moments where you make small cameo appearances in drive to survive.
lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 2k ୨୧ warnings : language, panic attack, lando gets a little aggressive with a camera / cameraman, mentions of hate, drinking, slight suggestive comments (think that's all!) ୨୧ note : clip 6 is inspired by this first moment by @/f1-mcmuffin so thank you for reminding me that hot tubs exist 😆 and honestly that whole chapter in general helped me get inspo for how to write this chapter!! if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog! ୨୧ requested : yes!
part of the lando's heart series.
clip #1 – y/n packs lando's suitcase for him
the monaco sun shines in through the apartment. you are sitting on the floor – two suitcases opened and clothes, both yours and his, and you seem to be zeroed in on what you're doing. music softly plays through a speaker nearby.
the camera moves from you on the floor to show lando walking in, a fond look on his face as he watches you. he joins you on the floor, letting his legs cage you in as he presses his chest flush against your back.
"she always packs my suitcase – or at least double-checks it," lando says to the camera, arms around your waist as he mindlessly moves with you as you continue to fold one of lando's hoodies and place it in the packing cube. "i would literally be lost without her, probably would only bring one pair of underwear if she didn't double check," he adds, kissing your shoulder.
"you say that like it hasn't happened before," you tease quietly, the camera able to pick up your voice thanks to lando's own mic clipped to his shirt. "remember – spa last year? i had to go buy you a pack of underwear cause you only packed one."
"shhhhh~ don't expose me like that," he says, grabbing your hips and making you jump slightly with a small yelp. lando can't help but grin as you turn to give him an annoyed pout over your shoulder.
"don't be too mean to me or i'll make sure you only have one pair of socks this weekend," you tease. lando's grin doesn't disappear as he hugs you from behind, his head resting on your back.
clip #2 – lando forgets his pass
you are sitting in the passenger seat of the car, lando and his parents sitting in the back while jon drives. the camera catches lando leaning forward slightly to massage your shoulders the best he could.
when they get to the front of the line, you reach into your purse to take your pass out as you hand it to jon. lando's parents also hand him their passes so security can look at them. that's when you notice lando didn't give jon his pass.
"baby, do you have my pass?" he's asking you, giving your shoulder a nice squeeze. the camera catches your confused look as you turn to look at your boyfriend, and you notice that his mother also has a confused look on her face.
"what are you talking about lan? i don't have your pass."
"you don't? i thought you grabbed it."
"i thought you grabbed it, lando!"
that's when it settled in that lando didn't have pass. jon turned to look at the guard who was waiting.
"he doesn't have his pass," he tells the man, but the security guard can only shake his head.
"can't let him in without one."
"but he's a driver, his face is plastered all over the place," jon says and its during this exchange that you turn to look back at lando with a deadpan expression. he can only give you a boyish grin as he reaches for your hand to kiss it. completely avoiding looking at his mother's face.
jon and the guard continue to go back and forth; that's when you speak up, "it's okay, jon, we'll make lando get out, so we can continue. he can find his own way in."
"y/n!" you turn to look at your boyfriend with a serious expression.
"i'm serious, lan, get out and start walking. actions have consequences, even forgetful ones."
eventually, the guard lets you all in, but you don't fail to give your british lover one more deadpan look. still not able to believe the fact he forgot his pass.
clip #3 – hiding in lando's hoodie
the camera shakes a little inside the private jet, but easily captures lando stretched out in his seat. reclined back and eyes closed, but that's not all.
you were also spread out with him in the same seat. upper body completely hidden underneath lando's hoodie and one of his arms are draped protectively over you. a blanket thrown over the two of you as you both are clearly asleep.
when a sudden hit of turbulence rocks the jet slightly, the camera catches lando's face twitching as he mumbles something in his sleep. however, the turbulence seemed to have woken you up. your upper body moving slightly underneath lando's hoodie before you are suddenly appearing.
your hair is messy a little bit, ponytail half-falling out of its hold. you look around slightly, eyes locking onto the camera before you're shyly turning away to hide yourself back into lando. your movement seemed to have woken lando as he's looking at you with sleep-filled eyes.
"what's wrong?" he's asking softly, hand tracing up and down your back.
"i got hot," you murmur out as you lay back down, face hiding in his neck.
"i told you, you were going to get hot, but you insisted," he says, kissing the top of your head. you let out a groan in response which makes him smile. "go back to sleep baby, we still got a few hours before we land."
"already on it."
clip #4 – y/n's panic attack is caught on camera
your stuttered cry fills the air and it's obvious you're out of breath and upset. the camera tries to get a view of you as lando is quickly moving you through the back of hospitality.
lando's shoulders are tense, frown on his face as he opens a door before guiding you inside. the camera catches as he gently sits you down in a chair. "it's okay, baby, i'm here. breathe, y/n, i need you to breathe."
your eyes are frantic, glassy and your face flushed with tears. breath stuttering as you are clearly having trouble trying to stop. you focus mainly on lando, but then you make eye contact with the camera behind him and it's like you start panicking all over again.
lando is seen looking over his shoulder and immediately straightens up when he sees the camera. in one, two large steps he's in the camera's face. "get the fuck out right now," he hisses and the camera jerks as lando is shoving the camera away. "get fucking out. let her have a fucking moment of peace," he adds once again shoving the camera before slamming the door in the crew's face.
the netflix crew doesn't leave, still recording the door that separates them from you and lando, but the audio can still be caught.
"it's okay," lando says, voice a complete 180 from what it just was. "do you feel that, princess, my chest going in... and out... i need you to breathe with me." it can only be assumed that lando is trying to help you calm down. "i'm here for you, not going anywhere, y/n. i love you."
clip #5 – lando describes y/n
"who is y/n?" the producer asks while lando is sitting in front of them in the small interview room the show puts them in.
lando makes a face like he's thinking before quickly answering, "y/n is my partner. she comes to races with me, she helps me pack, makes me laugh, cuddles with me, she’s there with me through it all. i couldn't imagine my life without her."
it then cuts to show a clip of you and lando right before a quali. him standing in his race suit with you right in front of him. his race suit is only half-zipped and you smile at him softly as you fix. zipping it up the rest of the way before velcroing the collar.
"there," you say, running a hand over his chest as he grins at you. his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer to him.
"thank you, baby," he says, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of you mouth.
"good luck, lan," you tell him before you're reaching up to kiss his cheek.
it then cuts back to lando sitting in the seat, a fond smile on his face as he thinks about you. "she's my calm, always there before i get in the car and waiting for me with that pretty smile when i get out. y/n is my rock, truly, i would be a little lost without her."
clip #6 – landoyn in a hot tub 👀
you let out a small laugh as you feel lando press his lips to your bare shoulder. the heat from the hot tub creating a fine layer of condensation on your skin, and lando having you pressed flushed against him in his lap surely doesn't help. the camera catches his lips trailing from your shoulder and up your neck. slowly, like he's savoring the moment between you both.
"are you nervous for this next race?" you ask softly, knowing that if you didn't get him talking the netflix crew was going to have quite the footage in their hands. the type of footage that would, of course, give lando's pr team a full on nightmare.
lando lets out a small hum against your skin, "a little bit, but singapore is always a monster."
"i know..." you agree softly, remembering how exhausted he always is after that specific race. exhausted and dehydrated amongst other things. "you can do it though," you add, turning your head slightly to look him.
"i'll get a podium, for sure."
"oh? you think so?" you tease with a smile. lando lets out a dry laugh as he reaches behind him to grab the wine glass. taking a sip from it before he's handing it off to you and you are also sipping from it. "i think you can do it, baby," you finally add when you hand the glass back to him.
the camera focuses on how lando smiles at you as you turn to sit sideways in his lap. water sloshes around the two of you as lando's hand comes up to rest at the back of your neck, gently massaging it as his other hand rests under the water on your thigh.
"kiss?" he asks quietly – so quiet the audio almost doesn't pick it up. you can't help the smile that paints your lips as you nod before leaning in to kiss him. your hand traveling from his chest to his jaw as you kiss each other slowly.
the camera pans out before cutting to the next scene entirely.
clip #7 – y/n running to lando after a win
'lando has proven to be a force to be reckoned with. someone who clearly needs to be watched when on the track, you can't underestimate him anymore."
the camera was capturing lando already getting out of the car, parking in front of the first place spot. the crowd around him is loud – everyone cheering and screaming for lando as he poses before jumping down and running towards his team that are waiting for him behind the barrier.
when he gets done celebrating with them, lando tears his helmet off. balaclava coming off to reveal his sweat drenched head, curls messy and sticking to his forehead as his eyes are searching for something– someone.
"lando!" he immediately turns and the camera gets a clear view of you running towards him. he drops his stuff, arms open wide just in time for him to catch you. your lips immediately pressing to his, as he holds you close to him. he spins you both once, twice as your hands cup his jaw to keep him from pulling away.
everyone around you both is still cheering loudly, your legs wrapping around his waist as you hug him.
"that was for, y/n," he's heard saying over the roar of everything around you. "this win was for you," he tells you as you rest your forehead against his, tears running down your face as you kiss him again.
'especially when he's been given a reason to fight for something...'
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( max verstappen x girlfriend!reader ) ( 1.2k wc )
⤷ what happens when an independent girlfriend and a very gentlemanly, chivalrous Max Verstappen are in a relationship where, no matter how hard he tries, you just won't let him do things for you?
( my m. list | more of MV3 ) ( requests )
You were the kind of woman who did things for herself. Grew up that way. Not out of stubbornness, not really—it was more survival instinct turned second nature.
You opened your own doors. You paid your own bills. You drove your own damn car (with a valid license, thank you very much).
Max Verstappen, on the other hand, was a gentleman. Capital G Gentleman. He held doors, carried bags, and insisted on walking closest to the street, even if it meant getting hit by a rogue bird scooter or even Charles Leclerc.
Which is what made dating you . . . a little frustrating for him.
“You’re my girlfriend, schat,” he’d complained to you over and over, “I want to spoil you. Why won’t you let me do things for you?”
And you always laughed, sweet and low. “Because I can do them myself.”
“Yeah,” Max would huff, “But you shouldn’t have to.”
It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate it—it was that you weren’t used to it. That kind of gentleness had always felt like something from a storybook. But Max was different. He meant it. Every time he tried to make you feel like a princess, it wasn’t performative. It was just who he was.
Still, habits die hard.
Even tonight, after a perfect dinner date—wine, laughter, one too many appetisers—you walked yourself to the car like always. You were scrolling through your buzzing phone, a message from your best friend lighting up the screen as your heels clicked steadily against the concrete of the underground parking lot.
Max didn’t notice you had paused. With a hand in his pocket, he made his way over to the passenger door, expecting you to reach the handle before him like you always do.
Max didn’t realise you were a meter behind. Not really. He was deep in thought—his hand already reaching for the handle on your side, not expecting anything, just doing. His mind was somewhere between Should I take her to that little vineyard next weekend? and god, she looked good tonight, when he heard your steps stop beside him.
You looked up from your phone and raised a brow, amused. “Max?”
He blinked. “Yes, schatje?”
And for the first time . . . he’d opened the door for you.
You smiled. No teasing, no smug quip—just warmth in your gaze as you leaned forward, pressing the softest kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, baby.”
Max blinked again, stunned, and then—he grinned. No. He beamed. And as you slid into the seat, completely unbothered, Max’s mouth stretched into something close to villainous glee.
When he sat in the driver’s seat, he just took a moment, not even starting the car, but looking at you with this cute smile that slowly widened the more he looked between your eyes.
By the time he was driving through the roads of Monaco, he was full on giggling. A "Heh. Heheheheheh." escaped under his breath, a cartoon villain chuckle if you’d ever heard one. It grew louder, more triumphant. You loved it when Max laughed like this, a usual sight in his streams; scrunched nose and crinkled eyes with his teeth showing in his smile.
When he stopped at a red light, he was buzzing. “Did you see that?” he asked like he’d just won a Grand Prix. “I opened the door for you!”
You raised an eyebrow. “You did.”
“You let me.”
You snorted. “I was texting!”
“I won,” he said dramatically, head thrown back in glee as he started driving again once the light turned green. “That was the greatest moment of my life.”
“You literally won the world championship—”
“This is better.” He whispered like it was some sort of secret, “I have four of those championships, but I only have one of this.”
The whole way home, Max couldn’t stop smiling. Grinning like an idiot, eyes crinkled and squinted and nose scrunched, humming to himself like a ma man, eyes gleaming with chaotic joy. You leaned your head against the window, giggling every time he said something like, “I can die happy now,” or “Do you think there’s a trophy for Most Romantic Door Opening?”
But it wasn’t over.
Oh no.
As the car eased into the garage and the engine turned off, you moved to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Alright, come on—”
“NO.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Don’t move,” Max said, already leaping out of the car like it was on fire. “Don’t. Move. Don’t get out, don’t even breathe!”
“MAX—”
“I MEAN IT!” he shouted across the hood, which he had jumped on in hopes of getting to your side of the car faster than just walking around.
You watched, stunned, as your Formula One world champion boyfriend lunged across the hood like a man possessed. Dress shirt half-untucked, what a sight. he slid off the hood at your side.
You crack the door open and start to get out—but you are quickly shoved back in your seat with the door slamming shut in your face.
You blinked up at him, lips twitching.
He held up a finger, signalling “give me a second”, chest rising and falling as he straightened his shirt. Fixed his posture. Ran a hand through his hair like he was about to walk into a royal ball.
