summary: oscar crashes into george at silverstone and ends his season, and you take that personally
content warnings: mentions of a serious accident and broken bone!
word count: 2.2k
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
SERIES: dnf || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!
a/n: i promise i'm still doing my other series too but this came to me the other day and i just had to write it
The rain didn’t let up.
It hadn’t since before the lights went out, and now it fell heavier. It was steady, soaking, and relentless against the hood pulled tight around your face. Your jacket clung to you, damp at the edges, the sleeves long darkened where the water had seeped through, but you didn’t move. You didn’t even think about it.
Because you were here.
Actually here.
In the general admission section at Silverstone, standing shoulder to shoulder with a crowd that refused to sit, shoes sinking slightly into the softened ground beneath you, eyes locked on the track like if you looked away for even a second, you’d miss something.
And right then, there was nothing to miss. George Russell was leading. Your driver. Your favorite. Your everything that season. It was his home race. It was the team’s home race. He was the championship leader by a margin that actually felt safe enough to allow yourself to believe in the thought that he might actually finally win the WDC. He was having the kind of season critics talked about when they talked about defining moments.
Every time he came around your section, the crowd erupted. It was deafening with cheers breaking through the rain, people shouting his name like he could hear it over the engine, like it mattered that he knew they were there.
Still, you joined them every time, of course.
You were already standing, but you pushed up higher onto your toes anyway, straining for a better view as the silver car cut through the spray, slicing past your section in a blur
“Go on, George!”
Your voice was swallowed immediately by the crowd, but it didn’t matter.
He passed, still in the lead.
But just like that, the noise trailed off behind him, fading as the cars disappeared into the next sector.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of rain. You exhaled, breath catching slightly, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Your hands were cold, they probably had been the whole time but you only noticed it then. You tilted your head back for the first time since the race started. The rain hit your face directly. It was heavier than before. Colder than before.
Your smile faltered. You noticed it all at once.
The spray of the cars. The thick, heavier plumes of water kicking up behind each car, hanging in the air longer than they should.
The track looked darker, slicker.
You watched as a car further back twitched slightly through a corner. It was just a subtle slip, quickly corrected, but it stuck with you.
Another one followed. It was nothing dramatic, and likely not enough for commentary to panic. But it was enough for you to see it.
Around you, the energy hadn’t changed. Fans still cheered as other drivers came through in quick flashes of color and sound, orange cut through the gray as Lando sped past to a roar of approval, but the roar now felt distant and muffled to you.
You didn’t join in the cheers.You were now watching the track. Watching the conditions. Watching the way the rain kept falling harder as each second passed.
“—he’s coming back around!”
The voice next to you cut through your thoughts, and your head snapped up instantly, attention locking back where it belonged.
George.
Your heart kicked up again as you leaned forward, eyes scanning through the haze of spray, searching for the silver car.
He was still leading, but barely. Gaining closer behind him was Oscar Piastri. He was much closer than before.
Too close.
It happened fast.
Too fast.
One moment they were aligned, Oscar was closing in, rain spray thick between them, and the next—
“No!” You didn’t even realize you’d said it out loud.
A sudden movement. A loss of control. The cars snapped. One, then the other.
And then they were in the wall.
The sound seemed to hit a split second later. A dull, sickening impact swallowed by the rain and the collective gasp of hundreds of people all at once.
Everything stopped. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe the race continued slowly behind them, maybe the commentary continued, maybe the crowd was still reacting. But for you, it all dropped away into nothing. Silence.
You were still standing. Everyone was. But now no one was cheering.
They were staring. You were staring. At the wreck. At the two cars crumpled near the barrier, pieces scattered, rain still drifting through the air like nothing had changed.
You didn’t breathe, at least you didn’t think you did, you just waited. For movement. For something. For Anything.
The movement finally came, but selfishly not from where you needed it to. Oscar was the first to move.
You saw it through the rain, him climbing out, unsteady but upright, pulling himself free of the car as marshals rushed forward. Relief flickered somewhere in the back of your mind, automatic and brief, but it was gone just as quickly.
Because George hadn’t moved. Your eyes didn’t leave the second, silver car. Your eyes didn’t leave the stillness, they didn’t dare leave him.
“Come on,” you whispered, though you didn’t realize you were. “Come on, come on—”
But there was still nothing.
Then, movement. But not from him, it was from the marshals.
They were there, surrounding the car, working quickly, carefully. Something cold settled deep in your chest as you watched them begin to lift him out.
He was not walking. He was not climbing out himself. Instead you were watching your driver get lifted out of his car by his seat.
Your vision blurred. At first you thought it was the rain, but then you felt it. A tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your skin before it disappeared into the cold.
Around you, the crowd shifted. The once loud, excited, happy crowd was now uneasy and murmuring, waiting for confirmation of something no one wanted to say out loud.
But then, a hand raised in the rain. A small movement, a classic George thumbs up.
It was slight and almost easy to miss. It may have been directed vaguely toward the stands. But it was enough.
The reaction was immediate.
Cheers broke out again, louder than before, relief pouring out of everyone at once, messy and overwhelming and desperate. You let out a breath for the first time in what felt like 30 minutes.
He was okay. But even through the relief, something didn’t sit right.
Because across the track stood Oscar.
He was talking briefly to a medic, helmet off, expression unreadable from your distance.
And then, like he felt your eyes on him, he turned.
Just for a second, his gaze flicked toward the stands. Toward the noise and celebration.
And then he turned back around and walked away.
The ride back was quiet. Not the comfortable kind. Not the tired, post-race silence where everyone replayed moments in their head and slowly came down from the adrenaline.
This was different. This was heavy.
Rain tapped against the window in uneven patterns, streaking the glass, blurring the outside world into something so unrecognizable, but you weren’t looking at it anyway.
Your phone was still in your hands, and it hadn't left them since the accident.
Refresh. Nothing. Refresh. Still nothing.
Your thumb moved automatically, over and over again, cycling through apps, posts, updates, anything that might give you some solace.
Because right then, all you had was that moment. The crash. The stillness. The way they had to lift George Russell out of the car.
You swallowed hard, forcing the thought away as your screen reloaded again.
Maybe it was nothing. You clung to that thought, at least. Maybe it was just precaution. A small concussion, a bruised rib, something that looked worse than it really was.
He gave a thumbs up. He was fine.
Refresh. Again, nothing.
The silence stretched all the way back to your room. You didn’t remember unlocking the door, or stepping inside. But suddenly you were there, the door clicking shut behind you, the quiet even louder now without the low hum of a crowd.
Your jacket was still damp, but you didn’t take it off. You just sat on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly forward, phone still inches from your face.
Refresh. Something new.
A clip. You didn’t even register the caption before you tapped it.
And then you were met face to face with him. Oscar Piastri.
Sitting at a press conference table, tens of microphones angled toward him. But yet he looked fine, completely fine. Clean, put together, unshaken.
Someone asked a question, you didn’t even catch all of it, but you knew it was about the crash.
He exhaled slightly. Almost like a laugh. “Yeah,” he said, casual, controlled, like it was nothing. “I messed up. But that’s just racing.”
That’s just racing?
The words echoed in your head, louder than anything from the track, louder than the crash itself. Your hand tightened around your phone. And before you could stop yourself, you threw it back onto the bed behind you.
It landed with a dull bounce, barely moving the blankets, but it wasn’t the impact that mattered. It was the release. You dragged your hands down your face, pressing your palms into your eyes until you saw spots, trying to push the anger back down before it fully took over.
You didn’t even know what was wrong yet. That was the worst part, though. You didn’t know. For all you knew, he was fine. For all you knew, he’d be back next weekend, smiling, brushing it off like it was nothing.
But then why hadn’t there been an update? Why hadn’t the team said anything?
Your hands dropped slowly. Your gaze shifted back to the bed, to your phone.
You reached for it again, then unlocked it.
The app you opened loaded slowly, and for a split second, you considered closing it, pretending you never opened it at all.
But then the post appeared.
Black background, white text.
Your stomach dropped before you even started reading. You knew it was the Medical update that you had been searching for.
Your eyes scanned too fast at first, skipping over words, trying to get to the end before your brain could fully process what you were seeing.
And then it hit. A Broken femur. Immediate surgery. Six months rehab time. Out for the rest of the season.
The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t fit together properly. They didn’t belong in the same sentence as his name.
Your vision blurred again. Another tear slipped down your cheek, slower this time, heavier than before. You blinked hard, like that might fix it. Like stopping crying might somehow undo what you just read. Unsurprisingly, It didn’t.
So you did the only thing you could, you closed the app. If you didn’t look at it again, it wasn’t real. If you had forgotten you read it, then it hadn’t happened.
You sat there for a second staring at the blank screen before you opened another app. TikTok this time.
And there it was, the first thing you saw, the clip of Oscar again. Him sitting behind a table, talking about the accident like it was nothing. “Yeah, I messed up. But that’s just racing.”
Your jaw tightened. Your chest rose quickly, you felt something start to brew that you knew wouldn’t sit quietly like the grief did. This feeling was different. This was anger.
You pushed yourself off the bed suddenly, like if you stayed still for even a second longer you might actually explode. Your phone was already in your hand. You crossed the room and sat it down against the desk, propping it up just enough to frame you.
You didn’t check how you looked. You didn't fix your hair, you didn't bother to wipe away the clear redness in your eyes.
You just hit record.
For a second, you just stared at yourself on the screen. Breath still uneven and eye still glassy.
But then, you started talking. Words spilled out faster than you could control them. You went on and on about the crash, about what you saw, about how reckless it was, about how unnecessary and avoidable it all was.
And mostly about how someone leading the championship, someone driving their home race, someone who had everything to lose, lost it. All because of him, all because of Oscar Piastri.
You didn’t hold back. You said what you were thinking. You said what you believed that everyone was thinking, but what no one else was saying.
“It’s not just racing,” you snapped, voice breaking slightly. “Not when someone’s out for the entire season because of it.”
Your chest tightened again, but you pushed through it. “You don’t just get to brush it off like that.”
Your voice dropped, quieter “He lost everything.”
The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet, and way too heavy. You stopped recording abruptly, your finger hitting the screen without hesitation. You didn’t watch it back or edit it. You didn’t think of a witty caption or hashtags.
You just uploaded it. Because it didn’t matter, you weren’t trying to go viral, you just simply needed to vent. No one was going to see it anyway.
summary: after a death of one of your family members, you find their old recipe cards and love letters. what better way to show your love to show your love to oscar and doing the same for him?
content warnings: mention of the reader's family member's death, mention of sickness/old age!
word count: 1.7k
pairing: oscar piastri x baker!reader
a/n: requested!!
The house smelled like cinnamon, browned butter, and something sweet enough to settle behind Oscar’s ribs the second he stepped inside of your shared apartment. He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl you’d made years ago together in a beginner's ceramic class and followed the smell to the kitchen.
You stood behind the counter, hair tied up, apron dusted in flour, fingers working through the third cookie dough of the day despite telling Oscar you were just going to be trying a few new recipes.
He leaned on the doorframe, voice soft so he wouldn’t startle you.
“Looks like your bakery exploded in here.”
You huffed a laugh, but your shoulders didn’t really lift with it. “Sorry. I guess I got carried away.”
Oscar walked over, looping an arm around your waist from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder as he looked at the chaos in front of you.
Old recipe cards were spread out across the counter, leaving only a little of the original marble visible at this point. Some were yellowed, some had been smudged with time, but all of them bore the same looping handwriting of your grandmother.
“And you didn’t call me for taste-testing?” he teased.
You shrugged in a way that tried far too hard to be casual. “Didn’t want to bother you.”
He kissed your cheek. “You could never bother me.”
You didn’t answer. You just pressed your thumb into the dough with more force than you meant to show. Oscar, who knew you better than you had ever cared to admit, didn’t push. He knew losing your grandmother was hard on you. Instead, he reached for one of the pies cooling on the rack.
“This one’s done, yeah?”
“Mostly.”
“Perfect.” He sliced a piece, leaned against the counter, and took a bite. His eyes fluttered shut as soon as the first bite of the cherry filling touched his tongue. “Oh my god. This is ridiculous.”
That earned a real smile from you. Small, but real.
