Synopsis: Childhood friends turned F1 royalty, Max and Ciara finally realise the love everyone else saw coming — and now he’ll burn the world down before he lets anything touch her.
Moonlight Radio: A video popped up on my 'for you page' of little Max and Michael having a hug and I just couldn’t resist writing this one. I’ve had the character Ciara Schumacher in the bank for awhile, so I thought this is the perfect time to use her. (And keep her in mind as I’ve got big plans for her and max in the future!)
The paddock had always been loud, but nothing compared to the noise that followed Max Verstappen and Ciara Schumacher when they walked in together.
It wasn’t just attention - it was orbit. Cameras swung, heads turned, and even seasoned journalists straightened up like schoolchildren. They were the couple everyone watched, the one every tabloid tried to decode, the one every fan adored. The golden boy of Red Bull and the daughter of the greatest driver the sport had ever seen. The legacy pair. The inevitable duo.
But to them, it was just… them.
Max’s hand rested on the small of her back as they walked toward the garage, thumb tracing slow, absent‑minded circles. He always did that - grounding himself, grounding her, reminding the world she was his without ever needing to say it.
“You’re staring,” Ciara murmured, not looking up from her tablet.
“I’m allowed,” Max replied, not even pretending to deny it.
“You’re supposed to be focusing on FP3.”
“I am. I’m focusing on the most important part of FP3.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “I’m not part of FP3.”
“You’re part of everything.”
He said it so casually, like it was a fact of physics. Like gravity.
—
They had known each other since they were six - two tiny kids running around the karting track while their fathers watched with crossed arms and identical smirks. Jos and Michael had been rivals, friends, and co‑conspirators in equal measure. And nothing delighted them more than the way their children gravitated toward each other.
There were photos - hundreds of them - of Max and Ciara sitting on tyre stacks, sharing juice boxes, falling asleep on each other’s shoulders during long race weekends. There were videos of them racing each other in karts far too big for them, screaming with laughter, shouting accusations of cheating.
And there were the bets.
Their fathers had started making them before Max and Ciara even understood what romance was.
“Five euros says they’ll start dating at sixteen,” Jos had said once, arms crossed as he watched the two kids bicker over who got the last packet of crisps.
Michael had laughed. “Sixteen? Please. They’ll be too busy racing. Twenty-one.”
“Eighteen.”
“Twenty.”
“Fine. Twenty.”
They shook on it.
Neither of them won.
Because Max and Ciara didn’t get together at sixteen, or eighteen, or twenty. They didn’t even realise what they were to each other until they were twenty‑three, sitting on the roof of Max’s Monaco apartment, legs dangling over the edge as the city glittered below them.
She had leaned her head on his shoulder. He had kissed the top of her hair. And suddenly everything made sense.
They didn’t fall in love. They grew into it.
—
“Ciara, can I get a quick interview?”
A reporter stepped in front of her now, mic raised, smile too eager. Max stiffened beside her instantly, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. He didn’t like when people swarmed her. He didn’t like when they pushed too close. He didn’t like when they forgot she was a person, not a headline.
He didn’t like anything that made her uncomfortable.
But Ciara touched his arm lightly - a silent I’m fine - and he exhaled.
“Sure,” she said politely.
The reporter beamed. “How does it feel being part of the biggest power couple in Formula 1?”
Ciara laughed softly. “I don’t think about it like that. We’re just… us.”
“And your father — the legend himself — did he ever imagine you’d end up with Max?”
“Oh, he absolutely did,” she said, eyes sparkling. “He and Jos used to make bets about it.”
The reporter’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Really,” Max cut in, voice warm but firm, stepping closer so their arms brushed. “And for the record, they were both wrong.”
The reporter laughed, thanked them, and moved on.
As soon as they were alone again, Max leaned down, murmuring, “You okay?”
“Perfect.”
He kissed her temple. “Good.”
—
Later, after FP3, after debriefs, after the chaos of the paddock settled into its usual hum, Ciara found Max sitting on the pit wall, helmet beside him, staring out at the empty track.
She slid in beside him. “You’re quiet.”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
He hesitated. Max Verstappen didn’t hesitate often. “You.”
She nudged him. “That’s not thinking. That’s your default setting.”
He huffed a laugh, but his eyes stayed serious. “I saw the way that cameraman shoved past you earlier. You almost tripped.”
“Max—”
“I should’ve been there.”
“You were in the car.”
“I still should’ve been there.”
She turned fully toward him. “You can’t protect me from everything.”
“I can try.”
“And I love that you try,” she said softly. “But I’m okay. I’ve been in this world my whole life.”
“That’s exactly why I worry,” he muttered. “You grew up in the spotlight. You grew up with pressure. You grew up with expectations. I just… I want to make it easier for you.”
“You do,” she whispered. “Every day.”
He looked at her then - really looked - and she saw it all in his eyes. The devotion. The fear. The love that ran so deep it scared him sometimes.
“Max,” she said gently, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He swallowed. “Good.”
—
That night, they returned to their hotel, exhausted but buzzing with the familiar pre‑qualifying adrenaline. Ciara curled up on the bed while Max paced, still wired.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” she teased.
“I’m thinking.”
“You think a lot.”
“Only about you.”
She threw a pillow at him. He caught it easily, smirking, then crossed the room and sat beside her.
“You know,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I used to get jealous.”
“Used to?”
“Okay, still do.”
“Of what?”
“Anyone who gets to be near you. Anyone who gets to talk to you. Anyone who looks at you like they have a chance.”
She laughed. “Max—”
“I’m serious,” he said, voice low. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. Since you beat me in that stupid kart race and stuck your tongue out at me.”
“I remember.”
“I knew then,” he said. “I knew you were it for me.”
Her heart squeezed. “I knew too. I just didn’t know I knew.”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “We were always going to end up here.”
“Always.”
—
The next morning, as they walked into the paddock again - hand in hand, sunlight catching on their matching bracelets - a photographer muttered to another, “They’re the it couple, aren’t they?”
Max heard it.
He didn’t care.
He leaned down, kissed Ciara’s cheek, and whispered, “They have no idea.”
Because the world saw glamour, legacy, perfection.
But Max saw the girl who shared juice boxes with him at six.
The girl who held his hand during his first kart crash.
The girl who sat beside him on rooftops and made the world quiet.
The girl he would protect with every breath he had.
The girl he loved long before either of them understood what love was.
And as they stepped into the garage, fingers intertwined, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Their fathers hadn’t lost the bet.
They’d just underestimated how inevitable it really was.
content: NASCAR!reader, she/her reader, reader wears a dress (not described), down bad lando, background oscar/reader friendship, y/n not used outside of username, other drivers mentioned
fc: pinterest girlies and susie wolff bc i love her
a/n: let's pretend for two seconds that the any of these races line up whatsoever :) also let me know if you want a pt ii this was a lot of fun to make
symbols from @gotiqes and @webgrave
the pictures in the posts are placeholders! reader is not physically described! imagine whoever you like!
[yn_ln54] can't wait to get back in the car this weekend 💪
[view comments]
[user0] not the casinos! we talked abt this
⤿ [yn_ln54] you know your girl left with the exact same amount of cash she walked in with 💅
[user1] @/ynuser54 have you seen the post??
⤿ [user2] no way she has
[user3] is this the girl lando was talking abt? mid
⤿ [user4] who even are you???
⤿ [user5] get outta here with that shit
⤿ [user6] booo
⤿ [user7] boooo
⤿ [yn_ln54] booo
[yn_ln54] what the hell y'all talking about??
⁺ ﹒⋆ ﹒ ⁺ ﹒
Las Vegas, baby! What? Did you expect him to stay in the hotel and sleep through the night? After a podium finish? When he could be getting drunk and/or laid. Well, the plan had been for and, but you changed things. Because he saw you before he even ordered his first drink. Stepping away from a group and moving toward the bar. And that dress. If you look this good in it, Lando desperately needs to know what you look like out of it. So he approaches.
It’s subtle. Cool. Totally normal. Lando just slides into the seat next to you. And on most nights, that’s all it takes. People either know who he is or they see his face and decide his name doesn’t really matter. But you don’t even blink, waiting somewhat impatiently for the bartender to notice you. It’s kind of adorable, how you tap your foot against the sticky floor.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He finally says, loud enough for you to hear over the thumping bass. You don’t flinch, and Lando suddenly realizes you knew he was here. You were just ignoring him. The thought makes a traitorous smile begin to grow on his face.
You turn to look at him slowly, squinting a little as your eyes move up and down. Then your face settles into something smug and you grin.
When you open your mouth, he expects it to be a response. Something snarky, he can already tell. Except, you’re turning toward the bartender and ordering “the most expensive drink you can make” from the bartender who seems to have finally noticed your existence.
“And put it on his tab.” You point a thumb back at Lando, making that stupid grin on his face grow wider. The bartender pauses before holding out his hand for the card. Lando slides it over with a grin.
“Anything for you.” He whispers. You roll your eyes, clearly unmoved. “Come on? Nothing?”
“I make it a point not to be impressed by pretty little Formula drivers.” Your voice is smooth. The bartender returns, large glass in hand. It looks suspiciously like he poured every top shelf liquor into one glass and gave it a lazy stir, but you don’t even hesitate before taking a sip. You nod slowly, reaching out to grab the bartender’s hand. Lando is honestly a little surprised he doesn’t pull away. “Wonderful. Thank you again, Danny.”
“Wait, you know him?” He pauses, then, in the same exact tone. “Wait, you think I’m pretty?”
It shouldn’t be a shock. Not really. Lando knows he’s pretty. And handsome. And hot. It’s not narcissism. He just has eyes. But you haven’t reacted to him at all, so to hear you say it out loud. He wants to hear it again. Just a little.
Danny walks away and you grin, winking once before sliding off the booth. “He’s my cousin. I get free drinks.”
“You didn’t answer my other question.”
You pause, huffing a little as he has absolutely no reaction to your little reveal. As if any drink you bought could be enough to dent his bank account. He grins, hopping off of his stool to land right in front of you. But nothing. No reaction. Just a stare from your beautiful eyes.
“Sure.” You shrug. Like it’s a fact you know and are very unimpressed by. Sure, the sky is blue. So what? Big whoop.
And Lando…Lando grins. Smiles so wide his cheeks hurt a little. And he hasn’t even had a single drink yet. Because you showed up and thoroughly derailed every single plan and thought he’d ever had. It’s fun.
“Alright, alright.” Lando raises his hands in surrender and takes half a step back. He thinks your shoulders drop just a millimeter. He doesn’t mention it. “Can I at least get a name? You clearly already know mine and that feels quite unfair.”
You study him less like a man and more like a bug beneath a microscope. He’s being cut open under your gaze and he never wants you to look away.
“Try watching some racing other than yours, pretty boy.” You say, smirking around your straw. He can’t even respond before you’re disappearing into the crowd.
[lando] anyone know where i can find @/yn_ln54, she's not answering my dms 🥺
[view comments]
[charles_leclerc] delete this right now
[user8] lando norris interested in nascar??? what is the world coming to?
⤿ [user9] we are living in the best timeline
⤿ [user 3] we are living in the worst timeline
[georgerussel63] do you hate me? be honest
⤿ [lando] :)
[user10] lmao not lando trying and failing to get into her dms
⤿ [ynuser54] what a nerddd
⤿ [lando] @/ynuser54 why are you so mean to me
[yn_ln54] check ur dms now comment deleted
[user11] lol yn deleting her comment right away
⤿ [user12] we saw that, girl!
⤿ [user13] guys they might just be friends
The car pulls to a stop in front of your hotel and you both sit there for a minute, breathing in the silence. Lando speaks first, palms sweaty against his jeans. He really shouldn’t be so nervous. This exact scenario has happened with lots of other women. But he doesn’t want it to end the same. So he switches it up a bit.
“Mind if I walk you to your door?” He grins, trying to look cheeky. He only manages to look so horribly in love that you actually laugh. A bright, sharp thing.
“Just to my door?”
“Just to your door.”
You pause like you’re considering it. Like you have anything to lose from letting Lando follow you through the hotel like a lost puppy. Then you shrug, kicking open your door. “I guess chivalry isn’t dead.” But you say it with a grin so sharp Lando wonders if you really mean it at all. He’ll take what he can get.
“Milady,” He says, loudly, obviously, playing into the part of a chivalrous suitor. You roll your eyes but take his arm (after an honestly embarrassing scramble around the hood of the car to reach your door before you can fully climb out). You also laugh.
The walk through the lobby is slow and Lando can’t help the way his chest puffs out just a little. Because he has you on his arm. Literally. A few patrons still milling around in the lobby seem to look twice at him. Recognizing him from somewhere. But they either can’t quite place Lando’s face or they don’t care enough to pull out their phones and take a picture. So the journey across the open lobby to the elevator is a success. Lando absently pats your hand where you hold his arm.
He watches, perhaps with a bit too rapt of attention as you push the fourth floor button. Lando’s eyes study the curve of your fingers, memorizing the motion and the number. He does the same as you dig into your purse for your keycard, committing the room number to memory. Just in case. Not tonight, though. He was serious about just walking you to your door. He wants to do this right. Not just a hookup. Maybe something more.
