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
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.
“I would love to, but I literally can’t,” you sighed softly, finally looking up from your laptop screen.
Oscar was stretched out across your couch, one arm tucked behind his head, completely at ease—like your apartment had quietly stopped being somewhere he visited and had simply become somewhere he existed.
The only reason you were sitting at the dining table instead of hiding away in your well-equipped home office was him. You'd migrated out without really thinking about it, laptop open in front of you, coffee slowly going cold beside it. You'd told yourself it was for the natural light. It was not for the natural light.
Half working. Half simply existing in the same room as him.
"I'm already behind on my tasks," you added more quietly, another email sliding into your inbox before you'd even finished reading the last one. Another issue. Another thing not working the way it was supposed to for one of your clients.
Your shoulders dropped slightly as you read it, the tension settling back in almost instantly—familiar, automatic. The particular brand of tired that came not from too little sleep but from too many things requiring your brain at the same time.
Oscar didn’t speak right away.
Didn't tell you to ignore it.
Didn't tell you to relax, which you appreciated, because the fastest way to make someone stop relaxing was to instruct them to relax.
He just watched you. Steady. Present. Like he was trying to understand what weighed on you without making you explain it.
“I know,” he said eventually. Quiet. Simple. No pressure in it.
That was the thing about him. He rarely tried to argue you out of your reality. He just stepped into it with you.
You let out a small breath, fingers hovering over your keyboard without actually typing anything.
"It's just this new client…" you started slowly, eyes still on the screen, half-reading, half-talking. "As soon as this settles, I'll stop feeling like I'm drowning and maybe upgrade to... barely surviving."
That earned the smallest laugh from the couch.
"I think I need another two weeks," you guessed, eyes moving across your project timeline instead. Campaign rollout. Product launch. Brand approvals. Content calendars.
It all blurred together eventually.
Oscar thought for a moment.
You went back to work.
Your inbox kept refreshing like it had its own agenda. One client wanting luxury but understated but also viral, another asking for timeless branding with TikTok relevance, which in your professional opinion was basically asking for a unicorn with a LinkedIn account.
You loved your job, and you were good at it—fast, precise, efficient. But onboarding a client this large always meant weeks of deep water. Luxury consulting came with impossible expectations, and when a client specifically requested you, it was flattering—but a responsibility that didn't ease until everything was running smoothly.
And with this one, it had been weeks already.
The Austrian and British GPs hadn't helped either. You'd known that even before they started. You'd gone anyway.
Of course you had.
“Then a summer vacation together.”
His voice suddenly sounded much closer than before.
Before you even looked up, you felt him. The warmth of him crossing the room. A familiar hand brushing lightly over your shoulder as he leaned down to press an absentminded kiss against your cheek — the kind that wasn't asking for anything, just leaving something behind.
Your eyes closed for half a second on instinct.
Then he pulled out the chair beside yours. The metal legs scraped softly across the floor as he sat down, close enough that your knees almost brushed. Close enough that his arm nearly touched yours, close enough that if he leaned even slightly, he could read your screen.
Not that it would mean anything to him.
You blinked, slightly caught off guard by the proximity. By how easily he filled the space next to you, like he'd calculated exactly how much room to take up and chosen all of it.
“Okay,” you nodded slowly.
“But like a proper vacation,” he said.
You turned your head a little toward him.
“Define proper.”
His mouth curved faintly, like he’d already thought about this more than he was admitting.
“Two weeks,” he said. “Just you and me. No work. No phones. No schedules.”
A beat.
"No one asking me about tyre degradation."
The corner of your mouth twitched.
"And no one emailing you because somebody suddenly decided beige is no longer the right shade of beige."
You laughed. Actually laughed. The sound escaped before you could stop it — easy and sudden, the kind that loosened something in your chest you hadn't realized was wound tight.
Oscar smiled immediately. Like that was all he'd been working toward for the last twenty minutes.
"There she is," he murmured, looking almost unfairly pleased with himself.
"That sounds illegal," you said, still smiling.
“It should be,” he replied, completely serious.
That earned a real smile from you this time.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, finally letting your hands fall away from the keyboard.
“No phones at all?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That’s not realistic.”
Oscar tilted his head.
"You say that like you're addicted to your phone."
"I am not—"
He raised a brow.
You stopped mid-sentence.
A pause during which you made several faces that did not help your case.
"…okay, I am mildly dependent on communication for survival, yes."
"Exactly," he said, satisfied in the way only someone who had been right and could prove it was ever satisfied.
You shook your head, but there was no real resistance in it anymore.
“And where would we even go?” you asked.
Oscar didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze dropped briefly to your laptop, then back to you.
