually said to tell you to breathe. His exact words were 'it's just dinner.'"
Max stares at you. "That's worse. That's so much worse. He's lulling me into a false sense of security."
You can't help but laugh, even as anxiety churns in your own stomach. "You're being ridiculous."
"Am I?" He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "The last time I was in the same room as your father, he looked at me like he was calculating how many pieces he could cut me into."
"That was three weeks ago, right after he found out. Things are… better now."
"Are they? Because that phone call he made last week about hiding my body didn't feel like 'better.'"
You cross the room to him, placing your hands on his chest. "Hey. Look at me."
His eyes meet yours, and you can see the genuine worry there.
"Whatever happens tonight, we face it together. Okay?"
He takes a deep breath, covering your hands with his. "Okay."
"Good. Now go shower, because you stink."
"Charming," he mutters, but he's smiling now. "What should I wear?"
"Something bulletproof?" you suggest innocently.
"Not helping!"
The drive to your parents' house is tense. Susie opens the door, her warm smile immediately putting you both at ease. "Come in, come in. Toto's just opening the wine."
"We brought some too," you say, holding up the bottle you'd carefully selected.
"Ah, his favorite." Susie winks. "Good choice."
The dining room is set beautifully, candles flickering on the table. Your father stands as you enter, and for a moment, everyone freezes.
Then Toto steps forward, kissing your cheek. "You look beautiful, Schatz."
He turns to Max, who looks like he's trying very hard not to bolt. They regard each other for a long moment before Toto extends his hand.
Max shakes it, and you breathe again.
Dinner starts surprisingly well. The conversation stays safe - racing, weather, Susie's latest projects. Max gradually relaxes enough to actually eat, though you notice he keeps looking at your father like he's expecting an ambush.
It comes after the plates are cleared.
"So," Toto says, setting down his wine glass. "We need to talk."
Max's hand finds yours under the table.
"Max." Your father's voice is measured. "I need you to listen carefully to what I'm about to say."
"Yes, sir."
"When YN was born, I made a promise to protect her from anything that could hurt her. When she was eighteen, I thought I was doing that by keeping her away from you."
You feel Max tense beside you.
"I was wrong."
The admission hangs in the air. Even Susie looks surprised.
"You were angry then. Volatile. Too much like your father." Toto continues. "But you've grown. Changed. I see that now."
He leans forward, eyes intense. "But understand this: that girl sitting next to you? She is my world. My greatest joy, my greatest pride. And if you ever - ever - give me reason to think you don't deserve her…"
"I don't," Max interrupts quietly. "Deserve her, I mean. I know that. I try every day to be worthy of her love, and I'll keep trying for the rest of my life."
Something shifts in Toto's expression.
"And you," he turns to you. "My strong, stubborn daughter. You've grown too. Standing up to me… it showed me you're not my little girl anymore. You're a woman who knows her own mind, her own heart."
Tears prick at your eyes. "Papa…"
"I trust your judgment," he says softly. "Even when it differs from mine."
Susie reaches over to squeeze his hand, pride shining in her eyes.
"Now," Toto straightens, his expression growing serious again. "We need to discuss the media situation. Your relationship will be public knowledge soon, if it isn't already."
"We've been careful," you start, but he holds up a hand.
"Careful isn't enough. The press will be relentless. They'll try to create drama, stir up controversy. Everything you do, every interaction, will be scrutinized."
"We know," Max says. "We've talked about it."
"Good. But you need to be prepared. They'll drag up the past, try to create tension between the teams. Your relationship will become clickbait."
"We can handle it," you say firmly.
"Perhaps. But you'll need support." Toto looks between you both. "Which is why… which is why I'm offering mine."
Max's grip on your hand tightens.
"When the story breaks, there will be questions. Speculation. I will make it clear that you have my blessing." The words seem to cost him something, but his voice is steady. "It won't stop the circus, but it might help control the narrative."
You're crying openly now. Max looks shellshocked.
"Thank you," he manages finally. "That… that means everything."
Toto nods once, then reaches for his wine. "Now, who wants dessert? Susie made Sachertorte."
As Susie bustles off to the kitchen, you catch your father's eye. The love there, the acceptance, makes your heart full.
Max leans over to whisper in your ear. "I think I just aged ten years."
You squeeze his hand. "Worth it?"
He looks at you, then at your father who's pretending not to watch you both, then back to you.
"Every second," he says, and kisses your temple.
And just like that, your worlds align.
Saint-Tropez, 2024
The morning sun filters through the sheer curtains of your villa, casting warm patterns across the rumpled sheets. Max's fingers trace lazy circles on your bare shoulder as you lie there, both reluctant to acknowledge that real life awaits.
"Do we have to go back?" you mumble into his chest.
"Mmm, eventually." He drops a kiss on your head. "Though I could get used to this."
"What, me using you as a human pillow?"
"You do that at home too, liefje."