The door beeps as you swipe your card. You turn the handle, pushing it open. Then, you look back. Over your shoulder. You turn. And suddenly you’re kissing him. Hand gripping the collar of his silk shirt, probably wrinkling and pulling at the fabric. Lando couldn’t care less, melting into the kiss. It’s a clash of mouths. Lips pressing together, moving in tandem. Teeth clacking every other second, a symphony of need that Lando has to consciously ignore. And tongues. Your tongue marrying his in a sinful dance. He wants to swallow you whole.
Lando pushes you back, just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing quick. “Just to your door.” He says, low and careful.
“Well, thank you for walking me.” You step back but you’re grinning. Lando is almost sure he looks twice as wrecked as you. At least. But he lets you go, clearing his throat for something to do. And then, because you hate him, you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. Just a brush of lips against skin. It makes Lando’s heart beat twice as fast, somehow more intimate than the full-on makeout session.
“You’re welcome.” Lando’s voice comes out breathless and a little shaky. Your grin turns into a satisfied smirk and you wave one more time before shutting the door between you two.
[yn_ln54] first formula 1 race, wasn’t bad. this idiot didn’t win tho, so only a 7/10 (and i suppose a congrats to @/maxverstappen1)
[view comments]
[lando] where did you even get those pictures!!
⤿ [yn_ln54] i never reveal my sources 🤐
[user13] um. so i was wrong
[oscarpiastri] you didn't post the picture with me :(
⤿ [yn_ln54] pls forgive me for this grave sin 🙏
[maxverstappen1] wow i feel truly honored ♡ liked by author
[mclarenf1] glad to host you this weekend! ♡ liked by author
[lando] alright when's my turn
⤿ [yn_ln54] for what exactly???
⤿ [lando] to watch one of your races
⤿ [yn_ln54] oh have you not checked your email lately?
⤿ [user15] lmao
“I thought it was the Indy 500.” Lando says and it immediately earns him a sharp elbow right in his ribs. You glare at him so sharply he thinks it might actually cut him open. He probably wouldn’t mind.
“Daytona 500, idiot. Indy 500 is open wheel. Like your car.”
“I know what open wheel means.” He huffs, but you’re grinning again. And your hand is wrapped in his. Like it belongs there. It kinda does. Because anytime you’re close enough, Lando grabs you. Has to hold onto you like you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long. If he’s not holding you, his knuckles are brushing against yours. Or his knee bumps you under the table. Max says it’s embarrassing how much Lando likes you. Lando thinks he’s fine with that as long as you’re still standing within reach.
The track is hot. Lando has been to Florida before. He’s sat in his hot McLaren and driven entire races through the Florida heat and humidity. But he usually has on his cooling vest. And about a bazillion fans. And he’s not trying to squeeze through a crowd that doesn’t seem to recognize or care who he is. You just drag him along, seemingly unaffected.
You pull and pull until you stop and Lando’s chest slams right into your back, making you stumble. A few mechanics chuckle around him as you jab your elbow into his ribs. Again.
“Here she is.” You say grandly, like you’re revealing your prized possession to him. Allowing him to see something so special to you. And you are. Because your car sits there, bright and covered in a myriad of sponsors. Lando is suddenly glad his car has so little surface space. Then he sees your number. 54 in bold, slanted numbers. The paint sparkles a little and Lando can’t help his smile. God, you like glitter. He wants to kiss you so bad. So he settles for kissing your knuckles and leaning in close to speak low to only you.
“She’s beautiful.”
Your cheeks darken just enough for him to notice and it hits him in the chest at first. He made you blush. You. All confidence and teasing. He made you blush. Lando can feel the words on his tongue, just sitting there. He desperately wants to say them. Wants to prove this moment is real. And then you’re laughing. Soft and bright and god Lando needs to kiss you right now or he’ll actually die. Just wither away on the asphalt and blow away like a pile of dust. He doesn’t settle this time. He leans down and presses his lips to yours. It’s quick. Soft. Chaste, even. But Lando has no idea how open you are about displays of affection. About how much you want to make out with your not-quite-boyfriend in front of your coworkers. He pulls back before he can’t anymore.
It still earns a couple whistles from around the garage. Lando blushes. You don’t. You smile and squeeze his hand one last time. Because you are promptly dragged away for pre-race meetings and interviews and prep and Lando understands. It just feels odd to be the one waiting.
But when you finally return for longer than a half-second glance from across the garage, the wait is worth it. You’re in your race suit, balaclava pulled on, helmet under your arm. You look like a racer. That focused glint in your eye. He almost doesn’t want to disturb you. Break that steely focus. You’re the one that waves first and Lando decides that’s as much as an invitation as he needs to step closer. Close enough to tug on the balaclava gently, straightening it. Close enough to let his fingers trace the edge where your cheeks puff out. Somebody yells something and you step back. Lando lets you. Because you have a race.
“What? No good luck kiss?” You tease, voice muffled by the helmet. Lando smiles. Not a cheeky grin or a smirk. Just a smile stretched across his face as he leans in and kisses the helmet, right over your lips. He’s always thought it was cute when the other drivers’ girlfriends did that. And now here he is, apparently fulfilling a fantasy he didn’t think applied to him. When he pulls back, he can see the smile in your eyes.
“Wait, why didn’t I get a good luck kiss?”
“You didn’t ask?” You shrug, but you’re grinning. He can hear it.
“Next time.” He says, a little petulant and a little pouty before leaning in and kissing your helmet again. “Promise?”
“Promise.” And your voice is so soft Lando can hardly believe you’re real. And almost his. “Maybe you’ll actually win.”
“Oi!” Lando tries to sound indignant, but you’re both laughing, leaned into each other like flowers to the sun.
When someone finally calls you away, the moment doesn’t shatter. It softens just enough to be gently separated. The emotion split cleanly in half, still warm. It melts slowly as you climb in the car. It dissolves into one last look out your window at Lando before you pull out of the garage.
[yn_ln54] third place!!! first podium, baby! let’s gooooo
[view comments]
[lando] congratulations! you did brilliant ♡ liked by author
⤿ [yn_ln54] omg ur so british
⤿ [lando] what does that mean???
[oscarpiastri] congrats!! 🎉 ♡ liked by author
[user9] lando 👀
⤿ [user16] lol professional landoyn shipper
[user17] yes!!! so proud of you girl!
[yn_ln54] they let me drive the car 🙂↕️
[view comments]
[lando] heyyyyy
⤿ [yn_ln54] i'm a professional driver, so its okay for me
⤿ [lando] ???
[oscarpiastri] wanna join mclaren we could use a driver
⤿ [lando] im literally right here
⤿ [yn_ln54] @/oscarpiastri i appreciate the offer, but nascar is my one true love
⤿ [lando] once again, right here ♡ liked by author
[nascar] wowww and i thought we were exclusive
⤿ [yn_ln54] no wait come back baby i didn't mean it
everyone in the paddock knows kimi antonelli. very few know he has an older sister, and even fewer know that max verstappen has been hopelessly in love with her since the moment she asked him if he'd eaten.
warnings: fluff, smau
note: hello ♡ this was written for an absolutely lovely request by @ateliefloresdaprimavera i hope i did your idea justice! i took a few creative liberties to flesh the story out while keeping the heart of your request the same. enjoy!! - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 14,565 others
yn.antonelli i raised him better than this!!!! @.kimi.antonelli
kimi.antonelli: delete this.
yn.antonelli: no ❤️
georgerussell: 😭😭😭😭
kimi.anotnelli: mate HELP ME
landonorris: kimi blink twice if you need help
yn.antonelli: he absolutely does not.
user1: WAIT KIMI HAS A SISTER!?
user2: HOLD ON
user3: new paddock sibling duo unlocked
max.verstappen: 😂
liked by author
The Mercedes hospitality is already buzzing by the time you arrive. Mechanics move between garages carrying equipment, journalists rehearse questions into voice recorders, camera shutters click every few seconds. You instinctively slow your pace, letting Kimi walk half a step ahead, because you'd learned years ago that being his sister meant allowing him to take the lead here. This was his world.
"You'll meet everyone eventually," Kimi says, adjusting the strap of his backpack.
"I don't have to."
"You do."
"I came to spend time with my little brother."
"You also came to see where I work."
"I've seen enough already."
"You've been here for... six minutes."
"Exactly."
He laughs.
"You'll like them."
"I work in an emergency department."
"So?"
"I've met every personality imaginable."
Kimi considers that.
"...fair."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 19,529 others
yn.antonelli apparently i survive outside the emergency department too
kimi.antonelli: debatable
kimi.antonelli: you do know i have pictures to show too -_-
yn.antonelli: do you dare?
georgerussell: welcome to the paddock!
yn.antonelli: thank you!
landonorris: guys, she is already threatening to make me drink water
yn.antonelli: because you need it
oscarpiastri: she has a point
yn.antonelli: @.landonorris listen to your boyfriend
max.verstappen: Hope you enjoy the weekend.
yn.antonelli: thank you! 😊
The paddock is quieter away from the garages, not silent, never silent. Just... calmer. The steady hum of conversations blends with distant engines and the occasional burst of laughter. You find the coffee station tucked into the corner of one of the hospitality units, perfect, until you realise someone else got there first.
Max Verstappen stands with one hand resting against the counter, waiting for the machine to finish pouring. He glances over as you approach.
"Hi."
"Hi."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then you point towards the coffee machine.
"Are you trying to blow the coffee machine up with your mind?"
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
"No."
"It looked like it."
"I think it's ignoring me."
"It does that."
"You've been here before?"
"My brother has worked here for months."
"Fair point."
He steps aside without another word, giving you enough room to reach the machine.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
The machine lets out an unimpressed hiss before finally beginning to pour. You watch it for a moment.
"So..."
Max breaks the silence first.
"Emergency nurse?"
You glance at him.
"I've been exposed."
"Oscar mentioned it."
"I'll have to have a word."
"He seemed frightened."
"He should be."
That earns another smile, one that softens his entire face. You hadn't expected Max Verstappen to smile like that. It suits him.
The coffee finishes pouring. You reach for the paper cup just as he notices the faint pink line across the back of your hand.
"You cut yourself."
Looking down, you shrug.
"Paper."
"Paper?"
"I lost."
He lets out an amused breath.
"I didn't know that was possible."
"You've clearly never worked in a hospital."
"I haven't."
"You'd be amazed what stationery is capable of."
He chuckles quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, you notice the split skin across his right knuckles. Old enough not to be bleeding, but fresh enough to still look angry.
"What happened to your hand?"
His eyes follow yours.
"This?"
He flexes it once.
"Nothing."
You give him a look.
"The universal male diagnosis."
"It's fine."
"Mhm."
"It is."
You take a sip of your coffee before speaking again.
"I'll believe you when you clean it."
He looks at you, then at his hand, then back at you.
"It's only a scratch."
"So was mine."
"You noticed."
"I notice everything."
The words leave your mouth so casually that you don't think twice about them. Max does, because nobody has ever looked at him the way you just did - not as a world champion or a rival, just... as someone with a cut that should probably be cleaned before it gets infected. It's strangely refreshing.
"You always this bossy?"
You smile into your coffee.
"Occupational hazard."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You should."
Before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice echoes across the paddock.
"There you are!"
Kimi. He stops beside you, looking between the two of you.
"Am I interrupting?"
You shake your head.
"I was just telling Max to clean his hand."
Kimi doesn't even hesitate.
"Oh, yeah. You should listen."
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You too?"
"I've been listening to her for nineteen years."
"And?"
"It's easier."
You grin triumphantly.
"See?"
Max looks between the two of you before letting out a quiet laugh.
"I don't think I've got much of a choice."
"No," you say warmly "You really don't."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1paddock
kimi antonelli's sister has been in the paddock for approximately three hours and she's already become everyone's older sister.
@.papayafiles
apparently yn told lando to drink water 😭
@.landonorris
i was HYDRATED.
@.oscarpiastri
you weren't.
@.f1tea
according to people in the paddock kimi's sister told max verstappen to clean a cut on his hand 😭
@.verstappenupdates
imagine being told off by max verstappen
❌️
imagine max verstappen being told off
✅️
@.formulafiles
not max smiling while talking to yn...
@.maxieschamp
can we PLEASE remember yn is literally kimi's sister and leave her alone 😭
@.gridgossip
no because why did max walk over to mercedes hospitality FOUR TIMES today
@.redbullracing
max: "i was looking for coffee."
@.f1fan247
oooh redbull admin is MESSY today
@.f1memes
coffee machine at mercedes after seeing max every twenty minutes:
"bro just admit you have a crush."
@.kimiupdates
kimi has absolutely no idea what's happening around him 😭
@.papayafiles
antonelli sister nation we're up.
@.gridgirlies
she has no clue twitter is shipping them and honestly let's keep it that way for now 😭🤍
By the time Max wanders back towards the Mercedes hospitality later that afternoon, he's managed to convince himself he's there for an entirely reasonable reason. The reason being... coffee... again. Never mind the fact that the paper cup in his hand is still half full. He steps inside just as you finish reorganising the contents of your tote bag.
