It was supposed to be one reckless night—an escape from the stress of the season, a way to forget an ex who could never make you come, a little tension relief from both your jobs—not a forever consequence. Especially not with your best friend, who surely only saw you as that and nothing more.
But Alex Albon’s fucking swimmers had other plans.
Now the question is: can you survive the fallout when desire, friendship, and a very unexpected surprise collide?
▶ TRACKLIST
1: Positive
1.5: Typing...
2: Handle with Care
3: Seatbelt Secured
4: 'Straya Baby
5: Under Pressure
6: The Keepers of the Secret
7: Between Bites and Secrets
8: Friday
9: Unprofessional
10: Just Friends
11: Unable to Hide
12: Monaco Baby
13: Safe Here
14: Domestic, Actually
15: Seen
16: Bored
17: Q&A with Y/N
18: The Godparent Title™
19: Golden Hour at Silverstone
20: Loading...
20.5: Reactions
21: Mango Sticky Rice
22: IKEA versus Galex
23: A Breaking Point
24: Holding the Line
25: Edits, Cravings, and Hormones
26: Baby Shower
27: Babymoon
28: Homebound
29: Italian Happiness
30: Paparazzis and Podiums
31: Stubborn
32: Little Albon
33: Diapers and Devotion
34: Voice Notes
35: Traditions
36: Seventy-Two Hours
37: Home, Finally
𖤓 Sunny radio! This one's for the EEAAO girlies. The ones who get that love isn't about grand gestures — it's about choosing someone in the small, boring, beautiful moments. Each driver, one moment where they realise forever doesn't have to be loud. It just has to be with you.
𖤓 note: Gang, I tried my best not to repeat the scenarios or wording, but if I failed, pls don't kill me it was hard to come up with a new context for 11 drivers 😭Any love would be appreciated.
𖤓 listen to: "Something About You" when reading this.
CHARLES LECLERC — The Grocery Run
The supermarket is almost empty at 11 PM.
Charles should be home. Should be sleeping. Should be reviewing data for tomorrow's sim session. Instead, he's following you through the produce aisle, watching you squeeze avocados like you're defusing a bomb.
"Not this one," you mutter, tossing it back. "Too soft."
"We've been here for twenty minutes."
"We've been here for twenty minutes because you keep putting back the good ones."
Charles laughs — a real one, the kind that used to come so rarely. You don't look up from the avocados, but your mouth twitches. You know what you do to him.
He leans against the shopping cart. Watches you debate the structural integrity of a tomato. Your hair is messy. You're wearing his hoodie — the old one, the one he almost threw away, the one you stole and never gave back. There's a smudge of something on your cheek. Flour, maybe. Or chocolate. He doesn't ask. He doesn't want to stop looking at you long enough to find out.
You're squeezing tomatoes like your life depends on it. Like this matters. Like getting the right one is the most important decision you'll make all week.
And Charles realises, standing in the fluorescent glare of a half-empty supermarket, that he wants every grocery run with you. Every wrong avocado. Every 11 PM debate about produce. Every single boring, beautiful minute of it.
"Charles."
"Hm?"
"You're staring again."
"Can you blame me?"
You finally look up. Your eyes are soft, tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the kind of day that follows you home. You'd told him about it earlier — the bad meeting, the rude email, the way everything felt a little too heavy. He'd listened. He'd made tea. He'd suggested grocery shopping at 11 PM like it was a reasonable solution.
It was. Somehow, it always is with you.
"I love you," he says.
You blink. "I know?"
"No, I mean —" He stops. Shakes his head. Tries again. "I'd do this forever," he says quietly. "The grocery shopping. The bad avocados. All of it."
The words hang in the air between the avocados and the tomatoes. Your expression shifts — something soft, something surprised, something that looks like the first time you realised this was real.
"That's a weird thing to say in a produce aisle," you say.
"I know."
"You're so weird."
"I know."
You step closer. Wrap your arms around his waist. Press your face into his chest. The shopping cart bumps against his legs.
"I'd do grocery shopping with you in this life too," you mumble against his hoodie.
Charles holds you tighter.
"Good," he says. "Because I'm not letting you go."
The avocados are forgotten.
They'll remember tomorrow. Right now, nothing matters except your heartbeat against his and the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights and the way you fit in his arms like you were always supposed to be there.
LEWIS HAMILTON — The Kitchen at 2 AM
Lewis can't sleep.
This isn't unusual. He's spent most of his life learning to function on less rest than most people need. But tonight is different. Tonight, the silence is too loud. The city outside is too still. His mind is too full of things he doesn't want to think about.
He finds you in the kitchen.
You're standing at the counter, barefoot, wearing one of his old t-shirts. There's flour everywhere — on your hands, on your face, on the floor. You're trying to make bread. Or something that was supposed to be bread. It's not going well.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
You don't look up. "Baking."
"It's 2 AM."
"I know."
"You're covered in flour."
"I know that too."
He walks closer. Peers at the lumpy dough on the counter. You're completely unbothered by the disaster in front of you. Just kneading away, humming something under your breath, flour dusted across your cheek like war paint. "Is that supposed to look like that?"
"No," you admit. "But I know you haven't been able to sleep recently. And I figured —" You shrug, finally looking at him. Your eyes are tired, but there's something else there. Something warm. Something that makes the silence in his head go quiet. "I figured if you were going to be awake, I might as well be awake with you."
And Lewis realises — standing in his kitchen at 2 AM, watching you fail at baking with the same determination you'd bring to anything else — that this is it. This is the rest of his life. Not the races. Not the podiums. Not the cameras.
This. You. Flour on the floor. Bread that won't rise. 2 AM and nowhere else to be.
Lewis doesn't say anything. He just steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder. You smell like flour and vanilla and something that's just you.
"I can feel you staring," you say, your attention going back to the failed masterpiece in front of you.
"I'm admiring."
"I'm a mess."
"You're perfect."
"I don't know how to make bread," you warn him.
"I don't care."
"We're going to have to eat this. Even if it's terrible."
"I don't care."
"We could order takeout."
"Y/N."
You stop. Wait.
"In every lifetime," he says, quietly, "I would choose this. "
You go still in his arms.
"Even if I am failing at making bread?" you say with a small pout.
"Especially then." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "It's better."
You turn in his arms. Your flour-dusted hands cup his face. Your eyes search his.
"You're a weird man, Lewis Hamilton."
"I know."
"I love you anyway."
He kisses you — slow, soft, unhurried. The bread is forgotten. The silence is no longer too loud. And for the first time all night, Lewis thinks he might actually sleep.
LANDO NORRIS — The Takeout on the Floor
Lando's apartment is a mess.
Not the chaotic kind — the lived-in kind. Clothes draped over chairs. Dishes in the sink. A blanket fort in the living room that you'd built three days ago and neither of you had bothered to take down.
You're sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, eating takeout from containers balanced on your knees. Some reality show is playing on the TV — neither of you is watching. You're too busy arguing about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
"It does not belong," Lando insists, pointing a spring roll at you.
"It absolutely belongs. You have no taste."
"I have excellent taste. I'm dating you, aren't I?"
You pause. "That's... actually smooth. I'm mad about it."
He grins — the grin, the one that makes you want to throw something at him and kiss him in the same breath. You're wearing his hoodie. Your hair is in a messy bun. You love him so much it makes your chest ache.
And Lando realizes — sitting on the floor of his apartment, takeout containers balanced on his knees, arguing about pineapple on pizza — that he doesn't need anything else. Not the wins. Not the attention. Not any of it.
Just this. Just you. Just the sound of your laugh and the way you steal his spring rolls when you think he's not looking.
"Lando."
"Mm?"
He doesn't say anything for a moment. Just watches you. The way you're completely comfortable. Completely yourself. Completely his.
"I want this forever," he says. "The takeout. The floor. The stupid arguments."
You stop chewing. Look at him. "That's a very intense thing to say while you have sauce on your chin."
"I have sauce on my chin?"
"Right there." You point. He wipes the wrong side of his face. You laugh — that laugh, the one that makes his chest feel too full.
"I love you," he says. Because it's true. Because it's the only thing that matters.
You set down your container. Shuffle closer until your knee bumps his.
"I know," you say. "I love you too. Now eat your spring rolls before they get cold."
"Yes ma'am."
You grin. He grins.
The reality show plays on. Neither of you notices.
OSCAR PIASTRI — The Quiet Sunday
Oscar doesn't talk much.
You'd learned this early. He's not cold — just careful. He thinks before he speaks. He measures his words like they have weight. It used to unnerve you. Now it's one of your favorite things about him.
Today is Sunday. The apartment is quiet. You're reading on the couch. He's at the kitchen table, reviewing data on his laptop. The only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click of his mouse.
This is what your life has become. Quiet Sundays. Shared silences. A love that doesn't need to be loud to be real.
Oscar looks up from his laptop. Watches you read. You're curled up on the couch, your feet tucked under you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth the way it always is when you're concentrating. You haven't noticed him watching. You never do.
He thinks about all the Sundays he spent alone. Before you. The quiet used to be heavy. Now it's just... comfortable. Because you're in it.
He doesn't say anything. He just watches. Commits it to memory. The way the afternoon light hits your hair. The way you mouth the words sometimes, barely moving your lips. The way you look up, catch him staring, and smile like you know exactly what he's thinking.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"I'm not." He pauses. "I'm just happy."
You set down your book. "That's it? You're just happy?"
"That's it."