“I followed her recipe,” you said softly, nodding at one of the cards sprawled on the counter. “Well, mostly, at least. I added a bit more zest and changed the crust.”
Oscar, mouth still full, pointed his fork at you. “Then you'd better write it down before you forget. One day, I want to wave it around and brag about this pie.”
He winked and placed a kiss on the top of your head before heading toward the living room.
You didn’t move for a long moment. You just stared at the old cards. Some were so fragile but so stained with love from over the years. Then your eyes drifted towards the pie Oscar couldn’t stop praising. His words replayed in your mind, soft and thoughtless in the way things often did before they changed everything.
Write it down before you forget.
When the silence settled enough, you picked up one of the recipe cards that had fallen from the box. This time it wasn’t just a recipe. It had a mini love letter written at the bottom of it. Your eyes scanned your grandmother’s writing, talking about how she created her lemon slice because your grandfather always claimed he didn’t like sweets, despite the fact that she had a sweet tooth that preceded her. She was determined to make something he couldn’t resist.
I wanted something he’d love with even when he didn’t know he would, she’d written.
Your throat tightened.
You pressed your hand to the counter, breath catching as grief and tenderness tangled. And then, just like she once had, you decided to write something down too.
For Oscar, for the kids you hoped you’d have someday, for whoever needed to feel loved long after you were gone.
Months later, the kitchen was quiet except for the scratching of your pen. Oscar was in the McLaren garage, deep in prep for qualifying, while you were deep in a recipe card of your own.
Oscar’s Favourite Meat Pie (Piastri Family Edition)
This recipe makes him hum. Literally hum in happiness, like he’s a happy engine.
First cooked: a rainy Tuesday when he came home exhausted from a media shoot and told me he just wanted something “warm.”
And below the instructions, you wrote him a letter. You made sure that each and every recipe got one. Some were short, while others were so long you had to staple another card to them to keep writing. Still, all of them were so full of love it almost hurt to think about the fact that you were going to hide them.
You added family recipes Oscar’s mother had taught you or given you. You added your family’s recipes with your own twists.
Then, when the collection finally grew thick enough to feel whole, you hid it. On the top shelf of the pantry, behind the old baking trays from your first bakery that you just couldn’t ever part with. Somewhere only someone who truly knew you, or got unbelievably lucky, would ever find them.
Years later, the house buzzed with noise. Shipping tape peeling, boxes thudding shut, your daughter Ava humming some pop song she loved, your son Finn complaining about the heat as he hauled his father’s old karting gear from storage.
Oscar stood in the living room, looking around like he was seeing every memory at once. You two bringing the kids home from the hospital, the birthdays, the nights you danced barefoot in the kitchen while something baked in the oven, the mornings you welcomed him home with pancakes after races.
His parents were getting older, and his home in Australia was seeming farther and farther away. Oscar had retired from racing years ago. The kids were teenagers and wanted, and needed, more space. So, you both decided it was time to sell the Monaco apartment and opt for an Australian house and backyard.
You touched his arm as you passed by him, offering a kiss to his temple. “I’m running to the store for more tape. Need anything?”
He shook his head with a small smile. “Just come back.”
You squeezed his hand and left.
Not long after, a voice floated through the house. “Dad? I found… something.”
Oscar turned as Finn approached, holding a small, worn notebook with flour fingerprints still on the cover. Ava followed behind him, curious.
“It was behind all of mum’s baking pans,” Finn said. “She said everything old-looking should go to you first.”
Oscar frowned lightly before completely freezing the moment he opened it.
The first thing he saw was your handwriting, then your date stamps, then all of your little, doodled hearts in the margins. He quickly skimmed your notes about him, then your notes about the kids before they were even born.
Every page was a memory he didn’t know had been saved. He sank onto the half-plastic-wrapped couch without a word.
Ava touched his shoulder. “You okay, Dad?”
He nodded, but his throat was thick. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m good. Just—just give me a minute, okay?”
They left him with it as they returned to their rooms to finish packing.
Oscar turned page after page, breath catching on letters written to him years ago:
I made this when you got your first driver’s championship with McLaren. You were too tired to celebrate when we got home, so I celebrated for us.
Oscar, if you ever find this, I hope you know that you were my favourite comfort long before you ever realized it.
When our kids are older, I want them to know what love tasted like for us before they were here.
His vision blurred more and more as he flipped through the pages.
When he finally made it to the end, he carefully closed it and held the book tight to his chest like it might break if he let it go.
The moment you step back inside, he’s already waiting for you in the kitchen, the little book held gently in both hands.
Your stomach drops as soon as you see it. “Oh.”
Oscar’s eyes lift to yours. They’re soft and wet, with tears brimming at the edges.
“When did you start this?” he whispered.
You tried to smile. It wobbled. “When my grandma passed.”
“And you never told me?”
“I didn’t want it to be something you felt you had to react to,” you said quietly. “I wanted it to be something you’d find if you ever needed it. Something that lived on a shelf until life gave you a reason to open it.”
Oscar swallowed hard. “Why?”
You stepped closer, placing your hand over his. “Because she left me her recipes, her stories, her love in little, handwritten pieces. And it helped me move on more than anything else could have. So I thought that maybe one day you’d need that too, or the kids would. Something to say ‘I loved you then, I love you now, I’ll love you even when I’m not here to say it.’”
He pulled you into a hug so tight your breath caught. You felt him exhale against your neck, all the fear you knew he’d been carrying tucked into the warmth of your shirt collar.
“Thank you,” he murmured against you. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”
You smiled into his shoulder. “You loved me all of these years, and that’s always going to be enough.”
He held your cheeks, kissing you gently and reverently. When he pulled away, he tried to laugh, but his voice cracked. “You know, I probably scared the kids into thinking these are pictures from our honeymoon or something.”
You laughed. “They are going to wonder why you won’t just throw it away.”
He kissed you again, forehead pressed to yours.
“I’m making you one,” he whispered. “Maybe it’ll only have one recipe, but I’m doing it.”
“What recipe?”
He smiled. “Guess I’ll have to take up baking too and make one.”
And in the middle of all the boxes and memories and shifting futures, you kissed him until the house felt full again.
Description: Carlos Sainz + his wrestler girlfriend, and how they found each other.
Pairing: carlos sainz x wwe-wrestler! reader
(fc: aj lee)
SPAIN, 2016
Inhale. Exhale.
You tried to calm yourself down with breathing exercises, but breathing can only do so much in response to what you were feeling right now. It had been your first title match in Spain, and similarly, the company's first time ever hosting a match in this country.
The company's instruction had been simple.
Ten minutes, and you had already choreographed and practiced the entire match with Kaitlyn. Everything was memorized, every punch and kick flowed as naturally as the words to Hail Mary... but fuck. Women aren't allowed to have their cake and eat a crumb of it, eh?
"I'm sorry, but we need to cut your match down to five minutes," one of the administrators opens their mouth - only to be met with the piercing gaze of Kaitlyn (a beautiful blonde woman who's already the face of the women's division).
"But our match is only ten minutes," you pressed, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. "- Can't you cut the men's matches. We don't need to watch John Cena and Brock Lesnar fight for an hour straight," you pointed out the clear bias between the gender divisions.
To your surprise, the man looks at you with that stare. One that is supposed to make you feel like you know nothing about the professional wrestling, even though you've been a wrestler for two-whole years. "They're having a title match, we can't cut that," the man replies curtly.
"We're also having a title match," Kaitlyn points at her title.
"It's a woman's match, Kaitlyn, it's not as important." He scoffs. "- I'm not going to debate this, ladies, cut your match." He emphasized.
You were about to open your mouth and give the man a piece of your mind, but suddenly your theme plays...
Let's light it up.
Light it up.
Light it up, light it up.
You exchanged a knowing glance with Kaitlyn.
If they want a short match, they're going to get it.
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Carlos could feel the vibrations of the speakers from beneath him. Mallorca had always been a small coastal island - the island that had forever summer, even when other countries were plunged into a cold winter. He once assumed that Mallorca would stay as it is - unmarred by time and all sunny beaches. Overnight, the island turned into a mini Ibiza because of the wrestlers.
He walked through the small bar, his shoulders squeezed as he tried to make it through the aisle of bodies. A few Americans were having a drinking contest, and it was clear that none of them were suited for the strength of Spanish liquor.
He shakes his head with a slight smile.
Even Max ended up drunk after only a few shots.
He turns to look away from the Americans. He searches for a familiar face - a friend from school, a cousin, but he sees nobody. He only sees you.
You were sitting alone, scrolling on your phone.
He takes a step in your direction. "Aren't you supposed to be celebrating?" He asks with a slight curve of his lips.
He was there in the audience, watching you fight for a woman's title - it came as a shock to him that you defeated your opponent with a swift punch to the face. It was unorthodox, but it doesn't wash away the fact that you're a champion.
"Winning that way doesn't make me feel like the victory's mine," you sighed - trying to figure out why you were saying all of this to a random Spanish guy. A handsome guy at that. "I don't even know why I agreed to do it," you pouted.
That match was supposed to be the match.
And because of your anger, you ruined it.
The storm that brewed inside your head always wins against logic. Maybe it was your fate to destroy yourself - maybe it was your form of rebelling against the injustice that was prevailing in the company.
"But you're still the champion, that's all that matters." He comforts.
He gives you a charming smile.
"I'm Carlos Sainz by the way," he introduces himself.
Your eyes light up at the mention of his name. "Formula One?" You inquired, and he nods humbly.
"I'm ___," you introduced yourself.
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yournamewwe: thank you so much for having us mallorca 🇪🇸
liked by 8,291
>comments
carlossainzjr: ❤️
- yournamewwe: and thank you for celebrating with me haha
- carlossainzjr: Thanks for the drinks 🤣
comments have been restricted
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MIAMI, 2017
You shortly became acquainted with Carlos after you visited Mallorca. The conversations you had with him were regular - your texts were spaced out between annoying timezones. Your message thread with each other had been filled with photos and texts towards December of last year - "Felix navidad" "Merry Christmas!!" - but now it was August.
August was silent.
And you waited for him to message you first.
"Remember that hot Spanish guy that you were talking to?" Nattie walks inside the women's locker room. Her hair was still wet from her previous shower. "Yep, what about him?" You inquired while handing her a blow dryer (she always forgets to bring hers).
"Apparently, he's dating a model," she says, showing you the article.
Oh, so that's why he stopped talking to me.
"That's nice for him. I can't believe he didn't tell me, though," you tried to act unbothered, even though your stomach was beginning to churn uncomfortably. You didn't want to seem like a bitch, but you'd be lying if you said that there wasn't a spark between the two of you.
The way that he held you through that small bar in Mallorca and brought you to the shoreline to show you the real beaches of his island. It had been something out of a fairytale. A man doesn't do that to a woman just because they're friends.
You liked him. He liked you - but apparently not that much.
"I always thought that you'd end up with him," Nattie admits. "Every time we go out, it's always Carlos this, Carlos that." She points out from her observations, and you shrink.
"We're just friends, Nattie." You lied again.
"- and one day I'll see a ring on your finger and it's going to belong to him." She teases you.
Suddenly, your phone beeps.
CARLITO SAINZ
Hi im in Miami rn
Do you want to watch the GP?
I can give you a ticket.
Nattie tries to peek over your shoulders to read the message but you swiftly hide the screen away from her. "Are you going to say yes?" She asks. "How did you even see that?" You groaned.
"Are you going to say yes?" She asked again.
"I'm busy." You answered.
"With what? Watching Downton Abbey?" She scoffs.
"It's going to be awkward," you reasoned. If his girlfriend was going to be there, then you had to keep your distance. "If you're just friends, then it's not supposed to be," Nattie retorts. "- just admit that you were expecting it to be something more," she settles beside you.
This woman knows you better than you know yourself. Scary.
"Nattie, you saw the messages he used to send me. Can you really blame a girl for thinking?" You asked rhetorically. "- but you're right. He's still my friend, nonetheless, and I should be there for him. It's what I'd do for you," you agreed while opening your phone.
YOU
Sure! I'd love to be there.
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BLIND ITEM - CARLOS SAINZ, CARA CORNER DATING
According to this blind item on July 29, Carlos Sainz allegedly went to Cara Corner's (Victoria's Secret Model) apartment during late hours. Both are currently endorsers of Tommy Hilfiger and are set to shoot a campaign somewhere around early September.