"You know," you say without looking up, "I don't think anyone drinks as much coffee around here as you do."
Max glances down at his cup.
"...Probably not."
"You're proving my point."
"I like coffee."
"So do I."
You zip your bag shut before your eyes drift almost absentmindedly towards his right hand. You pause.
"Did you clean it?"
He looks down.
"The cut?"
"Mhm."
"I did."
You narrow your eyes.
"Can I see?"
For a split second, Max genuinely considers saying no, not because he minds, but because he suddenly becomes acutely aware that you want to hold his hand, which is an entirely ridiculous thing to think. You're a nurse. This is your job. Still...
He holds it out. You take it without hesitation. Your fingers are warm. You turn his hand over, studying the split skin across his knuckles with the same concentration he imagines you give every patient. For a moment, the noise of the paddock fades into the background.
"Hm."
That single syllable immediately worries him.
"What?"
"You cleaned it."
"I told you."
"You also put one tiny plaster over it."
"..."
"Which accomplished approximately nothing."
"I tried."
"I can tell."
You look up at him.
"It's a very... enthusiastic attempt."
"I feel judged."
"You are."
You release his hand for only a second before reaching into your tote. Max watches, mildly fascinated, as you produce what appears to be an entire miniature first-aid kit. Alcohol wipes, sterile gauze, bandages, medical tape, a tiny bottle of antiseptic. He blinks.
"You carry all of that around?"
You look at him as though he's asked why the sky is blue.
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"Right."
"What if someone gets hurt?"
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You're assuming people just... injure themselves around you?"
"They usually do."
"That's oddly concerning."
"It's usually men."
"I don't know whether to be offended."
"You shouldn't."
You tear open an antiseptic wipe.
"Give me your hand."
He does, again. Without thinking. You dab gently across the cut.
"This might sting."
"It already-"
The antiseptic touches the wound. He winces.
"Oh."
"There it is."
"I take it back."
You can't help smiling.
"You racing drivers are all the same."
"We are?"
"So dramatic."
"I wasn't dramatic."
"You flinched."
"It stung."
"It barely touched you."
"It absolutely did."
You laugh quietly, shaking your head before carefully pressing fresh gauze over the cut. Your movements are practised like you've done this a thousand times before. Maybe ten thousand.
"You've done this a lot."
You don't look up.
"A few times."
"A few?"
"I work in A&E."
"Right."
"Trust me," you murmur, smoothing the edge of the bandage into place, "this doesn't even make the top thousand."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I'll try harder next time."
Your head snaps up.
"You'll do no such thing."
"I'm joking."
"I know."
You point a finger at him anyway.
"But if you come back with another split knuckle tomorrow, I'm charging you."
"For medical treatment?"
"For being stubborn."
Before he can reply, another voice cuts through the room.
"There you are."
Kimi walks in carrying two bottles of water. His eyes immediately land on the two of you. More specifically, on the fact that you're holding Max's hand.
"Oh," he says simply.
"You got him."
Max looks between the two of you.
"...Got me?"
Kimi nods sympathetically.
"She'll look after the cut."
He lifts one of the water bottles.
"Then she'll tell you you're dehydrated."
"I was literally about to."
"I know."
He hands you the bottle before passing the other to Max.
"You should drink that."
Max glances down at the bottle. Then at Kimi.
"You planned this."
Kimi shrugs.
"I've had plenty years to learn how she works."
You smile sweetly.
"And yet he still forgets to drink water."
"I don't forget."
"You do."
"I choose not to."
Max laughs a proper laugh. It makes both you and Kimi look at him. He rubs the back of his neck.
"What?"
"Nothing," you say, fastening the last strip of tape across the bandage.
"There."
You finally let go of his hand.
"All done."
He looks down at the neat dressing. It looks professional - far better than the crooked plaster he'd attempted earlier.
"Thank you."
The words come genuinely. You offer him a smile that reaches your eyes.
"Occupational hazard."
He smiles back. Neither of you notices Lando walking past the open hospitality entrance. He slows just enough to glance inside. Takes one look at you carefully bandaging Max Verstappen's hand. Grins to himself.
"Oh," he mutters under his breath. "So that's what's happening."
Then, wisely deciding not to interrupt, he keeps walking.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ PADDOCK GROUP CHAT
Lando
boys
Lando
i've seen something today
Charles
that sounds ominous.
Oscar
is it another labubu? better keep it away from kimi
Lando
worse
George
Impossible.
Lando
verstappen smiled
Max
?
Lando
TWICE
Oscar
can confirm
Charles
i refuse to believe this.
George
At who?
Lando
oh you know exactly at who...
Max
i don't.
Oscar
kimi's sister
Seen by Max.
Seen by Charles.
Seen by George.
Seen by Lando.
Max
she fixed my hand.
Lando
mate
Charles
...
George
Did you deliberately injure yourself?
Max
no.
Oscar
that's not actually an answer
Lando
i give it until tomorrow before he develops another mysterious cut
Max
i hate all of you.
Charles
have you considered asking for her number?
Max
no.
George
Coward.
Lando
MASSIVE coward
Charles
it's alright max, i hear nurses like stubborn patients.
Lando
throw yourself down some stairs
Oscar
don't encourage workplace injuries!
Charles
paper cuts seem to be enough.
George
Or you could just tell her she's pretty?
Max
absolutely not.
Lando
he's gone
George
He's finished.
Charles
finished.
Kimi
can everyone stop trying to set my sister up?
Lando
...
George
...
Charles
...
Oscar
i forgot you were here
Kimi
clearlyy
Charles
to be fair...
George
Your sister is lovely.
Lando
yeah we're big fans
Kimi
that's worse!!!!
Max
i didn't say anything.
Lando
you didn't have to
By the time the afternoon settles into its familiar rhythm, you've reclaimed the small sofa tucked into the corner of the Mercedes hospitality. One leg is crossed beneath you, a paperback rests in your lap.
You barely make it through two pages before someone dramatically clears their throat. You don't even bother looking up.
"Yes, Lando."
"...How did you know it was me?"
"You sigh louder than everyone else."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Only then do you lift your eyes from the page. Lando is standing in front of you with the most exaggerated pout you've ever seen.
"What happened?"
"I've suffered a workplace injury."
You slowly close your book.
"Oh no."
"I know."
"What happened?"
He holds up his wrist, as though presenting evidence in court.
"I hit it."
"On what?"
"..."
"Lando?"
"...a door."
Oscar walks past behind him carrying a bottle of water.
"You walked into the door."
Lando turns immediately.
"The door moved."
Oscar doesn't even break stride.
"The door was stationary."
"It came out of nowhere."
"It has been attached to the wall since Thursday."
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself laughing.
"So..." You reach out, gently taking Lando's wrist into your hand. "Can you move it?"
He rotates it dramatically.
"Like this?"
"Yes."
"It hurts."
"On a scale of one to ten?"
"...Three."
You nod thoughtfully.
"So you're not dying."
"I thought I was."
"You thought wrong."
He gasps.
"I came here for sympathy."
"You came to the wrong person."
You stand, crossing over to your tote bag before rummaging inside. A moment later, you pull out a reusable ice pack. Lando blinks.
"You just... carry those?"
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"You carry emergency ice?"
"I do." You press it into his hand. "There."
He looks between the ice pack and you.
"...That's actually really nice."
"I know."
The interaction lasts perhaps two minutes. Long enough for George to wander in. He spots the ice pack and Lando, who looks like he has just given birth at the least.
"What happened?"
"He fought a door."
"I lost."
George nods solemnly.
"Happens to the best of us."
"It really doesn't," Oscar mutters from somewhere nearby.
George laughs before rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his neck.
"You don't happen to have another one, do you?"
You don't ask why. You simply kneel beside your bag again.
"Blue or green?"
He stares.
"...You have options?"
"I like to be prepared."
He accepts the blue one with an expression somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Max arrives just in time to witness Charles wandering over.
"I have a question."
You don't even look up.
"Second pocket."
Charles pauses.
"...What?"
"Second pocket in the tote."
Curiosity gets the better of him. He reaches inside and pulls out a packet of plasters.
"...How did you know?"
You finally glance up.
"You've been picking at that cut on your finger since lunch."
Charles looks down.
"...Oh."
"Stop doing that."
"I'll try."
"You won't."
"...Probably not."
Max finds himself smiling. He doesn't even realise he's doing it.
Lewis is next. Not because he's injured, but because he's looking for painkillers after a headache starts creeping in.
"Left pocket," you say before he can finish asking.
"You've got a frightening system."
"I've had years to perfect it."
"I can tell."
Eventually, the room settles again. Lando is happily holding his ice pack against his wrist, George has one draped across the back of his neck, Charles has stopped absentmindedly picking at his finger, Lewis has disappeared with a bottle of water and two painkillers. You simply reopen your book as though none of it had happened. Max watches you for another moment before walking over.
"You really don't mind?"
You glance up.
"Mind what?"
"People," He gestures vaguely towards the room. "Coming to you."
You consider the question for a second. Then shrug.
"Not really."
"They interrupt you."
"They need something."
"They're capable adults."
You smile.
"Debatable."
He laughs quietly.
"I suppose."
You mark your page with a finger.
"My job isn't really about fixing people."
"No?"
"It's about making things a little easier."
He doesn't say anything.
"So..." You continue. "If someone trusts me enough to ask for help, why would I make them feel bad for asking?"
Max looks at you differently after that, not because you'd bandaged his hand or because you'd remembered his cut, but because you'd just revealed something about yourself so effortlessly. Kindness wasn't something you performed - it was simply the way you moved through the world.
"...That's a nice way of looking at it," he says quietly.
You smile.
"I think so too."
Before either of you can say anything else, Kimi pushes through the hospitality doors. He stops. Looks around the room at Lando, George, Charles. Then at you. He sighs.
"I leave for half an hour." Nobody says anything. "And somehow..." His eyes drift towards the collection of first-aid supplies spread neatly across the coffee table. "...you've opened another emergency department."
You grin innocently.
"They came to me."
"I know." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "They always do."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🔵 kimi.antonelli
liked by yn.antonelli, max.verstappen and 568,798 others
kimi.antonelli happy nurses appreciation day to the one that somehow opened another emergency department in mercedes hospitality. thanks for looking after us. ❤️ @.yn.antonelli
yn.antonelli: you all would've survived without me… probably <3
landonorris: debatable
georgerussell: still got the ice pack 👍
yn.antonelli: i am glad i could help!
charlesleclerc: finger has stopped bleeding thank you doctor
yn.antonelli: *nurse
lewishamilton: thank you for keeping everyone in one piece 🖤
yn.antonelli: that's my job! <3
oscarpiastri: especially lando!
landonorris: why am i catching strays?
max.verstappen: Thank you. My hand's much better.
yn.antonelli: glad to hear it 😊
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Max
Hi.
Thank you again.
Y/N
max you already thanked me in person 😭
Max
I know.
I just...
Wanted to again.
Y/N
then you're welcome again :)
Max
Would you let me repay you somehow?
Y/N
that's really not necessary
Max
Coffee?
Y/N
only if you promise not to injure yourself this time.
Max
I'll try.
Y/N
emphasis on try?
Max
No promises. :)
You almost don't notice the bouquet. It's only as you step through the café door that your eyes land on Max, already waiting by the window, standing as soon as he sees you... And holding flowers. Your pace falters.
"Oh."
He suddenly looks far less confident.
"I-"
His grip tightens around the bouquet.
"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I asked the florist to pick something that reminded them of summer."
You stare at the flowers, then at him.
"They're for me?"
He smiles, just barely.
"I don't see anyone else here."
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
"That's... incredibly sweet."
You accept the bouquet carefully, almost as though you're afraid you'll crush it.
"No one's ever brought me flowers on a coffee run before."
Max's eyebrows lift ever so slightly.
"A coffee run?"
You nod.
"You said you wanted to thank me."
"...Right."
He can't bring himself to correct you. Instead, he pulls out your chair. You blink.
"You're making me feel terribly underdressed."
"You look lovely."
The compliment slips out before he can think better of it. For the first time all afternoon, you seem genuinely caught off guard. A faint smile spreads across your face.
"Thank you."
The conversation comes surprisingly easily after that. It begins with work. You tell him about overnight shifts, impossible patients, and the elderly woman who insists on bringing homemade biscuits for the entire emergency department every Christmas.
He tells you about growing up around racing circuits, about travelling more than staying still, about how strange it feels to call so many airports familiar. At one point, you laugh so hard you have to wipe a tear from the corner of your eye. At another, the café around you fades into little more than background noise.
Hours pass unnoticed. Neither of you is in any hurry to leave. As you finally step back out onto the street, bouquet tucked safely in one arm and coffee still warming your hands, you smile at him.
"Thank you."
"For the flowers?"
"For today."
He smiles back.
"It was my pleasure."
You tilt your head.
"We should do this again sometime."
His heart practically stops.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
Completely oblivious to the fact that, somewhere across the street, a photographer has already taken three pictures of the two of you walking side by side. And even more oblivious to the fact that, to Max Verstappen, this had never been a coffee run. It had always been a date.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1gossip
BREAKING: Max Verstappen spotted leaving a café in Milan with Kimi Antonelli's sister.