Then, with the gravitas of a knight, he slowly opened the car door.
“My lady,” he said with a bow, extending his hand.
You laughed. Laughed. It bubbled up from your chest and spilt out, uncontrolled. “You are so dramatic.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, eyes twinkling. “Take my hand.”
You did.
He helped you out like you were made of glass. Tucked your hand into the crook of his arm like you were royalty. Walked you up to the elevator, then your shared apartment like he was on some period drama set, absolutely giddy with pride.
You were still laughing when you reached the front door. Shaking your head.
“If this is how you get when I let you open one door,” you teased, “I’m never letting you open one again.”
Max stopped. Froze, his jaw dropped.
His face crumbled—comically horrified, like a man who had just realised he’d wished on a cursed monkey’s paw.
“No. No, no no no—wait. You can open some! Not all of them—I’ll pick which ones—WAIT, PLEASE DON’T TAKE THIS FROM ME.” The Dutchman shook you from your shoulders.
You cackled as you stepped inside, him following quickly in step, pleading dramatically. “I’m begging you, schatje. You can open the fridge. Open your own texts. But let me have the doors, PLEASE—”
“You’re so ridiculous,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck.
His hands slid to your waist, still pouty. “I’m ridiculous for you.”
You kissed him again, slow and sweet this time. “Fine,” you whispered against his lips. “You get the car doors.”
Max lit up again.
“I’m going to start timing myself,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Make it a sport. Beat my personal best to the passenger side.”
“You’re the fastest man in the world, Max,” you said with a grin. “Use your powers for good.”
Summary: Oscar's pregnant girlfriend wakes up with a craving and very hormonal about it which sends him on a mission to try and help by any means possible.
Author's note: This is not for vegans or vegetarians. Sorry guys.
Word count: 1.1k
Before they found out y/n is pregnant, it was like trying to raise him from the dead if y/n wants Oscar's attention. But something about her being pregnant has made his sleep much easier to disturb.
So when he hears y/n get up he stirs but doesn't move figuring that she just needs the bathroom and he learned the hard way that she might be awake but that doesn't mean she wants fussed over or even conversation.
But when he hears her beginning to sniffle and hiccups as she pats around the kitchen. So he gets out of bed and moves through to the kitchen.
"Baby? What's wrong?" He asks trying to hide his tiredness since y/n always feels guilty for waking him up.
"I'm so hungry." Y/n sniffles making him frown a little.
"Ok, ok. You don't need to cry. We can make you something to eat. What do you want?" Oscar smiles making her seem to only cry harder.
"Steak-I want steak, but I'm not allowed to have it the temperature I want it." Y/n cries now just surrendering to her emotions. "And-And I know it's stupid to cry over it but I can't help it."
Oscar doesn't even care that she thinks her crying seems silly. His main concern is getting her steak. It's 2 in the morning and they don't have steak in the apartment. In fact they have everything else he could possibly have stocked up on and yet he didn't think of steak.
"Give me a second, I'm just gonna pull on some clothes and I'll find a store and get you some steak ok? I'm gonna fix this."
"Oscar, it's 2 in the morning you can't go out-"
"You want steak at 2 in the morning. I'm giving you steak at...maybe half past 2 in the morning." Oscar declares as he walks back into the bedroom.
Y/n is still shedding tears feeling completely stupid but the need for a steak is actually distressing and it genuinely takes an emotional toll on her.
"Alright, baby. I'll be as quick as I can...if there's anything you want to snack on just to...see if it subsides the hunger till I'm back." Oscar states kissing her quickly and managing to wipe her cheeks free of the tears as best he can.
Y/n nods mumbling an "I love you" before she watches him head out. Part of her wants to go with him but if it takes longer than expected it's better for her not to be there crying beside him.
Oscar does end up going to Carrefour Market and thanks the universe for having steak. Probably not the best quality but it will do and he's already gotta be creative in how to make it taste good with it needing to be well done.
Y/n is still sniffling her way around the apartment when he gets back but he's back and he's got the steak.
"Ok-are you cooking?"
"I wanted some potatoes too." Y/n mumbles earning a soft smile. "I'm going to be obese by the end of this pregnancy."
"That's not true. The midwife said you hadn't gained enough weight last time you were there, so this is good. I'll finish off the cooking, you just sit ok?"
Y/n settles down and sighs softly as she watches him and smiles sadly while she watches him.
"I'm sorry." Y/n mumbles as Oscar puts the steak in the pan.
"Don't be sorry. I'm never sorry when I'm hungry." Oscar dismisses but y/n is clearly exhausted and hungry which are two things that are going to trigger emotions.
Oscar finishes up the steak with some garlic butter and places it on a plate before adding the potato wedges and sliding it across to y/n with a knife and fork.
"Want anything to drink?"
"Ummm...I should probably just stick to water." Y/n sighs earning a small nod as he moves to get her the water and she actually starts eating like a woman who has been starved. "Oscar...this might be the best thing I've ever eaten."
"I feel like that could be the cravings talking but I'm going to take that as a win." Oscar smiles as he sits down and just watches her.
Y/n keeps eating till she's done having a fleeting thought of offering Oscar some but honestly Oscar is unlikely to be hungry and y/n really just didn't want to share it in all truth.
"That was so good."
"Satisfied the craving?"
"Yes. One million percent." Y/n confirms before leaning over and kissing him. "Sorry, that was gross. Garlic kiss."
"I love your kisses. Garlic or not."
"Gonna have to brush my teeth again...I didn't think this through." Y/n grimaces since toothpaste has proven to be a new hurdle but it has to be done especially if she's going to have full meals in the middle of the night.
"Clean up can wait till morning." Oscar states then scooping y/n up like she's nothing. "Teeth then back to bed."
And that's exactly what happens, he stands with her as she gags her way through brushing her teeth and to both their relief she doesn't throw up the meal. Then they head to bed and y/n seems to pass out, completely satisfied while Oscar makes sure she's got her pillows in all the right places to keep her sleeping on her side before he manages to hug her with his hand resting on the small bump and admittedly he can't stop the smile on his face.
Other guys might be frustrated or annoyed, but he knows he's got responsibility for her pregnancy and he's not enduring the physical changes that she is. The least he can do is help her through these moment and support her.
Especially since he's not always there with her. But he'll do anything to take care of her when he's there and try to find ways to take care of her when he's not there. Which now he knows she craves full meals in the middle of the night, that's a new concern he has to handle when he's not there to drive out and get the food.
That's something to find solutions to in the morning.
Summary : if lando asked, she’d do it. that’s the problem. he knows she’d do anything for him, and he keeps asking anyway — until one misunderstanding, one missed sponsor meeting, and one final betrayal cost her everything.
Paring : lando norris x female reader
Warnings : angst, unrequited love, one-sided pining, emotional manipulation, being led on, humiliation, miscommunication, neglect, workplace fallout, getting fired, no happy ending,
If Lando asked for the moon, Y/N would have learned how to fly.
That was the embarrassing truth of her life.
Not that she loved him.
That had become almost ordinary to her, folded into the rhythm of race weekends and late nights and the humiliating little lift in her chest every time he said her name.
No, the embarrassing part was that he knew.
Maybe not every detail of it. Maybe not the nights she lay awake replaying things he hadn’t meant. Maybe not the fact that half her life had started arranging itself around his moods without her permission.
But he knew enough.
Enough to know she would stay.
Enough to know she would fix it.
Enough to know that if he smiled first and asked second, she would say yes before the question had even finished leaving his mouth.
He liked that.
That was the part Y/N hated herself for understanding.
He liked being wanted. Liked being taken care of. Liked the certainty of her, the way she was always there, always soft for him, always ready to make his life easier.
He liked the devotion.
He just didn’t care about the girl attached to it.
“Y/N.”
She looked up too fast.
Lando was leaning against the office doorway, cap in one hand, team quarter zip half undone, still sun-warm from outside. Pretty in the kind of thoughtless way that should have made a person less dangerous and somehow only made him worse.
He smiled the second he saw she was looking.
“There you are.”
Her pulse kicked.
“What do you need?”
His grin widened.
“See? That’s why you’re my favourite.”
Across the room, Mia didn’t even bother hiding her expression.
Y/N looked back down at her laptop. “You say that to get things.”
“Yeah,” Lando said easily, crossing the room. “And it works.”
He dropped into the chair beside her desk and pushed his phone into her hand.
Two schedule blocks. One sponsor appearance. One media stop. Same time.
Y/N closed her eyes for a second. “You said yes to both.”
He leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Probably.”
“Lando.”
“Definitely.”
She started fixing it while he watched her do it, perfectly relaxed now that the problem belonged to someone else.
After a second, he said, quieter, “I knew you’d sort it.”
That voice.
That exact voice.
Warm enough to feel personal. Light enough to deny later.
Y/N kept her eyes on the screen. “You always know I’ll sort it.”
“Because you always do.”
He said it like praise.
It wasn’t.
It was ownership.
She handed the phone back a minute later.
“There. You’ll have to leave the sponsor thing early.”
He looked at it, relieved. “You’re actually unreal.”
Then he looked at her.
Really looked.
And smiled in that lazy, devastating way that made it feel like he had chosen her out of every person in the room.
“Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Before she could stop herself, she smiled back.
That seemed to satisfy him.
Of course it did.
He reached out, brushed two fingers over her shoulder, and stood.
“Love you.”
Y/N froze.
Mia looked up immediately.
Lando had already made it halfway to the door.
He glanced back when he felt the silence.
“What?”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “What did you just say?”
His mouth curved.
“Relax.” He gave her a look like she was being sensitive on purpose. “You know what I mean.”
And then he left.
Mia waited exactly two seconds.
“He’s evil.”
Y/N let out a thin laugh.
“No,” she said, still staring at the doorway. “That would require effort.”
⁜
He led her on in ways that were hard to explain to people who hadn’t seen it.
Because it was never enough to be undeniable.
That was what made it so effective.
If he had kissed her once and regretted it, she could have hated him.
If he had told her outright that he liked the attention, she could have left.
If he had been careless enough to say I know you love me and I don’t care, at least there would have been honesty in the cruelty.
Instead, he gave her moments.
Little ones.
He would find her in crowded rooms and stand too close.
He would text her past midnight with you awake? and then, after she answered immediately like an idiot, follow it with need a favour x.
He would say things like I only trust you with this and you get me better than anyone here and stay with me for a sec in a tone soft enough to make her forget she was still technically at work.
He never promised.
He never had to.
Hope did all the labor for him.
One night after a sponsor dinner in Abu Dhabi, Y/N was outside by transport trying to reorganize cars when Lando came down the hotel steps with a brunette tucked under his arm.
He saw her and smiled.
“You’re still here.”
It was almost impressive, how he could make that sound intimate when all it really meant was good, the thing I need is where I left it.
“I work here,” Y/N said.
“Right.” He stepped toward her, lowering his voice as if this were something private. “Can you cover for me if anyone asks?”
Her eyes flicked to the brunette waiting by the car.
Then back to him.
“Cover what?”
He gave her that look. The one that said don’t make this difficult while still smiling.
“Just say I left early. Sponsor exhaustion. Whatever sounds official.”
Y/N stared at him.
For one awful second, he looked almost amused.
Then he softened, just a little.
“Please?”
There it was.
The tilt in his voice. The sweetness. The quiet confidence that she’d fold.
Because she always did.
Y/N swallowed. “Fine.”
His smile turned pleased.
“Knew I could count on you.”
Then he turned and walked back to the brunette without another thought, leaving Y/N standing there under the lights with her phone in her hand and her dignity somewhere under his tires.
That night, she lay in bed replaying knew I could count on you until she wanted to scream.
Not because it was kind.
Because it wasn’t.
Because it was certainty.
Because he knew exactly what she was and kept using her for it.
⁜
She asked him out on a Wednesday night.
Later, when everything had already gone wrong, Y/N would keep coming back to that moment and wondering if that had been the last clear warning she ignored.
The office behind hospitality was nearly empty. Most people had gone. The overhead lights were too bright, the air-conditioning too cold, the whole room suspended in that late-night stillness where everything felt more honest than it should.
Lando was sitting across from her desk in a hoodie, elbows on his knees, watching her rebuild the next day’s schedule because he’d changed his mind about three separate things and expected the universe to rearrange itself accordingly.
He looked tired.
Tired Lando was dangerous.
Softer. Slower. More likely to say things that felt true.
“You always take care of me,” he said.
Y/N kept typing because looking at him felt unsafe. “Someone has to.”
He smiled.
“No, but you do.”
She glanced up.
Big mistake.
He was already watching her with that unreadable softness he slipped into sometimes, the one that made her feel chosen and stupid in equal measure.
He tipped his head.
“You like taking care of me.”
It wasn’t a question.
And because she was tired too, because she was so tired of living inside things he could deny, Y/N heard herself say, “What if I do?”
He blinked.
Then smiled a little, like he thought she was being bold in a way that amused him.
“Then I’m very lucky.”
Her heart started racing.
There should have been a fire alarm inside her for moments like this. Some mechanism that said: he is doing it again. He is giving you just enough to keep you standing still.
Instead, there was only that awful bright hope.
She set her laptop aside before she could lose her nerve.
“Do you want to go out with me sometime?”
He frowned slightly.
“Out where?”
Her mouth went dry.
“On a date,” she said, because if she didn’t say it plainly now, she never would.
At that exact second, his phone lit up.
He looked down instantly. Swore under his breath. Grabbed it off the desk.