This comes after Cara Corner's breakup with her non-celebrity girlfriend. To me, it seems like Cara's exactly Carlos' type. Although there was another blind item with Carlos and a WWE wrestler.
Thoughts?
3 reacted "angry"
10 reacted "heart"
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Miami was one of your favorite cities; it was always filled with endless seas of people minding their own business. None of them cared about you or bothered to remember your name. It made you feel strangely welcomed.
In cities like Miami, you were free to be yourself.
"You came!" Carlos wrapped around the Torro Rosso garage. "I wouldn't miss this for the world." You greeted him with a small hug.
Gosh, he still smelt like French perfume. "Thank you so much for being here," he smiles - your eyes trailing behind him, expecting someone else to come along. His girlfriend.
"I heard about your girlfriend on TMZ. I can't believe you didn't tell me." You started the conversation, attempting to sound casual.
Carlos chuckles, running a hand through his raven locks. "That's because I don't have a girlfriend. TMZ is not a reliable news source." He was quick to defend himself, as if he's been asked the same question almost a hundred times.
"Oh," you mumbled, your tone a little happier than it was intended to be.
"She's just a friend, y'know. She swings the other way," he adds, his hands landing on the small of your waist. He was staring at you like you held the entire world in your eyes. "- and uh, would you like to go to dinner after the GP?" He inquires with hopeful eyes.
You wanted to jump in joy - but you kept your cool.
"Sure," you agreed.
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yournamewwe: hello miami gp! thank you so much for inviting me @carlossainzjr @torrorosso looking forward to the events that'll unfold today ❤️
liked by carlossainzjr and 10,283 others
>comments
carlossainzjr: 👸🏻
torrorosso: Always happy to have you here! ;)
sierradelta: OH MY GOD? I CAN'T BELIEVE CARLOS IS FRIENDS WITH MY FAV WWE DIVA!
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YOU
he asked me out for dinner
NATTIE
WHAT OMG OMG OMG
so he doesn't have a gf?
YOU
nopee
tmz was cooking up nonsense as always
NATTIE
u better get laid istg
don't even come back here until u do 🤣
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Carlos felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his head.
He spent the entire week planning the perfect date for you - he even made a reservation six days in advance because he needed everything to be perfecto. Not a single fork was supposed to be out of order - because tonight was the night that he was finally going to confess his feelings!
And then he sees you with Charming Daniel Ricciardo laughing about a joke that isn't even that funny.
"Max just comes up to the poor lad and says: My dad did that to a mechanic once," Daniel recalls a story from a few months past. You and Max burst out laughing. "You poor thing," you glanced at the younger driver and Max just shrugs.
"I was drunk when I said that, you're embarrassing me in front of a very beautiful woman." Max compliments, and you blush.
Carlos clenches his jaw.
"You have to elbow the competition sometimes," Daniel teases.
"Alright, that's enough, guys, we have a dinner to get to." Carlos interrupts.
"Dinner? Can we tag along? I'm a wee bit hungry, unless of course both of you are going on a date." Daniel pleads.
If this were any other day, Carlos would've said yes, for Daniel was an amazing conversationalist, but not right now - not when he hasn't breathed since morning.
"Is it a date, Carlos?" Max questions, and Daniel gets the hint.
"Doesn't matter, Maxie cuz I just remembered that uhh...Kimi is having a party in his boatie." Daniel tilts his head, praying that the younger man would take the hint.
"Oh, right." Max frowns.
"Right," Daniel responds.
"Right," Max whispers.
"Riiighttt," Daniel adds.
"Right, guys we're leaving." Carlos breaks through the awkward atmosphere.
.
.
.
"Is it really a date?" You asked, glancing at him through the menu.
"Uh sí - I'm sorry if it wasn't clear," he struggled to find his words.
"I mean, the night has already gone downhill," he blurted out.
"No, everything's perfect." You comforted.
"We're probably too old for the game of cat and mice, so I'll just make this very clear." He breathed. It is in the nature of his nationality to be straightforward when it comes to matters of love. If it is a love of passion, then let it be filled with passion - but what he feels for you is not mere passion but something consummate.
"I like you. I like talking to you. You're beautiful, elegant and hilarious. I sleep waiting for your response and I wake up staring at your messages. Can I have the honor of being your boyfriend?"
A/N: It's been a hot minute since I last posted about F1. I've been planning to write a wrester reader x carlos sainz for a while now simply because of how athletic carlos is. He seems like a guy who understands wrestling.
summary: against all the odds, it turns out the boy with a doppelganger actually used the phone number you gave him
part 1 | will probably be confusing if read as a standalone!
content/warnings: !!light mentions of explicit content!!, mdni!!, 18+!!, light mentions of alc
word count: 2.5k
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
a/n: i made a twitter account if any of you want to watch me yap into the void!
By the time the sun dipped behind the buildings, the café incident had replayed in your mind at least fifty times. Every blink brought Oscar’s confused face back to the forefront of your memory; every quiet moment was filled with the echo of your own words: We had sex.
You dramatically dropped your head onto the desk in front of you, groaning into the mahogany wood. You’d briefly considered booking the next flight out of Sydney just to avoid running into him again. Then your phone buzzed.
Unknown number:
The girl who thought I was her one-night stand?
You stared at the screen, mortified all over again. Another message appeared:
Are you busy tonight??
A short laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and your fingers seemed to move before you could stop them. Name the place.
His reply came back almost instantly.
Echo Bar. 8 p.m.
You spent the next hour pacing your hotel room, trying to decide whether this was a terrible idea, or was it exactly the kind of adventure your six-month-long wanderlust had been building toward.
By the time you pulled on your favorite dark jeans and a slightly oversized sweater, you had convinced yourself that you were doing this purely for closure.
Or maybe redemption, or maybe just for the plot of it all.
The bar was tucked away down a narrow alley, glowing with string lights that reflected in the windows of all of the shops. The smell of alcohol and the feeling of the loud bass hit in your chest as soon as you opened the door.
You spotted Oscar almost immediately. White button-down shirt that was only slightly wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark hair slightly tousled as if he had been nervously running his hand through it.
He grinned the second your eyes met as you slid onto the barstool next to him. “You actually came. I thought you’d moved to another hemisphere by now.”
“Thought about it,” you said, “But I decided to face my humiliation head-on.”
“Brave,” he said, lifting his glass and pushing one towards you. “Cheers to my doppelganger.”
The first sip of your drink was sharp and cold, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t beat out the warmth flooding your chest as the banter between you two continued. The conversation had settled into an easy rhythm. Somehow, the embarrassment that had felt so suffocating just 30 minutes ago had turned into something you were almost thankful for.
“You really are nothing like I expected,” you said, raising an eyebrow.
“And what did you expect?” he asked, smirking.
“A very quiet architect who whispered sweet nothings about his blueprints.”
“Architect, huh?” he laughed, shaking his head. “I might have to live up to that now. Do you want me to draw up a floor plan for our dream house?”
You rolled your eyes, but the blush creeping up your neck betrayed you. “You’re funny.”
“At least you think I’m funny,” he said softly, leaning a fraction closer. “Buying me drinks and laughing at my terrible jokes. You might be the worst judge of character I’ve ever met, or you just still feel really bad about accusing me of forgetting amazing sex.”
“I’ll never tell,” you whispered back, lightly shoving his shoulder with yours.
Hours passed with stories of airport chaos, accidental bookings in the wrong cities, and your endless search for reliable Wi-Fi. You laughed until your cheeks hurt, and for the first time in weeks. You were pleasantly surprised by just how much Oscar understood the struggles of travel.
When the bartender announced last call, you both blinked at the time displayed on your lock screens. Hours had seemingly evaporated into thin air between the flowing booze and stories.
You both walked out of the bar side by side. Outside, the air was cooler, and the streets hummed quietly under the glow of streetlights. You both hesitated, standing under a halo of a streetlight.
“I’m supposed to believe you’re really a race car driver?” you asked, half-teasing, half-serious.
He smirked. “Watch Foxtel on Friday.”
You nodded, already imagining the sight of him showing up in some random race they were showing to take up a TV spot.
On Friday, you found yourself clicking on the TV and going straight to the Foxtel channel, just like Oscar had told you to do. You brought your computer into your lap and started working away, not paying attention to the TV in the slightest.
As you typed away at yet another email, you didn’t even notice the change from some old rerun of a random cricket game to the first free practice of the weekend for F1.
Your phone dinged loudly beside you on the bedside table, it was a text from Oscar
Believe me now?
Your eyebrows furrowed as you typed back.
Did I miss something? I didn’t even notice the change from the cricket game.
His reply came back quickly again.
Look at your TV.
You read the text and quickly lifted your eyes up to the TV, where you saw him. Oscar. Standing there with an awkward smile, waving sheepishly at the camera.
Your jaw fell all the way onto the ground as you started typing again.
Oh my god
You’re an f1 driver??!?!?
Your eyes caught on the TV again just as the camera switched back to Oscar, smiling while typing away on his phone.
I told you I was a racecar driver.
Definitely not an architect.
Your jaw was still practically on the ground. Out of everyone in the world, what were the odds of this? That the guy you had absolutely embarrassed yourself in front of was an F1 driver? Clearly small, there are only 20 of them.
Dinner tonight?
Deal.
Dinner that evening was another long, effortless stretch of connection. Candlelight reflected off the glassware, but it was Oscar’s laughter, the curve of his smile, the way he seemed so genuinely interested in your stories, that made you feel warm all the way through. There were moments when he brushed a stray hair from your face, moments when your hands lingered near each other on the table, and moments of shared silence that felt so safe and natural that you almost couldn’t believe it.
By the time the meal ended, it was past midnight once again. You found yourself walking side by side down quiet streets, leaning closer together the further you strayed from the restaurant, your shoulders occasionally brushing.
“You’re lucky I like chaos,” he said, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes. “Otherwise, this would all be a disaster.”
“Lucky?” you whispered, smiling despite yourself. “I think you’re exactly what I needed.”
He didn’t respond with words, just a slow, steady look that was full of promise that made your heart race in a way you hadn’t ever felt.
For the first time since you started traveling, you didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to catch the next flight, didn’t want to chase the wind. You wanted him.
The morning after dinner, Melbourne still, somehow, felt almost normal despite the race weekend. There were just a few joggers on the sidewalks, mixed with some tourists walking around. You sat at a small table outside a small coffee shop, sipping your third cup of coffee, still replaying the previous night in your head. Then your phone buzzed with a new message.
You coming to the paddock later still?
You chuckled, your fingers flying across the screen as you glanced at the lanyard Oscar had given you last night in your purse. Of course.
By mid-morning, the race track was a symphony of controlled chaos. It was like nothing you had ever seen before. Engines growling, tires squealing, the metallic clang of mechanics at work. You could feel the vibration of the cars even from the paddock area.
Eventually, you found saw, leaning casually against a high hospitality table, race suit sitting low on his hips, sunglasses perched on his head. He looked every bit as magnetic as the night before.
“Good morning,” you said, attempting to sound casual as you approached.
“Morning,” he replied, his grin widening. “You’re earlier than I thought you would be.”
“Early bird catches the worm,” you teased, forcing a smile.
He shook his head, laughing softly. “That it does. Come on, I want to show you something.”
He led you past the chaos of the paddock and sounds of clanking metal to a quieter spot just off the track. Cars on hot laps roared past in bursts, and the adrenaline made your stomach flip. You listened to him intently as he talked about the more technical parts of his car. There was something so hypnotic about him when he was in his element, something that made you realize this wasn’t just chemistry, it was awe.
You leaned slightly closer, your shoulder brushing his, and felt a thrill go straight through you. He caught your eye and smirked.
“You’re–really something,” you admitted, heart racing. “Not that I didn’t expect it, I mean, you’re the guy I spent dinner with last night, but this—seeing you here—is, just wow.”
He chuckled, low and teasing. “You’re easily impressed.”
“Not at all” you echoed, smiling. “I think you’re just impressive.”
You and Oscar stood there for a few more minutes before heading back to the paddock area. He had a strict schedule to follow, and you knew that, so by the time you stepped back into the paddock, you expected him to disappear from your side.
But as soon as you two walked into the area, someone else entered your line of sight.