“Somewhere quiet,” he said. “Where no one needs anything from you.”
That landed differently. Not heavy—just soft. Like something inside your chest quietly loosened.
You looked at him for a moment. Actually looked at him.
“You’re really serious about this,” you said quietly.
Oscar nodded once.
"Yeah."
No performance. No persuasion. Just certainty — calm and complete, like he'd already decided and was simply waiting for you to arrive at the same place.
You exhaled slowly, turning back toward your screen. But not really seeing it anymore.
Two weeks. No work. No demands. No client who considered a slightly off-shade beige a five-alarm emergency. Just life, uninterrupted. Just you, uninterrupted.
It sounded impossible.
Which meant, in a way, it also sounded necessary.
"I can't just disappear for two weeks," you said automatically.
“Yes you can,” Oscar replied simply.
You glanced at him.
He was watching you like this wasn’t a debate he was trying to win. Like it had already been decided in his head—you just hadn't caught up yet.
“You’re looking at me like I’ve already agreed,” you muttered.
“Have you?” he asked.
You huffed a small laugh.
“I haven’t even checked my calendar.”
"Then check." He gestured toward the laptop with the calm authority of someone who had done the math and already knew the answer.
You rolled your eyes and reached for your laptop anyway — because that was easier than admitting he was right — and Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair, content to watch you now instead of the screen. Patient in the particular way he was patient. Not restless. Not waiting for you to hurry. Just there.
You opened your calendar.
Scrolled.
Paused.
Two weeks right now while on-boarding a new client was insane. Logistically messy. Work-wise irresponsible.
And yet—
Nothing was actually on those exact dates that couldn't be moved.
That realization irritated you more than it should have. You'd been so prepared to have a very reasonable objection.
You glanced sideways at him.
He looked entirely too pleased for someone who hadn't said a single word since you started scrolling. He had the specific expression of a man who had done absolutely nothing and was somehow still winning.
“You planned this already,” you accused lightly.
“I suggested it,” he corrected.
“You suggested it with intent.”
“I always have intent.”
"That's either romantic or alarming."
"Can't it be both?"
That made you snort.
You closed the laptop halfway, exhaling.
"You're dangerous," you said.
"Because I want to take you on holiday?" he asked, eyebrows lifting like the concept was entirely innocent.
"Because you make it sound reasonable."
Oscar smiled faintly, then reached out, gently taking your hand off the table. His fingers slid between yours easily, familiar now in a way that still sometimes surprised you.
He shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
"I just want time with you." he said quietly.
Just that.
The joke disappeared from the room, replaced by something quieter and harder to deflect. No punchline coming. No follow-up. Just the truth of it, sitting there between you.
You looked down at your joined hands for a moment.
Your thumb brushed against his.
Somewhere on the screen beside you, another email arrived.
Another problem.
Another deadline.
Another thing waiting to be solved.
And for the first time in weeks, you found yourself not caring quite as much.
Oscar watched you patiently. No pressure. No expectation. Just waiting — and somehow that was more persuasive than any argument he could have made.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, practical objections immediately began lining up. Work. Clients. Responsibilities. Every reason to say later.
But hadn't you spent enough years doing that already?
Waiting until things were calmer. Easier. Waiting until you'd earned rest. Waiting until you'd earned happiness.
Oscar squeezed your hand once.
Warm. Familiar. Real.
And before you could talk yourself out of it—
"Okay."
The word left your mouth so easily it almost surprised you.
Oscar blinked.
"Okay?"
You nodded once, a smile slowly appearing despite yourself.
"Okay."
For a second, he just stared. Then he broke into such an immediate, boyish grin that you actually laughed — the kind of grin that had nothing composed about it, that he absolutely would have tried to control if he'd had any warning.
"Don't look so shocked."
"I'm not shocked."
"Oscar."
"I'm a little shocked."
"Rude."
"You usually require at least three business days and a risk assessment."
"That's called being responsible."
"That's called opening Excel before making a personal decision."
"Excuse you. I have never done that."
Oscar looked at you with an expression that said, very clearly and without a single word: I have watched you do exactly that.
Before you could mount a defense — which would have been compelling and well-structured, for the record — his hand settled at your waist.
You narrowed your eyes immediately.
"Oscar—"
Too late.
With an ease that suggested he had been planning this since approximately the moment he sat down, he stood from his chair and pulled you with him. A surprised laugh escaped you as your hands landed automatically on his shoulders, and then he dropped back into the chair a second later — this time with you securely in his lap.
Your protest dissolved somewhere between the standing and the sitting.
Mostly because it was comfortable. Unreasonably comfortable. And because Oscar's arms settled around your waist like they were designed for exactly this purpose, which, increasingly, you suspected they were.