@.gridupdates
DID YOU SEE HE GOT HER FLOWERS???
@.papayafiles
MAX VERSTAPPEN BOUGHT HER FLOWERS??????
@.f1tea
mind you... HE was carrying the flowers when he arrived. this wasn't a "thank you for coming" bouquet.
@.maxnation
oh. OH.
@.formulaobsessed
she looks so happy 😭🤍
@.verstappenfiles
need everyone to remember max does NOT do public dates.
@.landonorris
💐
@.oscarpiastri
...
@.landonorris
don't act surprised.
@.oscarpiastri
i'm not.
@.charles_leclerc
finally.
@.georgerussell63
about time.
@.f1girlies
WHO SAID FINALLY??? WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW???
@.kimiupdates
kimi antonelli has liked absolutely none of these tweets 😭
@.gridgossip
imagine introducing your sister to your coworkers and accidentally creating the paddock's newest couple.
@.f1memes
kimi watching the internet discover what he witnessed two days ago: 🧍🏼
@.f1tea
calling it now. they're either dating already... or they'll be dating by the end of the season.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Lando
are you busy
Y/N
just got home
Lando
how was your date
Y/N
what date?
Lando
😐
Y/N
?
Lando
with max.
Y/N
it wasn't a date
Lando
...
he brought you flowers.
Y/N
yes?
Lando
Y/N.
sweetheart.
gorgeous.
Y/N
😭
Lando
MEN DON'T BRING FLOWERS TO THANK-YOU COFFEES.
Y/N
maybe max does
Lando
MAX VERSTAPPEN ESPECIALLY DOESN'T.
Y/N
...
Lando
how long were you there
Y/N
about three hours?
Lando
THREE???
Y/N
time flew by
Lando
because it was a date.
Y/N
no because we were talking.
Lando
...
what did you talk about
Y/N
work
childhood
family
travelling
books
music
painting
he asked if we'd do it again
Lando
i'm going to need you to read that message again.
Y/N
...
oh.
The next race weekend feels... different, not because anything has changed. At least, not visibly. The paddock still hums with the same familiar energy. Mechanics hurry between garages. Engineers carry tablets tucked beneath their arms. Media personnel weave through the crowds.
And yet, somehow, you feel oddly aware of yourself. Aware of every time your phone buzzes. Aware of the flowers still sitting in a vase back at your apartment. Aware of one particularly smug British racing driver who has not let you forget, even once, that your "thank-you coffee" had very much been a date.
You find refuge in the hotel lobby while Kimi disappears into a team meeting. Book in hand, coffee beside you. It feels almost comforting. Almost.
"You really do always have a book with you."
The familiar voice makes you glance up. Max stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, smiling in that quiet way you've quickly come to recognise. You smile back before you can stop yourself.
"I do."
"Mind if I join you?"
"Only if you've managed to avoid injuring yourself since last week."
He laughs.
"I've been very careful."
"I'm proud of you."
He settles into the chair opposite yours. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Not because it's awkward, strangely enough... It isn't.
"So," Max says eventually.
"So."
"I heard Lando finally told you."
You let out a groan dramatic enough to rival Lando himself.
"He was unbearably pleased with himself."
"I can imagine."
"I think he considered it one of his greatest achievements."
"He probably does."
You shake your head, laughing softly.
"He hasn't stopped reminding me."
Max smiles.
"I suppose that means..."
He hesitates.
"...you know."
"I know."
The words come quieter than you expected. You close your book carefully before placing it on the table.
"I owe you an apology."
His brows knit together immediately.
"For what?"
"I genuinely didn't realise."
"I know."
"I wasn't pretending."
"I know."
"I just..."
You rub the back of your neck, suddenly finding the coffee cup fascinating.
"I thought you were being really nice."
"I was."
"No, I mean..."
You laugh at yourself.
"I thought you were just... an unusually thoughtful person."
"I'd like to think I am."
"You are."
You look back up at him.
"But I didn't realise you were asking me on a date."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I was trying to."
"You were?"
"I thought the flowers might've helped."
"They did."
"They did?"
"I just thought they were a thank-you present."
He drops his head for a moment, laughing properly now.
"You really had no idea."
"None."
"I was convinced I'd made it obvious."
"I was convinced you were just the nicest Dutch man I'd ever met."
"I'm afraid I'm only one of those things."
You smile.
"I know."
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. The silence settles comfortably between you. You reach into your tote bag absentmindedly. Max watches as you pull out a small bookmark tucked between the pages of your novel. Only it isn't a bookmark. It's one of the pressed flowers from the bouquet he'd given you. His eyes linger on it.
"I kept them."
Your voice is almost shy.
"I thought they were too pretty to throw away."
Something in his expression softens.
"So..."
You twirl the pressed flower carefully between your fingers.
"I've been thinking." You smile. "I'd quite like to fix something."
He tilts his head.
"What?"
"Our first date."
He blinks.
"You mean..."
"I'd quite like to be aware I'm on the second one."
For perhaps the first time in his Formula One career, Max Verstappen is completely speechless. Then, slowly- A grin spreads across his face.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
He stands, offering you his hand.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise."
You pretend to think about it.
"Hm."
"You don't trust me?"
"Oh, I trust you."
You slip your hand into his.
"I just hope there aren't any flowers."
He laughs.
"There are definitely flowers."
You groan dramatically.
"This is going to make Lando insufferable."
"I think that ship has already sailed."
Hand in hand, the two of you leave the hotel lobby. Neither of you notices the photographer across the street lowering his camera with a very satisfied smile.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 23,529 others
yn.antonelli turns out… it really was a date after all. 🤍
max.verstappen: Best first date I've ever accidentally been on. ❤️
yn.antonelli: ❤️
landonorris: I HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS FROM DAY ONE.
oscarpiastri: finally.
charlesleclerc: about time 🤍
georgerussell: knew we'd get here eventually.
lewishamilton: Happy for you both 🖤
kimi.antonelli: i suppose he's alright.
landonorris: THIS IS KIMI'S VERSION OF A BLESSING EVERYBODY STAY CALM.
max.verstappen: I'll take it.
yn.antonelli: @.max.verstappen don't let it get to your head.
maxverstappen1: Too late.
landonorris: disgusting.
oscarpiastri: says the one who played cupid.
landonorris: you're welcome.
Attentive lando after a rough day and he can't keep his hands to himself but its more fluffy that smutty
You'd had the day from hell and all you really wanted in that moment was Lando.
Standing in the doorway with your arms crossed over your chest you watched him tap away at his games controller, muttering under his breath as the graphics jumped on the screen. You didn't intend to disturb him, just simply being close to him was enough in this instance: but he held out an arm towards you, and invite for you to come closer.
And he knew you'd had a rough day - the slamming of the doors, the cursing under your breath, the accidental smashed mug in the kitchen bin. But he knew better than to nag you to tell him what was wrong so he'd wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you just that little closer at he rested your head against your chest.
Neither of you had to say anything; Lando's foot catching the wheel of his other gaming chair as he pulled it towards the two of you, a silent way of asking you to sit with him for a bit. And his hand would find yours, stroking his thumb over the curve of your knuckles in a way that said don't worry I'm here.
Your legs stretching over his as he'd place his controller on top of your calves, soothing over your material cladded legs with a lopsided, soft smile on his lips. He'd make some silly joke about the game he was playing and you wouldn't really get it but you'd giggle away anyway, catching the glint in his eyes as he leaned in, pausing his game.
"I fucking love you." Was all he needed to say for a single tear to roll down your cheeks. And you'd feel so stupid and small, wiping it away with the back of your hand as he'd coo, peppering kisses over your jaw as he'd wipe the tears with the pad of his thumb, "Now what's got my girl so upset, hm?"
You'd just babble on about how your day started bad and got progressively worse and of course he'd nod in all the right places, continue to wash away your tears with his thumb and kiss the corners of your mouth as you swallowed harshly. Trying your hardest not to cry.
And the game would be completely disregarded as you became his sole priority. Holding your hand as he'd help you from the chair, your head tucked in the crook of his neck as he'd stroke down the length of your back, rocking you back and forth gently.
Summary: It was the first night of you and Lando sleeping in your new house and he slept like a baby
Song: Latch · Sam Smith
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 3.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
The air inside the house smells like cedarwood, fresh paint, and the faint, lingering scent of the cardboard boxes that had dominated your lives for the better part of a week.
It is a quiet, heavy, expensive sort of silence—the kind that only exists in a space that hasn’t yet been filled with enough memories to feel lived-in.
You stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows of your bedroom, watching the moonlight pool across the hardwood floors of your new life.
Outside, the Monaco coastline is a jagged shadow against the ink-black Mediterranean, but you aren’t looking at the view. You are looking at the reflection in the glass: the silhouette of the man currently sprawled across your king-sized bed.
Lando is motionless. That is the first thing that strikes you. Usually, his energy is kinetic—a constant buzzing of limbs, a nervous tapping of fingers against a steering wheel, a restless shifting during meetings or dinners.
But here, in the sanctuary you’ve built together, he is anchored.
You turn away from the window, your footsteps silent on the plush rug. You move toward the bed, feeling the weight of the day settle into your shoulders.
Moving is a monumental task, a brutal orchestration of logistics and stress, but tonight, the adrenaline has finally curdled into exhaustion.
You climb onto the mattress, the high-thread-count sheets cool against your skin. You shift, trying to find a comfortable position, a little wary of encroaching on his space.
But Lando, even in his deepest oblivion, seems to sense the displacement of air. One of his arms snakes out, heavy and warm, hooking around your waist with instinctive precision.
He pulls you back against his chest without opening his eyes, his breathing so rhythmic and deep that it feels like a lullaby.
He is sleeping like a baby.
It is a jarring sight, given the life he leads. You think about the man the world sees—the Lando Norris who is constantly scrutinized by cameras, the one who carries the weight of a racing team on his shoulders, the one who spends his Sundays balancing on the razor-thin edge of disaster at two hundred miles per hour.
That man is perpetually alert, muscles coiled, eyes scanning for the next turn, for the next gap, for the next critique.
But here, under the soft glow of the minimalist bedside lamp, that version of him has completely dissolved. His mouth is slightly parted, his hair a chaotic, soft nest against the pillow. His face, usually defined by the intense focus of a competitor, is slackened, innocent, and profoundly peaceful.
You turn your head slightly, pressing your cheek against the crook of his shoulder. His skin is warm, radiating a soft, steady heat that chases away the lingering chill of the night.
You close your eyes, listening to the cadence of his heart—a steady thump-thump, thump-thump—that serves as the metronome for your new reality.
This is it. This is the "after."
For months, you had talked about this. You had spent hours on FaceTime calls while he was in different time zones, scrolling through real estate listings, arguing over paint swatches, and dreaming of a place that didn’t belong to a hotel franchise or a team hospitality suite.
You had dreamt of a place where the door locked behind you and the world stayed on the other side.
And now, here it is.
The silence of the house feels like a blanket. You realize, with a sudden, sharp pang of affection, that he hasn’t moved an inch since he hit the pillow. There is no tossing, no turning, no murmuring about qualifying laps or telemetry data.
He is simply here. He is surrendered to the exhaustion, trusting the space around him enough to let his guard drop entirely.
It is the highest compliment he could ever pay you—the fact that in your presence, in this home, his brain finally stops racing.
You reach up, tracing the line of his forearm with your fingertips. His skin is smooth, marked only by the faint, sun-drenched tan he’s acquired over the season.
You move your hand to his hand, interlacing your fingers with his. His grip is loose, his muscles limp, yet he holds on to you with a subconscious certainty.
You start to think about the journey that brought you to this bed. You think of the early days, the tentative glances in the paddock, the way you had to guard your private moments like fragile treasures.
You think of the compromises—the long-distance, the missed birthdays, the anxiety of watching him race, the way you’d hold your breath every time he rounded a corner on a wet track. It had been worth it, all of it, just for this moment of domestic stillness.
A soft, contented sigh escapes Lando’s lips, and he nuzzles closer into the nape of your neck. The stubble on his cheek grazes your skin, a rough, grounding texture that makes you smile.
He smells like the expensive, clean scent of the sheets and the lingering notes of the cologne he wore to dinner—something citrusy and sharp that has softened into something intimate and sweet.
You find yourself drifting, the boundaries between your thoughts and your dreams starting to blur. The house, which had felt so unfamiliar a few hours ago, now feels like an extension of the two of you.
Every corner, every box yet to be unpacked in the garage, every light switch—it’s all a promise of the future.
You wonder if he’s dreaming of racing. Do drivers dream of the track? Or does he dream of this? Of the simplicity of waking up and finding you there?
You hope it’s the latter. You hope he knows that, win or lose, pole position or back of the grid, this house is the only place that truly matters.
His arm tightens slightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He’s so warm, so solid. You feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, a synchronization that makes you feel invincible. For the first time in a very long time, you don’t feel the need to be anywhere else.
You don’t need to plan the next trip, check the itinerary, or worry about the logistics of his schedule. You just need to be exactly where you are.