Brad.
Your brain did an instant double-take. Same hair, same posture, the same faintly crooked smile. You felt your cheeks heat and your stomach do yet another impossible flip of embarrassment and disbelief.
“Oh no,” you whispered under your breath, frozen for just a second.
Oscar noticed before you could attempt to usher you both to an alternative route. He tilted his head, following your gaze, brow furrowed slightly as he processed the figure. “Uh, who’s that?”
“That,” you stammered, “is the guy from the club. The other guy.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Other guy? That’s a guy in our pit crew”
You groaned. “Oh my God, that's the guy I thought you were at first. You’re telling me you know each other?”
Before Oscar could answer, Brad’s head turned towards you two. “Hey,” he said casually, with that same calm charm that had first caught your attention. “You’re the girl from the club, right?”
“Yes,” you admitted, laughing awkwardly at the absurdity. “Hi.”
Brad glanced at Oscar. “Oh. You’re—” He stopped mid-sentence, realization dawning. “You two know each other?”
“Not really,” you said quickly, taking an instinctive step away from Oscar. “We just met yesterday.”
Brad chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Looks like it.”
Oscar smirked while closing the gap between you two that you had created, brushing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, we met at dinner last night.”
The three of you stood there, momentarily caught in this ridiculous triangle of coincidences. You wanted to crawl under the nearest car, but Oscar’s presence grounded you in a way that made you want to stay.
Brad grinned back, clearly amused at the awkwardness of you and the calmness of Oscar. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two to… whatever this is.” And just like that, he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of his cologne and the memory of his mischievous grin.
Oscar let out a low whistle, his hand brushing yours again, fingertips light but enough to send a spark through your body. “Well, that was…interesting.”
“Interesting?” you echoed. “I nearly died of embarrassment.”
“It looks good on you,” he said, voice teasing but with a warmth that made your stomach flutter. “Seriously though, don’t let him ruin our vibe.”
You swallowed hard, heart skipping in your chest. “Our vibe?”
He leaned just slightly closer, brushing the back of your hand with his thumb. “Yeah. You and me. Right here, right now.”
Your lips curved into a smile despite the lingering embarrassment. “Yeah, I think I like our vibe a lot.”
The rest of the day blurred with quiet intimacy amidst the chaos of the track. Oscar showed you the pits, let you watch him inspect his car up close, and explained the finer points of racing with a patient enthusiasm that made you feel both out of place and completely in the right spot at the same time. At one point, he leaned closer under the pretense of explaining tire pressure, and your shoulders brushed. You felt the warmth of him there, the pull of his presence, and the quiet knowledge that whatever this was, it was no mistake.
Between engine roars and team announcements, you somehow stole moments of just you and him. Your hand found his by accident, lacing together as if it was meant to be. His gaze held yours a beat too long. Every glance, every laugh, every subtle touch built a tension that made your pulse race as fast as the cars themselves.
When the day finally wound down, the sun low and golden, you and Oscar walked side by side along the garage area.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” you said, leaning slightly into him.
“Only if you let me,” he whispered, voice low and teasing, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
“Well, I’m not sure I want to stop you,” you admitted, voice soft, heart racing.
You stopped, gaze meeting his. The world faded. The sounds of the city, the buzz of chatter from engineers, the chaos of the day. It all vanished. Your chest tightened as he stepped closer, and without thinking, you let yourself fall into the magnetic pull between you.
His lips met yours in a kiss that was slow, purposeful, and charged with everything that had built up over the past 48 hours. All of the teasing, the laughter, the missteps, the chaos, and the thrill. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fleeting. It was full of promise, full of heat, full of something that had been missing from your life without you realizing it.
When you finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “I think we’re going to have a very interesting few days,” he murmured.
“And nights,” you added, voice husky, a small laugh escaping despite yourself.
“Yes,” he said, smirk returning, “nights too.”
The lights reflected in his eyes, and you felt the entire world shrink until it was just the two of you, standing close enough to feel each other’s warmth. You let yourself melt into that space, knowing the rest of the world could wait.
Because this time, the universe hadn’t just given you a wild, unforgettable night. It had given you him.
Summary: You've been gone 10 years, no 'bye', no 'see you', just gone. You had no right to show up at his birthday party like nothing happened.... But God he missed you.
Song: Birthday Cake · Rihanna
Author’s note: Happy Birthday to my favourite rookie!! Please like, reblog and share this!🎂🫶
Word count: 5.1k
MASTERLIST - F1
The bass thrummed beneath Isack’s feet, a familiar pulse that usually served as the soundtrack to his triumphs, his celebrations. Tonight, it was the rhythm of his 21st birthday, and the house was packed.
Friends, family, a few members of his racing team – a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the scent of expensive cologne warring with the aroma of pizza and his mother’s homemade cake.
He moved through the crowd, a genuine smile plastered on his face, accepting hugs and well wishes, the weight of another year a comfortable mantle on his broad shoulders.
He was Isack Hadjar, Formula 2 driver, on the cusp of his dream, and life, by all accounts, was good.
But even amidst the joyous chaos, a faint, almost imperceptible echo lingered in the quieter corners of his mind. A shadow that no amount of champagne or cheerful banter could entirely disperse.
He’d learned to live with it, to compartmentalize it, to push it down whenever it threatened to surface.
Ten years was a long time. Enough time for memories to fade, for sharp edges to soften into blurred impressions. Or so he told himself.
He was laughing with Arthur Leclerc, recounting a particularly daring overtake from a recent race, when the laughter died in his throat. His eyes, expertly trained to track movement at blurring speeds, snagged on a figure just inside the lounge doorway.
The world, already loud, seemed to mute, the thrumming bass receding into an indistinct hum.
She stood there, silhouetted against the ambient glow from the fairy lights on the patio, her posture a peculiar blend of hesitant and defiant. Y/N.
The name, unspoken, was a jolt, an electric current shooting through every nerve ending. His heart, which moments ago had been beating with the easy rhythm of celebration, lurched, then hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Ten years. Ten years of nothing. No 'bye', no 'see you', just gone. Like a phantom limb, she had vanished, leaving an ache that he’d grudgingly, painfully, adjusted to.
And now, here she was.
Her hair, he noticed, was longer, falling in soft waves around her shoulders, a shade or two darker than he remembered, catching the light as she subtly shifted her weight.
She was taller, her frame more womanly, less the gangly, energetic girl who used to out-climb him on the old oak tree in his backyard. Her clothes were simple – a dark, elegant dress that hugged her figure, not flashy, but stylish in a way that screamed ‘grown-up’.
And her eyes… her eyes were still the same. That familiar, vibrant, intelligent gaze that had once held all his childhood secrets and dreams.
He felt a surge of white-hot anger, so potent it threatened to overwhelm him. How dare she? How dare she show up here, at his birthday party, like nothing happened? Like the decade of silence, of gaping absence, was just a small, inconsequential lapse.
The audacity of it stole his breath, made his fists clench at his sides. He wanted to march over there, grab her arm, and demand answers, demand an explanation for the gaping wound she’d left in his life.
But then, as his gaze met hers across the crowded room, a different sensation, insidious and unwelcome, began to bloom in the hollow of his chest.
It was a warmth, a sudden, suffocating familiarity that bypassed the anger, the hurt, and dove straight for the oldest, most vulnerable part of him.
God, he’d missed her.
The thought was a punch to the gut. An inconvenient, embarrassing truth he’d buried so deep he thought it was dead. But it wasn’t. It was alive, thrumming, a live wire sparking back to life.
Y/N offered a small, tentative smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, which held a mixture of apology and apprehension.
Arthur, oblivious, clapped him on the back. “Isack? You alright, mate? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Isack swallowed, the dryness in his throat immense. “Yeah. Just… a long night.” He forced his lips into a semblance of a smile, tearing his gaze away from Y/N for a moment, just long enough to collect himself.
But his focus was irrevocably shattered. The party, the music, the chatter – it all receded, becoming background noise to the frantic thrum of his own pulse.
He watched as Y/N exchanged a brief, awkward greeting with his mother, who looked equally stunned, her hand fluttering to her chest.
His mother, who had cried for weeks after Y/N disappeared, convinced something terrible had happened. His mother, who had dried his own silent tears, night after night, as he lay in bed, wondering where his best friend had gone.
She started to move, navigating the maze of people, her direct line of sight – Isack knew it, sickeningly – fixed on him.
He couldn't pretend. He couldn’t turn away. The gravity of her presence was too strong.
He straightened, squaring his shoulders, his jaw tight. He wouldn't let her see how much this affected him. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
She stopped a few feet away, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of her perfume – something light, floral, entirely new, yet oddly comforting.
“Happy birthday, Isack,” she said, her voice soft, a little husky, but still the same cadence he remembered.
A voice that used to whisper secrets to him in the dark, cheer him on from the side of the karting track.
He simply stared, his green eyes, usually so expressive, now shuttered, unreadable.
he weight of ten years of unanswered questions pressed down on him, a suffocating blanket. His mind raced, pulling up fragments of memory:
The smell of gasoline and rubber, the roar of tiny engines. They were eleven, all elbows and knees, their faces smudged with grease, eyes alight with competitive fire.
“I’m gonna beat you, Hadjar!” Y/N would shout, her helmet a bright splash of colour as she zoomed past him on a practice lap, a cheeky grin on her face.
“Not if I have anything to say about it, Y/N!” he’d yell back, pushing harder, fueled by the thrill of the chase, the certainty that they were a team, a duo, destined for greatness, even if they were competing against each other.
They’d shared dreams then, sprawling on his bedroom floor surrounded by toy cars and F1 magazines. “One day, Isack, we’ll both be racing in F1,” she’d declared, her conviction absolute. “And we’ll be the fastest.”
He’d believed her. He’d believed in them.
Then, nothing. One day, she was there, her laugh echoing in the karting pits, her fierce determination pushing him to be better. The next, her kart was gone, her locker empty, her seat at school vacant.
No note. No phone call. Just a gaping void. His parents had said her family moved, suddenly.
A new job opportunity, they’d vaguely explained, but even at eleven, Isack had felt the hollowness of the excuse. Something was wrong. Something had been stolen from him.
“Isack?” Her voice, a tentative whisper, pulled him back to the present.
He took a slow, deliberate breath. “Y/N.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the maelstrom raging inside him. “What are you doing here?”
Her shoulders tensed slightly. “I… I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And…” She trailed off, glancing around at the curious eyes now tracking their silent standoff. “Could we talk? Somewhere quieter?”
The request struck him as both audacious and utterly predictable. Of course, she’d want to talk. Now. After ten years. He felt the anger coil tighter, a protective shield around his hurting heart.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, his voice clipped. He saw the flicker of pain in her eyes, a shadow he didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Isack, please,” she insisted, her voice gaining a surprising firmness. “Just a few minutes. For old times’ sake.”
Old times’ sake. The phrase was like a barb. Did she have any idea what ‘old times’ sake’ meant to him? What those old times, so abruptly severed, had done to him?
He saw his mother approaching, a concerned frown marring her usually cheerful face. He couldn’t make a scene. Not on his birthday. Not with everyone watching.
With a curt nod, he gestured towards the back of the house, towards the small, dimly lit study his father used. It was rarely used during parties, a perfect escape.
He led the way, not looking back, acutely aware of her footsteps behind him, the faint rustle of her dress.
The journey felt impossibly long, each step a battle between the urge to run and the magnetic pull of her presence.
Inside the study, it was quiet. The walls were lined with books, the air smelling faintly of old paper and leather. He turned, leaning back against the heavy mahogany desk, arms crossed, his stance guarded.
“So,” he said, his voice laced with venom he couldn't quite contain. “This is it? You just… reappear? After a decade of silence?”
She flinched, her eyes dropping to stare at her hands, which she clasped together at her waist. “I know,” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “I know I have no right to be here. No right to ask for your time. And I know you probably hate me.”
“Hate you?” He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Hate you doesn’t even begin to cover it, Y/N. Do you have any idea what it was like? One day, you were there. My best friend. My… everything. The next, you were gone. No goodbye. No explanation. Just… poof.” He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Like you never existed.”
Her head finally raised, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I know, Isack. Believe me, I know. And I am so, so sorry. Every day, for ten years…” Her voice broke. She took a shuddering breath. “It wasn’t my choice. Not really.”