You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him, taking in the relaxed set of his features, the way his hair is sticking up wildly. "True, but here you're not constantly checking the time for sim racing with Lando."
"That was one time!"
"It was three times last week alone."
He tugs you back down, rolling so you're trapped beneath him. "You're just jealous because I'm better at it than you."
"Excuse me?" You poke his ribs. "Who won last time?"
"You cheated!"
"Did not!"
"You distracted me!"
"Not my fault you can't focus when I kiss your neck."
His eyes darken. "Want to test that theory?"
"We'll be late for our flight," you warn, but you're already tilting your head as his lips find that spot behind your ear.
"Worth it," he murmurs against your skin.
Later, tangled in sheets again, you check your phone while Max dozes beside you. A frown crosses your face.
"That's weird."
"Hmm?" Max doesn't open his eyes.
"Lewis still hasn't answered my texts from yesterday. Or the day before."
You feel him tense slightly. "Maybe he's busy."
"During holidays? And he always answers eventually." You sit up, noticing how Max suddenly seems very interested in the ceiling. "Max…"
"What?"
"You know something."
"I don't."
"You're doing that thing with your jaw."
His hand flies to his face. "What thing?"
"That clenching thing you do when you're hiding something." You narrow your eyes. "Spill it."
"There's nothing to spill." He sits up too quickly. "We should start packing."
"Max Emilian Verstappen."
"YN Wolff," he mimics, but there's an edge of nervousness to his teasing.
"Is Lewis okay?"
"He's fine! Totally fine. Completely fine. Never been better."
You stare at him. "You are the worst liar ever."
"I'm not—" He cuts himself off with a groan. "I can't tell you."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Look, it's nothing bad. Just… something that's not public yet."
Your stomach drops. "Is he sick?"
"What? No! No, nothing like that." He catches your hands. "I promise, he's okay. It's just… complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"The kind of complicated I really can't tell you about yet." His eyes are pleading. "Please don't ask me to. I promised."
You study his face, seeing the genuine conflict there. "But he's okay?"
"Yes."
"And it's not bad news?"
He hesitates. "That… depends on how you look at it."
"Max!"
"I've already said too much." He kisses your forehead. "You'll know soon enough."
You flop back onto the pillows with a huff. "I hate secrets."
"Says the woman who kept our relationship secret for two years."
"That was different!"
"Sure it was." He stretches out beside you, pulling you close. "Can we go back to the part where we were enjoying our last morning in paradise?"
You want to protest, to push for more information, but his hand is sliding up your thigh and his lips are at your neck again and suddenly Lewis' mysterious silence seems less important.
"Fine," you concede, already breathless. "But this isn't over."
"Never is with you," he murmurs fondly. "It's why I love you."
"Because I'm stubborn?"
"Because you never give up on the people you care about."
Something in his voice makes you pause. "Max…"
"Let me love you," he whispers. "Just for now, let that be enough."
The world and its complications can wait. For now, there's just this - the sun on your skin, Max's heartbeat under your palm, and the knowledge that whatever comes next, you'll face it together.
Even if he is terrible at keeping secrets.
The gentle hum of your computer fills your office at Mercedes HQ as you review the latest F1 Academy reports. A notification pops up on your phone - Instagram, probably another post from Max complaining about his training session.
Your coffee cup freezes halfway to your mouth.
BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton to join Ferrari in 2025
The cup clatters onto your desk, coffee spilling across papers you can't bring yourself to care about. Your hands shake as you scroll through post after post confirming it.
Lewis is leaving.
Lewis is going to Ferrari.
Lewis didn't tell you.
Max knew and didn't tell you.
Your father…
You're on your feet before you realize it, striding through the corridors. People step out of your way, perhaps recognizing the storm in your expression. You barely register Susie calling your name as you pass her office.
The door to your father's office bangs open. He looks up, unsurprised.
"What is going on?" Your voice trembles.
"YN—"
"No." You hold up your phone, the Ferrari announcement glaring at you. "What is this?"
Toto sighs, removing his glasses. "Come in and close the door."
"You knew." It's not a question. "You all knew. That's why Lewis wasn't answering my messages. That's why Max was acting strange in Saint-Tropez."
"We couldn't tell you."
"Couldn't or wouldn't?" The words come out sharp, hurt. "I'm not just your daughter anymore, Papa. I'm co-director of F1 Academy. I work here. This affects me professionally as well as personally."
"Which is exactly why we couldn't tell you." He stands, coming around his desk. "The announcement had to be handled carefully. Any leak could have—"
"Leak?" You step back when he reaches for you. "Is that what I am to you? A potential leak?"
"Schatz, no—"
"Lewis is family!" Your voice cracks. "He's been here my entire life. He watched me grow up. He helped Max and me when…" You swallow hard. "I had to find out from Instagram. Instagram, Papa!"
"I know."
"Did everyone know except me? Was there some big meeting where you all decided poor YN can't be trusted?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" Tears spill over. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like nobody trusted me enough to tell me that one of the most important people in my life is leaving."