The moonlight shifts across the room, tracing the contours of the furniture you picked together. Everything here is a compromise, a blend of his sterile, modern tastes and your desire for warmth. It’s a perfect home.
Lando mumurs something in his sleep, a low, incomprehensible sound that borders on a chuckle. Perhaps he’s winning in his dreams. Or perhaps he’s just happy. The thought brings a warmth to your chest that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
You finally let your eyes drift shut, succumbing to the heavy, velvet pull of sleep. You realize that this is the best part of the relationship—the mundane, the quiet, the boring, the settled. The world is loud, and Lando’s life is a whirlwind of noise and motion, but this room is the eye of the storm.
As you drift off, the last thing you feel is his hand squeezing yours, a silent promise made in the deepest part of the night. He is sleeping like a baby, and for the first time in your lives, you are sleeping like one, too.
The sun finds you first.
It leaks through the gap in the heavy curtains, painting a sharp, golden line across the floor. You wake up before him, as always. For a moment, you stay perfectly still, afraid that even a muscle twitch might break the spell.
He is still there. He has shifted slightly, his face now buried in the pillow next to yours, his breath still steady and deep. He looks younger in the sunrise, the shadows pulling back to reveal the soft vulnerability he hides behind his racing helmet.
You carefully extract yourself from his arm, moving with the grace of someone who doesn't want to wake a sleeping giant. Lando reacts only by shifting his head, his brow furrowing for a split second before smoothing out again.
You slip out of bed, grabbing a silk robe from the chair you’d haphazardly tossed it over the night before. The floorboards creak—a sound that, in a few years, will be a nostalgic marker of this exact moment.
You walk into the kitchen, the sunlight hitting the marble countertops and turning the new space into a cathedral of morning light.
You make coffee. The ritual is the same, no matter the house, no matter the country. The sound of the machine whirring, the smell of the dark roast—it’s the grounding agent of your day.
You lean against the counter, looking out at the terrace. The Mediterranean is a brilliant, shimmering peridot under the morning sun. It’s a beautiful view, but you’re already looking toward the bedroom door, wondering when he’ll wake up.
A few minutes later, you hear it—the soft rustle of sheets, the thud of feet hitting the floor, the groggy, confused shuffle of someone experiencing the first morning in a new home.
Lando appears in the doorway of the kitchen. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, his hair standing up in every direction, his eyes struggling to focus against the brightness of the morning. He looks like a boy, not the man who commands thousands of horsepower.
He stops when he sees you. He doesn't say anything at first, just stands there, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, letting the reality of the room sink in.
"Morning," you say softly, holding out the mug of coffee.
He takes it, his fingers brushing yours. He doesn't drink it immediately; he just holds the warmth of the mug, looking at you with a look of profound disbelief. "We’re really here, aren't we?" he asks, his voice raspy with sleep.
"We’re really here."
He walks over to you, wrapping his free arm around your waist and burying his face into your shoulder. He stays there for a long time, the silence of the house stretching between you, filled with the promise of a thousand mornings to come.
"I slept," he mumbles into your robe. "I haven't slept that well in… I don't even know how long."
"I noticed."
He pulls back to look at you, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. It’s the look he gives you when he’s truly happy—no cameras, no press, no fans. Just Lando. "It’s the quiet," he says, gesturing to the house. "It’s just us."
You lean into him, the smell of coffee and his skin wrapping around you like a cocoon. "It’s our home, Lando."
He nods, his expression sobering into something intense and sincere. He kisses your forehead, lingering there for a beat. "Our home," he repeats, testing the words as if they were a new gear he’s just starting to get the feel of.
The world outside is waiting. There are practice sessions to attend, media obligations to fulfill, flights to catch, and thousands of miles to cover. But for this morning, in this slice of time, the world is locked out.
You spend the next few hours doing nothing. It’s a luxury neither of you is used to.
You unpack a few boxes, finding things you’d forgotten you’d even packed—framed photos from your first trip to Japan, a random assortment of books, the oversized mugs you bought at a seaside shop in Italy.
Each object is a shard of memory, and as you place them on the shelves, you are anchoring yourselves to this place. Lando helps, though "helps" is a loose term.
He mostly ends up sitting on the floor, distracted by a model car he found in a box, or coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist while you’re trying to find a home for the kitchenware.
"We need to buy new curtains," he says at one point, looking up at the ones you’ve temporarily hung.
"You hate curtains," you remind him.
"I hate these curtains," he corrects, grinning. "They’re too thin. We need ones that block out the world. I want to sleep until noon on my days off."
"Maybe we should get ones that let the light in, so you don't turn into a vampire."
He laughs, a loud, genuine sound that echoes off the high, bare walls of the living room. It’s a sound that makes the house feel like it’s finally breathing.
By the afternoon, the initial rush of movement has faded into a comfortable rhythm. You’ve moved from the chaos of unpacking to the intimacy of simply existing in the same space. You find yourself watching him more than you realize.
You watch the way he moves through the rooms, the way he tilts his head when he’s thinking, the way he constantly seeks you out, needing the reassurance of your presence.
It strikes you, again, how much he needs this. The life he lives is one of extreme highs and crushing lows, a life of constant external validation and scrutiny.
But here, the only validation he needs is the sight of you in the kitchen, or the feeling of your hand in his as you sit on the terrace.
As evening approaches, the sky begins to bruise with shades of violet and orange. You move out to the terrace, two glasses of wine in hand.
The breeze is cooler now, carrying the scent of salt and blooming jasmine from the gardens below.
Lando leans against the glass railing, looking out over the water. He isn't wearing his usual armor—the team gear, the sponsor logos, the carefully curated public image. He is just a man in a t-shirt and jeans, watching the sunset.
"Do you think we can handle it?" he asks suddenly, his voice quiet.
"Handle what?"
"This," he gestures to the house, to the life you’ve built away from the track. "Being 'us' without the racing. Can we be this… normal?"
You step up beside him, resting your hand on his arm. "Normal is what we make it, Lando. We don't have to be anything other than what we are right now."
He turns to look at you, his eyes reflecting the dying light of the sun. He looks searchingly at your face, as if he’s trying to memorize the way you look in this specific light. The intensity of it—the raw, unfiltered affection—makes your heart ache.
"I like 'us,'" he says, his voice barely a whisper. "I like this version of us."
"Me too."
He leans down, and his lips find yours. It isn't a racing-driver kiss—urgent, desperate, fueled by the adrenaline of a win or the frustration of a loss. It’s slow, deliberate, and deeply grounded. It’s a kiss that tastes like wine and the future.
When you pull away, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours. You can feel his heart beating—not the frantic rhythm of the starting grid, but the slow, grounded pace of a man who is finally home.
"I think I could get used to this," he says, a small, shy smile touching his lips.
"You're going to have to," you tease. "You're stuck with me now."
He laughs, and the sound is carried away by the Mediterranean breeze. He pulls you against him, his arms strong and protective. You look out over the water, the darkness beginning to fall, feeling the absolute, unshakable certainty that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
The house behind you is quiet, filled with the promise of the lives you’ll lead within its walls. There will be bad days, of course.
There will be races where he finishes at the back, days when the pressure is too much, days when the world feels too big and too loud. But you know now that no matter how hard the storm blows, there is a harbor.
There is this house. There is this bed. There is the way he sleeps like a baby when he knows you’re within reach.
The stars begin to prick through the velvet canopy of the sky, one by one. Lando points to a distant light, a ship moving slowly across the horizon. "Where's that going?" he asks.
"Anywhere it wants," you reply.
He smiles, and his thumb brushes the side of your face. "I think I'm already where I want to be."
You stay there for a long time, watching the night take hold. The house behind you is dark, save for the soft glow of the kitchen light, a beacon in the twilight. Everything is soft. Everything is right.
When you finally head back inside, the house feels even more like a sanctuary. You move through the rooms, turning off the lights one by one, leaving the house in a state of quiet grace.
In the bedroom, the moonlight has shifted again, casting long, silver fingers across the bed. You undress in the dim light, the silence of the house pressing in, not as a weight, but as a comfort.
Lando is already lying in bed, watching you. He’s propped up on one elbow, his expression one of quiet adoration. He doesn't say anything, but as you approach the bed, he lifts the duvet, a silent invitation that you accept without hesitation.
You slide under the covers, the fabric cool and crisp against your skin. You curl into him, feeling the familiar, grounding weight of his arm as he pulls you closer. He’s warm, his body like a furnace against yours, and his breathing is already beginning to deepen.
"You okay?" he murmurs, his voice thick with the onset of sleep.
"I'm perfect," you whisper back.
He hums, a satisfied little sound, and kisses the top of your head. He doesn't move, doesn't shift, doesn't reach for his phone to check the news, or the standings, or the social media feeds. He just lets himself go.
He is asleep in seconds. His breathing rhythm takes over, slow and steady, a lullaby that pulls you under with it.
You lie there for a while, listening to the house settle. The wood expands and contracts in the cooling air, the wind whistles softly against the glass, and in the distance, the faint, rhythmic sound of the ocean hitting the cliffs provides a constant, gentle pulse.
You look at him, his face peaceful, his muscles relaxed, his brow smooth. He is a man who carries the world on his shoulders, but tonight, he has laid it down.
You feel a swell of pride in your chest—pride in him, pride in the life you’ve built, pride in the sanctuary you’ve created together.
You close your eyes, the last of the day’s tension evaporating. You know that tomorrow morning, the sun will rise and the world will start spinning again.
There will be meetings, and travel, and pressure, and the relentless, demanding tempo of his life. But for tonight, the clock has stopped.
You drift off, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady, reliable thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You are safe. You are home. And as you fall into the deep, dreamless void of sleep, you know that when you wake up, he will be right there, and you will be with him.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
The house is quiet, the night is deep, and he sleeps like a baby, tucked into the arms of the life he chose, in the arms of the person who chose it with him.
The following weeks are a blur of unpacking, decorating, and finding the rhythm of a life that is truly yours.
There are moments of chaos, of course—the stray boxes that seem to multiply in the corners of the office, the arguments over where to hang a piece of art, the frantic scrambles to find a passport before a flight. But through it all, there is the house.
It becomes a living thing, a third member of your relationship. You find your favorite spots—the reading nook by the window, the terrace for morning coffee, the kitchen island where you talk for hours into the night. And then there is the bedroom.
The bedroom is sacred. No work allowed. No phones allowed. Just the two of you, the quiet, and the moonlight.
One night, after a particularly grueling stretch of races, he comes home exhausted. You can see it in the way he walks, the way his shoulders slump, the way his eyes lose their focus. He doesn't say a word, just walks through the front door, kicks off his shoes, and collapses onto the living room sofa.
You don't pressure him. You just bring him a glass of water, sit beside him, and start to rub his temples. He leans into your touch, his eyes closing, a low groan escaping his throat.
"It was a long one," he says, his voice barely audible.
"I know. But you're home now."
He opens his eyes, looking at you with a look of such raw, unfiltered gratitude that it makes your chest tighten. "I missed this. I missed you."
"I was right here."
"I know. But it’s not the same when I'm away. When I'm away, I feel like I'm drifting. Like I'm losing my anchor."
You look at him, the man who is known for his lightning-fast reflexes and his ability to hold a line through the most treacherous corners, and you realize how much he needs the stability of what you’ve built.
"You're not drifting," you promise him. "You're just traveling. And the anchor is always here, waiting for you."
He smiles, a slow, tired, genuine smile. "I know. That's what keeps me going. Knowing I have this. Knowing I have you."
He pulls you down onto the sofa, curling around you, his head resting in your lap. The living room is bathed in the soft glow of the table lamps, the rest of the house silent and welcoming.
He stays there for a long time, his breathing regulated, his body slowly shedding the weight of the track.
Eventually, you carry him to bed. He’s half-asleep by the time you reach the room, letting you guide him, letting you take the lead. You help him get settled, tuck the duvet around him, and climb in beside him.
He’s asleep almost before his head hits the pillow. And again, he is still. He is peaceful. He is sound.
You lie there, watching him, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. You realize that you’ve done it. You’ve created a space where the most energized, high-pressure, non-stop person you know can actually find peace. You’ve created a space where he can be just Lando.
And as you drift off to sleep, feeling his hand move to yours in the dark, you know that this is the best part of the relationship. It’s not the cameras, or the crowds, or the roar of the engines. It’s the silence.
It’s the way he sleeps like a baby. It’s the way, no matter how fast he drives when the lights go out on Sunday, he always finds his way back here.
He is home. And so are you.
The bedroom is dark, the house is still, and outside, the moon continues its slow, silent transit across the sky. You fall asleep, content in the knowledge that tomorrow, the world will start again, but tonight, you have everything you need.
Everything is perfect. Everything is peace. And he is sleeping, deeply and soundly, in the quiet of the home you built together, the man who drives the world, finally at rest. . . .
Toto Wolff x fakegirlfriend!engineer!reader
George Russell x engineer!reader — one-sided crush
Summary: The PR campaign has worked. Toto’s image is warmer, George is interested, and Bradley gives you both permission to stop pretending. Perfect result. Terrible timing. Because you got what you wanted, and somehow your heart still keeps looking for Toto.
Warnings: fake dating ending, jealousy, emotional angst, sweet!George, heartbroken!Toto.