"There," he said, satisfied.
"That's not a solution."
"It is for me."
"I was in the middle of—"
"Being stressed," he supplied helpfully.
"Working."
"Both of those things, yes."
You shook your head, but the smile wouldn't leave. It had made itself at home on your face without asking permission, which was very on-brand for the situation.
The laptop sat forgotten on the table. Your inbox continued collecting problems somewhere behind you, each one patiently waiting its turn. For once, neither of you paid it any attention.
Oscar rested his chin against your shoulder. Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a soft kiss against your temple — not dramatic, not performed. Just warm lips against your skin, affection so natural it felt almost unconscious. The kind of thing you didn't brace for. The kind of thing that landed before your defenses could catch up.
Then another.
Lingering a fraction longer this time.
You felt his smile there.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Your chest did something complicated and quiet.
"For agreeing?"
"Mhm."
You turned your head slightly, finding him already looking at you.
The excitement was still there.
Not loud. Not childish. Just genuine. Like the thought of two uninterrupted weeks with you was simply enough. No condition attached. No bigger reason needed.
A simple thing.
A dangerous thing.
The kind of thing you still weren't entirely used to — someone being this straightforwardly, unhurriedly happy because of you.
Your fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck.
"You know," you said softly, "most people would be excited about Belgium."
"I am excited about Belgium," he said.
A beat.
“I’m more excited about the vacation.”
You laughed quietly. “That’s objectively the wrong answer.”
“I stand by it.”
His arms tightened briefly around your waist, pulling you a little closer.
Oscar didn't say anything else.
He didn't need to.
His chin settled against your shoulder again, his breathing evening out little by little as the excitement gave way to something quieter.
Home.
Not a place.
Just this.
Just you.
For someone who spent most of his year living out of suitcases and hotel rooms, maybe that was why two weeks mattered so much. Not because of where you'd go or what you'd see. But because he'd get to wake up beside you every morning, and go to sleep knowing you'd still be there, and have nothing else that needed his attention in between.
And for a moment — surrounded by unanswered emails and half-finished tasks and every responsibility that would still be waiting for you later — you let yourself lean into him completely.
Not planning.
Not calculating.
Not preparing for what came next.
Just staying exactly where you were.
And judging by the way Oscar immediately settled his cheek against your shoulder like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of being anywhere else, he seemed perfectly content with that outcome too.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
And Oscar truly was excited for Belgium.
With good reason.
Notification after notification lit up your phone over the course of the weekend.
P1 in FP1.
Then again in FP2.
FP3 wasn't any different.
Every session seemed to fall into place almost effortlessly — the McLaren looking planted through Eau Rouge, Oscar somehow finding another few hundredths each time it mattered, like the car had simply decided to agree with him this weekend and was doing its absolute best to cooperate.
By Saturday afternoon your phone barely stopped vibrating, and your eyes stayed glued to the TV screen far more than your project timeline appreciated.
POLE POSITION.
A small, helpless laugh escaped you.
“Of course he’s on pole,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head as you tried—unsuccessfully—to refocus on the laptop balanced on your knees.
On track, he looked like he belonged there.
His race suit was unzipped just slightly to below his collarbone, white fireproofs visible underneath, damp with heat and effort. Sweat still clung to his temples and disappeared beneath the papaya collar, the late afternoon sun catching the faint flush across his cheeks. His hair was a mess under the team cap he’d already shoved back on, and his breathing was still just slightly uneven from the final flying lap.
Like the car hadn’t just obeyed him. Like it had responded.
Like it always did when he got it right.
"So far," Nico Rosberg smiled, beginning the post-qualifying interview with the easy warmth of someone who had been in exactly that car, in exactly that headspace, a long time ago and remembered it clearly. "I'd say this has probably been your strongest weekend of the season."
Oscar nodded immediately, a small smile still lingering as he lifted the mic.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “You could say that.”
Nico hummed. “Anything you changed this weekend?”
“Not really,” Oscar shook his head. “Everything’s just… working, I guess.”
A pause.
“Car feels good. Confidence is there. It’s all coming together.”
"So no lucky charm then?" Nico teased lightly, in the tone of a man who absolutely already thought there was a lucky charm.
Oscar almost answered too quickly. Almost shrugged it off with the kind of reflexive deflection he was very good at. Almost let the truth slip past his better judgment on a wave of adrenaline.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, with the exact measured evenness of someone who knew exactly what was being talked about.
Nico laughed. "Oh come on."
Oscar let out a short breath, already sensing where this was heading with the accuracy of someone who had been interviewed enough times to recognize a setup from the first sentence.