His anger flared hotter, masking the sudden pain he felt seeing her so vulnerable. “Not your choice? What, were you abducted by aliens? Because that’s the only explanation I can imagine for you just vanishing off the face of the earth, without a single word to me.”
“My father,” she started, her voice raw. “He… he got into a lot of trouble. Bad debts. Very bad people. We had to leave. Overnight. My mother tried to tell your parents, but… there was no time. We were already in the car, on the way to the airport, when she finally got through to them. And after that… he made sure I couldn’t contact anyone. No phone, no internet. He was paranoid. Said it was too dangerous.”
Isack stared at her, the story unfolding like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t a full explanation, not yet, but it was enough to crack the impenetrable wall of anger he’d built around himself.
The image of Y/N, an eleven-year-old, snatched away, forced into silence, was chilling. It didn't excuse her, not entirely, but it painted a picture far more complex than the simple abandonment he’d always envisioned.
“Dangerous?” he repeated, his voice softer, the venom draining away, replaced by a cold dread. “What kind of trouble?”
She shook her head, a tear finally escaping, tracing a path down her cheek. “It’s complicated. It’s over now, though. He’s… he’s gone. And I’m free.” Her gaze met his, raw and pleading. “The first thing I did when I truly had my freedom back, when I could trace you, was look you up. And I saw you. On TV. Racing. Exactly where we always said you’d be. And I just… I had to come. I had to tell you how sorry I am, Isack. For everything.”
He pushed off the desk, walking towards the window, staring out at the blurred lights of the party, but seeing nothing. His chest ached, a familiar, deep-seated pain that had never truly healed.
He had spent years resenting her, building up a narrative of betrayal and abandonment, a story that fit his righteous anger.
But this… this story shattered it all, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.
He turned back to her, seeing the desperation in her eyes, the vulnerability that mirrored his own. Her face was streaked with tears now, her lower lip trembling.
The sight of her crying, something he hadn’t seen since they were children, twisted something inside him.
“You don’t know,” he began, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. “You don’t know how many nights I laid awake, wondering what happened. Wondering if it was something I did. If you just… didn’t want to be my friend anymore.”
He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I practically begged my parents to let me look for you. I used to go to the karting track, hoping you’d just show up one day. Every single race, I’d scan the crowd. Just in case.”
The words tumbled out, years of suppressed pain finally finding a voice, unchecked. He saw her wince with each word, her shoulders slumping further.
“I know,” she whispered, her voice choked. “I didn’t want to go. I fought. I tried to sneak a note. Anything. But he was relentless. He took everything. All my contacts, all my photos. He cut me off from the world.” She swallowed hard. “And then, when I finally could look, I was terrified. Terrified that you’d hate me. That you’d moved on. That I’d lost you forever.”
She took a hesitant step towards him. “But I saw your races, Isack. I followed your career, anonymously. My heart would pound every time you crossed the finish line. I knew you would make it. I always knew.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips, watery and fragile. “You’re even faster than I remember.”
He stared at her, her face wet with tears, her eyes pleading. The anger, though still present, was now diluted, overshadowed by a more powerful, more consuming emotion. A longing so profound it made his knees weak.
The raw, unfiltered truth was this: even with the decade of silence, even with the pain and the resentment, he had never stopped missing her. Not truly.
A part of him, the eleven-year-old boy who’d believed they were inseparable, had always yearned for her return.
He remembered her laugh, high and bright as she celebrated a small victory, her hand reaching for his to high-five. The way her eyes would sparkle when she talked about a new racing line she’d discovered.
The easy comfort of their shared silence, side-by-side, watching the sunset after a long day at the track.
“You really had no right,” he said again, the words softer this time, more weary than angry. “No right to just… walk back in. Like this.” His gaze swept over her, taking in the elegant woman she had become, so different, yet so undeniably her.
“But God, Y/N,” he breathed, the admission torn from the depths of him, a raw, vulnerable confession. “God, I missed you.”
The last word hung in the air, heavy with ten years of unspoken grief and longing. Her gaze locked with his, and he saw comprehension, recognition, and a mirroring ache in her own eyes.
The chasm of a decade seemed to shrink, momentarily bridged by the intensity of that shared, painful truth.
She took another step, then another, until she was standing directly in front of him, so close he could feel the warmth radiating from her, catch the faint tremor of her breath.
She didn’t reach out, didn’t touch him, but the very air between them was charged with unspoken history, with lingering affection, with a fragile, tentative hope.
“I know I can’t erase what happened,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, thick with emotion. “But please, Isack. Can we… can we at least try to talk? To understand?”
He looked at her, truly looked at her. The girl he’d loved, in the innocent way only children can, was gone, replaced by this woman.
But the essence was still there, the spirit, the fire he’d always admired. And despite everything, the sight of her, finally here, felt like a deep, cleansing breath after holding it for too long.
The anger was still a dull throb in his chest, a ghost of the pain she’d inflicted. But beneath it, a tiny seed of something else had begun to stir. Something warm. Something hopeful.
He reached out, his hand hovering for a second, then gently cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a lingering tear. Her skin was soft, warm. Real.
“Happy birthday, Isack,” she repeated, her voice clearer now, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through.
He looked into her eyes, those same vibrant eyes, and felt the first true, unburdened smile in ten years touch his own lips. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet. It wasn't an easy fix. But it was a start.
And for the first time in a decade, the shadow in his mind had a name and a face, and she was standing right in front of him.
“Let’s talk,” he said, his voice husky, his thumb gently caressing her cheek. The party outside still hummed, but in the quiet of the study, a new conversation, ten years overdue, had just begun.
And for Isack Hadjar, turning twenty-one, it felt like the most significant birthday gift he could ever receive. . . .
summary: You SWEAR you have met the cute boy in the cafe before, but he swears you have NOT
content/warnings: MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT! 18+ THEMES!! not necessarily smut, but sex is a major plot point! mild language, very small mention of alcohol,
word count: 1.5 k
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
a/n: this is barely proofread 😁 i miss watching these silly boys go around in circles can the break be over
You aimlessly take another sip out of your coffee, proofreading the email in front of you for the fourth time before willing to hit send. This is how a lot of your morning looked now, and you loved it.
Your job had offered to move you into a fully remote position, which you gladly took. It was your dream to see the world, and now you could, all while still having a steady stream of income to support it. You had been living out of a suitcase for around 6 months now. You were just flying by the seam of your pants, willing the wind to take you where it pleased.
You arrived in Australia 2 weeks ago, your 15th country. Your mornings so far had been spent in random coffee shops, bumming their free wifi that was infinitely stronger than the hotel’s you were staying at. Your afternoons had been spent at the beach or sightseeing. And your nights, well, they had been spent at, probably, one too many clubs.
You hover your mouse over the paper airplane button and hit it, promptly closing your laptop after checking that it did, in fact, actually send. You let out a brief sigh of relief, letting your posture finally fall into a more natural position as you close your eyes for just a second. Opening them, they fall on the two other long, empty coffee cups sitting on the table, collecting condensation from the cold air conditioning.
Your eyes dart over to your phone lying on the table. You reach out your hand and grab it for the first time since you set it down earlier in the morning. You scrolled through the few notifications that had accrued throughout the day before finally looking at the time. You were expecting to see 12 or 1-aka the time you wanted to stop working, instead you found a giant 3:00 staring back at you. You slightly groaned, another week of totaling over 40 hours of work.
You set the phone back down where it had been and grabbed the three cups you had acquired. You made your way over to the trash cans that were on the other side of the cafe. You had been too engulfed in your work to realize that the once-empty cafe now had quite a few patrons. Your eyes scanned the place, just for a moment to take in the day for the first time. That’s when your eyes caught someone. You did a double-take, practically not believing them yourself.
The same swoopy hair, the same downward turned eyes and smile.
It was him.
You hadn’t stopped thinking about him since last Tuesday. The man who had given you the best sex of your life.
He was quiet in the club, barely moving his head to the sound of the bass. He was sitting with a friend at the bar when you walked up and sat beside him. You weren’t looking for anything but a good vodka cranberry at that moment, but when he turned and smiled at you and said Hey in that Aussie accent, the drink left your brain, and all that was left was him.
You hadn’t planned to go home with anyone that night, but when he asked, well, how could you have said no?
You were expecting him to be very vanilla, very calm, based on how he was at the club.
Boy! Were you wrong!
He was rough, but gentle in all of the best ways. He listened to you, begged you to tell him what you wanted. And you know how people tell you it’s not about how big it is, but how well it is used? Luckily for you, this man had both down pat.
Your breath just hitched thinking about it again. You could still see him hovering over you with that damn shoulder tattoo you kept staring at the whole night.
You regretted not getting his number the next day. You had planned on asking him when he woke up, but a work emergency had come up, and so you had to rush back to your hotel. You tried all afternoon to find your way back to his apartment, but you could never seem to. You didn’t necessarily think it was a good idea to show back up at a random man’s apartment, but you had to at least try; he needed to be praised for his work at the very least, you thought.
You had finally come to terms with the fact that you were never going to see him again. That you were going to spend your whole life trying to chase the high of that night.
But here he was. In a random cafe. Sipping his coffee and scrolling on his phone.
You walked back over to your table and grabbed your laptop and phone, gripping both firmly in your hands as you walked over to his table. You were not letting this chance go untaken this time. You were not leaving this cafe without this boy’s phone number.
You set your stuff down on the table by his iced coffee and took the seat across from the man, still scrolling on his phone.
“I never thought I would see you again.” You say with a smile, leaning in and placing your hands under your chin.
The boy finally looked up, brow furrowed so much you could have made a swimming pool in the wrinkles between them. “Do I know you?”
You let out a dry laugh, leaning back into the chair. “Yes,” then dropping your voice to a whisper, “Last Tuesday night.”
He furrowed his brows even more and picked up the coffee sitting on the table. “Last Tuesday?”
You leaned up again, voice once again barely above a whisper, “We had sex.”
He nearly spit out his drink, his pupils went big, cheeks blushed. “I think you have the wrong guy.”
You shook your head; you had never been more certain of anything in your life. “Nope, you’re Brad. You’re an architect.”
The man across from you shook his head, placing down the coffee again, “Nope. My name is Oscar.”
You let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Okay, maybe I didn’t remember you’re name, but you are an architect, aren’t you?” You finished, playfully pointing at him.
He shook his head again, “Definitely not. I’m a race car driver.”
You let out a breath, now getting fed up with him pretending like he didn’t know you. It hadn’t even been a week. “Okay, well, I know you have a tattoo on your right shoulder.”
The boy sharply inhaled before slightly shaking his head again, “I hate needles.”
You threw your arms up in defeat. “I know I didn’t hallucinate the tattoo.”
He pulled down his shirt collar to expose a very muscular, but very bare shoulder, “Not saying you did.”
“So, the tattoo is on your left shoulder.” You say, pointing to it. You had never been good at distinguishing between your left and right.
He did the same thing, though; he showed you his very tattoo-less left shoulder, too, adding in another head shake. “You have the wrong guy. I wasn’t even in Australia last Tuesday.”
He flipped his phone around to show you a photo of somewhere in Italy, and above it showed it was taken last Tuesday.
Your cheeks instantly heated up. How was it possible that the man sitting across from you looked that much like the man you had slept with? This moment was now forever etched in your mind as a top 3 embarrassing moment, and it definitely wasn’t in second or third place.
You thought about telling him this was all a part of an elaborate prank that someone had set up. You thought about apologizing around 100 times. All your mouth could get out, though, was, “I think you might have a doppelganger.”
That, at least, earned a laugh from him, “Thanks for letting me know.”
You gave him a short, awkward nod and stood up to collect your things from the table.
“Hold on,” He said, holding out a hand to touch your hand, which was currently picking up your phone, “I have a question.”
You slowly sat back down. You wanted to go into a hole and hide for the rest of your life after this moment. You didn’t want to hear the question, assuming it was going to be him asking for your full name for the court documents to get a restraining order against you.
“Was the sex that good?” He asked, leaning back in the chair.
You paused, nodding your head, “Yeah, It really was.”
He nodded his head back, pushing his phone over to you. “I may not be Brad, but, I am free tonight if you want to give me your number.”