Word count: 4.5k
After the kiss, Toto becomes perfect.
That is the worst part. He does everything right.
In public, his hand still finds your back. His smile still appears when you tease him. His voice still softens when he calls you Liebling in front of cameras, sponsors, and one mechanic who has started looking like he is emotionally invested enough to need a support group.
To everyone else, nothing changes. To you, everything does. Because in private, Toto disappears. No more lingering in your hotel doorway after meetings. No more quiet dinners in his office while he pretends he does not need feeding. No more dry little comments sent by text at midnight. No more thumb brushing your knuckles when nobody is watching.
He is polite, professional, controlled.
Painfully controlled. So controlled that makes you want to throw a croissant at his head and demand the real Toto back.
Unfortunately, you are a grown woman and George Russell’s race engineer, so you do not throw baked goods at your boss.
The Monza weekend begins under bright sun, loud fans, red grandstands, and Ferrari flags everywhere.
You arrive in the garage with your headset around your neck and coffee in hand. One coffee. Just yours.
A week ago, you would have brought one for Toto too.
You almost do. You stand outside the hospitality coffee station for thirty seconds staring at his usual order like it has betrayed you personally.
Then you walk away. Very mature. Very adult. Very miserable.
Toto is already in the garage when you arrive.
He looks up. His eyes flick to your hand. One coffee.
Something moves across his face. Gone instantly.
“Good morning,” you say.
“Morning.”
That is it. Morning.
As if he did not have you on the edge of your hotel desk days ago, kissing you like he had finally lost a war with himself. As if he did not tell you it was a mistake. As if he did not look at George’s name on your phone like it cut him.
George appears beside you before the silence can swallow you whole.
“Morning,” he says, smiling.
Your body tries to react the way it used to. Butterflies. Excitement. Panic. George-shaped sunshine.
You get… warmth. Gentle. Pleasant. Easy. Nothing like the storm Toto leaves behind even when he says nothing at all.
“Morning, race winner,” you say.
George grins. “You’re going to keep calling me that?”
“For at least two race weekends.”
“Fair.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “Dinner after the race? There’s a little Italian place near the hotel. Good pasta. No cameras. No Bradley.”
You laugh despite yourself. “No Bradley is a strong selling point.”
Across the garage, Toto is close enough to hear. You know he hears because his hand stills on the pit wall.
George glances toward him, then back at you. “So?”
You swallow. “Yeah. Dinner sounds nice.”
George smiles fully. “Good.”
Toto turns away. No reaction. No tightening jaw. No sarcastic comment. No protective hand at your back.
Nothing.
That hurts more than jealousy. You would take jealousy. Jealousy means he cares.
This cold silence feels like he has locked the door from inside and left you standing outside with all your stupid feelings and a very inconvenient memory of his mouth.
Bradley walks past with Amara and Jules, sees you, sees George, sees Toto’s back, and slows down.
For once, he says nothing. That should worry everyone.
Qualifying at Monza is sharp, loud, and stressful enough to make your eye twitch.
George qualifies second. Kimi third. A good result. Strong. Promising.
The garage celebrates in that focused Mercedes way: satisfied nods, claps on shoulders, people already thinking about tyre strategy before the helmets are fully off.
George pulls you into a quick hug after he gets out of the car.
It catches you off guard. His arms are warm. His laugh is breathless.
“P2,” he says near your ear. “Not bad?”
“Not bad?” you repeat. “You nearly gave me heart failure in sector two.”
“I recovered.”
“You owe me emotional compensation.”
“So, dinner?”
You smile. “Fine. Pasta counts.”
Toto is watching. You feel it. When you look over, his face is calm. Too calm.
Then Bradley calls both of you into a small meeting room behind hospitality.
You know immediately something is wrong. Not bad wrong. PR wrong.
Bradley stands at the head of the room with Amara and Jules beside him. Toto leans near the wall, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
You sit opposite him. That alone feels wrong.
A month ago, you would have sat beside him.
Bradley clasps his hands. “First, excellent work.”
You blink. “On qualifying?”
“On everything.”
Toto’s face does not move.
Bradley continues, a little softer now. “The campaign has achieved what we needed. More than achieved it.”
You look at him.
Amara opens her tablet. “Sentiment around Toto has shifted significantly. Fans love seeing him warmer, more relaxed, more open. Sponsor feedback is excellent. The team dynamic reads beautifully.”
Jules adds, “And speculation around you two is at peak visibility.”
You swallow. “Peak visibility sounds like something that requires antibiotics.”
Bradley almost smiles. Then his expression turns careful. “We don’t want to keep you in something longer than necessary.”
Your stomach drops. Toto looks at the floor.
Bradley speaks gently now. “You did what we needed. More than that. And George is clearly interested in you.”
The room goes quiet. You cannot look at Toto. So, of course, you look at Toto.
He says nothing. Nothing.
Bradley keeps going, because apparently silence has never stopped a PR man in his life.
“We can start easing the story down. No big statement. No drama. Just less public closeness. People will assume you and Toto ended things quietly, respectfully. Then you have a free hand to see where things go with George.”
A free hand.
You look at your own hands in your lap. One of them still remembers Toto’s fingers. Stupid hand.
“That makes sense,” you say.
Your voice sounds very normal. You deserve an award.
Toto says nothing.
Bradley looks at him. “Toto?”
Toto lifts his head. His face is perfect. Boardroom perfect. Painfully perfect.
“If that is what she wants.”
She.
Not you. She.
Your chest tightens.
Bradley glances between you both. “And you?”
Toto’s jaw moves once. “It was always the plan.”
There it is. The knife, polished and professional.
You nod quickly. “Right. Yes. The plan.”
Amara looks like she wants to say something. Jules looks like he wants to leave and take the oxygen with him.
Bradley, for the first time in history, appears to regret his own success. “Well,” he says quietly, “then we’ll begin easing it down.”
Toto pushes off the wall. “I have a strategy meeting.”
He leaves before anyone can answer.
You stare at the door after him.
Bradley says your name softly.
You stand. “I should check George’s long-run notes.”
“You okay?”
You smile. Bright. Fake. PR would be proud.
“Of course.”
The race is good. That is the irritating thing about life.
It keeps happening even when your heart is behaving like a badly updated software package.
George finishes second. Kimi third.
Mercedes is loud and happy, Monza is louder, Ferrari fans are dramatic about existing, and the podium is all champagne, sun, and noise.
George looks beautiful up there. Happy. Glowing. He points at you from the podium again, and this time you wave back with a smile that should feel lighter than it does.
Toto stands beside the garage crowd. He does not touch you. He does not lean close. He does not whisper that you did well. He claps for George. Smiles for the team. Looks proud. Looks sad.
You hate that you can tell.
You hate that George is on a podium and all you can think is that Toto looks like something has been taken from him.
After the celebrations, George finds you near the hospitality exit, hair still damp from champagne, shirt sticking slightly to his shoulders.
“Still on for dinner?” he asks.
You should say yes without thinking. You do say yes. But you think first. And the thinking scares you.
Dinner with George is lovely.
He chooses a small Italian restaurant tucked away from the main street, with warm lights and old wooden tables and pasta so good you almost forgive Monza for being emotionally inconvenient.
George is kind. Funny. Attentive.
He asks about you. Not the car. Not the data. You.
Your family. Your studies. Why engineering. Why Mercedes. Whether you always talk this fast when nervous.
You laugh. He smiles.
It should be perfect. It almost is. That is the problem. Almost.
At some point, over tiramisu, George looks at you and says, “I heard you and Toto… ended things.”
Your spoon pauses. You look down at the plate.
“That was quick.”
“The paddock is quick.”
“The paddock needs hobbies.”
He smiles gently. “You okay?”
The question is kind. Too kind.
You nod. “Yes. We’re fine. It was… mutual.”
Mutual. A useful word. A coward’s word.
George watches you for a moment. “I don’t want to rush you.”
“You’re not.”
“Good.”
He reaches across the table and touches your hand. His fingers are warm. Nice and gentle.
You look at his hand on yours and try not to compare. Comparing is cruel. To him. To you. To everyone.
But your stupid heart does it anyway.
George’s touch is soft. Toto’s touch was steady. George looks at you like he wants to know you. Toto looked at you like he already did and it terrified him.
After dinner, George walks you back to the hotel.
The night air is warm. Monza still hums somewhere around you, full of engines, fans, and late-night celebration.
At the elevator, he stops. “I had a good time,” he says.
“So did I.”
You mean it. That is the unfair part.
He steps closer. Slowly. Giving you time.
You know what is coming. You waited months for this. George Russell, looking at you like you matter. Like you are wanted. Like he has finally seen you.
His hand touches your waist. He leans in.
You let him kiss you. It is soft. Sweet. Careful. The kind of kiss you imagined once. The kind of kiss that should make everything click into place.
It does not. There is no lightning. No breath stolen from your lungs. No desk edge under your thighs. No rough whisper asking you to tell him to stop. No feeling that the whole world has gone dangerously quiet.
There is just George. Kind, lovely but wrong.
He pulls back and smiles. You smile too. You hope it looks real.
“Goodnight,” he says.
“Goodnight.”
You walk into your room and close the door. Then you stand there in the dark. Silent. Still.
Your lips still warm from George. But your heart aching for Toto.
“Oh,” you whisper to yourself.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You got what you wanted. And now you know you do not want it anymore.
You do not sleep. You try. You fail.
You turn onto your left side. Then right. Then back. Then you stare at the ceiling like it might produce a technical solution to romantic stupidity.
It does not. Very poor performance from the ceiling.
At 6:42 a.m., your phone buzzes.
George: Morning. Last night was lovely. Breakfast?
You stare at the message.
Lovely. It was lovely. That is exactly the problem.
You type, delete, type again.
You: Morning. Yes, breakfast sounds good.
Coward.
You shower. Dress. Fix your hair. Look at yourself in the mirror and wonder when your life became a strategy call with no winning option.
At breakfast, George is waiting with coffee.
Your usual order. He remembered. That should make you melt. Instead, it makes you feel worse.
“Morning,” he says, smiling.
“Morning.”
You sit with him near the window. It is nice. Again. Everything with George is nice.
He asks if you slept well. You lie.
He tells you about something Kimi said at the gym that morning and makes you laugh.
Then the door of the hotel restaurant opens. Toto walks in. Alone. No Bradley. No Amara. No Jules. Just Toto in a black polo, looking tired in a way he usually hides better.
He sees you. Then George. Then the coffee in front of you. Then George’s hand resting near yours on the table.
His expression does not crack. But his eyes do. Just a little.
He gives you a small smile. Sad. So sad it hits harder than anger.
“Morning,” he says.
George looks up. “Morning, Toto.”
You try to speak. Nothing comes.
Toto nods once and walks to the coffee station.
He does not take his usual seat. He does not look back.
You stare after him. George sees.
“You’re still in love with him,” he says quietly.
You turn back too quickly. “What?”
George’s face is soft. Not accusing. That makes it worse.
“I think you are.”
You open your mouth. Close it. “I don’t know what I am.”
George nods slowly. “That is an answer.”
You look at your coffee. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry for being confused.”
“I kissed you.”
“I kissed you too.”
“You’re being too nice.”
He smiles a little. “I can be rude if it helps.”
You laugh once, helplessly. Then he reaches across the table and squeezes your hand.
This time, you do not feel butterflies. You feel gratitude. And guilt.
Which tells you everything.
The next days are gentle torture.
George is sweet. You hate that.
It would be easier if he were arrogant. Pushy. Careless. Anything.
But he is George. He brings you coffee. He walks with you through the paddock. He texts goodnight. He touches your shoulder when he passes behind you in the garage. He makes you laugh. And every time he does, you think: this would have been enough once.
Once, before Toto held your hand in a factory corridor. Before Toto kissed your forehead in a garage full of people and made you feel safe. Before Toto looked at you across a ballroom like jealousy was eating him alive. Before Toto kissed you in your hotel room like restraint had finally failed. Before Toto called it a mistake with hurt in his eyes.
You are not stupid.
Slowly, painfully, you understand. You did not fall for the fake boyfriend. You fell for the man who remembered how you take your tea after one late-night debrief. The man who let you steal his fries and acted offended because it made you laugh. The man who looked terrifying to everyone else and impossibly gentle with you. The man who made dry jokes about budget caps and still pressed a folder into your hands when he knew you were nervous, just so you had something to hold.
The man who was not scary. Not to you. Never to you.
And now he treats you like air. Polite air. Professional air. Air he refuses to breathe too deeply.
By the time you return to Brackley, you know.
It takes you three more days to do something about it. Because apparently courage is easier at 300 kilometres per hour than in an office hallway.
The data gives you an excuse. A legitimate one.
You have performance notes from Monza, simulator correlation numbers, and a question about rear tyre warm-up that genuinely needs Toto’s input.
You repeat this to yourself outside his office. This is work. This is professional. This is not you walking toward a cliff with a laptop.
You knock.
“Come in.”
His voice.
You open the door.
Toto is behind his desk, glasses on, laptop open, a stack of papers beside him. He looks up.
For one second, something flashes across his face. Longing. Then it is gone.