"I've seen the photos," Nico continued, in the tone of a prosecuting attorney who had already won. "So have about four million other people."
A faint smile broke through Oscar's attempt at neutrality.
"Right."
"So?" Nico leaned in just slightly, clearly enjoying himself. "Is she your lucky charm?"
There it was.
The question — simple, direct, sitting in the air between them with nowhere to go.
Oscar laughed softly, not because it was funny, but because laughing was easier than the three seconds he needed to decide what came next.
Did he want to say your name? Absolutely.
Did he want to tell the world, plainly, without hesitation, that you were his? Without question.
But not like this. Not here. Not in a post-qualifying interview with the cameras still rolling and you watching alone at home, without any warning, without the conversation you'd quietly agreed you'd have together first. Saying your name here would be taking something private and handing it to an audience before you'd even decided you were ready for one.
He wasn't careless with you.
Wasn't going to start now.
So instead, he chose the closest honest version of the truth — the one that didn't need a name to land.
"Yeah."
One word.
Simple.
Honest.
Nico's grin widened instantly.
“I knew it.”
Oscar huffed a laugh, rubbing briefly at the back of his neck.
“She’s here this weekend?” Nico pressed immediately.
Oscar shook his head once.
"No."
A pause — brief, considered.
"But…" His shoulders lifted in a loose shrug, the look of a man calculating how much trouble he was about to cause for himself on live television and deciding the answer was a manageable amount. "I've definitely got her luck with me."
A beat.
Then he looked directly into the camera and winked.
Casual. Infuriatingly unbothered.
Like he hadn’t just said something that would immediately set half the paddock on fire.
On your end of the screen, your cheeks burned immediately. Because that wink had a very specific address. You were the only person in this interaction who knew exactly where it was going, and somehow that made it worse. Or better. You were still deciding.
Nico’s expression shifted instantly—interest sharpening, already preparing to dig deeper—but before he could fire off another question, the segment timing cut in like a saving grace for Oscar.
“Alright, that’s all we’ve got time for!”
Relief, disguised as professionalism.
Oscar handed the microphone back with a polite nod, the faintest satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped away from the interview spot.
If Nico looked mildly betrayed by unfinished business, Oscar looked like a man who had narrowly escaped a trap.
But before Oscar could even properly breathe—before his mind could fully shift out of the tunnel-vision of the race and into whatever came next—Kimi was already there.
Grinning.
Too wide. Too knowing. The grin of someone who had been watching the interview from five meters away and had taken notes.
Oscar stepped back toward the parc fermé area where the other front-row qualifiers still lingered: Kimi in P2, Charles in P3, both of them still carrying that post-session electricity that made paddock conversations slightly louder and less filtered than usual.
Kimi tilted his head, eyes gleaming with the energy of someone who considered himself investigatively gifted.
"You almost said her name," he said.
He was wrong.
Oscar didn’t even need a second to know that. The adrenaline was still buzzing through his system, heart rate not quite back to baseline, thoughts still half in the car, half in the podium run—but he wouldn’t have said your name. Not here. Not like that. Not in a way that turned something private into paddock currency.
But Kimi looked far too pleased with himself to care about accuracy.
Charles only shook his head beside him, laughing under his breath at the younger driver’s confidence.
“You did go a bit red at the mention of her, though,” he pointed out, in the tone of someone contributing a fair and balanced observation.
Kimi’s head snapped toward him immediately.
“You know her?” he asked, eyes widening.
“Her?” Charles echoed, amusement flickering across his face.
Kimi gestured vaguely, as if the entire concept of subtlety was optional.
“His girl. The one he hid in Monaco,” he clarified, still not letting go of the near-miss from earlier in the season like it was a personal unfinished investigation.
Charles’ gaze drifted back toward Oscar now, eyebrows lifting slightly in silent question.
Oscar exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of resignation slipping in.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “He almost caught us during the Monaco GP.”
That made Charles laugh outright—because of course it did.
To him, it was funny in that detached, slightly chaotic way only someone who had lived through Monaco too many times could manage. But there was something else in it too: understanding. Not intrusive, not judgmental. Just awareness.
He knew exactly what it meant for you two to keep things quiet. Not as a game. Not as secrecy for drama. But as something carefully held back while you figured out how to exist properly before the world got involved.
Kimi, meanwhile, looked personally offended by how little scandal there actually was.
“So you’re just all pretending I didn’t almost solve it,” he muttered.
“You didn’t solve anything,” Charles said lightly.
“I was close.”
“You were guessing.”
"I was investigating," Kimi corrected, with the emphasis of someone who felt the distinction was important and underappreciated.