Toto moves forward again, and this time you let him pull you into a hug. "Lewis wanted to tell you himself," he says softly. "He was going to come see you today, after the announcement. He didn't want you to have to carry the secret."
"I could have handled it."
"I know you could have." His hand smooths over your hair like when you were small. "But he didn't want to put you in that position. Neither did Max."
You stiffen. "Max knew for how long?"
"YN…"
"How long?"
"Since before New Year's."
The betrayal hits fresh. "That's why he was so weird about Lewis not texting back. He let me worry instead of just telling me."
"He was protecting you."
"I don't need protection!" You pull away. "I need honesty. I need the people I love to trust me. I need—" Your voice breaks. "I need to not feel like an outsider in my own family."
"Oh, Schatz." Toto's face crumples. "You have never been an outsider. Lewis insisted on keeping it quiet precisely because he cares so much. He knew how hard it would be for you."
"It's harder finding out like this."
A soft knock interrupts. You turn to see Lewis in the doorway, still in his Mercedes gear - for one of the last times, you realize with a pang.
"Little Wolff," he starts, but you hold up a hand.
"Don't." You brush past him, ignoring his attempt to catch your arm. "I have work to do."
"Please—"
"Congratulations on Ferrari," you say stiffly, not looking back. "I'm sure you'll do great things there."
You make it back to your office before the tears really start. Your phone buzzes - Max calling. Then Lewis. Then Susie.
You silence it, staring out your window at the Mercedes logo shining in the winter sun. It looks different now, knowing Lewis won't be racing under it anymore soon.
Everything looks different.
Your phone lights up again - a text from Max.
"I'm sorry. I hated keeping this from you. I love you"
You turn the phone face down.
Later. You'll deal with all of it later.
By the time you make it home that evening, your eyes are red and puffy from crying. Max is already there - of course he is - waiting in the kitchen with that worried look you've come to know so well.
"Baby…" he starts, but you brush past him, dropping your bag on the counter with trembling hands.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Just… don't."
But Max has never been good at leaving you alone when you're hurting. His arms wrap around you from behind, and despite your anger, you find yourself leaning back into his warmth.
"I wanted to tell you," he whispers against your hair. "Every day, I wanted to tell you."
The dam breaks. You turn in his arms, burying your face in his chest as sobs wrack your body. His arms tighten around you, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubs soothing circles on your back.
"He's leaving," you choke out. "Lewis is actually leaving. How can he leave? He's… he's my brother, Max. He's been there my whole life. The garage won't be the same without him. The team won't be the same."
"I know, baby. I know."
"He didn't tell me. None of you told me." You pull back enough to look up at him, tears still streaming. "You all just decided I couldn't handle it."
Max wipes your tears with his thumbs, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Lewis wanted to protect you. We all did. You've been working so hard with F1 Academy, with the team… he didn't want you carrying this weight."
"But I could have handled it! I'm not some fragile thing that needs protecting anymore."
"No," Max agrees softly, "you're the strongest person I know. But Lewis loves you like a sister. He wanted to tell you himself, properly. Not through some leaked rumor or whispered secret."
You collapse against him again, letting out a shuddering breath. "I can't imagine Mercedes without him. Every memory I have there, he's part of it. Even when we were hiding us, he was there, watching out for us, covering for us…"
Max leads you to the couch, pulling you into his lap. You curl into him, feeling drained.
"Talk to him," he murmurs. "Not today, not tomorrow if you're not ready. But don't let this distance grow. You'll regret it."
"When did you get so wise?" you ask weakly.
"Around the same time I realized that sometimes loving someone means letting them be angry at you for trying to protect them." He presses a kiss to your temple. "Even if you'd do it again."
You stay like that for a long time, wrapped in Max's arms as the sun sets outside. Your phone buzzes occasionally - more messages from Lewis, probably - but you ignore it. Tomorrow you'll deal with it all. Tomorrow you'll be strong again.
But tonight, you let yourself be held and comforted, mourning the end of an era while knowing, deep down, that family is family - even when they're wearing red instead of silver.
Bahrain, 2024
The Bahrain paddock buzzes with its usual first-race energy, but everything feels off-kilter. You've been masterfully avoiding proper conversations with Lewis all weekend, keeping interactions professional and brief. The pit wall feels different already, knowing it's his last season here.
You're reviewing data sheets in the garage when his shadow falls across your tablet.
"Little Wolff," Lewis says softly, using the nickname that usually makes you smile but now just makes your chest ache. "Can we talk?"
"I'm quite busy," you reply, not looking up. "Qualifying strategy needs finalizing."
"YN." His voice is gentle but firm. "Please."
You finally meet his eyes, seeing the concern there, the sadness. He looks older somehow, or maybe that's just your perception shifting with everything else.
"What's left to say?" You keep your voice low, mindful of the mechanics nearby. "You made your decision. You kept it from me. We move forward."