“Yeah, yeah, one sec...”
He scanned whatever message had come in, half-listening, already leaving her.
Then, distracted, he nodded and said, “Yeah, sure.”
Y/N stared at him.
“Really?”
“Mmhm.”
He was already typing.
She should have heard it then. The vagueness. The inattention. The fact that his yes had not landed on her at all.
She didn’t.
Or maybe she did and hope just drowned it.
“Okay,” she said softly.
“Text me,” he said, still looking at the phone. “Tomorrow’s a mess.”
And somehow she still went home glowing.
That was the pathetic part.
That a half-heard yes from a man who wasn’t even looking at her still felt like being chosen.
⁜
He didn’t show up.
Of course he didn’t.
Y/N sat alone at a restaurant in Monaco for forty-six minutes, checking her phone like each time might produce a different result.
Nothing.
No text.
No call.
No apology.
At minute fifteen, she told herself he was late.
At minute twenty-eight, she told herself something urgent had come up.
At minute thirty-four, she started to understand.
At minute forty-six, she knew.
He had never heard her properly.
Or worse : he had heard enough to answer and cared too little to remember.
The waitress came over with that careful smile people wore when they knew they were witnessing something embarrassing and wanted to pretend they weren’t.
“Would you like another minute?”
Y/N swallowed. “No. Just the bill.”
Her phone buzzed when she was halfway back to the hotel.
It was him.
For one stupid second, her whole body lit up.
Then she opened it.
need you to move tomorrow’s sponsor breakfast
She stopped walking.
That was it.
No sorry.
No where are you?
No I forgot.
Just need.
Y/N typed back before she could talk herself out of it.
you didn’t come
The reply took less than a minute.
to what?
She stared at the screen so long it dimmed.
That hurt more than anything else could have.
Not because he said no.
Because he didn’t even know what he had failed to show up for.
She typed nothing.
Another message came in.
seriously can you move the breakfast?
Then:
please
Then:
you know i wouldn’t ask if i had another option
Y/N laughed out loud on the sidewalk, the sound sharp enough to make a couple passing by glance at her.
There it was again.
The lie they both participated in.
As if she were the last option.
As if he didn’t come to her first because he knew exactly what she’d do.
She replied:
can’t. it’s mandatory.
He didn’t answer after that.
The next morning, he missed the sponsor breakfast anyway.
By afternoon, leadership knew.
By two o’clock, HR knew.
By two-ten, Y/N learned exactly what he had told them.
⁜
The conference room was too cold.
That was all Y/N could think at first, sitting across from the woman from HR and two senior staff members while they arranged papers in front of themselves and wore expressions that already had the decision built into them.
This wasn’t a follow-up.
This was a dismissal with good posture.
“There have been concerns,” the HR woman began, “about judgment and professionalism where Driver Norris is concerned.”
Y/N frowned. “What?”
The senior PR lead folded his hands. “Yesterday evening and this morning created a situation that we can’t ignore.”
Her stomach dropped.
“The sponsor breakfast?”
“In part.”
The HR woman looked down at her notes.
“We were informed that there may have been confusion caused by you regarding his evening plans, and that this may have contributed to him failing to attend his mandatory breakfast commitment.”
Y/N went still.
Not metaphorically. Not dramatically.
Literally still.
She stopped breathing for a second.
Then said, carefully, “I’m sorry. Confusion caused by me?”
The PR lead glanced away.
No one answered immediately.
That was answer enough.
Y/N’s voice came out thinner than she wanted. “What exactly did he say?”
The HR woman’s expression stayed neutral.
“That he believed there had been a misunderstanding created by you around a personal outing, and that his schedule may not have been communicated to him clearly enough afterward.”
The room went white at the edges.
There it was.
Not just that he’d missed the breakfast.
Not just that he’d forgotten her.
He had let them pin it on her.
Maybe because it was easier. Maybe because he’d been annoyed. Maybe because he hadn’t even thought through what it would do.
That almost made it worse.
Y/N laughed once.
The sound came out awful.
The HR woman softened slightly. “I understand this is upsetting.”
“No,” Y/N said, before she could stop herself. “You don’t.”
All three of them looked at her.
And because some final piece of her had already cracked open, the truth slipped out.
“He didn’t even know it was a date.”
Silence.
Immediate and complete.
Y/N shut her eyes.
Too late.
When she opened them again, the HR woman had gone very still.
“I see.”
No, Y/N thought.
No, you really don’t.
The PR lead cleared his throat. “This only confirms the blurred boundaries we’ve been concerned about.”
Blurred boundaries.
What a clean phrase for something that had ruined her so thoroughly.
By the time they said terminate your contract effective immediately, she was no longer really hearing them.
Badge revoked.
Apartment linked to role.
Access removed.
Pack your desk.
She nodded because her body knew how to perform compliance even while the rest of her was in freefall.
At one point, the HR woman said gently, “Why would you put yourself in this position for him?”
Y/N looked at her.
There were a hundred true answers.
Because he asked.
Because he knew.
Because he kept asking.
Because I loved him and he liked that more than he liked me.
Instead she just said, “I made a mistake.”
It was the smallest lie she had told about him.
⁜
She went to find him immediately.
Not because she thought he would fix it.
Not because she thought he would even be sorry in the right way.
Because she needed him to hear it from her.
Needed him to know that this one, at least, had landed somewhere real.
He was near hospitality, half-dressed for the next obligation, phone in hand, talking to someone from media while two sponsor reps hovered nearby.
He looked up when she said his name.
“Oh...hey.”
Hey.
Y/N almost smiled at that. The ordinariness of it. The complete mismatch between his tone and the fact that her life had just been taken apart because of him.
“I need to talk to you.”
He glanced at the people around him. “Can this wait? I’m about to...”
“No.”
That got his attention, briefly.
He stepped half away from the group, enough to suggest privacy without actually giving it.
“What happened?”
Y/N stared at him.
Then said it plainly.
“I got fired.”
His brows drew together.
“For what?”
She actually laughed.
There it was again. The confusion. The pure, undisturbed confusion of a man who had moved through his day never once imagining that another person’s world might have collapsed under the weight of his convenience.
“For you,” she said.
That made him frown. “What?”
“I got fired because you missed the sponsor breakfast. Because HR thinks I mishandled your schedule. Because apparently you told them I confused you about your evening plans.”
His expression changed.
Not enough.
Just enough to say he understood this might become inconvenient.
“Y/N, I didn’t...”
His phone buzzed.
He looked down.
Actually looked down.
At his phone.
While she was standing there trying not to come apart.
Something inside her went very quiet.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “One sec.”
He typed a reply.
One sec.
That was the line her mind would come back to later. The thing that would hurt in all the empty places long after the rest of it blurred.
Not the firing itself.
Not the date.
Not even the blame.
One sec.
As if devastation could hold.
As if she still existed in his life as something that would wait until he was finished with the important stuff.
Y/N let him finish.
Then, when he looked up again and said, “What were you saying?” with the faint impatience of someone trying to catch up to a conversation he’d half-missed, she just looked at him.
Really looked.
At the charm.
At the carelessness.
At the almost-boyish confusion that had gotten him forgiven by too many people for too long.
At the man who knew she would bleed for him and still found ways to ask for more.
“I said,” she told him quietly, “I got fired.”
He stared.
Then glanced over her shoulder because someone from media had just called his name.
He was already leaving again.
Even now.
Even here.
Y/N felt the last of her hope die so cleanly she almost mistook it for relief.
“That’s insane,” he said absently. “I’ll talk to someone.”
“No, you won’t.”
He frowned, distracted. “Why are you doing this now?”
That almost made her laugh.
Doing this now.
As if heartbreak had scheduling etiquette.
“Because you blamed me.”
“I didn’t blame you.”
“You let them.”
“That’s not...”
“Lando,” the media guy called again, closer now. “Now.”
He turned his head, annoyed.
Then looked back at Y/N.
And in that pause, that tiny split second where he clearly wanted this conversation to be over because he had somewhere else to be, she finally saw him as he was.
Not torn.
Not secretly in love.
Not scared of what she meant.
Just inconvenienced.
By her feelings. By her firing. By the timing of a mess he hadn’t meant to make and didn’t especially want to clean up.
He had always known she’d risk it all for him.
He’d just never thought that might become his problem.
Y/N stepped back.
He said her name, but only because she was moving away.
She smiled then.
Small. Sharp. Done.
“You should go,” she said. “You’ve got media.”
Something flickered across his face.
Guilt, maybe. Or annoyance. Or just the discomfort of being seen too clearly for the first time.
“Y/N...”
But she was already walking.
And the awful, perfect thing was that he let her.
Of course he did.
Because he always thought there would be time later.
max verstappen x !antonelli popstar reader x kelly piquet
love doesn’t break loudly. it cracks in private—through reassurances you cling to, a knock at the door that steals the air from your lungs, a future that suddenly isn’t yours anymore. the world keeps cheering while you learn how to bleed quietly.
so you survive the only way you know how.
you show up for your brother, for the rookies who look at you like home. you turn your heartbreak into music and let millions hear what he did to you.
and somewhere between monaco nights and sleepless mornings, between people who watch you fall and people who refuse to let you, you find unexpected hands reaching for yours—steady, familiar, impossible to ignore.
this isn’t just heartbreak. it’s the moment you flip the switch—and everything changes.
fc : luvstruck on ig (++ a few pictures of madison beer)
(a/n) : omg the other day i was listening to my 21st century blues and so many ideas came to me! i fucking love raye UGH!!!!!!! warnings of infidelity, drinking, d*ug use, foul language, charles being horrible, etc etc. also someone asked for more max kelly poly and i will always come through!
You learn, very early on, how to exist in still photographs. How to angle your chin just enough that the light kisses your cheekbone. How to lean into Charles’s shoulder like it’s muscle memory and not a decision. How to smile softly instead of wide, because wide smiles are for people who are trying too hard.
With Charles, you never try. Vogue calls it effortless. The internet calls it soulmates. Ferrari’s PR team calls it gold.
The cover comes out on a Thursday. Black and white. You’re seated, long legs folded beneath you, silk slipping off one shoulder. Charles stands behind you, hands resting on the back of the chair like he belongs there—like he always has. The headline is something vague and romantic. Love at full speed. Something about balance. Something about fate.
Kimi texts you before it even hits your own phone.
why do you look like that
be normal please
also charles looks like he’s in love with you (gross)
You laugh out loud, curled into the corner of the couch in Charles’s Monaco apartment, feet tucked under his thigh. He’s scrolling through the comments already, thumb moving absently while his other hand rests on your knee.
“What?” he asks, smiling without looking.
“My brother is being annoying,” you say fondly.
“He adores me,” Charles replies easily.
“He tolerates you,” you correct, leaning in to kiss his jaw.
He turns his head just enough that your lips catch the corner of his mouth instead, and he laughs—soft, breathy, entirely unguarded. The sound still does something to you, even after all this time. Still makes your chest ache in that good, dangerous way.
At the track, you are untouchable.
You walk the paddock hand in hand, his fingers threaded through yours like a habit he doesn’t think about anymore. Ferrari red everywhere—your jacket with his number stitched into the sleeve, his hand warm at the small of your back when people stop you to talk. Cameras follow, always. You pretend not to notice.
Kimi trails behind you like a shadow, sunglasses too big for his face, trying very hard to look unbothered while absolutely basking in it. Sometimes Charles drapes an arm around his shoulders too, pulling him in like family, and Kimi pretends not to like it while leaning closer anyway.
With Kimi, comes the rookies. Naturally.
You take them out after the race—no team polos, no cameras, just a quiet restaurant tucked away from the marina. Charles orders for the table like he always does, knows everyone’s preferences by heart. You sit beside him, thigh pressed to his, his knee nudging yours whenever he laughs.
Isack argues with the waiter about wine pairings he doesn’t understand. Ollie steals bread off everyone’s plates and grins like he’s gotten away with something. Gabriel listens more than he talks, eyes bright, taking everything in.
“They are so spoiled,” Charles murmurs to you at one point, watching you reach across the table to fix Kimi’s collar without thinking.
“They’re kids,” you say. “Someone has to.”
He looks at you like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.
The night is easy. Loud. Warm. Wine stained and golden. Charles kisses your temple when you stand, pulls your chair out without being asked, keeps his hand on your lower back like a promise.
When you get home, he doesn’t rush you. You change into his hoodie—one of many that have become yours—and curl into his side on the couch while he watches race replays he’s already seen a dozen times. He presses a kiss to your hair, breathes you in.
“This,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “This is everything.”
You believe him. You believe him because there has never been a reason not to.
f1gossipgirls : charles caught cheating AGAIN? rumors are spreading after charles leclerc was seen with a mystery girl a few weeks ago that was most definitely not his fiancée, yn antonelli. the two have been together for over 3 years and just recently got engaged in the last year. however, with charles' track record, we wouldn't be shocked if this is true. 👀 stay tuned!
The rumors start small. A blind item. A tweet. A comment buried three replies deep under a photo of you smiling in the paddock. Someone suggests something careless, something ugly. You don’t see it at first—your fans are ruthless, protective, fast.
By the time it reaches you, Charles already knows.
“They’re nothing,” he says immediately, phone in his hand, expression calm. Too calm, you might realize later. “People talk.”
You nod. Of course they do. They always have.
“Look at me,” he says, turning your chin gently until you meet his eyes. “You know me.”
“I do,” you say, without hesitation.