Oscar let out a short laugh at that, shaking his head as he finally started walking toward the garage.
"Keep investigating," he said over his shoulder. "Just maybe leave my personal life out of it."
And behind him, Kimi immediately followed.
“I’m very good at investigations.”
Charles sighed.
“I’m watching a child argue with a wall.”
Oscar didn't look back. But for the first time since stepping out of the car, something in his chest fully eased. Not the result of the session. Not the pole. Just the ordinary, grounding thought of you — still at home, still knee-deep in different colour palettes and impossible briefs, and completely untouched by all of this noise.
That, more than anything, stayed with him.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
oscarpiastri
Cirquit de Spa-Francorchamps • Fun (feat. Roses Gabor)
oscarpiastri Did I mention I like Spa?
Liked by f1fan300, op81, yourusername and 388’993 Other’s
f1updates 🚨 OSCAR PIASTRI POLE POSITION SPA-FRANCORCHAMPS 🚨
verstappendefender yeah yeah but did you see the WINK in the interview
user4829174 okay but can we talk about the wink. THE WINK. he looked directly into the camera and WINKED. that wink had a recipient. that wink had an address. that wink had a ZIP CODE
piastriobsessed THE ZIP CODE SENT ME
mclarengirlboss that wink was point-to-point delivery. tracked shipping. signature required upon arrival.
f1wags_updates wait wait wait is oscar piastri in a relationship???? asking for 4 million people
oscarpiastri @.f1wags_updates I don't know what you're talking about
f1wags_updates SIR.
user9918273 HE REPLIED WITH THE EXACT SAME THING HE SAID TO NICO
papayastan consistent king. he has ONE answer and he's sticking to it
kimianthonisen he absolutely has a girlfriend @.f1wags_updates I was standing right there
formulafemme "I've definitely got her luck with me" and then the wink. and then "I don't know what you're talking about." this man is performing plausible deniability while simultaneously CONFIRMING EVERYTHING
piastrifan2025 he's doing both things at once. he's confirmed it and denied it in the same breath. quantum girlfriend.
mclarenaccount the quantum girlfriend era of oscar piastri's career
user0019283 this is the funniest thing i've ever read in a formula 1 comment section
f1gossip why is no one trying to figure out who the girlfriend is. we have had TWO photos of oscar with a blonde girl in the last two months and nobody has done anything with this information
user8827364 wait what photos
f1gossip the one from the after ones during and after the monaco GP. blurry but it's there.
smoothoperatorf1 and lets not forget the pictures where he himself soft launched!!!
user8123 what if it's Lily. they dated. it was serious. things ended quietly. oscar never spoke about it publicly. what if they reconnected?
user0019283 oh we're doing this
user8827364 also lando would NOT be able to keep that secret. lando cannot keep any secret. if it were lily, lando would have accidentally confirmed it in a stream six months ago.
landnorris @.user8827364 I keep secrets
f1detective let's be for real, it's not her. lily is brunette. the girl in both photos is clearly blonde.
user8123 she could have dyed it
op81fan I'm going to sound nuts, but what if it's @.yourusername? he's been in her likes recently
mclarengirlboss it's not, be realistic
op81fan i mean, she's often in the paddock with Alex, maybe they've run into each other once and hit it off?
user9901827 wasn't she rumoured to be with kimi like three months ago though
op81fan that's exactly why it could make sense now! kimi confirmed his girlfriend last month and it's not her, so Y/N L/N was clearly available this whole time
user4829174 LMAOOO
smoothoperatorf1 okay I'll bite. Y/N IS blonde. the timeline does work. oscar has been in monaco basically all season between races.
mclarengirlboss she's a practical princess of monaco dating a formula 1 driver who grew up in melbourne. be serious.
formulafemme I mean he literally lives in monaco?? the overlap isn't that crazy??
mclarengirlboss ...okay fair but still
see all comments...
❁✿❀❁✿❀
"So," Nicole said, with the particular warmth of a woman who had been waiting patiently to ask this question for several weeks and had earned it, "when am I going to meet the beautiful Sol?"
Oscar paused mid-movement.
He had, genuinely, completely forgotten that he'd given his mother a paddock pass for the Spa weekend. In his defence, his brain had been occupied — mostly by you, and the holiday idea that kept surfacing at inconvenient moments, and the quiet, ongoing effort of being a Formula 1 driver at what was becoming a genuinely complicated point of a championship. So when Nicole had appeared in the McLaren motorhome on Thursday morning, perfectly composed and already greeting the engineers by name like she'd been there all season, his surprise had been immediate and very visible.
Slightly embarrassing for someone who drove a car at three hundred kilometres an hour for a living.