"That's not fair and you know it." Lewis steps closer. "I've tried calling, texting…"
"I've been busy."
"You've been avoiding me." He sighs. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"Well, you did." The words come out sharper than intended. "Did you think finding out from social media wouldn't hurt? That watching Max and Papa dance around it for weeks wouldn't hurt?"
"I wanted to protect you—"
"Stop saying that!" You catch yourself, lowering your voice again. "Everyone keeps saying they were protecting me. I'm not a child anymore, Lewis. I run part of this team. I handle confidential information every day. I've kept secrets bigger than this."
Understanding crosses his face. "Like Max."
"Yes, like Max." You swallow hard. "You trusted me then. You helped us. Why couldn't you trust me with this?"
"Because this wasn't just my secret to keep." Lewis runs a hand over his face. "There were contracts, negotiations, timing issues. And yes, I wanted to tell you myself, properly. Not have you carry it around for weeks knowing you couldn't talk to anyone about it."
"So instead you let me worry when you weren't responding to messages? Let me think something was wrong? Let Max lie to me?"
"I asked him not to tell you." Lewis reaches for your hand but you pull back. "He wanted to. He hated keeping it from you."
"But he did anyway."
"Because he understands sometimes protecting the people we love means letting them be angry with us." Lewis's voice softens. "You're my family, YN. You're the little sister I never had. Leaving Mercedes… leaving you… it's one of the hardest decisions I've ever made."
You blink back tears, refusing to cry in the garage. "Then why are you?"
"Because sometimes we need to chase new dreams, even when it means leaving safe harbors." He smiles sadly. "You taught me that, actually. When you chose Max despite everything, despite what it could cost you. You taught me that sometimes the scariest choices are the right ones."
"That's different."
"Is it?" Lewis raises an eyebrow. "You took a risk for love. For growth. For what you believed was right for you, even knowing it would hurt people you care about."
You look away, his words hitting too close to home.
"I'm not asking you not to be hurt," he continues. "I'm just asking you not to let that hurt break us. I'm still your Lewis. That doesn't change just because I'm wearing red."
"It feels like everything's changing," you whisper.
"Some things never will." He opens his arms. "Come here, Little Wolff."
This time you don't resist, letting him pull you into a hug. The familiar smell of his cologne brings fresh tears to your eyes.
"I'm still mad at you," you mumble into his chest.
"I know."
"And you better not beat us too badly in that Ferrari."
You feel his laugh rumble. "I'll do my best."
"Lewis?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm going to miss you so much."
His arms tighten. "I'm not gone yet. We've got a whole season ahead of us. And after… I'm still your big brother. That doesn't change with the color of my race suit."
Over his shoulder, you catch Max watching from the Red Bull garage, a soft smile on his face. He gives you a small nod before turning back to his engineers.
Some things change. Some things stay the same. And sometimes, you realize, holding onto anger hurts more than letting it go.
Miami, 2024
The sun beats down mercilessly as you pace your hotel room, phone clutched in your hand. The notifications won't stop - Instagram, Twitter, all exploding with the same photos. You and Max on his boat in Monaco last weekend, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you, both of you clearly lost in each other.
You'd been so careful for so long. One moment of letting your guard down, and now…
The door opens and Max rushes in, still in his Red Bull gear from practice. "Baby?" His voice is soft with concern.
"Have you seen them?" You hold up your phone, hands trembling. "They're everywhere. Everyone knows. Papa is going to have to address it in the press conference and—"
Max crosses the room in three long strides, taking your face in his hands - just like in the photos, you realize with a jolt. "Breathe," he murmurs. "Just breathe with me."
"But—"
"Breathe first." His thumbs stroke your cheeks. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. With me."
You follow his lead, matching your breathing to his until the panic starts to recede. Only then does he lead you to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping one arm around you.
"Now," he says, "tell me what you're really afraid of."
"Everything!" You gesture wildly with your free hand. "The media circus, the speculation, the questions about favoritism in the sport, Papa having to defend us publicly, the board's reaction…"
"YN." Max turns you to face him fully. "We knew this would happen eventually. We talked about it."
"I know, but—"
"But nothing." His blue eyes are intense, earnest. "We're not doing anything wrong. We're two adults who love each other. Yes, there will be talk. Yes, there will be questions. But we can handle it." His lips quirk. "We've handled worse."
You lean into him, letting his steady presence ground you. "Papa's press conference is in twenty minutes."
"And he'll handle it like he handles everything - with that terrifying Wolff composure." Max's hand runs soothingly up and down your back. "He loves you, baby. He's not going to let anyone suggest anything improper about us."
"I should be there," you whisper. "I should face it with him."
"No." Max's voice is firm. "Let him handle this part. That's what fathers do - they protect their children, even when their children are grown up and running F1 programs."
Your phone buzzes again - another news alert. Max gently takes it from your hand and sets it aside.
"Remember what you told me?" he asks softly. "That night in Monaco when I was worried about how people would react to us being together again?"