He smiles then, relieved, kisses you slow and sure like he’s sealing something. You melt into it because you want to. Because loving him has always felt like stepping into warm water.
Over the next few days, the noise grows louder.
Paparazzi shots you don’t recognize. Anonymous accounts claiming things they can’t prove. Your name trending next to his in ways that feel wrong.
Charles never falters.
He calls you between meetings. Sends you photos of his espresso like he always does. Texts you goodnight even when he’s exhausted. When you ask—carefully, quietly—he answers without defensiveness.
“One time,” he says gently, shaking his head. “I didn’t even speak to her. They’re lying.”
You want to believe him so badly it almost hurts.
So you do.
You hold onto the way he reaches for you in his sleep. The way he still kisses your knuckles absentmindedly. The way he talks about the future like it’s a given—tours, albums, houses you joke about buying someday.
When he leaves for the Ferrari event, he kisses you longer than usual in the doorway.
“Don’t let the internet get in your head,” he says softly.
“I won’t,” you promise.
You mean it.
Three days later, someone knocks on the door.
It’s late afternoon. The light in the apartment is soft, diffused, catching on the edges of everything Charles owns—and everything you thought you shared.
She’s younger than you expect. Nervous. Hands clasped tight like she’s holding herself together.
“Is Charles here?” she asks.
“No,” you reply easily. Calmly. “He’s away.”
Her face falls. Just a fraction.
“Oh,” she says. Then, after a beat, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Something inside you tilts.
You don’t raise your voice. You don’t cry. You don’t ask the question you already know the answer to.
Instead, you step aside.
“Come in,” you say.
You sit across from her at the kitchen island, legs crossed, posture perfect. She tells you her name—Valentina. She tells you she’s been trying to reach him. That she didn’t know about you at first. That she wouldn’t have come if she had another choice.
When she says the word pregnant, your stomach drops so hard you think you might be sick.
You don’t let it show.
You ask questions like you’re conducting an interview. Dates. Timelines. Certainty. You nod. You listen. You don’t interrupt.
When she finishes, you take a breath.
“Thank you for telling me,” you say calmly. “He’ll be back next week.”
She looks at you like she expects anger. Tears. Something loud.
You give her none of it.
“Come back then,” you add. “We’ll talk together.”
She nods, stunned.
When the door closes behind her, you stand very still in the quiet apartment. Your world hasn’t shattered yet. It’s just… shifted. And somewhere deep inside, something you loved without question has started to crack.
You become very good at pretending. It’s not hard, at first. You’ve been performing your whole life—on stages, in interviews, in love. You know how to keep your voice even, how to laugh at the right moments, how to answer I miss you with I miss you too and mean it just enough to survive.
You call him like you always do.
You text him updates you don’t need to share—what you ate, a lyric you scribbled down, a photo of the view from the balcony at sunset. You see him like a picture of yourself in public, engagement ring catching the light.
You don’t take it off. You tell yourself it’s strategy. Control. You tell yourself it’s so he won’t suspect a thing. But sometimes, when you catch the diamond in the mirror, you swear it burns.
To keep from unraveling, you work.
You lock yourself in the studio and pour everything you’re not allowed to feel into sound. You don’t write about him—not directly. Not yet. You write around the ache, around the rage, around the nausea that still hits you out of nowhere. You layer vocals until your throat hurts. You stay busy so you don’t have to think about the way your life split open the moment a stranger said pregnant in your kitchen.
When Charles tells you he’s flying home on Friday, you say, “I can’t wait.”
And you almost mean it—because at least then this waiting will end.
Valentina arrives right on time. She looks smaller in your living room than she did at the door days ago. Nervous again. You thank her for coming, offer her water, gesture for her to sit. The two of you wait together, side by side on the couch, an almost unbearable quiet filling the space between you.
When the door opens, Charles is already smiling.
He drops his bag, steps toward you out of habit, leaning in for the kiss he’s greeted you with a thousand times—
And stops. He sees her first. Then he sees you. Then he sees the ring. It’s on the coffee table. Placed there carefully. Intentionally. A small, glittering thing that once meant everything.
“—what is this?” he asks, voice thin.
You don’t stand. You don’t rush. You don’t soften your expression.
“Sit down,” you say.
He doesn’t want to. You can see it all over him—the panic, the denial, the instinct to charm his way out. But he does it anyway. Because something in your voice tells him this isn’t a conversation he gets to control.
You ask questions calmly. Methodically.
When did it happen?
How long did you know her?
How many times?
You look at Valentina when you speak to her. You look at Charles when you need confirmation. You don’t accuse. You don’t insult. You take notes in your head like you’re preparing a statement. When he finally says it—quiet, rushed, desperate—
“It was one time.”
You laugh. It slips out of you before you can stop it. A short, disbelieving sound. Almost amused. That laugh will follow him for the rest of his life.
“One time,” you repeat, shaking your head slightly. “That’s what you’re going with?”
He reaches for you then, finally losing his composure.
“Please,” he says. “I made a mistake.”
You stand.
“Get out,” you say, flatly.
“What?” he breathes.
“This conversation is over,” you tell them both. “You,”—you nod at Valentina—“thank you for telling me. He’ll contact you.”
Then you look at him.
“You,” you say quietly, “need to leave.”
“This is my apartment,” he says weakly.
You smile. Not kindly.
“Not tonight.”
You walk away before he can stop you. Down the hall. Into the bedroom. You shut the door and lock it, your hands shaking for the first time all day.
The moment you slide down against it, the sound rips out of you.
He’s at the door immediately.
“Please,” he says, voice breaking. “Let me explain. I can fix this.”
You scream for him to leave. You scream until your throat burns, until your chest hurts, until he finally goes quiet.
When the apartment is empty, you lose control.
You throw things. Pillows, books, clothes. You rip hangers from the closet and sob into the mess. You collapse onto the bed and cry until your body aches, until your face is wet and unrecognizable, until the room feels too big to breathe in.
Your phone buzzes. A text from Kimi. Something stupid. A joke. A picture of his dinner. Oblivious.
Your hands shake so badly you almost drop the phone. You scroll. You hit your mother’s name. She answers on the second ring. You don’t say hello. You just break.
The words pour out of you between gasps—rumors, lies, the door, the pregnancy, the ring on the table. You don’t filter. You don’t protect anyone. You tell her everything.
She talks you down with the steadiness only a mother has. Tells you to breathe. Tells you this isn’t your fault. Tells you to come home.
“I can’t,” you say hoarsely. “I just— I need space.”
She pauses, then agrees. Asks you to promise to check in. To not disappear completely.
You promise.
That night, you don’t sleep.
You pack. You write. You drink too much. You do things you know you shouldn’t. You leave behind anything that feels like him. You move quietly, like you’re already a ghost.
Before the sun comes up, you’re gone. You go somewhere very few people know about. Somewhere safe. Somewhere empty.
Your phone lights up constantly. You don’t answer. Except for Kimi.
When he finally calls, you pick up. He hears it immediately.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
You swallow.
“Nothing,” you lie gently. “Just… a rough spot.”
He doesn’t push. He trusts you. Always has.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I’m here.”
After the call ends, you open your laptop. You finish the song. The one you’ve been circling for days. And for the first time since everything shattered, you are able to hear the truth.
Isack sees it first. He’s scrolling through his phone half asleep, feet kicked up on a chair in the hotel dining room, when your name pops up on Instagram. No warning. No countdown. Just a still frame— red, mascara already smudged beneath your eyes, mouth parted like you’ve just finished crying.
black mascara out everywhere. more to come. xx
He sits up straighter.
“Kimi,” he says slowly. “Your sister dropped.”
Kimi looks up from his coffee. “Dropped what?”
They listen together.
All of them do—Isack, Ollie, Gabriel—crowded around a phone that suddenly feels too small to hold what’s coming out of it. The first verse plays, your voice low and cracked in a way Kimi has never heard before.
Once you see my black mascara
Run from you into my mama’s hands—
Kimi’s jaw tightens.
By the time the chorus hits, no one is pretending this is just another breakup song. This isn’t clever. This isn’t vague. This is a confession dressed up in couture and bloodied eyeliner.
You selfish man.
You’d understand.
Kimi feels sick.
The visuals start circulating next—screenshots, clips, people dissecting every line. You in black designer, bags under your eyes unapologetic. You alone. You breaking.
He tries to call you immediately. No answer. He texts. Nothing. Then the photos start appearing.
Paris, first. You stumbling out of a club at three in the morning, sunglasses on despite the darkness, mascara streaked, dress clinging to you like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. London. Laughing too loud. Head thrown back. Someone’s hand at your waist that isn’t familiar. Monaco. Red heels in the early morning light. Your hair wild. Your eyes empty.
You’re everywhere and nowhere all at once—moving so fast no one can catch you.
The internet calls it iconic. Kimi calls it terrifying. Seeing the one person who had always been strong for him, cracking at the seams in front of the entire world.
At the track, he doesn’t look at Charles. Not once.
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t yell. He simply… removes him from his world. Walks past him like he’s invisible. Laughs with the rest of the drivers, answers questions, does his job—and never acknowledges the man who used to feel like family.
Charles hears the song alone.
He listens in his car, parked somewhere quiet, hands frozen on the steering wheel. Every lyric lands like a blow.
You made your bed.
Lied your lies.
And fucked my mind up.
He turns it off halfway through, chest tight, regret blooming so violently it almost knocks the air out of him. He didn’t know it could feel like this—to hear himself reflected back in your pain.
He tries to call you. You don’t answer.
Days later, Kimi finally gets through. Your voice is hoarse when you pick up, like you haven’t slept in weeks.
“Hey,” you say, too casually.
“Hey,” he replies, swallowing hard. “You okay?”
You pause. Just long enough that he knows the answer.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t call you out. Instead, he says softly, “You don’t have to come this weekend. If it’s too much.”
“No,” you say immediately. Too quickly. “Nothing will keep me from supporting you.”
When you show up to the paddock, the air shifts.
You’re dressed in black from head to toe. Tailored. Sharp. Sunglasses oversized, hiding whatever’s left of your eyes. You walk like you’re made of glass and steel all at once.
Kimi feels relief and heartbreak in equal measure. The rookies notice too.
Isack snaps when a journalist asks about Charles, his voice cold. “Ask him,” he says. “Not her.”
Charles tries to catch your eye. Tries to speak to you. Tries to apologize again and again in the quiet spaces between chaos.
You don’t look at him. Not once.
You catch Kelly’s eye across the paddock. She doesn’t approach. She doesn’t intrude. She just watches you carefully, like someone who knows what it looks like when a woman is drowning in plain sight.
That night, you sit on the bed in Kimi’s hotel room like you always have.
He watches you work—headphones on, laptop balanced on your knees, fingers moving like muscle memory. He listens to demos you’ve never played for anyone else. Dark. Heavy. Honest.
Finally, he asks, “What actually happened?”
You stop. Take a breath. And then you tell him. Not the PR version. Not the softened version. The truth. The constant lies. The girl. The pregnancy. Your diamond ring left on the table.
Kimi doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rage. He just listens, eyes shiny, hands clenched tight in the sheets beside you.
When you finish, he pulls you into him like he did when you were kids. Like he still needs you to be his big sister—but right now, you need him more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should’ve known.”
“You couldn’t,” you say quietly. “I didn’t want to.”
He stays with you until you fall asleep sitting upright, your head on his shoulder.
The weeks after blur together. You’re a headline. A wreck. A spectacle. Heartbroken popstar spirals. Iconic post breakup era. She’s never looked better. Inside, you’re hollow.
At the event, the lights are too bright. The music too loud. You’re drunk, high, gone in the way only people who don’t want to feel anymore can be.
Kelly sees you immediately. Not as a wag. Not as gossip. As a woman who’s been here before.
She doesn’t judge you. Not once. She doesn’t ask questions. She just takes your arm gently, steers you out, gets you home.
She tucks you into a guest bed like you’re something precious. Fragile. You don’t remember any of it. But for the first time in weeks, you sleep.
You wake up slowly. Not with a headache. Not with panic. Just… awareness. The room is unfamiliar but calm—neutral colors, clean lines, the faint smell of coffee and something citrusy. Sunlight filters in through sheer curtains, landing gently across the bed like it’s afraid to touch you too hard.
You sit up, disoriented. For a moment, you can’t remember how you got here. Then the door opens. It’s Max.
He freezes when he sees you awake, clearly unsure if this is the right moment—or if there ever is one. He’s dressed casually, hair still damp, hands awkwardly shoved into his pockets.
“Hey,” he says softly. Not surprised. Not judgmental. Just there.
Your throat tightens.
“Kelly’s out for a bit,” he adds quickly, like he doesn’t want you to think you’ve been abandoned. “She… wanted you to sleep.”
You nod. Your body feels heavy, like gravity has been turned up.
“I can make coffee,” he offers. “Or tea. Or—uh—toast?”
The way he lists options like he’s afraid to choose wrong nearly breaks you.
“Coffee’s fine,” you murmur.
He nods and disappears without another word.
He doesn’t try to fill the silence. Doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t ask if you remember. He just sets a mug down near you, adds a small plate with fruit and toast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You sip. It grounds you.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “And… thank Kelly. For me.”
He hesitates as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, reaching for your shoes.
As you head toward the door, he clears his throat.
“Hey.”
You turn.
“Just—” He pauses, searching for words. “Keep yourself safe, yeah?”
You swallow.