How do you forget your own mother? He'd asked himself this. He didn't have a satisfying answer.
He shrugged now, towel still in hand, drying his hair in the absent way of someone whose mind was only partially in the room. Freshly showered, back in a black T-shirt and loose shorts, the particular post-race quiet settling into his limbs — the kind that came after the adrenaline finally ran out and left everything feeling slightly slower and softer than usual.
"I was hoping she'd be here this weekend," Nicole admitted, more quietly. "It would've been nice to finally meet her properly."
Oscar's posture shifted — not defensive, just attentive. The way it always did when you came up in conversation.
"She's got a lot of work right now," he said easily. “End of quarter stuff. Deadlines. Meetings. You know how it is.”
Nicole nodded, though her eyes stayed on him.
She studied him properly then.
Not casually anymore.
Like a mother who had watched her child long enough to notice when something had shifted.
"And still," she added, voice lighter again, "you've been smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news every twenty minutes all weekend."
Oscar let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you don't," she replied smoothly, in the tone of a woman who knew exactly what she meant.
That earned her a reluctant smile. He dropped onto the couch next to her then, stretching his legs out in front of him, finally letting the adrenaline of the race weekend drain out of his system. Spa still lingered behind his eyes— heat, pressure, podium champagne, interviews—but underneath all of it, there was something else now.
Something softer.
Something that kept pulling his thoughts away mid-sentence.
Nicole tilted her head slightly.
“So?” she asked again, quieter this time. “What is she like?”
Oscar didn’t answer immediately.
Not because he didn't know. He knew. He could have answered in any number of ways — practical, chronological, efficient. But everything that came to mind when he thought of you didn't quite fit those shapes.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the window of the motorhome, where the paddock buzzed on outside—busy, loud, relentless.
Then back to his mother.
“She’s calm,” he said finally. “But not in a quiet way. More like… steady. Like she makes everything feel less rushed without actually slowing anything down.”
Nicole nodded slightly, encouraging him without interrupting.
“And she notices everything,” he added. “Like things you don’t even realise you’re showing. It’s annoying sometimes.”
That made Nicole’s mouth twitch.
"But also good," he added quickly, because it was. Genuinely, unexpectedly good.
A beat.
“She remembers things people forget they said. And she listens like she actually wants to understand, not just reply.”
His voice softened a fraction without him noticing.
Nicole's expression changed subtly — not surprised. Just quietly noting something.
"That sounds like someone who makes you think," she said.
Oscar huffed a quiet laugh.
“She makes me stop thinking, actually.”
Nicole smiled — the warm, genuine kind that had nothing performative about it.
“Even better.”
Oscar glanced at her.
“You’re enjoying this.”
"I am," she admitted, without an ounce of apology. "It's nice hearing you talk like this."
“Like what?”
“Like you’re not trying to control how it sounds.”
That landed a little deeper than expected.
Oscar looked away again, this time more thoughtful.
Outside, a mechanic laughed loudly somewhere down the corridor. A door slammed. Life continuing at full pace.
Inside, everything felt slightly slower.
Nicole leaned forward slightly, studying him again.
"I'm really proud of you," she said.
Oscar smiled, reflexive and small. "Thanks."
"I'm not talking about the weekend."
That made him look at her properly.
Nicole’s expression stayed gentle, but firm in the way only mothers could manage.
“I’m talking about her.”
A pause.
“She sounds good for you, Oz,” she said. “And I don’t just mean nice. I mean… good. Like she doesn’t make you smaller or louder. Just more yourself.”
Oscar didn’t answer straight away.
His thumb rubbed once against his own palm.
Then, quieter:
“Yeah,” he said. “She does that.”
Nicole’s smile softened.
“Then don’t mess it up.”
That finally made him laugh—properly this time, shaking his head.
“I’m trying not to.”
“I know,” she said simply. “That’s why I like her already.”
Summary: You are training for an Ironwoman triathlon. He is training in the almost-empty gym. You don’t know who Toto Wolff is. Toto finds this far too entertaining.
Warnings: gym flirting, mild thirst over arms, clueless reader, Toto being charming, size difference.
Word count: 1.7k
a/n: I had a rougher day at work today, so I decided to write something light. And since I went to the gym myself and saw a photo of Toto at the gym lately… well, it inspired this one-shot 😉
Your rule at the gym is simple: train hard, stay focused, and absolutely do not stare at attractive men near the free weights.
It is a good rule. Mature. Sensible. Useful when preparing for an Ironwoman triathlon and trying to convince your body that swimming, cycling, and running for a ridiculous amount of time is a hobby, not a cry for help.
You step into the gym, still half-asleep and already mentally negotiating with your training plan.