You smile slightly. "I told you that what other people think doesn't matter."
"Exactly." He presses his forehead to yours. "You said that we've earned the right to be happy, that we're not teenagers anymore trying to sneak around. You said we're stronger together than apart."
"Using my own words against me?"
"Always." He kisses you softly. "Because you were right then, and you're still right now. Let them talk. Let them speculate. We know the truth."
Your phone lights up with a livestream notification - the press conference is starting. Max reaches for the remote, turning on the hotel room's TV where it's already being broadcast.
"We can turn it off," he offers, but you shake your head.
"No. I need to see."
You curl into Max's side as the questions start. Your father sits there, calm and collected as ever, fielding questions about strategy and performance. Then:
"Toto, there are photos circulating of your daughter YN with Max Verstappen. Given the rivalry between Mercedes and Red Bull, and Max's history with both Mercedes and your family, do you have any comment?"
The room goes silent. You hold your breath, feeling Max tense beside you.
Your father adjusts his glasses, that familiar gesture that usually precedes something important. "Yes, I do have a comment." His voice is measured but firm. "My daughter is a highly respected professional in this sport, running our F1 Academy program and working tirelessly to create opportunities for young women in motorsport. Her personal life is her own, and she has my full support in all her choices."
"But given the competitive nature of F1—"
"Let me be very clear," Toto interrupts, and you recognize that steel in his voice. "YN has proven herself time and time again. She has earned her position through hard work and dedication. Max Verstappen is one of the most talented drivers of his generation. They are both adults who conduct themselves with integrity and professionalism. Any suggestion otherwise is not only disrespectful but reveals more about the person asking than about them."
Tears blur your vision. Max's arm tightens around you.
"See?" he whispers. "Terrifying Wolff composure."
On screen, your father continues: "My daughter and Max have my blessing and my respect. They have shown wisdom and maturity in handling their relationship alongside their professional responsibilities. Now, unless there are questions about this weekend's race…"
You bury your face in Max's chest, overwhelmed. His hands stroke your hair as he murmurs soft Dutch endearments.
"He defended us," you say wonderingly. "He really defended us."
"Of course he did." Max kisses the top of your head. "He's your father. And…" he hesitates, "I think maybe he's starting to like, a little bit."
You look up at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. "You know he likes you."
"Yeah." Max smiles softly. "He called me yesterday, you know. Said if any reporters gave me trouble about the photos, to refer them to him. Said he'd handle it."
Fresh tears spill over. "He did?"
"Mmhmm." Max wipes your tears with his thumb."Does this mean I can finally kiss you in the paddock?"
You laugh through your tears. "Maybe let's ease them into it?"
"Fine." He sighs dramatically. "But I'm holding your hand in public. No negotiation on that."
"Deal." You curl back into him, feeling the panic from earlier dissolve into something warmer, more certain. "Thank you for being here. For being you."
"Always, baby." Max kisses you again, soft and sweet. "Now, what do you say we give them something else to talk about and go absolutely dominate this race weekend?"
You smile against his lips. "Now that sounds like a plan."
Las Vegas, 2024
The neon lights blur through your tears as you watch the podium ceremony. George and Lewis stand there together, silver suits gleaming under the artificial lights, Mercedes' last 1-2 with this particular lineup.
Your heart feels like it might burst - pride, joy, and melancholy all tangled together. Max clinched his fourth title today, and you couldn't be prouder.
"Look at them," Susie whispers, squeezing your hand. "Our boys."
You can barely speak around the lump in your throat. George looks radiant, his second win of the season perhaps the sweetest. And Lewis… Lewis is beaming with genuine joy for his teammate, even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears. His last podium in Vegas as a Mercedes driver.
Your father stands tall beside you, his usual stoic expression softened by emotion. As the champagne starts flowing, you catch sight of Max making his way toward the Red Bull garage, where you know the championship celebrations are about to begin.
"Go," your father says suddenly.
You turn to him, surprised. "What?"
"Go celebrate with Max." His voice is gentle. "It's his fourth championship. You should be there."
"But…" you glance at the podium, at your Mercedes family celebrating.
"We've shared every celebration with you," Susie says softly. "Let him have this one."
"Are you sure?" You look at your father. "Papa?"
Toto's eyes are warm as he cups your face in his hands. "For three years, you couldn't celebrate with him. Couldn't share his victories. Couldn't be by his side when he achieved his dreams." He kisses your forehead. "Go make up for lost time, Schatz."
"But Lewis and George…"
"Will understand." Toto smiles. "Besides, I think Lewis would be disappointed if you didn't go congratulate your boyfriend on his championship."
As if on cue, Lewis catches your eye from the podium and nods toward the Red Bull garage, mouthing "Go!"
Tears spill over as you hug your parents. "I love you both so much."
"We know," Susie strokes your hair. "Now go. Make your man's celebration complete."
You run through the paddock, your heart pounding. The Red Bull garage is already in full celebration mode when you arrive. Christian sees you first, and instead of any awkwardness, he just smiles and points toward the back room.