You look at him for a long moment. Then you pat the couch beside you. He stands. Walks over. Sits down. You lean your head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you.
"This is nice," you say.
"Yeah," he agrees. "It is."
He doesn't tell you that he wants this every Sunday. Every quiet, boring, perfect Sunday. He doesn't have to. You already know.
GEORGE RUSSELL — The Folded Laundry
George is folding laundry.
This should not be a romantic moment. He is wearing an old t-shirt that has a hole in the collar. His hair is sticking up in the back. There is a suspicious stain on his shorts that he refuses to explain.
But he's folding your clothes. Carefully. Methodically. The way he does everything.
You're watching from the doorway. He hasn't noticed you yet. He's too focused on getting the creases right — on your shirts, your socks, the sweater you'd left draped over the chair three days ago.
He folds everything. Even the things you wouldn't bother with. Even the things you'd given up on.
George doesn't know why he's so focused on the laundry. Maybe because it's yours. Maybe because taking care of you — even in small ways — feels like the most important thing he could be doing.
He holds up one of your shirts. It's old. Faded. The one you wear when you're sick or tired or just don't want to try. He folds it slowly. Presses the crease with his palm.
"George."
He looks up. You're in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him with an expression he can't quite read.
"You're folding my laundry," you say.
"It needed to be done."
"At 11 PM?"
"The timing felt right."
You cross the room. Sit on the bed beside the pile of folded clothes. Pick up a shirt — one of yours, one he'd folded so perfectly it looks store-bought.
"You're staring at that shirt like it's precious," you say.
"It's yours."
"That doesn't make it precious."
"To me it does."
You're quiet for a moment. Then you set down the shirt and take his hand.
"You're strange, Russel"
"I know."
"I love you anyway."
He squeezes your hand. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. The laundry is forgotten. The late hour doesn't matter. He's exactly where he wants to be.
KIMI ANTONELLI — The First Rain of Autumn
Kimi doesn't believe in fate.
He believes in hard work. In data. In the things he can see and touch and prove. He's never been one for grand romantic gestures or sweeping declarations.
But then it starts raining.
You're walking back from the café down the street — the one with the good pastries, the one you'd dragged him to because you said he needed to "experience life outside the simulator." He'd complained the whole way. You'd ignored him.
Now you're both soaked. Your hair is plastered to your face. You're laughing — not at him, not at the situation, just... laughing. Like getting caught in the rain is the best thing that's happened all week.
"You're insane," he says, but he's smiling. He can't help it.
"You're boring," you fire back. "Live a little, Antonelli."
You grab his hand and pull him into a puddle. Water splashes up his jeans. He should be annoyed. He's not.
He watches you spin in the rain. Arms out. Head back. Rain dripping down your face. You look ridiculous. You look perfect.
And Kimi realizes — standing in the middle of the street, soaked to the bone, watching you dance in a puddle — that he wants every rainy day with you. Every unexpected storm. Every moment that makes no sense.
"Kimi."
"What?"
"You're staring again."
"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one dancing in the rain."
You stop spinning. Walk toward him. Your shoes squelch. Your mascara is running. You've never looked better.
"Come here," you say, tugging his arm.
"I'm already here."
"Closer."
He steps closer. You wrap your arms around his neck. Your wet clothes press against his.
"I love you," you say. Like it's obvious. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.
He doesn't say it back. He just pulls you closer. Kisses you. Right there. In the rain. In the middle of the street.
When he pulls back, you're both dripping. You're smiling.
"That was romantic," you say.
"Don't tell anyone."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He takes your hand. Leads you home. The rain keeps falling.
He doesn't let go.
MAX VERSTAPPEN — The Simulator Break
Max is supposed to be in the simulator.
That's where his trainer thinks he is. Where his engineer thinks he is. Where everyone who needs him thinks he is.
Instead, he's in the break room, sitting across from you, watching you struggle with a vending machine.
"It's not working," you say, pressing the button for the third time.
"Hit it."
"I'm not hitting it."
"Then it won't work."
You glare at him. He shrugs. You hit the vending machine. The candy bar drops. You look triumphant. He looks smug.
"I hate you," you say, picking up the candy bar.
"You love me."
"Debatable."
He watches you unwrap the candy bar, break it in half, and hand him the bigger piece. You don't say anything. You just do it. Like it's instinct. Like taking care of him is as natural as breathing.
Max has won races. Championships. Things people dream about. But none of it feels as good as this. Sitting in a break room. Sharing a candy bar. Watching you wipe chocolate from the corner of your mouth.
He wants this. Not the big moments. The small ones. The ones no one else sees.
"Max."
"Mm?"
"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you stare at me like I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve."
"Maybe you are."
"Am I solved?"
He thinks about it. About the way you make him feel. About how he doesn't have to be anyone other than himself when he's with you.
"Yeah," he says. "You are."
You smile. Break off another piece of candy bar. Hand it to him.
"Good," you say. "Now eat your chocolate. You have a simulator session."
"I'm skipping it."
"You're not skipping it."
"I'm skipping it."
"Max."
He takes the chocolate. He doesn't move.
He stays exactly where he is.
ISACK HADJAR — The Disaster Dinner
Isack is supposed to be impressing you.
That was the plan. He'd cook dinner — something nice, something sophisticated — and you'd see that he was an adult. A functional adult who could do things other than drive fast.
Instead, he's set off the fire alarm.
You're both standing in the kitchen, waving dish towels at the smoke detector, coughing. The windows are open. The fan is on. Whatever was in the oven is now a blackened brick.
"I'm sorry," he says, for the fifth time.
"Stop apologising."
"I ruined dinner."
"You didn't ruin dinner. You just... created a bonding experience."
He looks at you. You're laughing. Actually laughing, like this is funny, like this isn't a disaster, like you're not judging him for being a terrible cook.
"You're not mad?"
"Why would I be mad? I can't cook either. I was going to order takeout the whole time."
"I spent three hours on that recipe."
"I know. It was very sweet. It was also very on fire."
He groans, dropping his head to the counter. You pat his back. Your hand is warm. Comforting.
Isack doesn't know why you're still here. Why you're not running. Why you're laughing instead of leaving.
Then he looks at you. Really looks. At the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. At the way you haven't let go of his arm. At the way you're looking at him like he's not a failure. Like he's just... him.
And he realizes: you're not going anywhere. You never were.
"Isack."
"Yeah?"
"You're very dramatic for someone who set off a fire alarm."
"I'm not dramatic. I'm passionate."
"Whatever"
You order takeout. Eat it on the floor. The smoke detector beeps every few minutes.
He watches you laugh. And he thinks: yeah. This is it.
CARLOS SAINZ — The Packing Night
Carlos is supposed to be packing.
He has a flight tomorrow. Another race. Another city. Another week away from you.
But he's not packing. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you fold his shirts. You're not his assistant. You're not his employee. You're just someone who loves him. Someone who's learned that his shirts wrinkle if you don't fold them a certain way.
"You don't have to do that," he says.
"I know."
"I can do it myself."
"I know."
"Then why —"
"Because I want to." You look up at him. Your expression is soft, patient, unbothered. "Because I'm going to miss you. And this makes me feel useful."
Carlos's chest aches.
He watches you fold. The careful way you smooth out the wrinkles. The way you stack them in his suitcase, like you're building something important. You're humming. Something soft. Something he doesn't recognise.
He thinks about all the times he's packed alone. The empty hotel rooms. The silent airports. The feeling of always leaving something behind. He doesn't feel that anymore. Because you're here. Because you're folding his shirts like it matters. Because you make everywhere feel like somewhere he wants to be.
He crosses the room. Kneels in front of you. Takes your hands — the ones holding his shirt — and presses them to his chest.
"Carlos, your shirt —"
"I don't care about the shirt."
You shake your head, but you're smiling. You fold one more shirt. Set it in the suitcase.
"I'll miss you," you say.
"I'll miss you too," he says quietly. "It's only a week."
"I know."
"It'll go fast."
"I know."
Neither of you moves. Neither of you wants to.
"Come here," he says. You lean forward. He wraps his arms around you. Holds on.
The suitcase stays open. The shirts stay folded.
He doesn't care. He'll pack in the morning. Right now, he's exactly where he wants to be.
ALEXANDER ALBON — The First Snow
It doesn't snow in Monaco.
That's what Alex had told you, when you'd first moved here. "If you want snow, you have to travel." You'd accepted this. Mourned it. Moved on.
So when it snows — actually snows, fat flakes drifting down from a sky that's never done this before — Alex is the one who finds you first.
You're standing on the balcony. Barefoot. In your pyjamas. Just watching.
"Are you crazy?" he asks, stepping outside. "It's freezing."
"Look."
He looks. The city is quiet. The snow is dusting the rooftops, the streets, the harbour. Everything is soft. Everything is still.
"It's snowing," he says.
"It's snowing."
"In Monaco."
"I know."
You're not looking at him. You're looking at the snow. Your cheeks are pink from the cold. Your breath fogs in the air. You're shivering, but you won't come inside.
Alex watches you. The way your eyes are wide. The way you're smiling at something so small, so ordinary. Like it's magic.
He thinks about all the things he wants to give you. Big things. Important things. But right now, all he wants to give you is this. The snow. The balcony. The quiet.
"You're staring," you say, still not looking at him.
"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one standing in the snow in your pyjamas."
"It's romantic."
"It's freezing."
"It is not."
You finally look at him. Your nose is red. Your lips are blue. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"I want this forever," he says.