And then you see him.
Immediately.
He is by the free weights, tall enough to make the machines around him look slightly confused, dressed in black, moving through his set with quiet focus.
The gym is nearly empty and quiet except for soft music, the hum of machines, and the occasional clank of weights.
It is your favourite hour. Too early for normal people. Perfect for you.
And apparently perfect for him.
Your hand tightens around your water bottle.
Oh. Well.
He is very tall and very broad. Older than you, yes, but in the kind of way that says experience, expensive watches, and probably excellent wine. His black training shirt stretches across his shoulders in a way that feels deeply unfair to the general public.
Then he lifts a dumbbell, and you see his forearms.
Good morning to those specifically.
You look away immediately.
You are an athlete. You have discipline. You are a woman training for an Ironwoman, not someone being personally attacked by biceps before breakfast.
You walk to the treadmill. You start your warm-up. You do not stare. You absolutely do not glance sideways every time he moves.
Five minutes later, you glance sideways.
He catches you. Terrible. His mouth curves.
Even worse, his smile comes with a tiny wrinkle of his nose, like he knows exactly what you are doing and has decided to be charming about it.
You nearly trip. The treadmill beeps angrily.
“Betrayal,” you whisper to it.
The man’s smile deepens.
Fantastic. Now the treadmill and the stranger are both against you.
You survive thirty minutes of running, mostly because pride is stronger than oxygen. Then you move to strength work. Squats. Core. Controlled breathing. Focus.
You are setting up near the bench press when the tall man approaches.
Close up, he is even worse. Brown eyes. Sharp face. Calm confidence. The kind of posture that says he is used to people listening when he speaks.
“Excuse me,” he says, voice low and warm. “Would you mind assist me for a set?”
You blink.
He wants you to assist him.
This huge man. This man built like a luxury apartment building with arms.
“You want me to... assist you?” you ask.
“Yes.”
“You do see the size difference here?”
His eyes drop briefly over you, amused and careful. “I noticed.”
“I am one bad decision away from being folded into gym equipment.”
“I promise not to drop anything.”
“That sounds like what people say before dropping things.”
He laughs.
It is unfair. Low and rich and far too attractive for a gym at seven in the morning.
“I’m Toto,” he says.
You give him your name.
He repeats it, and it sounds better in his accent. Annoying. Very annoying.
“Fine, Toto,” you say. “I’ll spot you. But if you die, I’m telling everyone you insisted.”
“Reasonable.”
You stand behind the bench while he lies back, hands wrapping around the bar.
His arms flex.
Your brain briefly leaves the group chat.
Focus.
You are here to train.
He lifts smoothly. Controlled. Strong. No ego-showing. No dramatic gym-bro noises. Just power and discipline.
You hate how attractive that is.
“Good,” you say automatically. “One more.”
He pushes the last rep up and racks the bar.
Then he sits up and looks at you.
“You sound like a coach.”
“I train for triathlons. Bossing tired people is basically part of the sport.”
“Ironwoman?” he asks, noticing the logo on your bottle.
You nod. “That’s the plan.”
His eyebrows rise. “Swim, bike, run?”
“Technically, suffer, suffer differently, then question all life choices while running.”
He smiles again, that tiny nose wrinkle appearing.
You should not find that cute.
You do.
“That sounds… intense,” he says.
“It is.”
“Why do you do it?”
You pick up your towel and shrug. “Because apparently I looked at normal fitness goals and thought, too easy, let’s add existential crisis and wet socks.”
He laughs again. This time you feel stupidly proud.
After that, you end up training near each other.
It starts with him asking if you need help adjusting the rack. Then you ask him to check your form on Romanian deadlifts. He gives a useful correction, calm and precise, without being patronising, which immediately earns him several points.
“Better?” you ask.
“Much better.”
“You say that like you approve.”
“I do.”
“Careful. I might become unbearable.”
“I suspected that already.”
You gasp and point a dumbbell at him. “You are very brave for a man I recently kept alive during bench press.”
“I remember your terms.”
“Good. Fear me.”
“I’m trying.”
He is not trying at all.
He is smiling. Again.
And you begin to notice something dangerous.
Toto watches you. Not in a creepy way. Never too much. Just enough. A glance when you stretch. A quick look when you move from rowing machine to weights. A soft little smile when you mutter insults at your plank timer.
“You are fighting the mat,” he says at one point.
“The mat started it.”
“You have twenty seconds left.”
“I have no seconds left. I died emotionally at forty.”
“Keep going.”
You glare up at him from your plank. “Do not use that voice.”
“What voice?”
“The calm bossy one.”
His mouth curves. “Does it work?”