“And if you need somewhere to crash,” he adds, gentle but firm, “this place is always open.”
You nod. You don’t trust your voice.
Outside, Monaco feels too sharp. Too awake. You walk until your chest stops tightening, until you reach the building Kimi and Ollie share. Before you can knock, the door opens.
They’re already there. Neither of them say anything.
Ollie steps aside immediately. Kimi just pulls you in, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
You don’t speak. You just collapse onto the couch, curling in on yourself.
They follow.
Ollie stretches out on one side, solid and warm. Kimi settles on the other, instinctively pulling you closer. He reaches for the remote and puts on the show you used to watch together when you were kids—the one you all quote, the one that makes no sense now but still feels safe.
They don’t force jokes. They don’t ask questions. They just exist with you.
For a while, it almost works. Then there’s a knock. Sharp. Insistent.
Kimi and Ollie exchange a look. Kimi stands.
“I’ll get it,” he says, already knowing.
When he opens the door, Charles is standing there.
He looks wrecked. Hollow-eyed. Unshaven. Like someone who hasn’t slept and doesn’t deserve to.
The moment his gaze flicks past Kimi and lands on you, something in Kimi snaps.
“No,” Kimi says, stepping fully into the doorway. “Absolutely not.”
“I just want to talk,” Charles says quietly. “Please.”
Ollie moves without thinking, positioning himself between you and the door.
Kimi doesn’t hold back. His words are sharp, furious, protective in a way only a younger brother can be when he’s done pretending to be polite.
You sit up slowly.
“It’s fine,” you say hoarsely. “I’ll talk to him.”
Kimi turns, eyes wide. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” you say gently. “But I will.”
He studies your face, searching for cracks. Then he steps aside—barely.
In the hallway, Charles talks. He explains. He apologizes. He says words he should have said weeks ago. None of it helps. Every sentence just makes the ache worse.
“Please,” he says at the end. “I love you.”
You look at him for a long moment.
Then, quietly, “You need to leave.”
His face crumples. You don’t stay to watch.
Back inside, you collapse again, tears finally spilling over. Kimi sits on the floor in front of you, gripping your hands. Ollie wraps an arm around your shoulder and your head falls onto his.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. They fall asleep around you. You wait until the room is dark and quiet. Then you slip out.
The nearest club is loud and bright and wrong in every way—but it’s open.
You lose yourself in the crowd. In strangers. In noise. You don’t notice Max at first. He notices you immediately.
Sees the way you’re swaying. The unfamiliar faces around you. The little bag exchanged between hands. That’s enough. He’s beside you before you can protest.
“We’re going home,” he says, not unkindly.
You try to argue. You really do. But you’re too tired. Kelly is waiting when you arrive. The moment you see her, you break.
You cry and scream and sob into her shoulder like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks. Max stays close, steady, grounding.
Kelly takes you to the bathroom. Gently washes your face. Helps you change. She tucks you into her bed like it’s where you belong. When Max joins you, and Kelly curls in on the other side, you finally let go. They stay until your breathing evens out. Until you sleep.
You wake up slowly, blinking at the ceiling, disoriented again. For half a second you don’t know where you are, don’t know whose bed this is, don’t know why your chest feels tight in that awful, anticipatory way—like your body remembers before your mind does.
And then it all floods back. Being too gone to stand on your own. Max’s hand steady at your elbow. Kelly’s voice in your ear, calm and unafraid. Crying so hard your throat burned. Being held without questions. Without disappointment.
You inhale sharply and push yourself up on your elbows, panic flaring. You look left.
Max is asleep, turned slightly toward you, arm bent above his head, face bare and unguarded in a way the world never sees. No armor. No edges. Just a man sleeping.
You look right. Kelly, curled on her side, hair fanned across the pillow, one hand resting near yours like it had been placed there intentionally. Like she’d meant to stay close even in sleep.
Shame crashes over you all at once.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, already scrambling upright. “I’m so sorry—”
Kelly stirs immediately, eyes opening as if she’d been waiting for it. “Hey,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “No, no. Stop.”
You’re already halfway into an apology spiral, words tumbling over each other. “I shouldn’t have—last night was so inappropriate, I was a mess, I don’t even remember half of it, I—”
Max groans softly and rolls onto his side, blinking awake. He takes one look at your face—panicked, glassy, already bracing for rejection—and sits up.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Breathe.”
Kelly reaches up and brushes your hair back from your face, slow and deliberate, grounding. “You don’t need to apologize for surviving,” she says quietly. “Not here.”
Your throat tightens. “I dragged you into it. I was drunk and high and—”
“And heartbroken,” Max adds, not unkindly. “And not okay. That’s allowed.”
Kelly shifts closer, thumb tracing a soothing line along your cheek. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, soft but firm. “Max found you. You are safe. That’s all that mattered to us.”
Your shoulders slump as the fight drains out of you, replaced by something fragile and raw. Tears well again, but this time they don’t feel desperate. They feel… relieved.
“I don’t want to be like this,” you whisper.
Max nods. “Then don’t be alone while you figure out how not to be.”
Something settles then. Something quiet and warm.
From that moment on, things change.
You stay.
One night turns into two. Two into a few. Your suitcase gets unpacked in the guest room without ceremony, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No one makes a big deal out of it. No one asks for promises. They just… keep you.
You stop going out. The clubs fade into the background, their neon pull losing its grip. Instead, you wake up early with Kelly, drink coffee at the kitchen counter while she scrolls through recipes. You sit on the balcony with Max in the evenings, watching the light change over the water, not talking much at all.
You start writing again.
At first it’s ugly. Angry. Notes app paragraphs that read like open wounds. Lyrics scribbled and crossed out and rewritten until your hand cramps. You pour everything you swallowed into it—betrayal, grief, rage, disbelief. The humiliation. The love that didn’t disappear just because it was destroyed.
Eventually, it sharpens. You book studio time.
The breakup EP takes shape piece by piece, song by song, each one carving something out of you and leaving space behind. It hurts, but it hurts in a way that feels purposeful. Controlled.
One afternoon, the studio door creaks open and familiar voices fill the space.
“Well, this place smells expensive,” Ollie announces.
You laugh before you can stop yourself, turning to see Kimi, Ollie, and Isack crowded into the doorway like they’ve been dared to enter a haunted house.
“We were checking on you,” Isack says, suspiciously defensive for someone grinning that wide. “Professionally.”
“You are incapable of being subtle,” you tell them.
Kimi shrugs. “You love us.”
You do. You play them a bit of Flip a Switch. Just a snippet. Not even the full chorus.
Isack’s jaw drops. Ollie lets out a low “oh my god.” Kimi just stares at you, eyes dark and proud and a little furious on your behalf.
“That’s insane,” Ollie says. “Like… criminal.”
“You’re going to end careers,” Isack adds, delighted.
Kimi pulls you into a one armed hug. “You’re going to be okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hear it.”
When you get back to Max and Kelly’s that night, they’re exactly where you left them.
Kelly at the stove, hair tied up, music playing softly. Max on the couch, legs stretched out, watching old race reruns with the volume low.
They both look up when you walk in.
Kelly smiles first. Real, unguarded. “Hey.”
Max’s eyes scan you quickly—posture, expression, energy—and something eases in his shoulders. “You look good,” he says simply.
Healthier. Calmer. Less hollow.
Dinner is quiet. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that doesn’t beg to be filled. Plates clink. Someone reaches for the salt. Kelly talks about a recipe she wants to try next week. Max comments on a corner he still thinks he could’ve taken better in 2019.
Afterward, you help Kelly clean up. Water runs. Dishes stack. Conversation drifts easily, from nothing to everything and back again.
She presses a kiss to your temple before sending you off to rest. “Go sit,” she says. “You’ve done enough today.”
You curl up on the couch beside Max. The TV hums softly. You don’t really watch it. You just exist.
You feel his eyes on you and glance over.
He’s already smiling.
Not sharp. Not guarded. Just… fond.
He shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours. No rush. No pressure.
Kelly joins you a moment later, tucking herself against your other side, flipping on a movie and draping a blanket over all three of you like it’s second nature.
liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, lando and 2,450,000 others.
f1gossipgirls : so...yn antonelli just released her ep and ended charles leclerc's career. just within four songs. HELP. many people are speculating that the "best friend" mentioned in flip a switch is none other than max verstappen, after the two have been seen together recently and he was spotted in one of her instagram posts.
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username007 : all the rookies in the likes PLEASE
username110 : if she is with max and kelly I WILL LOSE MY FUCKING MIND. how is someone this iconic???
username500 : the wag line- HELP.
username050 : "tell him im dead if he callin" your honor i love her.
username714 : the speech at the beg of flip a switch is my new life motto
A few weeks later, the world feels quieter in a different way. Not numb—never that—but steadier. Your breakup EP is out now, living its own life without you. The reception is overwhelming in the strangest, gentlest way. People hear themselves in it. They thank you for putting words to things they couldn’t say. You read messages late at night with Kelly’s legs draped over yours on the couch, Max half listening from the kitchen, pretending not to hover while still hovering.
Healing doesn’t come in waves anymore. It comes in inches. This morning, it comes in the form of tiny footsteps and a door flying open.
“GOOD MORNING!”
You barely have time to lift your head before Penelope barrels into the guest room and launches herself onto the bed, giggling wildly. Seven years old and made entirely of joy and chaos, she curls into your side like she’s been doing it her whole life.
“Hi,” you laugh, voice still sleepy. “Someone’s energetic.”
She nods furiously. “Do you wanna play Barbies with me?”
There isn’t even a second of hesitation. “Obviously.”
She cheers and drags you out of bed by the hand, pulling you down the hallway to her room. Barbie chaos ensues—tiny shoes everywhere, outfits strewn across the floor, dramatic voices and even more dramatic storylines.
Kelly peeks in a little while later, leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile. “Breakfast is ready.”
Penelope gasps like this is the best news she’s ever heard and sprints out toward the kitchen. You stay behind, kneeling to gather up the mess, lining dolls back up neatly.
Kelly watches you for a moment before stepping inside. “You’re really good with her,” she says gently.
You shrug, smiling to yourself. “I have a little sister. Comes naturally, I guess.”
She hums, crosses the room, and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another to your temple. “I’m proud of you,” she says quietly. “For getting through all of it. You look… lighter. Healthier. And you’re so beautiful.”
Your chest tightens, but in a good way.
Breakfast is warm and noisy and normal. Penelope talks a mile a minute. Max listens with exaggerated seriousness, asking questions like her answers are the most important things in the world. You catch Kelly watching the two of you with something soft in her eyes.
Later, Penelope leaves with her father, and the apartment settles into a slower rhythm.
Max leans back in his chair. “Dinner tonight,” he says casually. “Somewhere nice.”
Kelly nods. “I’m in.”
He slides his card across the counter toward you. “You two go get ready. Salon, shopping. Make a day of it.”
You hesitate immediately. “You don’t have to— I don’t want to intrude on your date night.”
Kelly shakes her head before you can finish, stepping closer and kissing your cheek. “You’re not intruding. You’re invited.”
The day is light and easy. Hair, nails, laughter. Shopping turns into trying things on just to be silly. In one boutique, you freeze mid rack when you see a familiar face.
“Pascale?”
She turns, eyes lighting up instantly. “Oh, mon ange.”
She pulls you into a hug without hesitation. “You look so much better,” she says softly. “I’m so happy to see you like this.”
You swallow. “It’s good to see you.”
Her expression shifts—gentle but honest. “I’m so sorry for what he did,” she says. “I will always support you. Always.”
The hug lingers. When Kelly returns, Pascale squeezes your hands once more before leaving, smiling warmly at both of you.
Back at the apartment, Max watches from the couch as the two of you get ready. Kelly zips you into your dress, hands warm and steady. You stare at your reflection—really look at yourself—for the first time in a long while.
Kelly meets your eyes in the mirror. “Stunning,” she murmurs, then leaves a kiss—and a lipstick mark—on your neck.
The car ride is quiet in that comfortable, anticipatory way. Monaco at night glows outside the windows—golden streetlights, the harbor shimmering like it’s holding secrets. Max drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on Kelly’s knee. She keeps her fingers laced with his for a moment before reaching back to squeeze your hand instead.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
You nod. “Yeah. I am.”
And you mean it.
When the car stops, you realize immediately that the restaurant is… empty. No valet bustle, no voices drifting through open doors. Just warm light spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Max kills the engine. “I rented it out,” he says simply, like it’s no big deal.
You blink. “Max.”
He shrugs, a little bashful despite himself. “Didn’t want any noise. Or people watching.”
Kelly smiles at him fondly. “You always do this,” she murmurs.
Inside, the space feels intimate rather than grand. Candles flicker on every table, soft music hums in the background, and the windows look out over the water. It feels like a pocket of time carved out just for the three of you.
The waiter greets you quietly, already aware this is a slow night by design.
You sit between them. Kelly’s hand finds your thigh almost immediately—not possessive, just grounding. Her thumb traces small circles, absentminded, affectionate.
Conversation starts easy. Food. Music. A story Max tells about a race rerun he watched earlier that afternoon, animated in the way he only gets when he forgets to guard himself. You laugh more than you have in weeks. Real laughter. The kind that surprises you halfway through.
At one point, Kelly leans closer to murmur something in your ear about dessert, her breath warm against your skin, and you shiver—not from nerves, but from awareness.
She notices. Smiles.
Dinner stretches. Plates are cleared. Wine glasses refilled.