"What, me in my pyjamas running in the snow like a fool?" you say with a small smile.
"Yes, and many more stupid snow days to come"
You smile. Step closer. Wrap your arms around him. He holds you tight.
The snow keeps falling. Neither of you goes inside.
OLIVER BEARMAN — The First Apartment
Ollie's first apartment is small.
Too small, probably. The ceiling leaks when it rains. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work half the time.
But it's his. And you're in it. And somehow, that makes everything else irrelevant.
You're on the floor — there's no couch yet, not until next week — eating takeout from containers balanced on a cardboard box. Ollie is telling you about his day. About the engineers, the setup, the small victory he'd felt when something finally clicked.
You're not really listening to the words. You're watching his hands. The way they move when he's excited. The way he pushes his hair back when he's thinking.
Ollie stops mid-sentence. "Are you even listening?"
"Not really."
"Rude."
"I'm listening to the important part."
"What's the important part?"
You set down your container. Crawl across the floor until you're sitting in front of him. Your knees touch.
"The important part," you say, "is that you're happy."
He blinks. His ears go pink.
"I'm always happy when you're here," he says.
"That's cheesy."
"I know."
"I love it."
He looks at you. At the cardboard box. At the takeout containers. At the whole ridiculous, imperfect, wonderful mess of his first apartment.
He thinks about all the things he wants. The races. The wins. The career he's building. But right now, sitting on the floor with you, he can't remember why any of that matters more than this.
"Ollie."
"Yeah?"
"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look at me like I'm the only thing in the room."
"You are."
"That's very smooth."
"I'm trying."
You lean forward. Kiss him. He's warm. He's here. He's yours.
The ceiling leaks. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work.
summary: you can only see in black and white until you touch your soulmate for the first time, and you're starting to wonder if you've ever actually touched alex before.
contains: soulmate au, race engineer!reader, friends to lovers, cursing, fluff!!!, use of y/n and l/n (sparingly),
word count: 3.3k + social media au.
playlist: take a bite — beabadoobee; disco — surf curse; I can see you — taylor swift
a/n: this is the first installment of my soulmate series to celebrate 1k followers! I've wanted to write for Alex for a bit, and I'm SO excited about this. ALSO this is me manifesting the Albon podium for the 2026 Australia GP. I hope you enjoy!
series masterlist! ◦ masterlist!
liked by alex_albon, yourusername and 216,345 others
f1updates @.williamsf1official has announced Alex Albon's race engineer for the upcoming F1 season will be Williams' Y/N L/N. The engineer has been working for Williams for 4 years, and will already step into the new role for the first GP of 2025.
username1 oh come on
username2 THE WOKE ARE KILLING F1
username3 some of you acting as if they picked a rando off the street and ignoring the fact y/n has been a reliable engineer for the team for years… grow up
username4 I'm SO excited to watch her work with Alex!!!
username5 chat are we for real?
username6 YESSSS WOMEN ON F1!!!!!
liked by alex_albon, williamsf1official and 108,948 others
yourusername I'm so beyond honored and excited to start this year as an F1 race engineer! The biggest thanks to @.williamsf1official for this opportunity and to @.alex_albon for trusting me with this very important job. 💙
alex_albon I'm so excited to work with you! ♡ liked by yourusername
williamsf1official 💙💙💙 ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername GO WILLIAMS!!!!
username1 I'M GONNA SAY IT AGAIN: THE WOKE ARE KILLING F1
georgerussell63 Congratulations!!! ♡ liked by yourusername
lauramuller YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername LET'S FUCKING GO!!!!!!!!!!!!
username2 alright…
It's not that you've given up on your love life, per se.
It's just that you're preoccupied with other things.
"Bearman is 1.7 seconds behind you, Alex."
Such as doing your goddamn best to help Williams be an upper midfield F1 team.
"Bearman has activated DRS, Alex."
And, most of all, trying to get Alex Albon somewhat closer to a podium.
"And Bearman overtakes Albon after another brilliant lap! Haas' work this season has been truly stellar—"
Which is proving itself to be a little complicated.
"Sorry."
"Nothing to apologize for, Alex. We'll get him in a few laps."
"The car sucked today."
You sigh deeply at that, hands on your waist as you watch Alex take off his helmet, his brow furrowed with frustration.
"I know," your tone is apologetic, but you know that doesn't change anything. "You did well either way."
His brow furrows further.
"We didn't even finish inside the points."
"You're being too hard on yourself," you try, one of your hands rising up to touch his arm, feeling his race suit's resistant material under your fingertips, "you said it yourself. The car sucked. You can't do miracles when the car sucks, Alex."
"Bearman can," is his annoyed answer, and you can swear you see a few tears accumulate on the corners of his gray eyes. You know the string of bad races are taking a toll on him. "Doesn't matter. We'll do better next weekend."
Your chest feels heavy at the disappointment that lingers in the space between his words, in the furrow of his eyebrows, in his posture. You're not sure how to make him feel better — not when you keep losing the chance to get any points, not when he keeps finishing P12, P14, P17.
It's not his fault, but you don't know what to do either.
You open your mouth to answer, and then Alex is pulled away from you and dragged to interviewers. Your heart clenches at the bad timing of it all, but the social media manager barely spares you a glance, and you resort to going back into the garage to speak to the engineering team about the race, about the car, about ways to erase that look on your driver's eyes.
liked by albonfan1, username2 and 27,897 others
f1updates After a disappointing race, Alex Albon gives Sky Sports an exclusive interview about his struggles with the car:
🎙️ "The team worked really hard, but ultimately I just wasn't comfortable with the car today. It wouldn't be fair to just say the car sucked and that's why we did badly, but I have to admit my issues with it were definitely an important factor in our results. I'm hoping we can fix some of these problems before the next race."
username1 I know he's saying the issue was the car but tbh I feel like his little race engineer was no fucking help as usual
↳ username2 brother that's not the case AT ALL
username3 I mean… they did say the woke would kill F1 and specially Williams…
username4 it's really telling that you only see these "engineers" in midfield to objectively bad teams. you'd never see something like this in McLaren lol
↳ username5 wow literally shut the fuck up
username6 Alex explicitly says the team worked hard and he just wasn't comfortable in the car and yet you guys are talking shit about unrelated stuff this is ridiculous
username7 IT'S OKAY HE'LL DO BETTER IN THE NEXT RACE
liked by yourusername, georgerussell63 and 204,731 others
alex_albon We'll do better next time. Special thanks to @.yourusername for leading me so brilliantly through such a complicated race.
username1 you guys don't know how to behave so he had to make a post making it clear y/n isn't the problem 😭😭😭 embarrassing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
username2 chin up alex you're the goat
username3 THE CAR SUCKS BUT YOU DON'T!!!!!!!!!
yourusername Proud of you like always ❤️ ♡ liked by alex_albon and 1,003 others
When Carlos gets his first podium with Williams a few weeks later, Alex is ecstatic.
He celebrates. He hugs his teammate. He parties with his team. He doesn't even look you in the eye the entire night, and you know he's getting into his own head.
You'd been one of Williams' engineers for his side of the garage for years, so he knew you before this season, of course he did. He smiled brightly when he was told you'd be on his radio for the next season right after one of the last races during the prior year, his still gloved hand shaking yours excitedly.
Truly, Alex is your friend. Moreover, Alex feels like he's disappointing you.
"I'm sorry," are the first words out of his mouth when he finally sits down next to you in whatever random club you're at, many hours after the race ended and too many drinks later. "I'm sorry I sucked today. And on many other days."
You immediately shove his shoulder, touch burning under the soft white shirt he's wearing. Feels like cotton.
"Shut up, Albon. It's not your fault." Your words are a little slurred and so are his and neither of you mind. "We'll get there too."
He breathes sharply, throwing his head back to look at the ceiling, back resting against the couch you're sharing.
"I hope so," he turns his neck so he can stare at you. "Maybe we need more team bonding."
You laugh at that, propping up your elbow against the couch as your chin rests on your free hand. Your other hand holds a half empty glass.
"Oh, yeah?" You take a long sip of your drink. "What kind of team bonding are you thinking?"
"I don't know," he admits, "any kind."
You laugh again, and a shadow of a smile takes over his face. He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. It feels peaceful, to just sit here with you for a second, listening to the noises of the club, feeling like they're far away, a quiet buzz from the alcohol swimming through his veins.
He opens his eyes.
"What color are the lights?"
You blink in surprise at the question.
"What?"
"What color are the lights?" He repeats, and you look around the club to check.
Just like in any other places, your eyes travel around the space to find different hues of black, white, and gray. You can see light flashing brightly closer to the dance floor, but they are as monochrome to you as everything else. You wonder if they're red, or purple, or blue. You wouldn't know if you could see them — wouldn't recognize the colors you've never seen before.
You know the stories. One miraculous touch from your universe-assigned soulmate, and the entire world would explode in color. You only know it to be true because it has happened to too many acquaintances and friends and family members to be false.
Some look for their soulmates their entire life. You're preoccupied with other things.
It's not that you don't care or that you don't want to look for your soulmate. You like to think you're just — not obsessing over it. If it's meant to be, if you're truly meant to find this perfect person who will quite literally bring color to your life, they'll show up. You won't have to look for them.
Yet you've heard F1 cars are different colors, and that must make them easier to differentiate, specially when they're going too fast for you to read the numbers and sponsors. So maybe that'd be helpful.
"I wouldn't know." You finally look back at him just to find him studying you, his dark gray eyes mapping every inch of your monochrome face. "All black and white to me."