You slowly picked up the phone and entered your number before pushing it back over with a smile. Maybe Oscar wasn’t Brad; maybe Oscar would be even better.
Summary: Isack's main goal has always been to become best friends with Lewis Hamilton and when that's achieved, Lewis invites him to meet his daughter, who just happens to be his age and very beautiful.
Song: In Da Club · 50 Cent
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 5.1k
MASTERLIST - F1
Isack Hadjar had lived and breathed Formula 1 since he was old enough to point at a TV screen. But it wasn't just the roar of the engines or the blur of speed that captivated him; it was the sheer force of nature that was Lewis Hamilton.
To Isack, Lewis wasn't just a legend, he was a beacon, a mentor he’d dreamt of meeting, learning from, simply existing in the orbit of.
His primary goal, even before podiums or championships, had been purely to become friends with the seven-time world champion.
And now, impossibly, that dream was not just realized, but flourishing.
It was the summer break, a lull in the frenetic pace of the racing calendar, but Isack was far from static. He was on cloud nine, soaring literally and figuratively.
The hum of the private jet’s engines was a soothing lullaby, a stark contrast to the thrumming adrenaline of an F1 car. He was en route to Monaco, a place synonymous with the sport's glamour, and across from him, in the plush leather seat, was Lewis Hamilton himself.
Isack, currently residing in Italy, had scrambled to arrange a temporary apartment in Monaco, a small concession for a monumental opportunity.
"Isack," Lewis called, his voice mellow but clear.
Isack, who had been lost in the expanse of blue sky outside the window, jumped lightly and looked up, a sheepish grin on his face. "Yeah, Lewis?"
"Are you staying in Monaco for a while?" Lewis asked, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Yeah, for sure," Isack lied, the words tumbling out before he could consider them.
He had only booked the apartment for a handful of days, but if Lewis needed him to stay, he would find a way. He would stay for weeks, months, if it meant cementing this incredible friendship.
"Good, 'cause I wanted to ask you for a favor," Lewis said, leaning forward slightly.
Isack nodded, his heart giving a hopeful flutter. A favor? From Lewis Hamilton? He was ready to climb Mount Everest if Lewis asked.
"Hardly anyone knows this, but I have a daughter. Same age as you," Lewis began, his voice dropping slightly, a rare hint of vulnerability in the usually impenetrable persona.
Isack’s eyes widened, a genuine shock rippling through him. He didn’t know that. Lewis Hamilton, the global icon, had kept such a significant part of his life so privately guarded.
It made the impending request feel even more sacred.
"Being the daughter of someone like me can bring some hardships, you know? A lot of pressure, people around her for the wrong reasons," Lewis explained, his gaze distant, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "And I think you two could become friends, if you want."
The words hung in the air, weighty with unspoken concerns. It was just the two of them in this section of the plane, the world outside momentarily forgotten.
Isack didn't need to deliberate. This wasn't just a favor; it was an invitation into Lewis's most personal world, a testament to the trust Lewis placed in him.
"I want," Isack said without hesitation, the earnestness evident in his voice.
He then quickly corrected himself, remembering to temper his fanboy enthusiasm with appropriate deference. "I mean, I can definitely try to be friends with your daughter, Lewis. I’d be honored."
Lewis grinned, the lines around his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. "Thank you, Isack. That means a lot."
The next week was a whirlwind of nervous anticipation. Isack had indeed extended his apartment rental, securing a prime spot overlooking the bustling Port Hercule.
His mind, usually consumed with lap times and race strategies, was now dominated by thoughts of this mysterious Hamilton daughter.
He’d met Lewis’s wife, Aisha, a few times at race weekends, and she was always incredibly warm and elegant.
But a daughter? This felt different, more personal.
His preparation was meticulous. He didn't want to look like he was trying too hard, but he definitely didn't want to look like he didn't care.
He spent an afternoon browsing the high-end boutiques of Monaco, finally settling on an outfit that felt both sophisticated and approachable. He chose a pair of charcoal grey tailored trousers that fit perfectly, a crisp, pale blue linen shirt, and a lightweight, unlined navy blazer – a nod to smart casual without being stuffy.
He paired them with polished brown leather loafers, no socks, a touch of Mediterranean flair. He wanted to project an image of respectful confidence, not just a starry-eyed fan.
He also bought flowers – a modest but elegant bouquet of white roses and delicate sprigs of eucalyptus.
It felt like the right gesture, polite and thoughtful.
The designated day arrived, crisp and sun-drenched, typical Monaco perfection. Isack stood outside the grand, wrought-iron gates of the Hamilton residence, the bouquet clutched in his slightly sweaty hand.
He took a deep breath, adjusted his blazer, and pushed the intercom button. After a brief buzz, the gates swung open, revealing a winding driveway lined with lush greenery.
He drove his rented car slowly up to the imposing front door, parked, and got out. His heart hammered against his ribs as he walked up the few steps, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
He raised his hand and knocked, the sound feeling jarringly loud in the serene afternoon.
Almost immediately, the door swung open, revealing Lewis Hamilton, dressed in relaxed denim and a simple t-shirt, a warm, welcoming smile on his face.
"Isack! Come in, come in," Lewis said, stepping aside to let him enter.
The interior of the house was spacious and elegantly furnished, light pouring in through large windows.
As Isack stepped into the living room, Aisha Hamilton rose from a plush sofa, her eyes lighting up when she saw him. "Isack, darling! So wonderful to see you. Lewis has told us so much about you."
He offered her a deferential nod and a polite smile. "Aisha, it's a pleasure, as always. These are for you." He presented the flowers, feeling a flush of warmth as she accepted them with a genuine smile.
They settled into comfortable conversation, Lewis and Aisha making him feel completely at ease, discussing the recent races, the upcoming season tests, and Monaco life.
Isack found himself relaxing, the apprehension easing slightly. This was Lewis and Aisha, warm and inviting.
Then, Lewis cleared his throat, his eyes twinkling. "Well, I think it's time."
He raised his voice slightly, calling towards a grand staircase that spiraled upwards to the second floor. "Y/N! There's someone I want you to meet!"
Isack’s earlier composure dissolved instantly. His palms began to sweat again, his mind racing through a dizzying array of anxieties.
What if she didn't like him? What if she found him boring, or worse, annoying? Would Lewis regret his decision? Would their friendship, so newly forged, be jeopardized?
What if she was one of those 'privileged' children Lewis had alluded to, someone who wouldn't understand him? Oh god, what if…?
Before he could spiral further into a catastrophic hypothetical, a soft click of heels on marble interrupted his thoughts. He looked up, his gaze drawn to the top of the staircase.
And then, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
She descended with a grace that bordered on ethereal, a vision stepping out of a dream. Y/N Hamilton was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most beautiful woman Isack had ever seen in his entire lifetime.
Her skin, kissed by the sun, glowed with a healthy radiance, framing a face that was both striking and incredibly delicate. Her eyes, the color of warm honey, held a depth that hinted at intelligence and perhaps, a touch of weariness.
Framed by long, dark lashes, they seemed to analyze everything, even as her lips, full and naturally rosy, curved into a polite, somewhat hesitant smile.
Her hair, a cascade of rich, dark waves, tumbled past her shoulders, catching the light as she moved.
She was wearing a dress that seemed to have been designed specifically for her. It was a fluid, emerald green silk, simple in cut but breathtaking in its execution, clinging in all the right places before flowing gracefully to just above her ankles.
It had delicate spaghetti straps and a subtle cowl neck, emphasizing the elegant line of her collarbones and shoulders. She wore minimal jewelry – a fine gold chain around her neck and delicate stud earrings – letting the dress and her natural beauty speak for themselves.
Every movement was fluid, graceful, almost regal, yet there was a subtle vulnerability in her posture.
She greeted her mother and father with soft kisses on their cheeks, her voice a low, melodious tone that sent a shiver down Isack's spine.
Then, her honey eyes turned towards him, curiosity mingling with a faint, almost imperceptible skepticism.
"Who's this?" Y/N asked, her gaze sweeping over Isack, a silent assessment taking place.
"Y/N, this is one of my friends, Isack Hadjar. He's an F1 driver, same age as you," Lewis introduced, a proud smile on his face.
Isack felt his cheeks warm under her intense scrutiny. He tried to offer a polite, friendly smile, extending a hand slightly. "It's really nice to meet you, Y/N."
Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as she took his measure, a slight frown tugging at the corner of her lips.
It wasn't hostility, but rather a practiced wariness, as if she were sifting through a lifetime of introductions to discern genuine intent from superficial interest. She shook his hand briefly, her touch light and cool.
"He's also coming to your birthday party, so get to know each other," Lewis added, a mischievous glint in his eye, clearly enjoying his role as matchmaker.
"Dad!" Y/N groaned, the sophisticated facade momentarily cracking to reveal a very human, exasperated teenager.
Lewis remained calm, unfazed. "No excuses, Y/N. Remember the last time we left you to party with your so-called 'friends'?" His voice, though gentle, held an underlying firmness that left no room for argument.
Y/N visibly deflated, her shoulders slumping. Her honey eyes flickered to Isack for a fleeting moment, a hint of resignation and perhaps a touch of annoyance in their depths.
"Okay, Dad," she mumbled, the words barely audible.
Isack felt an awkward silence settle, keenly aware of the sudden tension. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease her discomfort, but the words eluded him.
He was a champion at navigating the complexities of high-speed corners, but the subtle, intricate dynamics of family introductions were proving to be a challenge of an entirely different magnitude.
This wasn't just about befriending Lewis’s daughter; it was about navigating a labyrinth of expectations, some his own, and some, undoubtedly, hers. He just hoped he didn’t get lost.
Lewis, ever the master of social cues, quickly interjected. "Isack, Y/N, why don't you two grab a drink from the kitchen and chat for a bit? Aisha and I have a few things to sort out." It was a clear dismissal, a nudge towards the inevitable.
Y/N sighed almost imperceptibly, then forced a small, polite smile. "Alright, Dad." She turned to Isack, her expression still unreadable. "Care for a tour of the kitchen, Isack?" Her tone was laced with dry humor, a hint of the wit Lewis had probably hoped he'd discover.
Isack, still mesmerized by her beauty and slightly overwhelmed by the situation, managed a nod, a faint smile touching his lips. "Lead the way."
He followed her, acutely aware of the graceful sway of her emerald dress, the delicate scent of her perfume, and the daunting task ahead of him.
His mission, initially to secure a friendship with a legend, had unexpectedly morphed into a much more complicated, and infinitely more captivating, quest.
The kitchen was a sleek, modern space, bathed in natural light. Y/N moved with easy familiarity, opening a large fridge and offering him a sparkling water.
"So, 'Isack Hadjar'," she began, her voice still carrying that hint of skepticism, "Dad says you're an F1 driver. Were you genuinely surprised when he told you about me, or just playing along?"
Isack flinched slightly at her directness, but also appreciated it. He took a sip of his water, gathering his thoughts.
"No, genuinely surprised. Lewis is incredibly private, and… well, I just never heard any mention. It’s a lot to take in." He decided honesty was the best policy. "And to be honest, I was a bit nervous to meet you."
Y/N’s eyebrows rose, a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes. "Nervous? Why?"
"Well," Isack began, feeling his cheeks warm again, "your dad is, you know, Lewis Hamilton. And he asked me to be friends with you. The last thing I want to do is mess that up, or for you to feel like I’m just trying to get closer to him through you." He met her gaze directly, hoping she saw the sincerity in his eyes.
Her expression softened fractionally, the guardedness receding by a hairline. "Fair enough," she murmured, leaning against the counter. "Most people don't bother to hide their ulterior motives for long. They're usually pretty obvious."
A hint of bitterness crept into her tone. "It gets tiring."
"I can imagine," Isack said gently, feeling a pang of empathy. He started to understand Lewis’s concern. "That must be really tough, having people constantly trying to use you."
She shrugged, looking away. "It's just how it is. Comes with the territory."
She paused, then turned back to him, her gaze more inquisitive this time. "So, you really are Lewis's friend? Like, real friends? Not just a colleague he tolerates?"
Isack chuckled softly. "I'd like to think so. He's been incredibly kind to me, and he's taught me so much, even just in conversation. Being his friend, learning from him, that was my biggest goal coming into F1."