Eventually, Kelly grows quiet.
She squeezes your thigh a little more firmly. “There’s something I want to say,” she begins gently. “And you don’t have to respond. Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want to.”
Max turns slightly toward you, attentive but calm.
Kelly continues, voice steady. “I’ve always found you stunning. That’s not new. But what is new… is how deeply I’ve come to care about you. Watching you survive something that could’ve broken you—” Her voice softens. “It changed something for me.”
You swallow, throat tight.
Max nods slowly. “Same for me,” he says. “I didn’t expect it. Didn’t plan it. But you feel… right. Safe. And I know you’ve had enough people make promises they couldn’t keep.” He pauses. “We’re not asking for anything. We just want you to know you’re wanted. And protected. However you need.”
You stare at the table for a moment, then lift your gaze to them.
“I’ve never felt more safe than I do with you,” you admit quietly. “From the very beginning.”
Kelly’s eyes soften immediately. She lifts your chin with two fingers—not forcing, just asking—and presses a slow, gentle kiss to your lips. It’s unhurried. Tender. When she pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours.
Max waits until you look at him. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye like he’s memorizing you.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
You nod.
His kiss is just as careful. Just as warm.
The rest of the night is soft and sweet—shared desserts, quiet laughter, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined. Kelly leans against you. Max rests his hand at the small of your back. No one rushes. No one asks for more than you’re ready to give.
When you finally leave, the world feels gentler. You don’t feel like you’re rebuilding alone.
You’re healthier now. Not in a fragile, tentative way—but in a way that feels earned. Your laugh comes easier. Your shoulders sit lower. Your anger no longer drives the car; it just rides quietly in the backseat, acknowledged but no longer steering.
You’re still sharp. Still powerful. Still you. And you’re happier than you ever thought you’d be—with Max and Kelly.
The three of you are a unit now. Not loud about it, not performative. Just… obvious. Easy hands. Shared looks. The way Max automatically reaches for your coffee order when he’s already up. The way Kelly tucks herself into your side without thinking, fingers lacing with yours like it’s muscle memory.
Kimi noticed first. He’d been suspicious—deeply so. He grilled Max like he was prepping for a cross examination, asked Kelly questions with the intensity of someone who loved you fiercely and wasn’t afraid to show it. Ollie, Gabriel and Isack followed suit, circling like overprotective satellites.
But what sold Kimi wasn’t words. It was watching Max step in front of you when things got overwhelming. Watching Kelly read your body language better than anyone else in the room. Watching them protect your quiet the way others had once taken it for granted.
He adores them now. Because they don’t just love you—they keep you safe.
You’re not “over” what happened. You don’t pretend it didn’t carve something into you. But it no longer defines you. It doesn’t shrink you. It doesn’t own your reflection when you catch yourself in mirrors.
You arrive at the race weekend calm. Grounded. You’re in Mercedes gear for Kimi, black and silver clean against your skin—but you’re walking hand in hand with Kelly, Max on your other side. It feels right. It feels real.
Charles sees you from across the paddock. And it’s like the air leaves his lungs.
He doesn’t hear the engines. Doesn’t hear the voices. All he sees is you—healthy, radiant, whole in a way he hasn’t seen since before everything shattered. And then he sees them. Your fingers intertwined with Kelly’s. Max leaning in to murmur something that makes you smile.
Then he sees Kimi with Max—easy, familiar, close. It hits him twice as hard.
Max wins the race. The moment the car stops, he’s already looking for you. He crosses the barriers, still breathless, helmet off, eyes bright—and kisses you first. Then Kelly. Quick, joyful, unashamed. The cameras catch it, but neither of you care.
On the podium, Max and Kimi stand together. Champagne sprays. The crowd roars.
You’re with family now—your family. Kelly at your side. Penelope clutching your hand. Kimi bouncing on his heels. Your little sister Maggie, all limbs and excitement, chattering nonstop.
Max finds you again after, lifts Maggie effortlessly onto his shoulders like it’s second nature. She squeals with laughter. Kelly squeezes your hand. Kimi and Max talk animatedly beside you, completely at ease.
And that’s when you see Charles again.
You slip away quietly.
He nearly jumps when you speak—like he doesn’t quite believe you’re real.
“You look…,” he starts, then stops. “You look happy.”
“I am,” you say simply.
There’s no anger left in your voice. No accusation. Just truth.
“I wanted to tell you,” you continue, “to forgive yourself. And live the future we thought we were building. I want you to be happy.”
His eyes shine. He nods, unable to speak. You press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Familiar. Final. And you walk away. Back to where you belong.
He watches Max kiss your temple. Watches Kelly lean into you. Watches Maggie laugh from Max’s shoulders. Watches Kimi throw an arm around both of them.
And it finally hits him. He didn’t lose you to revenge. He lost you to love. And you don’t look back.
SEEING IF HE'LL MELT INTO THE KISS ✶ OSCAR PIASTRI
❪ 𝟔𝟗𝟖𝒾 ❫ ｡ boyfriend!oscar piastri x fem!rea ✿ ◞ ◟ fluff oneshot established relationship 𓂋 𝘄 ｡ kissing, petnames 𝑙’ click ❞ ( based on this trend )
author's note. hi !!!! my first f1 fic ☺️ i love oscar so much bai
"absolutely not."
"oscar, please—"
"no. nope. not happening."
you're sitting cross-legged on the couch, phone in hand, giving him your best puppy dog eyes. oscar's standing in the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed, looking at you like you've just asked him to skydive without a parachute.
"it's just one tiktok," you plead, clasping your hands together. "one. i'll never ask again."
"that's what you said last time and i looked like an idiot for three million people."
"okay, but that one was cute. besides, you didn't look like an idiot," you argue. "you looked cute.""
he narrows his eyes at you, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching. you've almost got him.
"but this one's different. you literally just have to stand there." you concede, peeking at him from under your arm.
he finally looks at you, those stupidly pretty brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "stand there?"
"stand there."
"that's it?"
"that's it."
oscar studies you for a long moment. you give him your best innocent smile, the one that usually gets you what you want.
"fine. but if this ends up on the internet and people make fun of me—"
"they won't!" you're already scrambling up, grabbing your phone from the coffee table. "they're going to think you're adorable. because you are. now come here."
he follows you to the space near the window where the lighting's good, looking. you position him carefully, adjusting his shoulders.
"just stand normal," you instruct, propping your phone up on the bookshelf and angling it to catch both of you in frame. "like you would stand."
"this is how i stand."
you laugh, reaching up to smooth his shirt even though it doesn't need smoothing, just wanting an excuse to touch him. "relax, osc. i promise this one's easy."
he doesn't look convinced, but he does relax slightly, his hands settling loosely at his sides. you start the timer on your phone and rush into position next to him.
"okay so just—don't move," you say quickly.
"wasn't planning on it."
the timer beeps. you're recording.
you turn to face him, and oscar glances at you with those eyes, confused and suspicious and fond all at once. god, he's so pretty it's actually unfair. the afternoon light catches in his hair.
you reach for his right arm, lifting it up above his head.
oscar's confusion intensifies. his eyebrows furrow. "what are you—"
you stretch up and kiss him.
for a second, he freezes. his lips are soft and surprised against yours, his raised arm stiff. you can practically hear his brain short-circuiting, trying to figure out what the hell is happening, why you're kissing him mid-tiktok, what the point of any of this is—
and then something shifts.
his brain must catch up, must decide fuck it, because suddenly he's kissing you back. properly. his free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and his raised arm drops to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer against him.
you make a small surprised sound against his mouth because this was supposed to be a quick kiss for the camera but oscar's kissing you like he's forgotten the camera exists entirely. his fingers spread against your lower back, and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.
your phone is definitely still recording.
you're definitely not thinking about it.
oscar's really good at this, at making your knees weak and your thoughts fuzzy. his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, and you grab onto his shirt for balance because standing seems suddenly complicated.
"oscar," you mumble against his lips.
"mm?" he doesn't pull away, just kisses the corner of your mouth.
"the tiktok."
"what about it?"
"we're still recording."
he pauses, and you feel him smile. "your fault for kissing me."
"it was supposed to be a quick kiss!"
"should've specified that." he pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown. his lips are pink and slightly swollen. "this was the trend? kissing me?"
"lifting your arm up and then kissing you to see if you'd melt into it," you correct.
Summary- Max is new to being a single dad and is struggling, but maybe his miracle just walked through the door as the new PR manager. He can't help but wonder why she is so good with kids, and why she is a PR manager if she apparently doesn't have a degree in these things. Ch2 Ch3
warnings- angst!, a little fluff, cussing, descriptions of misscarege and cheating, slight descriptions of depression, blood. nothing else I can think of, lmk if I missed anything
WC- 3k
Note- This is just chapter 1. Chapter 2 is gonna be out in a few days, followed by chapters 3 and 4. This is proofread, but I can't promise it's perfect, so please kindly let me know if I missed anything
Being a single father is hard. Being a single father working full-time in the racing world with a 5-year-old daughter is very hard, and Max is just learning this.
For Max, all of this was new. He was still learning and struggling. That is emphasized by the fact that he showed up at the paddock with his daughter in tow and crying because the snack she wanted wasn't in her backpack. Now he's making a mental note to triple-check what she has in her bag. However, there's nothing he can do now. He has strategy meetings, PR events, and a car to drive. But right now, Lilly is having a full meltdown, and half of the paddock is staring at him blankly. He picks her up and takes her to his driver's room, patting her back.
“Shhh shhh shhh, baby, it's ok, take a deep breath,” he whispers, bouncing her on his leg, as she stops crying.
“Listen, Lilly, I can't get you apples right now, but once I'm done with work, I’ll get you one and some chocolate. How does that sound?”
“What about while I wait?” She hiccups,
"You can eat one of these," he says, reaching into the backpack to grab one of the other snacks he brought.”
Lilly pouts but grabs the trail mix with M&Ms anyway. Max takes a deep sigh, "I'm turning on Bluey," he says, getting some toys out for her. "I have an interview for PR, but I'll be back before my next meeting. Sounds good?" She nods, already coloring on the sheets he gave her. He walks out of his driver's room and sees Yuki waiting for him in the hall.
“Yo,” he greets and starts walking with Max. “Did you know we have a new PR manager starting today?”
“What happened to the old one? Did they leave already?”Max looks at him, confused.
“Kinda, they moved to PR for Moto GP.” Yuki states, “It happened like two weeks ago. We’re lucky we found one so quickly, but I've heard gossip that she doesn't have a college degree related to anything to do with PR or communications, so I don't know how good she'll be.” Max laughs, running his hand through his hair.
“Well, let's hope she is at least ok.” He can't help but think how annoying it's going to be if she truly doesn't know what she's doing, but he has to give her a chance before discarding her. He knows that.
–-
Your morning has been the definition of chaos. You didn't wake up later or anything, but your hair curler stopped working halfway through, your car wouldn't start, and you cut your hand open making breakfast. Luckily, you were still on time—10 minutes early, in fact—but you would have liked it to be more. You walk in the paddock, eating a slice of apple, looking for the two drivers. Before you can find them, it seems someone else finds you first.
“Hey! Are you the new PR manager?” You looked at him a little wide-eyed.
“Uhh, yes, that would be me! Do you know where the drivers are?” He laughed, pointing to a corner where you could see a very short man and someone else standing together.
You smile and thank him, walking towards the two, getting ready to introduce yourself. You tap the taller one on the shoulder, and when he turns around, you can definitely see the appeal of all those tweets you saw doing research into the team.
After a short pause to admire him, you see the slightly annoyed look on his face, probably because he thinks some random person just bothered him right before an interview, so you introduce yourself,
“Uhh, hi, I'm y/n. I'm supposed to be starting as your new PR manager today. I promise I'll put all my effort into being the best PR manager for you two.”
You look at them for a second, waiting for a reaction, before the shorter one, who you believe to be Yuki, starts laughing. “It's ok, you don't need to be so anxious around us,” he says, letting out the last of his laughs. He removes his hand from his stomach and holds it out. "I'm Yuki." You shake his hand before turning to the taller one.
“So that would mean your max? ” He nods, holding his hand out, “It does. I hope we can work well together.”
You smile at them both, deciding to talk a little before their interview, then go to find Laurent. Once you find him, he gives you a small tour of the paddock. When you reach the driver's room, you see a little girl playing with blocks in the room labeled Max.
"That's Max's daughter," he says, following your gaze. "She's a very sweet and smart young girl."
“Looks like it.”You smile.
“...Now that I think about it…That's what your degree and work history are in, right? Early childhood development and teaching?” You look at him, shocked for a second before realizing he's your boss. Of course he'd read your whole resume. You laugh,
“Yeah, it is very different than this work, huh?”
“I believe in your ability to do this job, or I wouldn't have picked you.” He pats your back, continuing your tour before circling back around to the offices where your desk lies in a little room with a great view of the track.
He hands you a company phone pre-loaded with social media, logged into the Red Bull accounts, and important phone numbers. He then leaves to let you get settled into the office and tells you you'll meet with Yuki and Max in an hour and a half.
You look around the small space. There’s a desk that has a fake plant and a Red Bull, and a shitty office chair. It's very generic, but you suppose that's probably how all offices look, at least you brought a few small pictures to make it feel like home. One of you and your siblings, and another of you and the first kindergarten class you taught. You set them both in the corner across from the fake plant you plan on replacing with a real one.