"Really?" He sounds somewhat surprised, and you chuckle.
"Really."
Usually, this is the moment when two strangers look at each other awkwardly and touch hands just to see, chuckling even more awkwardly when nothing changes.
You and Alex don't need to, though, so you don't. Because you're pretty sure you've already touched him many times before — you work together, you're his race engineer, you've clapped his back and given him high fives and shaken his hand.
So the two of you keep conversation going for the rest of the night, coming up with team bonding exercises and discussing race strategies until the topic shifts towards childhood memories, his first karting win, your time in university, the way his parents always said his favorite color would probably be blue when he could see it.
Your body is warm from more than just the buzz of your drinks, and, when you finally leave, hand in hand with some girl from the social media department who you always share hotel rooms with, you offer him a grin.
And he grins right back, waving you goodbye, shoulders lighter than before.
It starts to nag at you, day after day.
Have you actually touched Alex before?
You're not sure why the question rises up inside your mind. You have, right? You must have. You've known him for years. you're his race engineer. You must have.
Why can't you remember a single time you actually did, though? Every single touch you can think of happened with gloves, on his race suit, his hand on your shoulder on top of your clothes. Why can't you remember a single time you touched skin to skin?
What if you haven't?
That's a good question, what if. What if… what? It's not like he could be your soulmate. There's no spark. There's no—no chemistry.
Well, there is a little chemistry. There has to be because you're his race engineer and you need to work well together, to have some sort of understanding. It's not—it's not like that, though.
You would know if Alex was your soulmate. You'd feel it somehow. You must've touched at least once, a brush of fingers, anything. You would know.
"Alex, Antonelli coming up behind you."
"How far?"
"3 seconds, but he's closing the gap really fast."
Your eyes fly across the many screens in front of you, from Alex's vitals to the state of every single screw and bolt on the car to the live stream of information that shows Mercedes' number 12 inching closer and closer to your number 23.
"Antonelli is 2.1 seconds behind."
"Fuck!"
"Take it easy, Alex. Just focus on defending. You're doing great today. We only have 3 more laps, come on."
You watch the screen attentively. You count down the seconds to Alex on the radio as Antonelli grows closer, but Alex manages. He moves the car deliberately, forcing the Mercedes driver to wear out his tires, avoiding an overtake until you're screaming into the radio microphone, smiling wildly.
"P5, Alex! You're P5! Good fucking job!"
He gives you a high five when he's finally out of the car and you're acutely aware of his gloves, of how his skin doesn't actually touch yours. Even when you take a picture with the team to celebrate his position, his arm resting across your back, it only comes in contact with your dark gray shirt.
It's weird, now. Noticing it.
It's weirder when he reaches out for you in the way he does after almost every race, a bright grin on his face as his hand comes up to touch your clothed shoulder.
Even still, you grin back at him.
"Great job today, Albon." His fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder, and, for some strange reason, it sends a spark of electricity through your body that absolutely terrifies you. "I told you you'd get back into your rhythm, didn't I?"
"Our rhythm." His eyes sparkle with excitement. "You did amazing today, truly. Couldn't have done it without you."
You punch him in the arm playfully, your skin touching his race suit. Your fingers seem to tingle.
"Stop it. You were the one driving the car. I was just yelling in your ear."
He laughs at that, pulling you in for a hug. Your body immediately tenses up, eyes wide open as you wait for it, for something, for anything.
Nothing happens. His arms touch yours, the fabric of his race suit rubbing against your skin. It almost feels unlucky, in a way, and then you're chastising yourself — you've hugged before. Surely, you've touched then. You're just making up a problem that doesn't exist.
You hug him back. Your heart beats wildly inside your chest.
You're going fucking insane.
liked by yourusername, georgerussell and 305,716 others
alex_albon Really good work today!! More points in the bank 🤌💙
username1 y/n looks amazing and then there's alex
username2 am I the only one who thought they were lowkey flirting in the radio today…
↳ username3 bestie you're insane actually
williamsf1official Great work, Alex!
yourusername ALBOGOAT ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,518 others
username4 no because why am I sort of obsessed with the dynamic between alex and his race engineer… do you guys think they could be soulmates…
↳ username3 BFFR
liked by georgerussell63, albonfan1 and 456,321 others
alex_albon Enjoying the holidays before we head back to work 🏎️
username1 THIS YEAR IS ALEX ALBON'S YEAR
username2 ALEX WDC IDC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
albonfan1 omg that meat looks so good………..
username3 man's an eater truly
It's late one night when Alex searches you out in the Williams headquarters, probably already past midnight. He's in for simulator work, discussing his issues with the car with the engineers while you're on endless meetings with the team's strategists, debating pit preferences and quali orders.
It's pre-season. To your relief, the season ended soon after your—your silly crisis, and you had quite a bit of time to recenter yourself.
You're not avoiding Alex. That would be really fucking stupid. You're just—getting into your own head. It's fine. It's fine! You're not that close either way. You're just friends. Coworkers. Acquaintances.
You should not be this stressed out over the hypothetical (and probably inaccurate) possibility of not having touched Alex Albon skin to skin. Of maybe, perhaps, being his soulmate. It's fucking stupid.
You are, though. He's cute, you've noticed. And he's always nice — to you, to the other engineers, to Carlos. He's really funny and sweet. You really enjoy listening to him speak on the radio. It's—yeah. Yeah.
"Hey." He smiles when he finally gets to you, not even noticing the way your eyes widen in surprised and wrongly-placed panic. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."
A soft chuckle leaves your lips, and you smile back, looking down at your notebook. "Yeah, it's been a while." You look back up at him. "Did you have a nice break?"
"I did, yeah." He shoves his hands inside his pockets. "You?"
"Yup." You nod a little too enthusiastically. "Hung out with my family. Saw some friends. It was great."
"I'm glad." His smile is so genuine your heart skips a beat, and you can't even believe how silly you're being. "I hope you rested well, because we'll have a lot of work this season."
"Yes, we will." Your fingers tap against your notebook, and you force yourself to relax a bit. "Give me a podium on Australia, will you?"
Alex laughs, and the sound is really nice. You can't believe you've never noticed how nice his laugh sounds before.
You can't believe you're thinking about any of this. You need to get your shit together and act normal.
"Yes, ma'am. Still counting on that team bonding, though."
A snort escapes you.
The two of you snap your heads towards one of the other engineers as Alex's name is called from the sim room, and he gives you a playful nod before running back. You manage to offer him a small wave, chest clenching as he leaves even while your body relaxes.
You're genuinely losing your mind.
liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 603,980 others
alex_albon Pre-season
tagged: yourusername
username1 HUM?
username2 best Williams duo back at it again ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,603 others
↳ alex_albon Damn right
↳↳ carlossainz55 Excuse me? ♡ liked by alex_albon and 13,518 others
username3 they came back from break attached at the hip omg
username4 i love how literally every single picture we get of alex from testing and every social media thing he shows up in, y/n is right beside him. they're literally best friends they'll kill it this season
yourusername GET BACK TO THE SIM ♡ liked by alex_albon and 1,347 others
↳ alex_albon 🫡🫡🫡
↳↳ username5 chat is this… flirting…
liked by alex_albon, williamsf1official and 20,741 others
yourusername Australia here we come!! 💙
alex_albon YESSSSSSSSSSSS ♡ liked by yourusername
lauramuller Looking so good! Good luck to Williams this season! ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername Good luck to Haas too!!!!!!!!!!
username1 I LOVE her style I have to say
username2 what a cutie!!!
username3 FACE CARD NEVER DECLINES
username4 I'm obsessed
username5 why no pictures with Alex? we know you have them
liked by yourusername, williamsf1official and 56,714 others
alex_albon Confident in the car, confident in my team. Australia here we come!
yourusername you stole my caption…
↳ alex_albon perhaps
username1 WILLIAMS WCC!!!!!!!!!!!! ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,603 others
username2 SO EXCITEDDDD CAN'T THE SEASON START ALREADY
username3 confident in the car?????????????????????????? has a williams driver ever said this before??????????? historical
williamsf1official 💙💙💙 ♡ liked by alex_albon and 5,214 others
"Alex, Piastri has overtaken Antonelli and is 4 seconds behind you."
"4 seconds? That's a lot."
You roll your eyes, a grin taking over your face.
"It's his home race, Alex. Don't be mean."
"What position are we in?"
You look at all the screens in front of you.
"P4. Really good result for the first race of the season, if you can keep it up." There's an edge of teasing to your voice, but he barely notices it.
"There's still a bunch of laps. Who's P3?"
You blink. "Russell. 3.4 seconds ahead."
"I'm coming after his ass."
A surprised laugh escapes your lips. "So 4 seconds is a lot, but 3.4 isn't?"
"I promised someone an Australia podium."
Your cheeks flush at that, and you ignore the side-eye you get from a few of your colleagues, fingers tightening on the notes sprawled on the table in front of you as you watch your screens.
It happens slowly.
The gap decreases lap by lap, until Alex is just 3, 2, 1.7 seconds away. He always puts in a lot of effort, but this time he chases Russell like a hunter, calculated turns saving every millisecond they can until he's so close you can taste the champagne on your tongue. He chases hungrily, and you match his hunger easily in the same way you seem to always match him, counting down the seconds and speaking in sharp, precise bursts of words, making sure not to throw him off.