He hesitated, then added, "And now, if I can be a good friend to you too, I'd really like that. Your dad seemed genuinely worried."
Her mouth tightened slightly. "He always is. He means well, but sometimes his solutions are a bit… heavy-handed." She gestured vaguely. "Like this whole 'forced friendship' thing, and insisting you come to my birthday party."
"I can leave if you don't want me there," Isack offered immediately, genuinely meaning it. He wouldn't want to make her uncomfortable.
Y/N studied him for a long moment, those honey eyes searching his. "No," she said finally, a surprising softness in her voice. "It's fine. It'll just be… interesting. My parties are usually a bit of a circus."
She managed a small, almost genuine smile. "I usually try to hide in my room after an hour or so."
"Well, maybe we can hide together," Isack joked, a flicker of hope blooming in his chest.
She laughed, a bright, clear sound that made the room feel lighter. It was the first genuine laugh he’d heard from her, and it was beautiful.
"Maybe," she said, before pushing off the counter. "Come on, let me show you the rest of the house before Dad comes looking."
The house tour had been surprisingly insightful. Y/N had led him through sprawling rooms filled with art, trophies, and comfortable, lived-in furniture.
She pointed out a vintage arcade game in the entertainment room, a framed photo of a younger Lewis with a scruffy dog, and a collection of rare books in a cozy library.
She spoke little about herself, but Isack gleaned details from her quiet observations – her love for reading, a hint of disdain for overly flashy displays, a genuine affection for her family.
What struck him most was the almost imperceptible way her posture relaxed the further they got from the main living area, as if shedding an invisible layer of armor.
When they reached her own wing, she hesitated at a closed door. "And this is… my space," she said, a slight inflection suggesting it was a fortress. "Not really for tours."
"Of course," Isack had said quickly, respecting her boundary. "It's a beautiful house, Y/N. Thank you for showing me."
She had nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips. "No problem. At least now you won't get lost at the party."
"Ollie, I'm telling you, she's the most beautiful person I've ever seen," Isack explained to his best friend in F1, Ollie Bearman, his voice a hushed, almost reverent whisper into the phone.
He was back in his apartment, the encounter with Y/N replaying in his mind like a high-definition highlight reel.
"Yeah, yeah, Isack, they all are when they're Lewis Hamilton's daughter," Ollie retorted dryly, but with an underlying tone of amusement. "Did you actually talk to her, or just stand there drooling?"
Isack chuckled, a warm feeling spreading through him. "No, we talked. It was… intense. She’s really guarded, Ollie. Like, she has this wall around her, but when it cracks, even for a second, you see something real."
He paused, remembering her laugh, the way her eyes had crinkled at the corners. "And she’s got a great sense of humor. A bit sarcastic, but I like it."
"So, the mission to befriend Lewis Hamilton has evolved into 'Operation Woo Lewis Hamilton’s Daughter' then?" Ollie teased, clearly enjoying Isack's uncharacteristic giddiness.
"It wasn't supposed to!" Isack protested, though he knew Ollie was right. The moment Y/N had descended those stairs, his priorities had subtly, irrevocably shifted. "But Lewis basically forced us together. Said I'm coming to her birthday party. So, I guess I'm going."
"Mate, you got invited to Lewis Hamilton's daughter's birthday party?" Ollie whistled. "That's a level of access ninety-nine percent of the paddock would kill for. Don’t mess this up, you idiot."
"Thanks for the confidence boost," Isack muttered sarcastically. "I just… I want her to like me for me, not because of who her dad is, or because he told her to. She's been hurt by that, I can tell."
"Well, good luck, Casanova," Ollie said, a final note of laughter in his voice before Isack hung up. . . .
‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡
Isack had just left, the soft click of the front door echoing through the grand hall. You stood there for a moment, the silence feeling heavier in his absence.
You hadn’t realized how much his quiet presence had filled the space. Then, your father, Lewis, emerged from the living room, a knowing look on his face, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
“So, how is he?” he asked, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.
You turned to him, exasperated, but the warmth in your tone betrayed your irritation. “Dad, you have to stop inviting people to make them my friend.”
He chuckled, unbothered. “Just trying to help, sweetheart. You spend too much time cooped up, and your previous choices in company…” He trailed off, disapproval evident. “Isack seems like a good lad. Genuine.”
You sighed, crossing your arms. “He seems… okay. For someone you’ve essentially vetted and interviewed for the position of ‘Y/N’s new friend’.”
You didn’t mention the quiet honesty in Isack’s eyes, or the way his quick offer to leave the party had caught you off guard, or the way his laugh had made you genuinely smile.
You definitely didn’t mention how handsome he was, not that your dad needed any more encouragement.
Lewis just smiled wider. “He’s coming to the party, no arguments. Besides, I think he passed the initial Y/N test. You didn’t scare him off.”
You rolled your eyes. “Hardly a test. Just me being myself.” You paused, a thought nagging at you. “Did you… did you tell him about my past experiences with people only interested in you?”
Your father’s smile softened. “We had a conversation. He understands. Which, given his reaction to you, tells me he’s different.” He clapped you gently on the shoulder. “Give him a chance, Y/N. He’s a good kid.”
You mumbled a noncommittal response, but as you walked away, you found your thoughts drifting back to Isack. His earnestness, his slightly nervous demeanor, the way he’d met your gaze directly when discussing his sincerity.
He wasn't like the others. Not entirely, anyway. But years of caution had built an invisible wall around you, and it wasn’t crumbling easily.
The days leading up to your birthday party passed in a blur of last-minute arrangements and forced cheerfulness for the public eye.
Your phone buzzed with endless texts from people you barely knew, all wanting an invitation, all trying to get close to the Hamilton name. You ignored most of them, your typical pre-party dread settling in.
Then, a text from an unsaved number popped up. “Hey Y/N, it’s Isack. Your dad gave me your number. Just wanted to say I’m looking forward to the party. Hope you are too.”
You stared at it for a moment, surprised. It wasn’t a demand, or a plea for a favor. Just a polite, friendly message. You debated ignoring it, but something in his quiet sincerity from your first meeting prompted you to reply.
“Hey Isack. Thanks. Don’t expect too much, it’s usually chaotic. But appreciate you coming.”
He replied almost instantly. “Honestly, chaotic sounds about right for a Hamilton event. I’m prepared. See you Saturday.”
A small, genuine smile touched your lips. He didn’t seem put off. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be as painful as you anticipated.
Saturday arrived, a day that typically filled you with a strange cocktail of apprehension and forced cheer. The morning began quietly, as it always did.
You woke to the comforting scent of your mother’s homemade pancakes, a tradition untouched by fame.
Your father, dressed in his favorite worn-out tracksuit, had given you a bone-crushing hug, whispered "Happy Birthday, my beautiful girl," and showered you with thoughtful gifts that had nothing to do with celebrity endorsements and everything to do with your actual hobbies.
Your family, your true family, celebrated you with genuine warmth, a quiet oasis before the storm.
But the storm always came with the evening. As dusk painted the sky in shades of bruised purple and fiery orange, your parents began their annual Houdini act.
"People would lose their minds if they saw me," your father would say with a wry smile, referring to the inevitable paparazzi frenzy and the swarm of opportunists who would descend upon the house if he were present during your party.
So, like clockwork, they excused themselves for the night, leaving you to host the charade. You understood the necessity, but it still left a hollow ache in your chest.
You stood in front of your full-length mirror, adjusting the sweep of your red dress. It was a stunning piece, a rich crimson that flowed like liquid fire, its simple elegance belying the designer label.
It hugged your curves just right, a confident, striking color for a day that always made you feel anything but. You took a deep breath, fixing a smile that felt more like a mask. Show time.
The first wave of your 'friends' crashed through the front door barely an hour after your parents left.
Predictably, the first words out of Chloe’s perfectly glossed lips weren’t "Happy Birthday!" but "Where’s your dad? Is he here? Is Lewis going to make an appearance later?"
Her eyes darted around the opulent living room, scanning for any sign of a racing legend.
You recited the well-worn script, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Oh, he’s out of town for the week, you know, business. He sends his love, though."
It was the same lie you told every year, a flimsy shield against their relentless curiosity, and a pathetic attempt to reclaim your own day.
A chorus of disappointed sighs rippled through the group. "Aw, really? That sucks," Mark grumbled, already reaching for a flute of champagne from the tray a silently circulating waiter offered. "Well, more for us, right?"
That was the theme of the night. Your ‘friends’ – a revolving cast of privileged offspring, social climbers, and hangers-on – cared far more about your father’s fame than your existence.
They were like a pack of wolves, descending on your lavish home, not to celebrate you, but to feast on the crumbs of celebrity, the free-flowing champagne, the expensive canapés, and the distant hope of a selfie with Lewis Hamilton.
They drank, they laughed too loudly, they spilled drinks on your Persian rugs, and they left a trail of chaos in their wake, an annual reminder of how truly alone you were amidst the throng.
You hated it. You hated that they saw you as an extension of him, a gateway to his world, rather than a person deserving of genuine affection.
The music pulsed, the chatter grew louder, the air thick with the cloying scent of designer perfumes and cheap ambition.
You drifted through the crowd, offering strained smiles, nodding at vapid conversations, feeling utterly detached from the joyous noise around you.
This was your reality: a lonely birthday party thrown in your honour, where you were merely the hostess to a crowd who worshipped your father.
Then, through the din, a distinct, firm knock resonated through the front door. It wasn't the tentative tap of a latecomer, nor the boisterous shove of someone already too tipsy.
It was a polite, yet confident rap. You frowned slightly, a flicker of curiosity momentarily piercing your ennui. Most of your guests simply walked in, or were let in by the staff.
You excused yourself from a particularly dull conversation about a new luxury watch and made your way to the door.
As you pulled it open, the vibrant chaos of the party seemed to dim, momentarily silenced by the sight that greeted you.
Standing on your doorstep, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light, was a young man you didn't recognise. He was tall, with kind eyes that held a hint of nervousness, and a gentle smile.
In one hand, he held a voluminous bouquet of deep red roses, their petals unfurling in perfect symmetry, exuding a rich, velvety scent. In his other, a neatly wrapped, elegantly presented gift box.
It was Isack.
He looked… different. Not like the usual slick, image-conscious crowd that frequented your parties. His attire was smart but not ostentatious, his hair slightly dishevelled in a charming way, as if he’d rushed to get there.
He radiated a quiet sincerity that was a stark contrast to the performative energy inside.
Your ‘friends’ rarely bothered with presents. "You’re too rich for it," they’d scoff, "what could we possibly get you that you don’t already have?"
It was an easy excuse to avoid the effort, another subtle insult that chipped away at your spirit. But here was Isack, with a bouquet and a meticulously wrapped gift, a genuine gesture that felt alien yet profoundly welcome.
"Happy Birthday," Isack said, his voice a warm, steady baritone that cut through the background noise of the party.
He offered you the roses, and you took them, your fingers brushing his. A small current, unexpected, buzzed between you. The scent of the roses enveloped you, a clean, natural perfume that momentarily eclipsed the cloying sweetness of the room.
"Thank you," you managed, a little breathless.
You found yourself truly looking at him, truly seeing him. His eyes, a warm hazel, held an intelligence and an unfamiliar kindness. He wasn’t looking past you, wasn’t scanning for your father. He was looking at you.
"These are for you," he said, indicating the roses. "And this is… well, just a little something." He extended the gift.
You took the box, its weight comforting in your hands. "You didn't have to," you murmured, a genuine smile, not a practiced one, curving your lips.
"Of course I did," he replied, a gentle smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "It’s your birthday."
Inside, your party raged on, oblivious to the quiet revolution happening at the front door.
Your ‘friends’ were too busy refilling their glasses, gossiping, and dancing to notice the arrival of someone who actually brought a present.
"Come in, please," you said, stepping aside, a sense of relief washing over you. His presence seemed to bring a breath of fresh air, a quiet dignity that was sorely lacking in your gilded cage.
He stepped inside, his gaze taking in the chaotic scene for a brief moment before settling back on you. "It’s quite a party," he observed, not with judgment, but with an almost bemused wonder.
"It is," you agreed, a wry twist to your lips. "It always is." You gestured vaguely towards the throng. "Can I put these in water somewhere?"