You get a little work done on your laptop before you have to leave for the meeting room. You grab your purse and laptop and head down the hall. You get there a handful of minutes before either of the drivers does and open your laptop, although it's not really needed. The point of this meeting is just to get to know them.
Laurent is the first to enter, followed by Yuki, who smiles and takes a seat, waiting for Max to enter. When he does, he has a small upset girl on his hip, the same one you saw in the driver's room. You vaguely remember hearing that he has a kid, but you wonder why she's not with her other parent right now.
You take a deep breath and get ready to introduce yourself. “Hello, I know we've already met, but my name is y/n, and I am new to the racing world, but as I already said, I will try my best to do well.”
There were a few seconds of silence before, again, Yuki breaks it.
“So this is new to you. What did you do before?”
“It was very different,” you let out a small sigh, trying not to think about it too much because you know it'll make you dejected. Yuki can tell almost immediately that you don't really want to answer, so thankfully, he drops it.
“Well, as you know, I'm Yuki, and that is Max, and the little girl behind him is Lily, his daughter.” She gives you a small wave. Ahh, finally something I know, kids. You kneel down to her level and wave,
“Hi, Lily, I'm y/n. I do what's called PR for your dad.” You smile at her as she slowly slides out from behind his leg.
“What's PR?” she asks, looking at you with a curious gaze,
“Well, I make sure your dad looks good on TV,” she smiles,
“Like Bluey?” You laugh, “Sure, close enough.”
“Do you have kids of your own?” he asks a bit surprised at how well you are with her. It's an innocent question, really, but it triggers something inside of you, taking you back to that day.
–
You're sitting at your desk, eating lunch while your students are at recess, when one of your friends walks in
"Hey y/n! Whatcha eating for lunch?” You smile.
“Well, don't judge me when I tell you a peanut-butter and pickle sandwich with Doritos.”
“No, I get it. Those pregnancy cravings go crazy!” she smiles, “When are you due anyway?”
“About 16 more weeks. I'm so excited for Alexander to be here!”
When your kids come back in from recess, you start your lesson. Your kids are still learning about the sound association. So you're doing an activity where you give them a Smartie every time they can make a correct association. You started to get some really bad cramps and didn't think it was a big deal, you were five months pregnant after all, so you rolled your seat over and sat down, still playing the game. The pain didn't stop for a concerning amount of time. When it finally went away, it was almost the end of the day. You were grading a few papers and finalizing a few details for some future lesson plans when your friend popped her head in the door.
“Hey, how are you feeling? You don't look very good, no offense.” She smiles, coming to sit beside you.
“Oh, I kind of feel bad. I’ve been having the worst cramps, and I REALLY have to pee, but I have to finish this first. Do you mind keeping me company?” you say, trying to get the last of the things done.
“Of course, girl, how much do you have left?” she asks, pulling a chair up to your desk and pulling her phone out.
“Just these last few,” you say, finishing as quickly and getting up. “I have to pee so bad it feels like I already started.” You laugh, grab your things, and head to the teacher's bathroom. When you pull your pants down, you immediately feel the wet in your underwear; it feels thick and cold like you just started your period, and your stomach drops. You feel sick just at the thought. You can't make yourself look down, too afraid of what you'll see. After too long, you take a deep breath and look down. Your heart shatters. It's blood, and a lot of it. Shakily, you pull your pants back up and walk out to your car as fast as you can You're in a daze, everything is blurring together as you get in your car. The drive to the hospital was silent. All you could think about is it's not true, IT’S NOT TRUE.
You walk into the hospital numb, not thinking, not hearing. Everything is fussy. You quietly and matter-of-factly tell the receptionist you think you're having a miscarriage, and she looks at you, shocked, calling a nurse out for you and rushing you back, all in a blur. The nurses are telling you that you have to deliver the baby who is no longer with you. It is the worst pain you've ever felt. He was supposed to come out crying, you were supposed to be exhausted every night when he cried and kept you up, and there wasn't supposed to be this much blood. It all happens quickly, from the nurse asking for your emergency contact to her telling you you could keep bleeding for the next month to your husband showing up and taking you home.
The whole time, all you can think is IT’S NOT FAIR! You always get to see parents walk in and out with their babies. You've always loved your students as if they were your own. You've always opened your heart and home to nieces and nephews, and you were finally going to have your own. You were supposed to be a great mother. It can't be true. This can't be how it happens. You want to be a mother, you want to be a great mother. Why does this have to happen to you?
You go back into class a week and a half later, and the students are worried, your co-workers are pitying you, and your husband has been… Distant at best. Nothing in your life is right, the world doesn't feel real anymore, nothing feels ok, and the little voices make you wish you could have made one of your own. Now, when the pregnant moms walk in, it makes you hate them instead of befriending them like you used to. You hate it all, this school, this town, yourself. The overly worried looks of coworkers make you sick. The blood still in your underwear makes you sob in the bathroom. Every minute feels like years. Everyone knows what happened, even if they pretend they don't. You know, things like this travel fast in towns like this. As the months drag on, you become less of a person, and your husband becomes more distant. He comes home smelling like perfume, but you don't care. Maybe it's your fault for not being able to deliver a crying baby. You know something is wrong, but you can't think about it it's too late to fix.
—
You quickly snap back to reality, avoiding thinking anymore about that haunted town and haunted home. You look up at Max, hearing the question ring in your ears a little, but muster the best smile you can,
“No, sadly.” You stand back up, looking at Yuki and Max.
Max can tell there's something wrong from the barely too long pause and the look in your eyes when you look up at him to answer, but he doesn't want to pry further. That's your business, not his, unless it starts to affect your work.
“Well, if you two have any questions for me, you can get a hold of me through the company phone.” They both nod. Laurent informs you all of a few videos and interviews he wants you to do throughout the weekend.
You start talking to them about ideas on how and when you can do these. When you head back to your office, you start managing a hospitality event happening at the next race, which is something that is completely new and overwhelming to do, but you're determined to do it right.
As lunchtime approaches, you desperately need a break. Grabbing your lunchbox, you take a small walk around that paddock, needing new scenery for your lunch. You pass by the driver's rooms and hear a child sobbing. You immediately know it's Lily and peek your head in the door. She's on the floor crying, and Max isn't even in the room. “Hey,” you say, taking a cautious step in “what's going on?” you ask, getting down to her level.
She stares back at you before letting out another small sob,
“Dad said I could have apples, and then—and then he said no and left me.”
You raise your eyebrow, knowing how kids can be all too well, so you don't fully believe her. “Well, I'm sure he'll be back soon. He wouldn't just leave you,”
“I want my dad.” she sobs. You sigh, moving a little closer and patting her back.
“I know you do, but let's take a deep breath. I may have something for you,” you say, still patting her back while you look at her and taking a deep breath in and out a few times till she calms down a little. When she stops crying, she looks at you.
“You have my dad?” You laugh, “No, but I do have apples.” You reach into your lunch bag and pull out the apple you were going to have, and she lights up.
“I can have that?” You nod.
“Yeah, if you want it,” you say, taking the sticker off. She nods, and you smile. “Do you want it cut into slices?” She nods again. You walk over to the small counter and start slicing it into pieces, taking the core out of each piece before putting it on a napkin and handing it to her. She happily takes a bite, kicking her little feet. She starts telling you a story about all the cats she apparently has at home, starting a small conversation between the two of you, before Max walks back in a little flustered. He looks at you for just a second too long, and you can't help but notice how fucking beautiful he is.
—
When Max walks in without the apples he promised this morning, it's almost an immediate breakdown. He had told her he'd forgotten and would be right back with apples, but she was still crying when he left. He thought she’d be fine for a few minutes, but when he came back, he could no longer hear her crying. He could actually hear her giggling, and when he walks into his driver's room, he stops in the doorway, seeing you slicing an apple for Lilly. He watches you carefully cut the core out before setting them down in front of Lilly, immediately starting a small conversation, and he sees how happy Lilly is and how good you are with her, and his heart jumps a little. Maybe it's because you look beautiful sitting on the floor there with Lilly, smiling at every word she says. Maybe it's because of how happy Lilly is. He doesn't know, but he does know it's not good. He can't develop feelings for the new intern on her first day, even if she is drop-dead gorgeous, even if she is inexplicably good with his kid. He has to take a deep breath before walking in and making his presence known. He locks eyes with you and immediately knows, FUCK, THOSE EYES ARE GOING TO DOOM ME. Maybe he's ok with it.
Hey can you do an Lando one with angst where they have an argument and y/n goes to bed and Lando thinks that y/n doesn’t want him near her so he decides to give her some space and sleeps on the couch or the guest bedroom, but y/n can’t sleep without him, you make the rest however you like but I’d like some fluff if that’s ok xx
The darkest part of the storm
Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: angst, relationship conflict, emotional exhaustion, miscommunication, heavy fluff, mutual comfort, sleeping on the couch, happy ending
Summary: The crushing pressure of a Formula 1 world title fight finally boils over into a devastating midnight argument between Lando and Y/N. Believing he is only causing her pain, Lando retreats to the living room couch to give her space, leaving Y/N completely unable to sleep in their empty, freezing bed.
Requested: Yes/ anon
Word count: 4118
Author’s note: Oh, this one genuinely broke my heart a little bit while writing it, but I promise the fluff at the end makes up for the tears, lol. Thanks for the request!! xx
Masterlist
The rain in Monaco didn’t fall so much as it pressed itself against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the apartment, a heavy, relentless gray sheet that blurred the harbor lights into smeary streaks of amber and white. Inside, the penthouse was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t feel peaceful, but rather like the taut, vibrating stretch of a wire right before it snaps.
You stood by the kitchen island, your fingers white-knuckled around the edge of the cold marble. Your chest ached, a deep, hollow throb that had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the man standing three feet away from you.
Lando looked exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes were bruised purple, a testament to back-to-back race weekends, simulator sessions, and the relentless, crushing weight of a championship battle. But right now, his eyes weren’t soft or teasing. They were bright with a defensive, burning frustration, his shoulders hunched inside his oversized dark hoodie as he stared at you.
"I don't understand what you want from me," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, lacking its usual boyish lilt. "I'm doing everything I can. I am flying across the world, I am working until my brain goes numb, and when I finally come home, I just want to breathe. But the second I walk through the door, it feels like I'm failing another test."
"It's not a test, Lando," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly, though you tried desperately to hold it steady. "It has never been a test. I just want you. Not the version of you that sits on the couch staring blankly at his phone because he's too drained to look at me. Not the version that answers me in one-word sentences. I know you're tired, I understand how much pressure you're under, but I live here too. I'm your partner, not a piece of furniture you only notice when you need to sit down."
Lando let out a harsh, humorless laugh, tossing his head back for a fraction of a second before pinning you with a sharp glare. "A piece of furniture? Are you serious? I literally spent the last three days trying to wrap up meetings early just so I could catch the earlier flight back to Nice. I rushed through everything, skipped dinners with the team, just to get back to this apartment. And now that I'm here, all you can tell me is that I'm not doing enough. It is never enough."
"That is not what I said, and you know it," you shot back, the frustration finally bubbling over, hot and stinging behind your eyelids. "You're twisting my words because it's easier for you to feel defensive than it is to just admit that you've checked out when you're here. You are physically in the room, Lando, but you aren't with me. I feel completely alone in this relationship lately, and when I try to tell you that because it hurts, you turn it into an attack on your career."
"Because it always comes back to that, doesn't it?" Lando’s voice finally cracked, rising in volume, the raw emotion breaking through his carefully constructed wall of fatigue. "It's always about how much time the racing takes, how much energy it takes. You knew what this life was when we started. You knew I couldn't just switch my brain off after a Grand Prix. I am fighting for a world title, Y/N. Every single millisecond matters. Every ounce of focus I have has to go into that car right now, and if I don't have enough left over at the end of the day, I'm sorry, but I am doing my best."
The words hung heavily in the air, sharp and jagged, cutting deep into the space between you. *If I don't have enough left over at the end of the day, I'm sorry.*
You stared at him, your heart shattering into a thousand quiet pieces. It wasn't the anger in his voice that hurt the most, it was the absolute, devastating honesty behind it. He didn't have enough left for you. You were getting the scraps, the empty shell of the boy you loved, and he was telling you that was all he could manage.
"Right," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper that felt entirely hollow. "You're right."
Lando blinked, his defensive posture faltering slightly at your sudden shift. The fire in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, uneasy confusion. "Y/N..."
"No, you're right," you repeated, shaking your head as you stepped back from the island, letting your hands drop to your sides. "I knew what this life was. But I thought I was part of the team, Lando. I thought we were doing this together. I didn't realize I was just an obligation at the end of your checklist."
"That's not what I meant," he said quickly, taking half a step toward you, his hand reaching out instinctively, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to grab your wrist but thought better of it.
"I'm tired," you said, cutting him off before he could try to repair the tear he had just made. "I'm just really, really tired. I'm going to bed."
You didn't wait for his response. You couldn't bear to look at the mixture of guilt and lingering anger on his face, nor could you risk staying out there and letting him see you break down completely. You turned on your heel and walked down the long, dimly lit hallway toward the master bedroom, the soft click of the door closing behind you sounding like a definitive exclamation point at the end of the worst night of your relationship.
In the living room, Lando stood entirely frozen, his hand still half-extended toward the empty space where you had been standing just moments ago. The silence returned with a vengeance, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by the rhythmic, muffled thudding of the rain against the glass.