"You're less than half a second away, Alex." You're aware he knows, you're aware he can see George right in front of him, you're aware the front of his car is already aligned with the back of Russell's, but you can't help but say it out loud, eyes wide with excitement.
"I know," and he knows you know, but he can't help but say it out loud either.
It's glorious. Your heart is out of your chest and reaching out to him and you're sure his ears must hurt when the Williams pit wall explodes in cheers the second Alex concludes the overtake. Your hand comes up to your mouth and your eyes fill with water and you can hear his voice screaming into the radio, and you don't care about anything else in the world.
The checkered flag is waved and it takes Alex mere moments until he runs towards your team by the boxes, jumping up and down by the race track when it's finally over. His gloved hands hold your wrists and your hands hold his helmet, staring into his gray eyes through the glass as the two of you yell at each other, tears streaming down your face and both screaming complete nonsense before he's dragged away to the cool-down room.
Everything happens too fast. Before you know, you're looking up at the podium, and he looks straight down at you before Great Britain's national anthem ends, eyes sparkling with joy and excitement and something else, and then he's spraying you with champagne, and you laugh, and laugh, and laugh, eyes burning from the alcohol, grin hurting your cheeks, so happy you can barely breathe.
Coworkers and engineers from other teams congratulate you as you walk through the crowd to the back of the podium where you know he must be, and you smile widely — you're on a mission. Alex's first podium with Williams. Your first podium ever. You're fucking ecstatic.
He's looking for you, too. You find each other in the middle of a random hallway, both searching, both shaking with excitement, and he's pulling you into his arms before you can react, naked hands coming up warm and tight against your back while yours come around his shoulders.
"I told you—"
"I can't believe—"
"Thank you so much—"
"You're—"
When you pull away enough to look at him, your hands automatically come up to cradle his jaw, holding his face just like you held his helmet minutes after the race, in a way that feels so natural, so instinctive, that you barely notice your own movements.
And the world explodes.
You can't name any of the colors you see. You've never seen them before. It's bright — so bright, overwhelming, makes your retinas hurt. Your breath catches, and Alex's eyes go impossibly wide.
His eyes are dark. Not gray, like before. You immediately want to know the name of this color — still dark, but warmer. Softer. Sweeter. It matches his hair. He looks good in Williams colors, whatever they are.
You can't manage to process anything else other than this — the soft warmth of his eyes, the way it matches his hair, the way every single color in the world seems made just for him, created exclusively to look nice around him.
You laugh. You laugh, and he's laughing too, and you're pulling him into another tight hug, and your head hurts from all the brightness and you can't name a single thing you're seeing, but it's perfect, isn't it? It's perfect.
When you pull away again, his eyes seem to sparkle in an even more beautiful way, lighting up their deep color, and he grins, and it's perfect.
"I hoped it was you," he admits. Your heart seems to burst. You laugh once more, loudly, your entire body burning hot, your eyes burning from the champagne, your heart burning from seeing him in his entirety.
"I'm glad it's you," it comes out choked, and you might be crying again. He lets out something between a sigh and a chuckle, and, before you know it, his lips touch yours softly, as warm as the color of his eyes. You don't care if anyone sees it, you don't care that you're standing in the middle of a hallway in the paddock, you don't care about any consequences or logistics — you can only see his colors.
You've heard stories of soulmates. Of this moment. You've never searched for it, not intentionally, and yet it came to you. Just like you believed it would.
You pull your lips away and his follow. You stare at him again, you commit his colors to memory. It's all so overwhelming you can barely think.
"Congratulations on the podium," you manage, and he grins so big you can feel your face flushing, "really good race."
"You're so stupid," his voice is smothered with affection, and a giggle escapes you before his mouth slants over yours, his hands resting on the back of your neck and sending a pleasant shiver up your spine.
Your eyes close as you sigh into his kiss, turning off the colors that stay engraved into your mind. He sighs too, and it feels bright. Brighter than the world around you, brighter than anything you've ever seen or felt before.
It's stupid, yes. It's perfect, too.
liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63 and 547,364 others
yourusername touched this guy by accident and now everything's too bright
tagged: alex_albon
username1 WAIT DO YOU MEAN
username2 OH MY GODDDDDDD
username3 I KNEWWWWWW THERE WAS SOMETHING GOING ON
username4 first time you post him properly and it's a soulmate reveal oh my god I'm obsessed
alex_albon you're my favorite color
↳ yourusername OH......
↳↳ alex_albon IS THIS A BAD THING? DON'T REACT LIKE THAT ♡ liked by yourusername
liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 893,064 others
alex_albon hard launch
tagged: yourusername
georgerussell63 CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!! ♡ liked by alex_albon and 13,248 others
carlossainz55 Okay maybe you can be the best Williams duo ♡ liked by alex_albon and 25,147 others
username1 oh they look so good together
username2 finding your soulmate is such a beautiful experience I'm so happy for you guys ❤️
yourusername you're MY favorite color ♡ liked by alex_albon and 18,316 others
↳ alex_albon SEE IT'S CUTE WHY DID YOU SAY OH
check out my masterlist!
I HOPE YOU ENJOYEDDDD SORRY FOR DISAPPEARING FOR A LITTLE WHILE, MANY MORE TO COME <3
౨ৎ instead of paying off a bet with your friend from your pockets, you decide to sell yourself for valentine’s day. surprisingly, eight men are willing to help pay off your bet.
from jia, happy (late..) vday sweeties ! this was inspired by this post i made. guys i swear i’m trying to write more stuff, i’m just a lazy chud who sleeps and doomscrolls all day after school…
summary: You take a stranger to couples therapy to see how long it takes the therapist to realize that you don't know each other at all.
word count: 4.2k
contains: crack, based on this tweet
It started as a joke.
On a Tuesday night, after too much scrolling and too little dignity, you opened Tinder and changed your bio to read:
Looking for someone to take to couples therapy and see how long it takes the therapist to notice we don’t know each other.
It was one of those chaotic thoughts you weren’t supposed to act on, the kind that belonged in a group chat, not a dating profile. But the wine glass was half empty, and you were feeling reckless, so there it went. You expected maybe a handful of half-hearted reactions. A lazy “lol.” A pity match or two. Definitely not everyone is taking it seriously.
You didn’t expect Alex.
His opening message wasn’t a “hey” or a smarmy pick-up line. It was:
This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen on Tinder. Are you serious?
You blinked at the screen. And then, before you could think better of it, you typed back:
One hundred percent serious. Imagine the chaos.
That was the start of the worst and best idea of your life. Because instead of running in the opposite direction like any sane person, Alex dove headfirst into it with you. Within half an hour, you had the skeleton of a fake relationship plotted out—how you’d met in a coffee shop, how you’d argued over oat milk, how he’d once lent you an umbrella, how your anniversary was in May. By midnight, you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, trading increasingly ridiculous “issues” to fight about. You claimed he chewed like a cow. He claimed you had a debilitating obsession with reality TV.
By the end of the night, you had an actual appointment booked.
It was only when you woke up the next morning, groggy and hungover on adrenaline, that it hit you. You were really about to walk into a licensed professional’s office with a stranger you met on Tinder less than twenty-four hours ago and pretend to be in a relationship on the rocks.
You should have canceled. You should have deleted Tinder altogether. Instead, you put on your favorite jeans, downed a coffee, and headed out to meet him.
You hadn’t thought this far ahead.
It was one thing to type out chaotic backstories over Tinder with a stranger named Alex, who, judging by his emojis and weirdly specific insults, was probably harmless. It was another thing entirely to stand outside a beige office building with a sign that read “Dr. Martin Grey, Licensed Couples Therapist” and realize you were about to commit a federal-level crime against psychology.
Well. Maybe not federal. But at least unethical.
“Y/N?”
You looked up, startled, and immediately regretted it because the man approaching was unfairly tall, unfairly attractive, and unfairly holding two iced coffees like he hadn’t just agreed to become your fake boyfriend in front of a licensed professional.
“Alex?”
He grinned, and you hated how boyish it was. “One oat milk latte, for my favorite hater.” He held it out, as if this were a normal first meeting and not an audition for who could commit to the bit harder.
You took the cup, squinting at him. “You actually got oat milk.”
“Obviously. It’s canon now. That’s how we met, remember? You called me the human embodiment of oat milk. I had to method act.”
You sipped. Damn him. It was good. “Okay, fine. Points for consistency.”
“Thank you. I take this role very seriously.” He straightened up, mock-solemn. “So, should we rehearse? We’ve got, what, five minutes before we’re due in there?”
You both looked at the sliding glass doors like they might swallow you whole.
“Right,” you said, tugging your phone out to skim the notes app where you’d written your “lore.” “Okay, so. Coffee shop, eight months ago, umbrella in March, anniversary in May—”
“—and our main conflict is that you hate how loudly I chew,” Alex finished, pointing at you.
You pointed back. “And that you think I’m addicted to reality TV.”
“Which is true.”
“Shut up.”
“See? Perfect,” he said, like this wasn’t absolutely deranged. “We’re already fighting.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “We are so going to get caught.”
Alex leaned against the wall, casual in ripped jeans and a hoodie, like this wasn’t the weirdest Wednesday of his life. “Nah. Think about it. Therapists probably see couples way messier than us every day. Like—‘my boyfriend of twelve years won’t do the dishes’ messy. We’re gonna look normal by comparison.”
“I don’t think normal couples plot their relationship lore on Tinder.”
He tilted his head, considering. “Normal’s boring.”
You shouldn’t have laughed. You really shouldn’t have. But you did.