“Do you have the data?”
Of course. Straight to work.
You step inside and close the door. “Yes.”
You put the tablet on his desk.
He gestures for you to sit. You do.
You talk about car balance. Tyres. Race pace. Simulation discrepancies. You both sound normal. Very impressive. Award-winning emotional repression.
At one point, he leans forward to study a graph, and his shoulder nearly brushes yours.
You stop breathing. He notices. He moves back.
That hurts.
You finish the technical review in twenty minutes. There is nothing left. No reason to stay. No reason except the one sitting between you like an exposed nerve.
You start gathering your tablet.
Toto speaks first. “Are you happy?”
Your hands still. You look up. “What?”
“With George.”
His voice is quiet. Careful. Too careful.
You stare at him. He looks down at the papers on his desk, not at you.
“Is he good to you?”
Your throat tightens. “Yes.”
Toto nods once. “Good.”
You wait but he says nothing else. And something in you breaks. “Stop doing that.”
His eyes lift. “Doing what?”
“Treating me like I’m air.”
His face tightens. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am giving you space.”
“No. You’re punishing yourself and pretending it’s noble.”
His jaw moves. “You got what you wanted.”
The words are calm. They still hit.
“Did I?”
His eyes sharpen. “You wanted George to notice you.”
“Yes.”
“He did.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted a date.”
“I thought I did.”
Toto stands abruptly and turns toward the window.
There. There it is again. The wall. The back. The refusal to let you see his face.
You stand too. “I’m talking to you.”
“I heard you.”
“Then look at me.”
He does not.
“Toto.”
His shoulders tense. “Do not.”
“Do not what?”
“Say my name like that.”
You laugh softly, hurt and frustrated.
“You said that before.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe because I keep trying to reach you and you keep running away.”
He turns then. Fast. “I am not running away.”
“You are.”
“I am doing what I should have done from the beginning.”
“What, pretending I mean nothing?”
His face changes. Pain. “You do not mean nothing.”
The room goes quiet. Your heart pounds. Toto looks like he regrets saying it.
You step closer.
“Then why did you say the kiss was a mistake?”
“Because I had no right to kiss you.”
“I kissed you back.”
“You were confused.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His eyes flash. “You were in love with George.”
“I thought I was.”
“That is not better.”
“It is the truth.”
He laughs once, bitter and quiet. “The truth is that I agreed to help you get another man’s attention and then behaved like a jealous fool when you got it.”
“You were jealous?”
He looks at you like the question is absurd.
“Yes.”
The single word hits the room hard.
Your breath catches.
Toto’s control finally starts to crack.
“I saw him with you. I heard him ask you to dinner. I should have let you answer. That was the plan. Instead I interrupted because I could not stand the thought of him having that moment with you.”
Your eyes burn. “Toto…”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You need to understand. I knew this was wrong. I am your boss. I am older. I was coming out of a divorce. You were looking at George like he was the sun.”
“He wasn’t.”
“He was to you.”
“Maybe once.”
His expression falters.
You take another step closer. Now there is only the desk corner between you.
“I wanted George to see me,” you say, voice shaking despite your best effort. “And then he did. He was kind and sweet and exactly what I thought I wanted.”
Toto says nothing.
You keep going because if you stop now, you might never start again. “He took me to dinner. He kissed me.”
Toto closes his eyes. It hurts to watch.
You continue, softer. “And all I could think was that it didn’t feel like you.”
His eyes open. The room stills.
You can hear your own breathing. You can hear his.
“I tried,” you whisper. “I really tried to be happy. Because this was the plan. Because Bradley said we could stop pretending and I’d be free to date George and everything would make sense.”
Toto’s face is unreadable now, but his eyes are bright. Too bright.
“And?” he asks.
One word. Barely there.
You step around the desk.
“I’m not in love with George.”
Toto does not move.
You are close enough to see his breath change. Close enough to see hope terrify him.
You swallow. “I fell in love with you.”
The words leave your mouth. Simple and clear.
Toto goes completely still.
For one second, you think you have destroyed him. Then his expression changes. The wall falls. Not all at once. Piece by piece.
His mouth parts slightly. His eyes soften. His face looks younger and older at the same time, like relief and pain have collided somewhere behind his ribs.
“What did you say?” he asks.
Your heart twists. “You heard me.”
“Say it again.”
“Toto…”
“Please.”
The please is quiet. Raw.
You breathe in. “I fell in love with you.”
He closes the distance in two steps.
Then stops. Because he is Toto. Because even now, when his whole face looks like he is barely holding himself together, he still gives you the choice.
His hand lifts but does not touch you.
“Again,” he whispers.
You almost laugh through the ache in your chest. “You are very demanding for a man who ignored me for a week.”
His mouth trembles. There is almost a smile.
“Liebling...”
Oh. That word. Soft. Broken. Yours.
Your eyes sting. “Then say it back,” you whisper.
His hand cups your cheek. Warm, soft.
“And I am in love with you,” he says. “Completely. Terribly. Inconveniently.”
A laugh escapes you, shaky and wet. “Inconveniently?”
“Deeply inconvenient.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You chose me.”
“I did.”
His thumb brushes your cheekbone. “You are sure?”
“Yes.”
“George?”
“I need to talk to him. Properly. Kindly. But I don’t want him like this. I don’t want anyone like this.”
Toto’s eyes search yours. “Like what?”
You step closer, until your hands rest against his chest. “Like I want you.”
That does it. His restraint finally gives way.
He kisses you. No cameras. No George. No PR. No strategy. Just Toto’s mouth on yours, warm and certain, his hand at your cheek, the other settling carefully at your waist as if he still cannot quite believe he is allowed to touch you for real.
You kiss him back with everything you have been holding in.
All the confusion. All the longing. All the stupid late nights staring at your phone. All the moments you looked for him across rooms and pretended it meant nothing.
He draws you closer. You go gladly.
His forehead rests against yours when the kiss breaks. Both of you breathe too fast.
“This is real,” he says, like he needs to hear it.
You smile.
“For real purposes only.”
His laugh is low and rough and beautiful.
Then the door opens. Without a knock. Of course. Because the universe has a sense of humour and that sense of humour works in PR.
Bradley steps in with a folder. “Toto, I just need—”
He stops.
You are standing in Toto’s arms. Your hands are on his chest. His hand is at your waist. Your lips are probably swollen.
Toto looks at Bradley. Bradley looks at you. Then at Toto. Then back at you.
The silence lasts exactly three seconds.
Bradley’s face slowly transforms. “Oh,” he says.
You hide your face against Toto’s chest.
Toto’s arm tightens around you. “Bradley.”
Bradley points at the two of you with the folder. “You are kissing.”
“Very observant.”
“In your office.”
“Yes.”
“With no cameras.”
Toto gives him a flat look. “That is traditionally how privacy works.”
Bradley’s eyes shine with absolute, unbearable joy. “So…” he says slowly. “We are no longer pretending?”
You lift your face from Toto’s chest.
Toto looks down at you. His expression softens in front of Bradley, in front of the whole world if needed.
“No,” Toto says. “We are not.”
Bradley closes his eyes. Takes one breath. Then whispers, “I am a genius.”
Toto immediately says, “Get out.”
Bradley opens his eyes. “I brought this family together.”
“You created a workplace crisis.”
“I created love.”
“You created paperwork.”
“Romantic paperwork.”
You start laughing. You cannot help it.
Toto looks at you, and all the sadness from breakfast, all the distance, all the cold control is gone.
Smiling Toto is back. For real this time.
Bradley clutches his folder to his chest. “Amara owes me twenty euros.”
Toto points at the door. “Out.”
Bradley backs away, still grinning. “Should I prepare a statement?”
He closes the door. Two seconds later, you hear him outside shout-whisper:
“AMARA. THEY’RE REAL.”
Toto sighs. You laugh harder.
He looks at the ceiling like he is asking for patience from every god, engineer, and legal counsel available.
“I will fire him.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
“You love him.”
“I tolerate him under protest.”
“You love me.”
His eyes drop to yours. The annoyance fades. Everything fades.
“Yes,” he says.
Just that. Yes.
Your heart softens so quickly it almost hurts.
You reach up and fix his collar. It is not crooked. You just want to touch him. And he knows. His hands settle at your waist.
“You realize,” he says, “that George deserves honesty.”
“I know.”
“And the team will talk.”
“They already talk.”
“And Bradley will become unbearable.”
“He was born unbearable.”
Toto smiles. You smile back. For the first time in weeks, it is easy. No pretending. No strategy. No calculated glances across the garage.
Just you, standing in Toto Wolff’s office, finally choosing the man you were never supposed to fall for.
You take his hand. His fingers close around yours. Perfectly. Like they knew the way all along.
“So,” you say, “what now?”
Toto looks at your joined hands. Then at you.
“Now,” he says, voice low and warm, “I take you to dinner.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you asking me on a date, Herr Wolff?”
“Yes.”
“No PR?”
“No PR.”
“No George jealousy strategy?”
“No.”
“No Bradley deck?”
“I will burn every deck he makes.”
You grin. “Sounds serious.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “It is.”
Your smile softens. “Good.”
He leans in and kisses your forehead. This time, no one is watching. This time, it is not for George. It is not for fans. It is not for cameras. It is not for Toto’s image.
It is for you. Only you.
And when you leave his office later, hand in hand, Bradley is waiting down the hallway with Amara and Jules, all three pretending very badly to be casual.
Amara looks delighted. Jules looks relieved. Bradley looks like a man who has personally won a championship.
Toto stops. “Do not say anything.”
Bradley lifts both hands. “I would never.”
You walk past him.
Bradley waits exactly two seconds. Then whispers, “For real purposes only.”
Toto turns. Bradley runs.
You laugh so hard you have to hold onto Toto’s arm.
And Toto?
Toto smiles. Fully. Openly. Like he has finally remembered how. Like maybe you brought him back after all. Like maybe the fans were right. Like maybe the best PR strategy Bradley ever made was the one that stopped being fake.
THE END
a/n: As I wrote before, I had so much fun writing this story. And of course, the best ones are always the ones with a happy ending 😉
Thank you for reading, commenting, and experiencing this story with me. You’re the best! ❤️
a/n: another late-night continuation. hope you all enjoy 🤗
amore = love, mia bella = my darling/beautiful.
ଓ english is not my first language, be kind.
The Monaco paddock was no place for people like you. If the other circuits were corporate showcases, Monte Carlo was a lavish court laid bare for all to see. It was an aquarium of opulence, where the sun glinted off the white hulls of the millionaires’ yachts moored in the harbour and off the heavy jewellery of people who had never known what it meant to be invisible. There, the light seemed deliberately more intense, more aggressive, like a spotlight trained on you, ready to lay bare every pore of your pale skin, every flaw in your armour and every second of your introspective hesitation.
As you walked alongside Kimi, you felt exactly like a splash of India ink falling onto immaculate white linen. You marred Monaco’s golden aesthetic. And the world hated it when the symmetry of its futility was disrupted.
Kimi, on the other hand, seemed to have been born for that spotlight. He carried himself with a relaxed air, the very embodiment of the charisma and radiant energy that Formula 1 so coveted. He was Mercedes’ golden boy, the Italian prodigy who smiled at the photographers with disconcerting ease, waved to the VIPs peering out from the balconies of their multi-million-dollar apartments, and exuded a vitality that made his stomach churn — not with envy, but with a profound sense of strangeness. How was it possible for someone to contain so much brilliance without getting burnt?
You shrank back slightly inside your dark coat, the large black headphones covering your ears like a physical barrier against the outside world. You didn’t need the sound to know what people were doing. You could feel the vibration of camera lenses swivelling in your direction, mobile phones pointed at you from low angles, the sidelong glances of the designer-clad guests parading about in their exorbitantly expensive sunglasses.
"My God, the sun's blazing and she's dressed in black from head to toe. She looks like she's just come from a funeral." The words of a group of fans by the barrier pierced through your headphones, their voices laced with a biting mockery that scraped painfully against your mind.
"Why did he bring that parasite with him to Monaco?" Another comment came from closer by, this one from two girls clutching team caps.
You didn't stop. You didn't even hesitate. Your dull eyes remained fixed on the tarmac beneath your feet, but you felt Kimi's hand slide from the small of your back to your waist, his fingers gripping the fabric of your clothes with an almost painful firmness. He had heard them. His jaw was clenched, the charismatic smile he'd been wearing mere seconds earlier faltering for a split second. Kimi absorbed their venom for you, and seeing the sunshine boy tense with a mysterious sort of pain hurt far more than any insult ever directed at your pallor.
The Mercedes hospitality suite appeared ahead, a monument to modern luxury. Walking inside felt like being stripped bare beneath fluorescent lights. The air conditioning was freezing, while the scent of expensive espresso and designer perfume filled the room. You noticed the looks from the team's guests: glances that began on Kimi with admiration and ended on you with puzzled disdain. They couldn't understand why Mercedes' golden jewel carried a burden as motionless as you.
You slipped away from him with a gentle, almost imperceptible movement and retreated to the furthest corner of the room, where the shadows seemed to respect your presence. Sitting down in a leather armchair, you crossed your legs and fixed your lifeless eyes on an invisible point in the glass wall.