He dropped his hand to his side, his fingers curling into a tight fist before he released it, letting out a long, shaky breath that trembled through his chest. He felt like he was vibrating, his blood rushing hot and loud in his ears, a toxic cocktail of adrenaline, exhaustion, and deep, sickening regret.
He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to make it sound like you were a burden, or that loving you was a chore he simply didn't have the energy for. But the words had tumbled out, driven by weeks of mounting pressure, bad strategy calls, media scrutiny, and the terrifying knowledge that his lifelong dream was within his grasp, yet slipping through his fingers if he made even one wrong move. He had taken all of that stress, all of that fear, and he had hurled it directly at the person who deserved it least.
Lando sank down onto the large, plush sofa, burying his face in his hands. His palms felt cool against his burning cheeks. He wanted to go after you. Every instinct in his body told him to walk down that hallway, open the bedroom door, and pull you into his arms until the tension melted away. He wanted to bury his face in your neck, smell the familiar, comforting scent of your vanilla perfume, and whisper a thousand apologies into your skin until you forgave him.
But then he remembered the look in your eyes right before you turned away.
It wasn't a look of anger. It was a look of complete, utter defeat. You had looked so small, so tired, so deeply hurt by the words he had thrown at you.
*I feel completely alone in this relationship lately.*
The phrase echoed through his mind, a brutal, unforgiving loop. Lando swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat. He thought about how he had behaved since he got home, how he had barely looked at you when you made him dinner, how he had drifted off into his own head while you were trying to tell him about your week. You were right. You were completely right, and his defensive reaction had only proven your point. He had made you feel unwanted.
If he went into that bedroom now, would he just make it worse? He knew himself. He was still wound tight, his chest constricted with an anxious, suffocating weight. If he went in there, he might say something else stupid, or his heavy, tense energy would just keep you awake. You had looked so exhausted. You needed to rest, you needed space away from his chaotic, destructive storm.
Lando looked toward the dark hallway leading to the bedroom. The door was closed. To him, that closed door felt like a fortress, a clear, unmistakable boundary. You had walked away because you couldn't stand to look at him anymore. You had gone to bed because his presence was suffocating you.
"She doesn't want you near her right now," he whispered to the empty room, his voice cracking in the darkness. "Just give her some space, man. Don't ruin it any more than you already have."
With a heavy heart and a stomach churning with anxiety, Lando pulled off his trainers, leaving them by the coffee table. He didn't want to go to the guest bedroom, it felt too cold, too formal, like a final admission that things were truly broken between you. Instead, he grabbed the large, gray throw blanket from the back of the sofa, dragging it over his shivering frame as he lay down on the cushions.
The sofa was long and deep, usually incredibly comfortable when the two of you were curled up together watching a movie, but tonight, it felt like a narrow, lonely raft in the middle of a vast, freezing ocean. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, staring blankly at the dark ceiling, his chest aching with a profound, terrifying loneliness. He was only a few yards away from you, just down the hall, but as he closed his eyes and tried to block out the sound of the rain, it felt like you were on the other side of the world.
Inside the bedroom, the darkness was absolute, save for the faint, watery glow of the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains.
You were lying on your side, curled into a tight, protective ball in the very center of the king-sized bed. The sheets were cool and crisp, completely untouched on Lando’s side. You had been staring at the door for what felt like hours, your ears strained, listening intently for the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall.
Every time the floorboards creaked, or the wind whipped hard against the glass, your heart leaped into your throat, thinking *this is it, he's coming back, he's going to open the door and tell me he didn't mean it.*
But the minutes ticked by, bleeding into hours, and the door remained firmly shut.
A single, hot tear escaped your eye, tracking slowly down your cheek and soaking into the pillowcase. The silence in the room was deafening. Usually, the bedroom was your sanctuary, the one place where the chaos of the Formula One paddock couldn't reach the two of you. Usually, Lando would be right there, his large, warm body pressed against your back, his strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you so close against his chest that you could feel the steady, reassuring thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder blades.
You couldn't sleep. It wasn't just that you were upset, it was a physical impossibility. Over the years, your body had become entirely conditioned to his presence. You needed his warmth to stop your own shivering, you needed the heavy, rhythmic sound of his breathing to quiet the anxious thoughts in your own mind. Without him, the bed felt far too big, an empty, freezing desert that offered absolutely no comfort.
You rolled over onto your other side, reaching out an arm to touch his pillow. It was cold. You pulled it closer, burying your face in the fabric, inhaling deeply. It smelled faintly of him, that distinct mix of his expensive cologne, mint, and the clean, comforting scent of his skin, but the scent was just a cruel mockery of the fact that he wasn't actually there.
The realization hit you with a sudden, crushing weight, he wasn't coming.
He was so angry, so completely done with the argument, that he had chosen to stay away from you. Your mind, already weakened by exhaustion and heartache, immediately began to spin the worst possible scenarios. Did he regret being with you? Was he realizing that his career really was too big to leave room for a relationship? Did he sleep in the guest room because the very sight of you was too much for him to handle right now?
The thoughts were like tiny, sharp needles pricking at your brain. You pulled the duvet up over your shoulders, shivering violently despite the warmth of the blanket. You tried to force your eyes shut, tried to counting your breaths, tried to focus on the sound of the rain, but every time you started to drift off, a sudden jolt of panic would shake you awake, a visceral reminder that you were alone in the dark.
By three o'clock in the morning, you couldn't take it anymore. The ache in your chest had grown into a physical tightness that made it hard to breathe. You needed to know where he was. Even if he was furious with you, even if he told you to leave him alone, you just needed to see him, to make sure he was still within your reach.
Slowly, carefully, you pushed the heavy duvet aside. The cool air of the room hit your bare legs, making you goosebump instantly. You slid your feet into your slippers and padded softly toward the door. Your hand trembled slightly as you gripped the handle, turning it slowly so it wouldn't make a sound.
The hallway was pitch-black, the air carrying a faint chill. You walked with hesitant, silent steps, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. As you reached the end of the hall, where it opened up into the expansive living room, your eyes adjusted to the dim light.
You stopped in your tracks.
Lando wasn't in the guest bedroom. He was lying right there on the sofa, his long legs curled up slightly to fit within the constraints of the cushions. The gray throw blanket was bunched up around his waist, having fallen away from his upper body during his restless tossing and turning. He was wearing nothing but his dark track pants, his bare shoulders exposed to the cool room, shaking slightly from the chill.
Even in the shadows, you could see that he wasn't sleeping peacefully. His brow was heavily furrowed, his mouth turned down in a tight, unhappy line, and his hands were clenched into loose fists near his chest. He looked so incredibly vulnerable, so small and completely miserable, stripped of the confident, quick-witted persona he wore for the world.
A wave of profound tenderness and overwhelming love washed over you, completely drowning out the lingering embers of your anger. He hadn't abandoned you. He hadn't locked himself away in a distant room to get away from you. He had stayed right here, just a few feet from the bedroom, shivering on a couch because he thought he was doing the right thing.
You stepped closer, your footsteps silent on the soft rug. As you neared the sofa, you noticed the slight tremble in his shoulders. He was freezing.
Without a second thought, you walked over to the side of the sofa and knelt down on the rug. The movement was quiet, but Lando was such a light sleeper, his senses always hyper-tuned, that the subtle shift in the air woke him instantly.
His eyelids fluttered open, his blue-green eyes cloudy and unfocused with sleep. For a second, he just stared at you, his pupils dilating in the dark, as if he believed he was trapped in a beautiful, cruel dream.
"Y/N?" he breathed, his voice incredibly rough, a low, raspy whisper that cut straight through you.
"Hey," you murmured softly, your voice gentle, entirely devoid of the sharp edge from hours earlier. "You're freezing, Lando."
As reality caught up with him, Lando’s entire body went rigid. The softness in his eyes instantly vanished, replaced by a sudden, frantic panic. He sat up abruptly, the blanket falling completely to his lap as he looked at you, his chest heaving slightly.
"I'm sorry," he stammered out quickly, his voice laced with an agonizing amount of guilt. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up. I just, I thought you wanted space. You looked so upset, and I knew I ruined everything tonight, so I figured if I stayed out here, you wouldn't have to look at me. I'll go to the guest room, I can move right now, you don't have to..."
He started to swing his legs off the couch, his movements frantic and clumsy as he tried to gather the blanket, desperate to remove himself from your sight because he truly believed his presence was a punishment to you.
"Lando, stop," you said, your voice cracking slightly as you reached out, placing a gentle but firm hand on his bare forearm.
The moment your skin touched his, it was like an electric shock ran through his system. Lando froze instantly, his eyes dropping down to your hand on his arm, then slowly tracing their way back up to your face. He was trembling, not just from the cold anymore, but from a deep, emotional vibration that he couldn't control.
"Don't go to the guest room," you whispered, your eyes filling with fresh tears that shimmered in the dim light. "Please."
Lando swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "But, the argument, I said such horrible things to you, Y/N. I made you feel like you didn't matter, and I haven't been able to sleep because every time I close my eyes, I just see the look on your face when you walked away. I thought, I thought you didn't want me near you."
"I was angry, Lando, and I was hurt," you said, your voice shaking as you let out a small, watery breath. "But I never, ever don't want you near me. I can't sleep without you. The bed is freezing, and it's too big, and I've just been lying there for hours waiting for you to come down the hall."
Lando’s eyes widened, a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion crashing over his face. The tightly coiled tension in his shoulders finally broke, his chest heaving as a ragged, choked sob escaped his throat. He didn't even try to hide it, he didn't try to be the strong, untouchable racing driver anymore. He was just a boy who loved you desperately, completely broken by the thought that he had hurt you.
"Oh god, Y/N," he choked out, his voice thick with tears.
Before you could say another word, Lando reached out, his long arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you up off the floor and directly into his lap. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking violently as he held you with a fierce, desperate strength, as if he were a drowning man and you were the only thing keeping him afloat.
You instantly wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him as close as physically possible, your fingers tangling in the soft, messy curls at the back of his head. He was so cold against your skin, but as you held him, the heat began to return to both of you, a shared, burning warmth that melted away the residual chill of the night.
"I am so sorry," Lando sobbed into your skin, his lips pressing frantic, wet kisses against your neck, your jaw, wherever he could reach. "I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean any of it. You are not an obligation, Y/N, you are the only thing that keeps me sane. I don't know why I said that, I was just so stressed and scared, and I took it out on you because you're my safe place, but that's not fair to you. It's so unfair."
"Shh, I know, Lando, I know," you murmured, your own tears flowing freely now, wetting his bare shoulder as you rocked him gently in the dark. "I know you're under so much pressure. I know how hard it is."
"But it's no excuse," he insisted, pulling back just enough to look at you, his face streaked with tears, his nose red, his eyes incredibly bright and desperate. He reached up, his large, warm hands framing your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears on your cheeks. "I never want you to feel alone. Especially not when I'm right there in the same room. I love you so much, Y/N. More than the racing, more than the championship, more than anything in this entire world. If I lose you, none of that other stuff matters anyway. I'd throw it all away in a heartbeat if it meant keeping you."
Your heart swelled, a beautiful, aching fullness replacing the hollow void that had been there all night. You leaned into his touch, pressing your cheek against his palm. "I don't want you to throw it away, Lando. I want to see you win. I just need us to be on the same page. I need you to talk to me when it gets too heavy, instead of locking me out."
"I will," he promised fiercely, his voice cracking as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. Their breath mingled in the space between them, warm and comforting. "I swear to god, I will. I'll tell you everything. I'll let you in, even when I'm a mess. Just please don't ever think I don't want you."
"I won't," you whispered. "And you have to promise me you'll never sleep on the couch again just because we have a fight. If we're mad at each other, you come to bed and you be mad at me under the same blanket, okay? We don't do this distance thing. It's terrible."
A tiny, wet laugh escaped Lando’s lips, a beautiful, familiar sound that made your chest ache with relief. "Okay," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Promise. I hated it. It was the worst three hours of my life."
"Good," you smiled softly, reaching up to gently wipe a lingering tear from under his eye. "Now, come to bed. You're still shivering."
Lando didn't need to be told twice. He stood up, keeping you securely cradled in his arms as if you weighed nothing at all. You wrapped your legs around his waist, burying your face in his neck as he carried you down the dark hallway, his steps confident and sure now, completely devoid of the hesitation from earlier.
When he reached the master bedroom, he kicked the door shut behind him, the sound soft and final. He walked over to the bed and carefully lowered you onto the mattress, before climbing in right after you.
The moment he was under the duvet, he pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost took your breath away, but it was exactly what you needed. He hooked his leg over yours, completely tangling your bodies together until there wasn't a single inch of space between you.
The bed instantly began to warm up, the crisp, cold sheets turning cozy and safe. Lando buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, his chest expanding against your back in a slow, steady rhythm.
"Better?" he whispered into the dark, his voice soft and sleepy, all the jagged edges completely smoothed away.
You reached down, finding his large hand where it rested against your stomach, and laced your fingers through his, pressing his palm flat against you.
"Perfect," you murmured, closing your eyes as the heavy, comforting weight of sleep finally began to pull you under. "Goodnight, Lando."
"Goodnight, my beautiful girl," Lando whispered, pressing one final, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder. "I love you."
"I love you too."
Outside, the rain continued to pour against the windows of Monaco, but inside, under the heavy blankets, wrapped in each other's arms, the storm had finally passed, leaving nothing but warmth, safety, and the steady, unbreakable beat of two hearts aligned once again.