The laugh turned into a nervous little spiral of giggles, and Alex was watching you with that infuriating grin, and suddenly the absurdity of the whole thing cracked something open in your chest. “Oh my god,” you wheezed. “We’re actually insane.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, sipping his coffee like this was all routine. “But at least we’re insane together.”
You looked at him then, really looked. He had a sharp jaw softened by an easy smile, hair that clearly resisted being tamed, and brown eyes that flickered between amusement and—something else. Something you weren’t about to acknowledge, not when you were about to fake a relationship in front of a stranger with a psychology degree.
Instead, you forced a grin. “Okay, partner in crime. You ready?”
He exhaled dramatically. “Born ready.” Then, lowering his voice: “So, just to clarify, if they ask how we met, I don’t say ‘on Tinder.’”
“God, no. Stick to the coffee shop.”
“And if they ask about our first fight?”
“You chewed too loudly during our second date.”
He nodded, serious. “Right. And if they ask why we’re here—”
“—because we’re working on communication. And because I watch too much Love Island.”
He cracked a smile. “Solid.”
For a moment, you just stood there, staring at each other with matching smirks, two idiots about to gaslight a therapist.
Then Alex pushed the door open and held it for you. “After you, fake girlfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late,” he whispered.
The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender and judgment.
You both sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, awkwardly scrolling your phones like two strangers in a doctor’s office—which, technically, you were. Then Alex leaned over, nudging your knee with his.
“We should probably sit closer,” he muttered. “Couples don’t sit like this.”
You froze. He was right. Normal couples didn’t sit with a three-foot buffer zone of pure “stranger danger” between them. Slowly, carefully, you slid closer until your thighs brushed, and holy hell, when had it gotten so warm in here?
Alex chuckled under his breath. “Relax. We’re not actually dating.”
“Right,” you said, pretending the heat in your face was from the coffee. “Totally.”
Before you could overthink further, the office door opened and a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a clipboard stepped out.
“Alex and Y/N?” he asked.
Alex shot you a look that screamed, "Showtime."
You both stood, and for a brief, ridiculous second, Alex reached for your hand. His palm was warm, his grip firm, and you knew it was for show, but your heart didn’t get the memo.
“Yes,” Alex said smoothly. “That’s us.”
And just like that, you walked into the lion’s den, hand in hand with your fake boyfriend, trying very hard not to laugh — or maybe scream.
The office looked like it had been decorated by someone who thought IKEA catalogs counted as personality. Neutral beige walls, two armchairs angled just enough to look conversational, and a box of tissues on the coffee table like an ominous warning.
You and Alex sank into the loveseat together, stiff as mannequins. His arm brushed yours, his knee bumped your leg, and every nerve in your body screamed, do not laugh.
The therapist, Dr. Grey, according to the little brass plaque on his desk, sat down across from you, crossing one leg over the other. He had the practiced smile of a man who’d seen every kind of marital crisis known to humankind.
“So,” he began, pen poised over his notepad. “Tell me what brings you two in today.”
Showtime.
Alex cleared his throat, shooting you a side glance. “Uh, well… we’ve been together for about… eight months now?”
You nodded too eagerly. “Yes. Eight months. Exactly.”
Dr. Grey’s eyebrows lifted, already scribbling. “That’s a very precise answer.”
“Anniversary in May,” Alex added quickly, as if that explained anything.
“May 13th,” you blurted.
The therapist’s pen paused. “Impressive memory.”
You forced a sweet smile, gripping Alex’s knee under the table like do not blow this, oat milk man. “We’re very… detail-oriented.”
Alex winced slightly at your grip but leaned into the role. “Right. But lately, um… we’ve been having some disagreements.”
“Mm-hm.” Dr. Grey tilted his head, waiting.
You jumped in before Alex could waffle. “He chews like a cow.”
Alex gasped, full betrayal. “I do not!”
“Yes, you do! It’s like sitting next to a lawnmower when you eat cereal.”
“That’s so specific—”
“Because it’s true!”
Dr. Grey held up a hand, his voice calm, soothing. “Okay. So one concern is… eating noises?”
“Yes,” you said firmly, while Alex muttered, “She exaggerates.”
“And,” Alex countered, “she’s addicted to reality TV. Like, she’ll watch four hours of Love Island in one sitting.”
You sat up straighter, indignant. “That’s called commitment to character arcs!”
“It’s called brain rot!” Alex shot back.
The therapist’s pen scratched furiously. You half-expected him to underline brain rot.
For a moment, silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. Then Dr. Grey steepled his fingers.
“It sounds like you two care about each other,” he said. “But small irritations are becoming amplified.”
“Exactly,” Alex said, nodding seriously. “Like, it’s not a dealbreaker that she knows the names of every contestant on Too Hot to Handle, but it’s… concerning.”
“And it’s not a dealbreaker that he slurps noodles like he’s auditioning for a sound effects job,” you added sweetly.
Alex whipped his head toward you. “That’s a low blow.”
“You deserve it.”
The therapist cleared his throat. “Let’s talk about how you two met. Often, remembering the foundation of the relationship helps put current issues in perspective.”
Crap. Here it was. The lore test.
You jumped in first. “We met at a coffee shop.”
Alex nodded rapidly. “Yeah. I was in line. She insulted me.”
Dr. Grey blinked. “…She insulted you?”
“She called me— uh— what was it again?” Alex glanced at you desperately.
“The human embodiment of oat milk,” you supplied.
The therapist blinked again, pen hovering. “…Interesting.”
“Yeah,” Alex said, as if this were the most normal meet-cute in history. “Romance blossomed after that.”
“Instantly,” you said, trying not to crack.
“Instantly,” Alex echoed, his lips twitching.
Dr. Grey scribbled something that you were certain was just ?? in all caps.
“Okay,” the therapist said slowly, “and your first date?”
“Umbrella,” Alex said too quickly.
You nodded like a bobblehead. “Yes. It rained, and he… lent me his umbrella.”
“In March,” Alex added, smugly.
“Right,” you said, glaring at him like don’t get cocky.
“And when did you become official?”
“May,” you chorused in unison.
Silence.
Dr. Grey’s eyes flicked between you, suspicion glinting. You could feel sweat prickling your back.
Alex reached for your hand again, squeezing, and for one absurd second, it steadied you. Like, yeah, maybe you were lying through your teeth, but at least you were lying together.
“Well,” Dr. Grey said finally, “it’s clear you two share a playful dynamic. But let’s dig into what happens when conflicts arise. Can you give me an example of a recent fight?”
Your brain blanked. Your carefully written notes hadn’t covered this.
Alex, bless his chaotic soul, said, “She got mad because I ate the last cookie.”
Your head whipped around. “That’s not a fake example, that actually would make me mad.”
“You didn’t even bake them!”
“Cookies are communal!”
“You can’t claim dibs on the whole pack!”
Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose like he was already reconsidering his career choices.
The silence stretched again, thick with awkwardness. You stared at Alex, and he stared back, and somewhere between your glare and his smirk, you both started to break.
First, it was a twitch of your lips. Then a stifled snort. Then Alex’s shoulders shook, and before you knew it, the two of you were half-laughing, half-choking on the loveseat, desperately trying to hold it together in front of a man who thought he was saving your relationship.
The therapist looked done.
“Do you often laugh during conflict?” he asked dryly.
“Yes,” Alex gasped, wiping his eyes. “It’s our coping mechanism.”
“Very unhealthy,” you added, still giggling.
The look Dr. Grey gave you could’ve rivaled the power of God himself.
Dr. Grey tapped his pen against his notepad. “So. The last cookie fight aside… when disagreements arise, how do you typically resolve them?”
You and Alex froze.
Because you hadn’t gotten that far in your fake backstory.
“Uh,” you started, wringing your hands in your lap. “We… talk it out.”
Alex nodded too quickly. “Yeah, lots of communication.”
“Mm-hm,” Dr. Grey said, unconvinced. “And what does that communication look like?”
Alex hesitated for half a beat too long before blurting, “Um… I usually make her tea.”
You whipped your head toward him. “Tea?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning into it. “Tea calms you down. Chamomile, specifically.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t even know what chamomile looks like.”
“Of course I do!”
“What color is it, then?”
“…greenish?”
“That’s all tea, Alex!”
Dr. Grey’s eyes flicked between you both like he was watching a tennis match. His pen was working overtime.
“Okay,” the therapist said slowly, “so perhaps the tea ritual isn’t as consistent as it could be. What about physical affection? Do you use touch as a form of reassurance?”
The question hit like a stun gun.
You and Alex glanced at each other, and then away, like two teenagers caught passing notes in class.
Finally, Alex coughed. “Uh, yeah. We… hug.”
“Hugging,” Dr. Grey repeated, deadpan.
“Yes. Hugging,” you echoed, your voice an octave too high.
“Do you want to demonstrate?” the therapist asked.
Your soul left your body.
Alex’s eyes went wide. “Demonstrate?”
“Sometimes it helps,” Dr. Grey said calmly, “to show how you connect physically in moments of tension.”
You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.
But Alex, ever the method actor, opened his arms in slow motion like he was about to embrace a feral cat.
“Come here, chamomile girl,” he said under his breath.
You glared at him. “If you call me that again, I will actually leave.”
But you leaned in anyway, because what else could you do? His arms wrapped around you awkwardly at first, one around your shoulders, one hesitating at your waist. You stiffened, then slowly — too slowly — let yourself sink into it.