You find Max there, surrounded by his team but somehow looking like he's waiting for something - or someone. When he sees you, his entire face lights up.
"Baby," he breathes, and then you're in his arms, his race suit damp with champagne, his heart beating fast against yours.
"Congratulations, four-time world champion," you whisper against his neck.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. "You came."
"Of course I came." You touch his face, memorizing this moment. "Papa and Susie practically pushed me out the door."
Max's eyes widen slightly. "Really?"
"Really." You smile through your tears. "Papa said we had three years of celebrations to make up for."
Something vulnerable crosses Max's face. "I used to dream about this," he admits quietly, despite the noise around you. "Every championship, every win… I'd imagine you here, celebrating with me. But I never thought…"
"That my father would be the one sending me to you?"
"Yeah." Max laughs softly. "Things really have changed, haven't they?"
"For the better." You kiss him softly, not caring who sees. "I'm so proud of you, Max. So incredibly proud."
He presses his forehead to yours. "Stay? Celebrate with us?"
"Wild horses couldn't drag me away."
"Good." His smile turns mischievous. "Because I have three years of championship celebrations to make up for, and I plan to make this one count."
From somewhere behind you, you hear Jos' voice: "Max! The championship photo!"
"Coming!" Max calls back, then looks at you. "Join us?"
You blink. "In the Red Bull championship photo?"
"Why not?" His eyes are bright with joy and love. "You're part of this story too. Always have been."
The photographer arranges everyone, and Max pulls you close to his side. Here, under the neon lights of Vegas, surrounded by celebrations both here and in the garage next door, you feel the weight of the moment. The past - three years of separation, of watching from afar. The present - standing proudly by his side as he achieves another dream. And the future - stretching out before you both, full of possibilities.
"Ready?" Max whispers in your ear.
You look up at him, this man who never stopped loving you even when the world tried to keep you apart, and smile. "Ready."
The camera flashes, capturing the moment forever - the four-time world champion and the girl who crossed rival lines to love him, surrounded by celebration and joy, making up for all the moments they missed and creating new ones all their own.
In the distance, you hear the Mercedes celebration continuing, George and Lewis' laughter carrying through the night. Two families, two celebrations, and you finally allowed to be part of both.
Melbourne, 2025
"YN, we need to check something at the track," Max says casually as you're getting ready for bed.
"At this hour? It's past midnight."
"Trust me?" He gives you that same boyish grin that still makes your heart skip, even after a decade.
You're both jet-lagged anyway, so you agree. But instead of heading to Albert Park, Max drives to a familiar hotel. Your breath catches when you realize where you are.
"Max…"
"Come on," he takes your hand, leading you through the quiet lobby to the coffee shop where it all began. The lights are dimmed, but it's clearly open - though completely empty.
"How did you…?"
"Being a four-time world champion has some perks," he grins. "Plus, the owner remembered us. Said she never forgot the night the youngest F1 driver and Toto Wolff's daughter had their secret meeting here."
The same table is there, the one where you shared your hot chocolate ten years ago. There's even a steaming mug waiting.
"You were so smug," Max laughs, pulling out your chair. "Letting me ramble about being a driver when you knew exactly who I was."
"You were cute when you were flustered," you tease. "Especially when I dropped my last name."
"I couldn't believe it. Here I was, trying to impress this beautiful girl, and she turned out to be my biggest rival's daughter."
You take a sip from the mug - hot chocolate, just like that night. "Papa wouldn't stop talking about you."
"And now he's my biggest defender," Max shakes his head in wonder. "Remember how scared we were to tell him about us?"
"Worth it though," you squeeze his hand. "Every secret meeting, every careful distance in the paddock, every time we had to pretend we were just friendly acquaintances."
Max's eyes go soft. "You know what I remember most about that first night? You were the first person who didn't treat me like I was either Jos's son or some record-breaking novelty. You just… saw me."
"I still do," you whisper.
He stands suddenly, pulling you up with him. "That night, I was terrified about my first race. Everyone had opinions about whether I deserved to be here. But then there was this girl, sharing her hot chocolate and making me feel like maybe I could actually do this."
"Max…"
He drops to one knee, and your heart stops. "Ten years ago, in this exact spot, I met the love of my life. I didn't know it then, but that girl who kept her name secret until the last possible moment would become my biggest supporter, my best friend, my home."
Through your tears, you see him pull out a ring. "You've been there through everything, YN. Every victory, every defeat. When the pressure got too much, when the critics were too loud - you were my safe place. Just like you were that first night."
"Remember what you told me then? That your intuition said I'd do great?" He laughs softly. "You believed in me before anyone else did. And I want to spend the rest of my life believing in you, supporting you, loving you."
"YN Wolff," his voice cracks slightly. "Will you marry me? Will you keep being my safe place, my biggest supporter, my best friend? Will you let me spend forever trying to make you as happy as you've made me?"