While Kimi was pulled into conversations with engineers and sponsors, you closed your eyes for a brief moment. Your mind, forever introspective, perceived the world as a collection of frequencies. Theirs were fast, loud, clamorous. Yours was a constant hum, a low, steady note that no one else seemed capable of hearing.
For the thousandth time, you wondered why you subjected yourself to all of this. The noise, the judgement, the invisible weight of being the parasite in the life of someone who only knew how to shine. But then you opened your eyes and caught Kimi's reflection in the Mercedes glass. He was looking at you over the shoulders of guests, sending you a sweet smile.
And in that moment, you remembered: he was the reason you were here. You only had to focus on him, not on anyone else.
♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡
The private Mercedes motorhome was the only place where the air seemed less stifling. Inside, far from the glass walls of the hospitality area, the muffled noise of the paddock sounded like a distant radio broadcast. Kimi stepped inside, giving the door a gentle kick to close it, his arms laden with a black canvas bag full of gifts that the press office had collected from reception.
There was a bit of everything: letters in colourful envelopes, caps, a t-shirt, chocolates that he probably wasn’t allowed to eat, and so many plushies. Kimi dumped it all onto the leather sofa with the typical enthusiasm of someone who was still in awe of the public’s love.
But then, his eyes fell on the bottom of the bag.
"Hey... wait a second." he said, his voice shifting, taking on a note of genuine surprise. He pulled out a black box made of sturdy cardboard, tied with a dark satin ribbon. On the tag, written by hand in shaky letters, was your name. Not his. Yours.
The smile on Kimi’s face widened instantly – that broad, radiant smile that disarmed any journalist at press conferences. His eyes sparkled with an almost childlike optimism.
"Look at this, amore." He turned to you, holding out the box as though he were presenting a trophy. "It's for you. I told you... I told you they'd start seeing who you really are. Someone's finally done something for you."
You looked at the black box in his hands. Your dull eyes, accustomed to seeing the world through its gothic, grey undertones, did not share his excitement. You knew the paddock. You knew the internet. The public wouldn't waste their time sending black boxes tied with dark ribbons to the "Corpse Bride" out of pure affection.
"Open it," Kimi encouraged, sitting on the arm of the chair you occupied, his body leaning forwards, taut with hopeful anticipation. He wanted so badly for you to be loved by his world. He desperately needed that validation to ease the weight of the comments you'd both overheard at the entrance.
You pulled on the end of the satin ribbon. The knot came undone without a struggle. Your hands, pale against the dark cardboard, lifted the lid.
The silence that followed in the motorhome was piercing.
Kimi's smile didn't simply vanish; it collapsed. His eyes, once filled with anticipation, fixed on the porcelain creature lying amidst the torn tissue paper. It was an antique doll, but one that had been subjected to meticulous cruelty. Its porcelain skin had been painted a morbid grey, almost bluish in hue, mimicking a corpse. Its eyes, once bright, had been scratched out and gouged with some sort of blade, leaving behind two black, hollow, lifeless sockets. A white dress stained with fake blood had been attached to the top of its head, while a piece of old, filthy lace had been arranged to resemble a bridal veil.
A literal portrayal. A physical joke. Corpse Bride. The Haunted Doll.
"What the fuck is this?" Kimi's voice came out low and rough, completely unlike the tone he usually used.
The atmosphere shifted in an instant. The well of charisma and sweetness vanished, replaced by a violent urgency. Kimi shot to his feet, his face flushing with a mixture of rage and humiliation.
You, on the other hand, looked at the doll and didn't feel nearly as disturbed as you probably should have. For someone who lived inside her own gothic, introspective mind, the vandalism inflicted upon the piece didn't frighten you.
He reached out to snatch the box from your lap. "Give me that. I'm throwing this shit in the bin right now." He hissed, fists clenched at his sides, chest heaving beneath his Mercedes shirt.
"Kimi, no." You said in your usual calm voice, hugging the box against your chest.
"No, no... I'll... I'll speak to PR. I'll make a public statement right now. I'll post something on social media. They can't do this to you, you haven't done anything to anyone!" He paced back and forth in the confined space of the motorhome like a caged animal, fury consuming the golden boy. He wanted to break something. He wanted to protect you with his own body if necessary.
"Kimi. Listen to me." You spoke again, trying to catch his attention.
Kimi stopped pacing. He looked at you, eyes bloodshot with anger, lips trembling.
"Don't do it." You continued, speaking slowly, keeping your dull eyes fixed on his. With him, you didn't need armour. "If you make a statement, if you shout at the world, they win. They'll know their poison worked. They'll see that they managed to hurt you through me. And the last thing Mercedes needs before a race is a destabilised driver."
"But... look at what they did, amore." He stepped forward, dropping to his knees in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs. His anger began to wilt, giving way to something far worse: deep pain, devastating guilt. "They're cruel. They attack you just because you don't want to smile for their cameras. Just because you're... you."
He lowered his head, pressing his forehead against your knees.
"It's my fault." He whispered, his voice muffled by the fabric of your trousers. "If you weren't with me, if you weren't in this hell of a paddock, nobody would be calling you those names. Nobody would be sending you... this. I brought you into this aquarium, and now they're trying to drown you in it. I'm so sorry... I'm so, so sorry."
You reached out, pale, cool fingers stroking the curls in his hair. You didn't feel like a victim. The outside world simply didn't matter enough to hurt you.
"They're not destroying me, and it isn't your fault." You said with all the sincerity your introspective soul could gather.
He lifted his face, damp eyes meeting your dull, empty ones—which, to him, were the safest place in the universe.
You looked away from him for a moment and reached into the black box, carefully taking out the vandalised porcelain doll. You held it gently, your fingers tracing the scratches carved into its face.
"I'll take her home when the weekend is over." You said, an almost imperceptible softness crossing your features. "I'll try to remove the paint, disguise the scratches, give her a new dress, and she'll be perfect again."
Kimi remained kneeling in front of you, hands spread across your thighs, watching the calm way your pale fingers traced the contours of the ruined porcelain doll. The contrast between the world's aggression and your gentleness seemed to short-circuit his mind. His chest still rose and fell with indignation, but your quiet, controlled voice acted like a sedative.
"How do you do it?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on yours. There was such profound admiration in his gaze, a love that bordered on the sacred. "How do you stay so indifferent to them? They call you horrible names, they throw all this poison at you… and you're sitting here planning to fix this stupid doll. I wish I had half your strength. I wish it didn't hurt me so much to see what they do to you."
You let out a short breath, the closest thing you ever came to a laugh, and placed the doll in the corner beside his helmet. Then you turned your full attention back to the driver. Your hands left the damaged toy and moved to his face, cold fingers shaping the line of his jaw that was still rigid with tension.
"It's easy to be indifferent to them, Kimi." You said, keeping your dull eyes locked on his, allowing him to see the truth you hid from the rest of the world. "They don't know me. To the paddock, the media, the people at the barriers… I'm just a blur of black, a ghost they've invented. They hate the character they've created in their heads, not me."
You leaned forwards slightly, bringing your face closer to his, feeling the warmth of the Italian's breath.
"My parents know me. My friends know me. And, above all… you know me. You know every line of my silence. What the rest of the world thinks is just background noise."
Kimi's eyes softened completely, shining with an intensity that almost made you look away. He couldn't bear the distance any longer. He pressed his lips to yours in a calm, deep kiss, one that seemed to draw all the dust and harshness of that Monaco paddock away from you. It was a kiss that carried a silent promise. One kiss at the corner of your mouth, another against your forehead, followed by a trail of affection across your pale cheek.
"I love you so much," he murmured against your skin, hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer as though he wanted to merge you into him. "I love you, I love you, mia bella. Never forget that."
"I love you too." You replied, and the tiny smile that appeared on your lips was enough to make him smile back, the sunshine boy returning to life within the isolation of that motorhome.
The anger Kimi had felt in that room didn't disappear; it transformed into fuel.
After securing a stunning pole position and winning the Monaco Grand Prix, there you were beside his father. Before you could retreat into the safety of the shadows, his gloved hands cupped your face. He pulled you towards him and kissed you. A passionate, needy kiss in front of the entire world. The deafening clicks of hundreds of cameras went off at once, capturing the perfect contrast of the victorious driver covered in sweat holding his pale, gothic girlfriend.
When he pulled away slightly, still breathing hard, he kept his forehead pressed against yours, ignoring everyone around him.
"That one was for you." He whispered loudly enough for those nearby to hear, his voice firm and edged with pride. "I told you I'd win for you."
Authors Note: Hey lovies… 🧍🏻♀️I’m still alive! Sorry I’ve been gone for so long. I finally had a small chance to sit down and write something again. As you know, I don’t write smut all that often, so I hope this lives up to your expectations. This doesn’t mean I’m officially back, I just wanted to post something for you all. I hope you’re all doing well and taking care of yourselves. Lots of love xx
Summary: After weeks of being separated, you and Lewis finally reunite and make the most of your time together.
Warnings: sexual themes - oral sex (female receiving)
Fingers curled tightly into the crisp hotel sheets beneath you, the expensive fabric bunching in your grasp as ragged breaths filled the room. Each inhale came quicker than the last, swallowed almost as soon as it escaped.
The sturdy wooden headboard knocked occasionally against the wall behind the bed, the muted thuds echoing through the suite and blending with the steady hum of the city far below. Warm afternoon light painted the room in shades of amber and gold while sheer curtains swayed gently in the breeze from the cracked balcony door.
An inked hand found its place around your throat, the touch firm yet reverent drawing a breathless cry from your lips before it was stolen away by his own.
Lewis kissed you like a man who had spent far too many sleepless nights imagining this moment, every brush of his mouth carrying the weight of weeks apart. It wasn’t rushed – it was desperate in the quietest way, lingering and hungry all at once. As though he was trying to make up for every mile that had kept you separated.
Your fingers slipped into his soft natural curls, threading through the dark strands until your hand settled at the nape of his neck. You gave the gentlest tug, just enough to draw him impossibly closer.
A low, involuntary groan rumbled against your lips. The sound vibrating through the space between you before he deepened the kiss, reluctant to leave even the smallest breath unshared.
A hand settled firmly against your waist, drawing you effortlessly closer. His touch lingered as though he needed reassurance that you were truly here, his thumb absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your side.
“Been too long, sweetheart…” he murmured, the words barely more than a breath against your lips. The raw ache woven into his voice made your body stutter.
Sensing the way your body melted beneath his touch, his lips wandered from yours. Lingering along the curve of your jaw in unhurried kisses before tracing a slow path down the column of your neck.
Every touch was deliberate lingering just long enough to leave warmth blooming in its wake. He paused occasionally, pressing featherlight kisses against your skin as though committing every inch of you to memory.
His hand slipped away from your neck, fingertips gliding gently over the contours of your body. His palm wandered slowly before settling gently against the curve of your chest. His thumb brushed over your hardened nipple and leaned down placing a delicate kiss. Lifting his gaze to yours the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He continued his slow descent, his lips planting fleeting kisses as he moved lower. He finally paused between your bare legs. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you. Gaze soft with love, admiration and quiet longing.
His tattooed hands found your inner thighs, their warmth a striking contrast against the cool air that brushed over your skin.
A shiver swept through you before you could stop it. Your legs trembled beneath his touch, goosebumps blossoming across your skin as your breathing caught in your chest.
Before you could gather another steady breath, he leaned in slowly, unhurried, allowing anticipation to settle between you before his lips found you.
He dragged his tongue in a gradual worshipful motion gliding up your centre. A soft, trembling breath escaped your lips as you instinctively reached for him, your fingers threaded once more through his curls.
His hands remained anchored in your thighs as your muscles quivered with Lewis initiating slow reverent circles around your clit. His eyes closed briefly, completely absorbed in the moment.
A small hum of contentment escaped him that vibrated through your core. Flattening his tongue he continued long savouring licks, your hand tightened as another shaky breath left you. He looked up for the briefest second before focusing on his movements again.
Your soft cries grew louder, filling the bedroom and fading into the rhythm between the two of you. Each breath came a little less steadily than the last, your chest rising and falling as wave after wave of warmth coursed through you.
Lewis remained completely immersed, his tongue moved faster alternating between circles around your clit and long strokes up your core.
The pleasure continued to build at an unhurried pace, leaving your thoughts wonderfully scattered. A tremor ran through you, your hips lifting almost on their own accord. Lewis steadied you with gentle hands, grounding you with a tenderness.
The tension within you finally snapped, breaking all at once. Your back arched instinctively as a breathless cry escaped your lips, his name falling from your mouth. Your thighs continued quivering beneath the reassuring hold his hands had.
Lewis let out a low, muffled sound of his own with satisfaction and devotion, refusing to pull away. Instead, he remained exactly where he was. His touch never wavered, as though his concern was helping you ride out the last lingering ride of emotions.
Only when you shifted, gently guiding him back, did he pause and relent careful not to overwhelm you. He rose slowly as if reluctant to break the connection entirely. His lips were parted slightly, breath uneven and the intensity of his gaze was dark and utterly absorbed in you.