And god help you, he was warm. Steady. Comfortable in a way that made your brain short-circuit.
“Mm,” Alex said loudly, patting your back with exaggerated force. “See? Hugging fixes everything.”
You elbowed him in the ribs on principle.
Dr. Grey’s face was unreadable.
“Thank you for that demonstration,” he said finally. “It seems like you two do rely on humor and physical touch… but I’m sensing there may be some deeper communication issues.”
“Oh, definitely,” Alex said solemnly, still holding his side where you’d jabbed him. “She doesn’t respect cookies as individual entities.”
You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “And he doesn’t understand basic tea taxonomy.”
The therapist inhaled deeply, clearly regretting his career path.
“Let’s try something different,” Dr. Grey said, flipping a page on his notepad. “I want you both to list three qualities you appreciate about each other. Start with Y/N.”
Your stomach dropped. Crap. Compliments.
You blinked at Alex. He was watching you expectantly, and you had the distinct impression he was enjoying this.
“Um…” You fidgeted. “He… makes good jokes?”
Alex raised his brows. “Good jokes?”
“Fine, passable jokes.”
“Better.”
You exhaled through your nose. “And… he’s reliable. He showed up today with coffee, so that’s something.”
His expression softened for a blink before he smirked again. “That’s two. One more.”
You hesitated, then muttered, “He’s… nice to look at.”
Alex’s grin spread slowly, lazily, and he was far too pleased with himself.
Dr. Grey scribbled something furiously.
“Interesting,” the therapist said. “Alex, your turn.”
Alex didn’t hesitate. “She’s funny. Like, the kind of funny that sneaks up on you and makes you laugh when you shouldn’t.”
You blinked. That was… weirdly specific.
“She’s also stubborn,” he continued, tilting his head at you, “which is… frustrating, but kind of admirable.”
Your chest did a weird, fluttery thing.
“And…” He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. “She’s got great taste in reality TV. Even if it’s brain rot.”
“Wow,” you muttered, looking away before he could see the stupid smile tugging at your own lips. “Backhanded compliment much?”
Dr. Grey set his pen down slowly, watching the two of you like a scientist who’d just discovered a new species.
“I see,” he said carefully. “So despite your disagreements, there’s clearly… affection here.”
Both you and Alex opened your mouths to protest at the same time—
“Affection?” you squeaked.
“Definitely not,” Alex said too fast.
But your hands were still suspiciously close on the couch cushion, pinkies nearly brushing, and the way Alex’s knee pressed against yours told a very different story.
Dr. Grey leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly, like he was onto something.
And for the first time all session, you were genuinely terrified.
For the first thirty minutes of the session, you had been proud — no, smug — about how well you and Alex were pulling this off. Sure, there were some hiccups: the cookie debacle, the chamomile lie, the oat milk meet-cute that sounded less romantic and more like a dietary restriction. But overall? You thought you were killing it.
Until Dr. Grey leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and hit you with the calm, measured tone of a man about to end your entire career.
“Y/N. Alex.”
You both froze like students caught passing notes.
“Yes?” you said, your voice doing that embarrassing crackle thing.
“I want to be honest with you,” Dr. Grey continued. His eyes narrowed slightly, sharp despite the kind smile he’d been wearing all session. “I don’t believe you’ve told me the truth about your relationship.”
Silence.
You could hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above you, the way Alex sucked in a sharp breath beside you, the sound of your own soul trying to yeet itself into another dimension.
“Excuse me?” Alex said, finally, a nervous laugh slipping through.
Dr. Grey didn’t flinch. “You’re not a couple. Are you?”
You and Alex spoke at the exact same time.
“Yes, we are—” Says you.
“No, we’re not—” Says Alex.
Your heads snapped toward each other, eyes wide.
“You traitor,” you hissed.
“I panicked!” he hissed back.
Dr. Grey sat back, steepling his fingers again like some kind of judgmental Batman. “Well. That clears things up.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”
“Okay, okay, hear me out,” Alex said, holding his hands up like he was negotiating a hostage situation. “Technically, we’re not a couple. But! We’re auditioning for the role of one.”
You kicked his shin. “Don’t make it sound like community theatre.”
“What else do you want me to say? ‘Hi, Dr. Grey, we’re two psychos from Tinder who thought it would be funny to prank a licensed professional?’ That sounds worse!”
Dr. Grey’s mouth twitched like he was fighting the urge to laugh. “That’s… exactly what you’ve just admitted, though.”
You groaned, sliding down in your seat until your head hit the back cushion. “We’re going to hell.”
“Correction,” Alex said, pointing a finger at you. “You’re dragging me to hell. This was your bio idea.”
“Like you didn’t swipe right!”
“Because it was hilarious!”
The therapist cleared his throat, and both of you snapped back to attention like guilty schoolchildren. “So let me get this straight,” Dr. Grey said. “You matched on Tinder… devised a fake backstory… and booked a therapy session. For fun.”
“…Yes,” you muttered.
Alex, apparently deciding to lean into the bit until the bitter end, added, “It’s kind of a social experiment, if you think about it.”
Dr. Grey stared at him for a long, withering moment. “I’m not sure that makes it better.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your whole body buzzing with embarrassment. Beside you, Alex shifted like he couldn’t decide whether to bolt for the door or keep digging his grave.
And then, you laughed.
A small, stupid giggle bubbled out before you could stop it. Alex turned to you, wide-eyed, like you’d just lost your mind. Which, maybe you had.
Because soon the giggle snowballed into full-blown hysterics, your shoulders shaking, tears stinging your eyes.
Alex lasted all of five seconds before he cracked, too. His laugh was loud, unrestrained, contagious. Within moments, you were both doubled over on the loveseat, wheezing like hyenas, while Dr. Grey sat across from you, looking like he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this profession.
“This is— this is the worst idea we’ve ever had,” you gasped, clutching your stomach.
“The best idea,” Alex corrected, wiping at his eyes. “We actually made it thirty whole minutes before getting caught. That’s a record.”
“Are you keeping score of fake couples?”
“I am now!”
Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to say, in my twenty years of practice, this is a first.”
“Happy to make history,” Alex said, still grinning.
You were still laughing when you finally sat up, cheeks aching, chest heaving. Alex was watching you with that stupid boyish smile again, eyes crinkled at the corners. And you hated it.
Well, you didn’t hate it. That was the problem.
The session ended mercifully soon after. Dr. Grey, to his credit, didn’t kick you out on the spot. Instead, he sighed, scribbled something in his notebook, and said, “For future reference, couples therapy works best when… You are, in fact, a couple.”
You and Alex nodded solemnly like kids being scolded.
“Understood,” Alex said.
“Totally,” you added.
“Please don’t book another session under false pretenses,” Dr. Grey finished, his voice flat.
“Got it,” you both said in unison.
And with that, you were free.
The second the office door clicked shut behind you, you and Alex collapsed against the hallway wall, laughter exploding out of you again like you couldn’t hold it in.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed, doubling over. “We actually did that. We actually wasted a professional’s time.”
“We’re criminals,” Alex agreed, tears in his eyes from laughing. “We’re going to be blacklisted from every therapist in the city.”
“Do therapists even have a blacklist?”
“They do now. We’re probably at the top.”
You leaned your head back against the wall, still catching your breath. Alex was standing close, too close, his shoulder brushing yours. When you turned to look at him, he was already looking at you.
The laughter died down, leaving a charged silence in its wake. His smile lingered, softer now, almost hesitant.
And before you could talk yourself out of it, before your brain could scream bad idea bad idea bad idea, you leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn’t a long kiss. Just a quick, impulsive press of your lips to his, tasting faintly of oat milk latte and bad decisions. But when you pulled back, his eyes were wide, his mouth curved into a stunned half-smile.
“…What was that?” he asked, voice low.
You shrugged, trying to look casual despite the way your heart was sprinting in your chest. “A thank you. For committing to the bit.”
“A thank you,” he repeated, still grinning.
“Yes.”
He tilted his head, studying you, and damn it, why did he have to look at you like that? “You know,” he said slowly, “we could… actually do this again.”
“What, lie to another therapist?”
“No,” he said, laughing. “I meant… a second date. Like, a real one. No fake backstory, no chamomile lies.”
You blinked at him, surprised. “A real date?”
“Yeah. Dinner, maybe. Or—” he smirked—“we could go to a coffee shop. Make it canon.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he said, bumping your shoulder lightly, “you kissed me.”
You shoved him playfully, but your cheeks were still warm. “Fine. One real date. But only because I want to prove to you that cookies are communal.”
“Deal.”
“Deal,” you echoed, shaking his hand like you were signing a legally binding contract.
And as you walked out of the building together, still laughing, still buzzing from the chaos of the afternoon, you couldn’t help thinking: maybe the joke had gotten away from you.
Please I need some Girl dad alex albon. I don't even care what it is! Maybe with Uncle George featured
Pretty Heels [AA23]
Summary: Yn is going through her running phase, which drives Alex wild. Thankfully, George has the perfect solution.
Authors Note: Hope you all enjoy this as much as I did. Thank you for this very open request.
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The paddock was alive in that specific way it always was on a Friday morning—engines humming in the distance, radios crackling, people walking fast with purpose while pretending not to panic.
Alex stood just outside the garage, sunglasses perched on his head, coffee in one hand, the other firmly holding onto a very small, very energetic four-year-old.
Yn.
She had curls that refused to behave, big curious eyes, and the unstoppable confidence of someone who had only recently discovered she could run. And run fast.