Through your tears, you see the same boy from that late-night coffee shop - still determined, still passionate, still looking at you like you're his whole world. But now he's also the man who's grown with you, fought for you, loved you through everything.
"Yes," you manage, pulling him up to kiss him. "Yes to everything."
As he slides the ring onto your finger, Max pulls you close, and you can smell the same coffee shop scent that surrounded you ten years ago. "Thank you for sharing your hot chocolate that night," he murmurs against your hair.
"Thank you for making me believe in intuition," you reply, feeling the weight of the ring - a promise of all the years to come.
Outside, Melbourne sleeps, just like it did that first night. But now, instead of two strangers sharing a drink and their fears, there's you and Max, sharing a future.
And it feels like coming home.
tags: @mimiteller712 @lydia-demarek, @rory-cakes, @swaggymadi, @chriskevinevans @p7-otterton, @cherrystars81, @whokilledmarlene @lilymaleshka @kodeelynn @formoola1fan @pausmoon @lalala28 @baby-alien11 @allthings-fandoms @downsideup1989 @urbaebarnes @ivegotparticulartaste @liethatyouloveme @codymthepenguin @finn-dot-com @rayaskoalaland @angelluv16 @pourmercymercy0nme @tweetledeedumb @osclerc @scientifichufflepuff @cometpiastri @hobiismyhopeu @monsterdesandia @amyelevenn @damonsalvatorelikessex @rmvb @virtualperfectioncat @emma-chiara @chelle1306 @idontknow0704 @lilypat @elieanana @nothaqks @1800-love-me
Call Me When You Breakup (Role Reversal)
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: You’re with the wrong person, and Max knows it. So do you. He won’t ask you to leave but he’ll be here, hoping, aching, waiting. Just… call him when you do.
Authors Note: Okay so when I was writing Call Me When You Break Up, I genuinely couldn’t pick whether Max or the reader should be the one in a relationship bc I loved both versions too much, so… I wrote both. Figured I’d share this one too in case you needed a little comfort after the first one! (Spoiler: this one ends has a happier ending, promise 💕)
1.6k words / Inspo / Masterlist
Max knows he's in trouble the moment he sees you with him.
It shouldn’t hurt like this. Shouldn’t feel like something inside him is being wrenched apart, piece by piece. But it does. Because that’s not where you’re supposed to be.
You should be with him.
Instead, you’re laughing at something your boyfriend just said, your hand resting lightly on his arm, and Max feels like he’s suffocating in plain sight.
Because he knows that laugh. He knows your real laugh, the one that starts low in your chest and crinkles the corners of your eyes. This one is polite, forced, paper-thin.
You're fading right in front of him, and he doesn’t know how no one else sees it.
"You’re staring."
Lando’s voice pulls him back to reality, but Max doesn’t bother denying it. What’s the point? Everyone knows. They’ve always known.
Lando follows his gaze across the restaurant, shaking his head. "You really gonna keep doing this to yourself?"
Max exhales sharply, gripping his glass tighter. "What choice do I have?"
Lando scoffs. "I don’t know, maybe tell her how you feel instead of sitting here like some lovesick idiot?"
Max wants to. God, he wants to. He’s rehearsed it a thousand times, in the car, in the shower, in those sleepless hours past midnight when he’s certain no one will hear his heart breaking. But it’s never that simple.
Because you’re in a relationship. One that looks fine from the outside. One that checks boxes. One that convinces everyone… except Max, that you're happy.
But Max knows better.
Because he’s seen the way your boyfriend talks over you when you’re excitedly telling a story. How he interrupts, how he subtly corrects you. How he walks ahead without waiting, and rarely looks back to see if you’re still with him. How he only reaches for your hand when people are watching, when it can be seen, posted, admired.
But still, you stay. And Max doesn’t understand why. Because you were meant for him.
You know it too. He sees it in the way your eyes linger on him a second too long. The way your laughter always falters when he looks at you like this, like he’d burn the world down if you asked him to.
But you never ask.
And Max? He’s stuck waiting.
We’re so meant for each other. When will you wake up.
The words sit heavy in his chest, but he swallows them down. Because as much as he wants to say them, to beg you to choose him, it has to be you.
Call me when you break up.
He thinks it almost every time he sees you. It sits there behind his teeth, aching to be said. A quiet, desperate plea. Because he can’t say it first.
You have to want it. Want him.
Until then, he’ll keep watching from across the room. Holding his breath. And praying that one day, you’ll finally stop pretending.
And come home to him.
It gets worse before it gets better.
Max tries to move on. Tries to shove the feelings down, bury them beneath podium celebrations and mindless distractions. He flirts with women he doesn’t care about, lets them kiss him in the shadows of clubs, lets them wrap themselves around him like temporary bandages, but their lips never feel right.
Because they’re not yours.
You’re the only person who’s ever made him feel like he doesn’t have to win to be worth something.
He tells himself he’s fine. That if he says it enough, he’ll start believing it.