Unfortunately, yes.
You hold the plank. Barely. When you collapse onto the mat, he offers you a hand.
His hand is warm, large and steady.
You let him pull you up.
“Show-off,” you mutter.
“You did well.”
“Don’t be nice. I’m trying to dislike you.”
“That seems difficult for you.”
You stare at him. He looks far too pleased with himself.
Before you can answer, someone approaches. A young man in Mercedes kit, holding his phone like it contains his life savings.
“Sorry, Mr. Wolff,” he says, nervous. “Could I get a photo?”
You step back.
Mr. Wolff?
Toto gives the man a polite smile. “Of course.”
They take a picture.
You stand there, holding your water bottle, suddenly aware that maybe your random gym crush is not random at all.
Then another person comes over. Then a woman near the bikes asks for a selfie.
Toto handles it all easily. Kind, patient, a little amused.
You stare.
When the third person leaves, you tilt your head.
“So.”
He looks at you. “So?”
“You’re… someone.”
His eyes gleam. “Everyone is someone.”
“No, no. Don’t get philosophical with me while wearing expensive trainers.” You gesture vaguely at him. “Are you famous?”
He laughs, genuinely delighted.
You narrow your eyes. “Are you a celebrity?”
“I wouldn’t say celebrity.”
“That is exactly what a celebrity would say.”
“I work in Formula One.”
You blink.
Silence. More silence.
“Like… cars?”
His face changes into pure joy.
“Yes,” he says. “Like cars.”
You cross your arms. “I don’t follow F1.”
“I noticed.”
“Is that offensive?”
“No.” His smile softens. “Refreshing.”
You look him up and down again. “So you are not just a random gym man with suspiciously good arms.”
His eyebrow lifts.
You regret everything.
“Suspiciously good arms?” he repeats.
You point at him. “Forget I said that.”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Toto...”
“My arms and I are flattered.”
“Oh my God.”
He looks like he is having the best morning of his life.
You, sadly, are also having a good morning.
By the time you finish your session, your legs feel like cooked spaghetti and your dignity is somewhere under the rowing machine.
Toto walks with you toward the exit.
“So, Ironwoman,” he says. “When is it?”
You tell him.
He listens properly, asking about the swim distance, your bike training, your pacing, your nutrition.
You are used to people saying, “Wow, that sounds hard,” and moving on.
Toto asks like he actually cares.
It makes something warm open in your chest. Dangerous. Very dangerous.
At the door, he pauses.
“Well,” he says, “good luck with training.”
“Good luck with… cars.”
His laugh comes out bright and surprised.
You grin. “What? That’s what you do.”
“In a way.”
“See? I understand sports.”
“Clearly.”
He looks at you for a moment. A longer moment.
Then he says, “Could I have your number?”
Your brain drops a dumbbell.
“My number?”
“So I can ask how the Ironwoman race goes.”
“Very professional.”
“Extremely.”
“And that’s the only reason?”
His smile comes slowly. Warm. Charming. Devastating.
“No.”
Your stomach flips like it has entered a gymnastics competition without consent.
You take his phone and type in your number. To save yourself, you name the contact:
Ironwoman With Better Arms
He sees it. He looks at you.
“You think your arms are better than mine?”
“I’m training for endurance. You’re training for looking intimidating near dumbbells.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It worked on me.”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
His expression softens.
Oh. Oh no.
He takes his phone back, then reaches into his gym bag and pulls out a card.
“Also,” he says, handing it to you, “you should come to a race.”
You stare at it. Mercedes. VIP access. Your name can be added. Personal invitation.
You look up slowly.
“Are you trying to impress me with cars?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I also have hospitality food.”
“That might work better.”
“And coffee.”
“Dangerous.”
“And I promise to explain the rules.”
You smile. “Are there many?”
“Too many.”
“Will I understand them?”
“No one does.”
You laugh, and he watches you like he wants to remember it.
Then he steps back, one hand on the door.
“Goodbye, Ironwoman.”
“Goodbye, car celebrity.”
He winces. “Please don’t call me that at the paddock.”
“No promises.”
His smile turns wicked for half a second. Then he winks. Actually winks.
Like a man who knows exactly what he is doing and has decided your knees are collateral damage.
“I’ll call you,” he says.
You stand there as he leaves, tall and broad and unfairly charming, while your heart behaves like it has just sprinted the final kilometre of a triathlon.
You look down at the Mercedes card in your hand.
Then at the treadmill through the glass. Then back at the card.
Apparently, you came to the gym to train for Ironwoman. And accidentally got invited into Formula One by a man with dangerous forearms and a smile that should require a warning label.
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.
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. . . .
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."