“Okay,” Alex said, crouching slightly to look her in the eyes. “You stay right here. Right. Here.”
Yn nodded solemnly.
“I promise,” she said, placing a tiny hand over her heart.
Alex squinted. “That sounded suspiciously confident.”
She grinned.
Behind them, Charles leaned against a barrier, Lando was mid-rant about something technical, George was half-listening while scrolling through something on his phone, and Carlos was sipping water, relaxed as always.
“This is the calm before the storm,” Carlos said, nodding toward Yn.
Alex sighed. “You have no idea.”
Lily had gone to a media thing—just half an hour, she’d said. Famous last words. So Alex was on dad duty, which usually wasn’t a problem.
Except for the running phase.
They were mid-conversation when it happened.
A squirrel—bold, fluffy, completely unaware of the chaos it was about to cause—darted across the edge of the paddock.
Yn’s head snapped up.
“SQUIRREL,” she announced, voice full of awe.
Alex barely had time to process the word before she slipped her hand out of his and bolted.
“Oh no—Yn—YN—”
She was fast. Alarmingly fast for someone whose shoes still lit up when she walked.
“YN!” Alex shouted, immediately sprinting after her.
Lando burst out laughing. “She’s gone!”
George looked up, eyes wide. “Is she - oh my god, she’s fast.”
Charles pointed. “Left! She went left!”
Yn zigzagged toward the squirrel, arms flailing, giggling like she’d just unlocked a secret level of life.
“I’M GONNA PET IT,” she yelled.
“You are NOT PETTING THE SQUIRREL,” Alex called back, heart pounding as he closed the distance.
The squirrel vanished under a barrier.
Yn skidded to a stop, confused for exactly half a second—long enough for Alex to scoop her up.
He held her against his chest, breathing hard.
“Absolutely not,” he said, laughing despite himself. “You cannot just run after wildlife.”
Yn pouted. “But it was cute.”
“I know. That’s how they get you.”
The others had gathered around them now.
Carlos grinned. “So this is the running phase.”
Alex nodded grimly. “This is the running phase.”
Lando crouched in front of Yn. “You know you gave your dad a heart attack, right?”
She tilted her head. “What’s a heart attack?”
Alex immediately said, “We don’t need to explain that.”
George smiled softly. “She’s fearless.”
“She’s four,” Alex said. “She has no concept of consequences.”
Yn wrapped her arms around Alex’s neck. “I sorry, Daddy.”
That did it. He melted instantly.
“It’s okay,” he sighed. “Just—no more running.”
She nodded again, very seriously.
The group went back to talking, Yn now sitting on Alex’s hip, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket.
And then—
A bird.
She pointed. “BIRD.”
Alex tightened his hold preemptively. “No.”
George laughed. “She’s like a puppy.”
“I swear,” Alex said, rubbing his face, “I look away for two seconds and she’s chasing something with a tail.”
George hesitated for a moment, then spoke up. “Hey. I can help.”
Alex looked at him. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah,” George said easily. “I’ve got time. And I can run faster than a squirrel.”
Yn gasped. “You can?!”
George smiled at her. “Definitely.”
Alex thought about it for a second. A Williams meeting was coming up. Lily wasn’t back yet. And George genuinely looked eager.
“You sure?” Alex asked.
“Absolutely.”
Alex shifted Yn toward him. “Okay. But rules.”
Yn immediately protested. “I want Daddy.”
“I know,” Alex said gently. “But Daddy has to go talk about boring grown-up things.”
George took her carefully, settling her on his hip.
“You’ll hang out with George, yeah?” Alex said. “No running.”
Yn considered this.
“Okay,” she said. “But only if he doesn’t let me pet squirrels.”
George laughed. “Deal.”
Alex handed over her tiny backpack, crouched to kiss her forehead, and pointed a finger at her. “Be good.”
She saluted him.
As Alex walked away toward the meeting room, he glanced back once.
George was already talking animatedly to Yn, pointing at something in the distance. She was laughing.
“Good luck,” Lando called after Alex. “You’ve just outsourced chaos.”
Two hours later, Alex emerged from the Williams meeting mentally exhausted and emotionally ready for coffee.
He stepped into the paddock again and immediately scanned the area.
No Yn.
His heart jumped.
“George?” he muttered.
And then he saw them.
Walking toward him.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Yn was holding George’s hand, taking careful little steps like she was crossing a tightrope. On her feet were the prettiest little lilac play heels Alex had ever seen—sparkly, slightly too big, and absolutely impractical.
Alex stopped dead.
“What,” he said faintly, “is happening.”
George noticed him and waved. “Hey!”
Yn looked up, saw Alex, and beamed.
“Daddy!” she said proudly. “Look!”
Alex walked toward them, eyes fixed on her shoes. “Why are you… dressed like you’re going to a gala?”
George shrugged. “She found them.”
“Found them where.”
“Someone’s hospitality unit,” George said. “She said they were calling to her.”
Yn nodded. “They sparkly.”
Alex crouched in front of her. “Baby, you can’t run in those.”
George grinned. “That’s the best part. She can’t run at all.”
Yn took another careful step, arms slightly out for balance.
“I’m walking,” she announced. “Like a princess.”
Alex stared at George.
“You did this on purpose.”
George held up his hands. “You said no running. I adapted.”
Alex laughed, shaking his head. “I leave you with my child for two hours and you turn her into royalty.”
Yn stepped forward again, very slowly, very carefully.
“No running,” George said gently. “Remember our deal.”
She nodded. “Running is dangerous in heels.”
Alex blinked. “She said what.”
George leaned closer. “She’s very wise now.”
Alex picked her up gently, inspecting the shoes. “You okay?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “George holded my hand the whole time.”
George smiled. “Didn’t let go once.”
Alex stood, heart full in that quiet way that sneaks up on you.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely.
“Anytime,” George replied. “She’s… kind of amazing.”
Yn wrapped her arms around Alex’s neck. “George says I’m not allowed to run anymore.”
Alex chuckled. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Only walk. And only sparkle.”
Alex kissed her cheek. “I think I can live with that.”
Lily appeared moments later, stopping short when she saw Yn’s shoes.
“…Why does our child look like she’s about to attend fashion week.”
Alex grinned. “Long story.”
Yn held up one foot proudly. “I didn’t run.”
Lily laughed, shaking her head. “Honestly? That’s a win.”
George gave a small bow. “Mission accomplished.”
And for the rest of the afternoon, Yn stayed exactly where she was - walking slowly, carefully, hand in hand with anyone who offered - sparkling lilac heels clicking softly against the ground.
No squirrels were harmed.
Alex’s heart rate returned to normal.
And George was officially promoted to trusted anti-running accomplice.
You Text Him “I Had A Dream About You” & Refuse To Elaborate
: Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Franco Colapinto, and Pierre Gasly
: Text Masterlist
: Main Masterlist
: Author’s note: I’m back you guysss!!! Hopefully I’ll stay for a long time now. Here’s a makeup post for being MIA for so longggg
Warnings: fem!reader implied for some, blood mention, nausea mention, I think that's it?
a/n: sorry for such few drivers this time but happy valentine's day y'all! open to do more drivers with this prompt if y'all want
LN4:
You hadn't felt well this whole Qatar weekend and felt nauseated and dizzy. He didn't really know how to help you but he wanted you to be comfortable. So he gave you his giant sweater he usually wears while on flights. When you walk out of the bathroom with it covering you almost to your knees his mouth is softly ajar mustering you in awe before he immediately corrects himself to a soft little smile, "Looks cute." You smile at him, "Why?" He presses his lips together, mustering you again, "Cuz it's mine." You curl up in the bed behind him, "It's comfy." He runs is thumb down your cheek, "Good. That's why I gave it to you."
OP81:
He doesn't like to share this type of stuff. And he never really did. Until you're kind of accidentally bleeding all over your own clothes after something cut you just right. Apparently a lot of blood can come from a relatively small wound. He gives you the big black hoodie he had on earlier in the day. And he's sure that someone watching him could've timed perfectly when his brain stopped working while looking at you. *Oh wow, she's...very cute. Like this shouldn't affect me this much kind of cute.* When you give it back to him the next day he'd manage to compliment you about it after wanting to sink into the floor about how awkward he feels.
AA23:
He just finally decides to share his closet aka his suitcase with you. When you pick a hoodie he cannot say he's surprised but he also feels a little fuzzy around the edges when he sees it on you. "I should always share my clothes with you." You smile and turn around. "You look cosy. I'd much rather cuddle you than work." You giggle and go in for a hug and he maybe lets himself have the longer hug. For reasons. Definitely not because his mind is going crazy.
KA12:
He's not doing a great job at hiding that his brain.exe stopped working for a few seconds. He shakes his head free slightly, "Is it comfortable?" You nod enthusiasticly, "It smells good too." His brain stops working again, "Uh, yeah, thank you." He scratches the back of his neck and blushes, "You...look really cute in it." The blushy smile on your face would make him relax a bit, "Thanks, Kimi."
LH44:
The sun rises on his face with a soft adoring smile. After putting his hoodie on your shivering body that had just ran through the paddock in the pouring rain. He purposely puts the hood up so your hair could dry faster. "You look good in baggy stuff." – "You think?" He grins, "Well, I see you right now. Don't I?" He watches you giggle at the compliment, "Cute," you stop and see him unabashedly look back. Clearly meaning this compliment as well. He'd love watching you shrink deeper into the hoodie.