But then he sees you again.
You’re sitting alone in the paddock, scrolling through your phone, and you look exhausted. Not just physically, but in the way that sits deep in your bones. Like you haven’t been happy in a long time.
Max doesn’t think. He just moves.
"Hey."
You glance up, startled, before a slow smile spreads across your face. "Hey, Max."
It’s stupid, how much just hearing his name in your voice makes his chest ache. How his whole world rearranges itself around that one sound.
He sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush. "You okay?"
You hesitate just for a second before nodding. "Yeah. Just tired."
You’re lying. He knows it. You know he knows it, but you don’t elaborate, and Max doesn’t push.
Because this isn’t his place.
Not yet.
So he swallows the things he wants to say. Swallows the part of him that wants to take your face in his hands and ask what happened to the girl who used to give him hell just for fun. The one who could make him laugh with a single raised eyebrow, who used to challenge him just to see if he’d rise to it.
He forces himself to play the part. The best friend. The one who listens but never crosses the line. The one who waits in the background, hoping that one day you’ll finally wake up.
But waiting is hell.
Especially when he sees it clearer than ever that you’re not yourself anymore. Not the girl who used to light up every room, not the girl who used to challenge him on everything just to make him laugh. You’ve gotten quieter. Like the wrong love dimmed your light.
And Max? He wants to be the one who brings it back.
He wants to remind you what it feels like to be loved loudly. To be listened to. To be challenged and adored in equal measure. He wants to be the arms you fall into, not because you’re tired, but because it finally feels safe. He wants to fight with you and for you, and he wants to laugh until you can’t breathe, until your face crumples in that way that only happens when you’re so happy you forget to hold it all in.
The call comes finally at 2 a.m.
Max is half-asleep when his phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with your name. His heart lurches before he even picks up.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then—
"Can I come over?"
Your voice is raw, like you’ve been crying, and suddenly Max is wide awake.
"Yeah," he says immediately, already sitting up. "Of course."
You don’t offer an explanation. You don’t need to.
Because he already knows.
You show up at his door twenty minutes later, eyes red-rimmed, wearing the same clothes from earlier.
Max doesn’t ask what happened. He just steps aside, letting you in.
You sink onto his couch without a word, pulling your knees to your chest. Max sits beside you, close but not touching. Waiting.
It takes a minute before you finally speak.
"It’s over."
The words send a jolt through his chest, but he keeps his expression careful. "Are you okay?"
"I don’t know." You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “I feel like an idiot... I should’ve left a long time ago, but I was scared. Of being alone. Of starting over."
Max swallows hard. "You’re not alone."
Your eyes flick to his, something unreadable swirling in their depths. "I know."
A beat of silence. Then—
“Were you… waiting for this?”
The question slips out of you like a confession, small and uncertain, but it lands like a thunderclap between you.
Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t deflect with a joke or pretend he didn’t hear. His eyes stay locked on yours, steady and unflinching, like he’s bracing for impact.
“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I was.”
“Max—” you breathe, voice thick and trembling.
But he cuts you off gently, a hand lifting like he’s physically trying to slow the moment down.
“Don’t,” he says softly, eyes searching yours. “Don’t say anything if you don’t mean it, not because you feel guilty, or because you’re hurting, or because I’ve been stupid enough to love you this long.”
“I think part of me always knew,” you continue, blinking hard. “That I was supposed to end up here. That it was always going to be you. But I kept talking myself out of it. Because you were safe. And I didn’t think I deserved safe.”
“You deserve everything,” Max says hoarsely.
You nod, a few tears finally escaping down your cheeks
Max is still watching you like he doesn’t dare breathe, like if he moves too fast, you’ll disappear again.
You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to waste another second pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”
His grip tightens instinctively. “What do you feel?”
You swallow hard, but your voice is clear now. Certain. “I’m in love with you.”
Max exhales like he’s been underwater this whole time and finally broke the surface. His hand rises to cup your jaw, thumb catching a tear before it falls.
“Say it again,” he whispers, eyes shining.
You smile through the tears. “I’m in love with you.”
“I love you too,” he says. “I’ve been yours since the beginning”
And then you’re kissing him.
It’s not perfect. It’s messy, a little desperate. There’s hesitation in the way your lips press to his, like you’re testing the waters of a dream you never let yourself have. But Max doesn’t hesitate.
His hands find your waist, anchoring you to him, pulling you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if there’s any distance between you. His fingers slide into your hair, and he kisses you like it’s the only language he’s ever been fluent in.
Like he’s been waiting forever.
You gasp softly into his mouth, and he slows down, gentling it, letting you set the pace. Letting you feel safe. Loved. Wanted.
When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, breath mingling in the small space between you. Your eyes stay closed, your voice barely more than a breath.
“I’m sorry it took me so long.”
Max exhales, brushing your hair back behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten.
“You’re here now,” he says, thumb ghosting across your cheek. “That’s all that matters.”