"Of course," he said, sensing your unspoken need to escape the cacophony. "Lead the way."
You led him through the main living area, past the gyrating bodies and the loud chatter, towards the quieter, less-frequented sunroom at the back of the house.
As you moved, you felt a strange sense of liberation. Usually, you were trapped, forced to entertain and mingle. But with Isack, you felt an immediate, unspoken permission to escape.
In the sunroom, the noise was muffled, the air cooler. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked your sprawling, manicured gardens, now cloaked in the soft glow of moonlight.
You found a vase and filled it with water, carefully arranging the red roses. Their velvety petals seemed to drink in the light, their scent filling the room with an honest beauty.
"They're beautiful, Isack. Thank you," you said, turning to face him.
"You're welcome," he replied softly. "Red seemed… fitting. For the dress." His gaze flickered to your dress, then back to your eyes, a genuine compliment without being suggestive.
You clutched the gift box. "Can I… can I open it now?" you asked, feeling a childlike excitement you hadn’t felt in years.
"Please do," he encouraged.
You carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue, was a first edition of your favourite author’s debut novel, the one you’d mentioned casually to your father months ago, never dreaming he’d actually remember.
But Lewis, in his effort to facilitate a true connection, must have passed the detail along to Isack. And Isack, unlike your ‘friends’, had listened.
You gasped, gently tracing the worn cover. "This is… incredible. How did you know?"
He smiled, a genuine, warm smile. "Your dad mentioned you were a fan. I did a little digging. This one's notoriously hard to find."
You looked up at him, your eyes glistening. "My, my friends… they don’t usually pay attention to things like that." Your voice was barely a whisper. "They mostly just ask about my dad."
Isack’s gaze softened. "I imagine that must get… tiresome."
"It’s soul-crushing," you admitted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. "Every year, it’s the same. They only care about Lewis Hamilton, not about me. They come here for the free drinks and the remote chance of a celebrity spotting. I’m just… the gatekeeper." Your voice cracked. "It’s my birthday, and I feel more alone than ever."
He listened, truly listened, his expression filled with a quiet empathy that made you feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in ages. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer platitudes. He simply absorbed your pain, your frustration.
When you finished, there was a comfortable silence, broken only by the distant thrum of the party. "I'm sorry," Isack finally said, his voice gentle. "That sounds incredibly isolating. Your dad… he told me he really wants you to have genuine connections. He respects you for navigating all of this with such grace."
You managed a small, watery smile. "He tries. He really does. It’s just… hard."
"I can only imagine," Isack said, moving to stand beside you, looking out at the moonlit garden. "My goal, for so long, was just to befriend Lewis. I admired him, of course, but as I got to know him, I realized he’s also just… a person. A really good person. And when he told me about you, he spoke with such fierce love and pride. He told me you're brilliant, and kind, and far too resilient for someone so young to have to be."
You felt a warmth spread through your chest, a feeling alien to the usual cold emptiness. "He said that?"
"He did," Isack confirmed, turning to you, his eyes holding a sincerity that was disarming. "He genuinely wants what's best for you. He knows these parties aren't always what they seem."
You laughed, a genuine, unburdened laugh. "They never are. This is usually the part where I start counting down the minutes until everyone leaves and I can curl up with a book and pretend it never happened."
"Maybe not tonight," Isack suggested, a playful glint in his eyes. "Unless you'd rather I leave?"
"No!" you blurted out, perhaps a little too quickly. You blushed. "No, please don't. It's just… it's nice. To talk to someone who actually… talks to me."
He offered a small, knowing smile. "I'd like that very much."
You spent the rest of the evening in the quiet sanctuary of the sunroom, the distant throb of the party a mere backdrop to your conversation.
You talked about the novel, about your shared love for literature, about your ambitions, about the pressures of growing up in the spotlight, and about his journey to befriending your father.
You discovered he was an old soul, thoughtful and perceptive, with a quiet strength that was incredibly appealing. He didn't interrupt, he didn't boast, he didn't try to impress you.
He simply listened, engaged, and shared, his genuine interest a balm to your weary spirit.
You found yourself studying him as he spoke, noting the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the subtle stubble along his jawline. He was undeniably attractive, in an understated, confident way that rather took your breath away.
A pleasant warmth spread through your chest, a feeling you hadn't experienced in quite some time.
He paused his story, his gaze meeting yours, and a jolt, subtle yet unmistakable, passed between you. He seemed to notice it too, a slight hesitation in his voice, a deepening of his gaze.
You felt your cheeks flush just slightly under the heat of the sun, or perhaps it was the heat of the moment.
“Oh,” you said, the word escaping you almost on reflex, pulling your eyes away as a sudden realization dawned, "I forgot to offer you a drink or any food."
The words sounded clumsy, almost childishly formal, but they were genuine. You’d been so engrossed in his company, so comfortable in the unfolding conversation, that all other courtesies had slipped your mind.
Isack chuckled, a soft, reassuring sound. "It's okay," he tried to say, waving a dismissive hand, his smile unwavering. "I'm perfectly fine."
But you weren't about to let it go. Hospitality, even in a relaxed resort setting, was something you took seriously, a small gesture of care. Besides, it gave you an excuse to move, to break the comfortable, almost charged silence that had settled.
“I insist,” you said, pushing yourself up from the sunbed, the movement feeling surprisingly light despite the languor of the afternoon.
A stray strand of your hair fell across your face, and you tucked it behind your ear. "What would you like?"
He considered for a moment, his eyes lingering on you before he made his choice. "A Coke, please," Isack asked politely, that charming smile still playing on his lips. "If it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all," you replied, a smile blooming on your face. You nodded and, with a final, lingering look at him, you left the relative quiet of your sunbed haven and headed towards the bustling poolside bar.
The journey to the bar was a short one, but each step was filled with a buoyant lightness. Your mind replayed bits of your conversation with Isack.
You reached the bar, took two Cokes – one for him, one for yourself, a silent assumption of continued company. The chilled cans felt wonderfully cool against your hands as you turned, navigating through the sporadic clusters of resort guests.
You could see your sunbed in the distance, Isack a relaxed silhouette against the bright blue of the sky and the glimmering turquoise of the pool. A flutter of anticipation sparked in your chest.
You took two cokes and started to go back to the sunbeds when someone grabbed your hand. Their grip was surprisingly firm, almost startling.
You spun around, the cans nearly slipping from your grasp, your heart giving a small, startled lurch.
"Y/N!" The voice was a little too loud, a little too slurred, but instantly recognizable.
It was Chloe, your best friend, swaying precariously on her feet, her usually immaculate blonde hair a wild halo around her flushed face. She was undeniably, spectacularly drunk. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischievous intelligence, were unfocused but incredibly wide.
"Chloe!" you exclaimed, a rush of exasperation and embarrassment washing over you.
"Oh my god," Chloe continued, her voice rising above the ambient noise of the pool area, "who's that hot man that you were with! You should introduce me to him!" She punctuated her demand with a dramatic sweep of her arm, narrowly missing a passing waiter's tray.
You winced, trying to subtly pull your hand free from her grasp. "Chloe, please, not now," you whispered, lowering your voice to a desperate undertone. "He's just an acquaintance, and you're drawing attention."
But Chloe, in her current state, was impervious to subtlety. "Acquaintance? Darling, that's not just an acquaintance! That's a man! A gorgeous, gorgeous man! Look at him! He's like, a Greek god with a tan!"
"Chloe, stop it!" you hissed, finally managing to gently disengage your hand. You took a step back, putting some distance between yourself and her flailing limbs. "You're drunk. Let's get you back to the room."
"But the man!" she whined, pouting like a child. "Y/N, you always hog the good ones! Share! Share and share alike!"
You refused, Chloe, shaking your head firmly. “No. He’s not for ‘sharing,’ and certainly not for you in this state.”
Your words, spoken with a desperate quietness, seemed to ignite a new, volatile spark in her already inflamed psyche. Her unfocused eyes narrowed, and a sneer twisted her usually pretty features. “Oh, so it’s yours now, is it? Just like all the other good things! You always manage to swoop in and claim them, don’t you, Y/N? You’re so… selfish!”
The word hung in the air, sharp and ugly, drawing the attention of more than one discreetly glancing guest.
Your cheeks burned, not just with the heat of the sun, but with a mortifying blend of shame and fury. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Chloe, that’s not fair,” you started, your voice barely a whisper.
But she wasn't listening. Her jaw tightened, and she swayed forward, her hand shooting out again, this time aiming for your arm with surprising force.
“You think you’re so much better, don’t you? Always so prim and proper, always so ‘responsible’!” Her voice escalated with each accusation, becoming a shrill, piercing sound that cut through the pleasant poolside chatter.
Her grip tightened on your arm, nails digging in slightly, and she lunged, a wild, uncoordinated shove that sent a jolt up your arm and made you stumble backward, nearly dropping the Cokes.
The cans clinked against each other, the cold metal jarring your skin. You gasped, trying to regain your balance, a sudden, unfamiliar fear coiling in your stomach.
Chloe, fuelled by alcohol and a deep-seated, irrational resentment, was not just loud and embarrassing anymore; she was genuinely aggressive. Her eyes, wide and unfocused moments ago, now contained a terrifying glint of malice.
Before you could react, before you could even fully process the shock of her physical aggression, a shadow fell over you.
A warm, strong hand closed gently but firmly around your wrist, pulling you back, away from Chloe’s reach. In the same fluid motion, another hand, equally firm, found Chloe’s arm, not roughly, but with an undeniable air of authority, steadying her, preventing her from taking another lurching step towards you.
“Chloe, that’s enough.”
The voice was Isack’s, calm and deep, cutting through the chaotic bubble of noise and emotion that had enveloped you. There was no anger in his tone, only a quiet, unwavering resolve that seemed to instantly deflate some of Chloe’s drunken bravado. She blinked, her head tilting, as if only just registering his presence.
“You're hot.” she slurred, her voice losing its edge, replaced by a puppy-like confusion. She tried to pull away from his grip, but he held her gently, steadily.
You were still slightly off-balance, leaning back instinctively against Isack. His presence at your side was a solid, comforting anchor in the storm.
You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle scent of sunscreen and something uniquely masculine – perhaps his aftershave, or just the clean scent of his skin in the sun.
“You’re causing a scene, Chloe,” Isack continued, his gaze unwavering as he looked directly into her bleary eyes. “And you’re upsetting Y/N. You need to calm down.”
He didn't raise his voice, but the quiet steel in his tone was more effective than any shout. Another staff, an older man, approached discreetly, his expression concerned.
Isack nodded to him, a silent acknowledgment, and then spoke to Chloe again, more softly this time. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet, okay?”
Chloe seemed to finally wilt, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had erupted. Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a whimpering sigh.
“I… I don’t feel good,” she mumbled, suddenly sounding like a lost child.
When he turned back to you, the Cokes still clutched in your trembling hands, his expression softened. “Are you alright?” he asked, his dark eyes searching yours, concern etched on his handsome face.
You nodded, though your throat felt tight. “Yes,” you managed, your voice a little shaky. “Thank you. I… I’m so sorry, Isack. I don’t know what came over her. She’s never… she’s not usually like that.”
You felt a fresh wave of mortification wash over you. The embarrassment was suffocating.
He offered a small, reassuring smile, and for a moment, you forgot the chaos, lost in the quiet understanding in his gaze. “It’s alright, Y/N. Don’t apologize for her. She’s clearly had too much sun and, well, too many of whatever tropical concoctions they’re serving at the bar.”
He gestured wryly towards the direction of the bar, then gently took one of the Cokes from your hand. “Come on. Let’s get off our feet somewhere quieter.”
He led you away from the dwindling crowd, not back to the sunbeds, but to a shaded cabana tucked slightly away from the main pool area, offering a little more privacy.
The cushions were plush, and the air felt cooler here. You sank onto one, feeling as though all the energy had been drained from you. Isack sat beside you, placing the Cokes on a small table between you.
“Here,” he said, opening his can and then yours, offering it to you. The cold fizz of the liquid was a welcome sensation against your parched throat. You took a long sip, letting the bubbles tickle your nose.
“Thank you,” you said again, feeling a little more grounded. You still couldn’t meet his eyes fully, your gaze darting around the cabana, anywhere but his face. “I’m truly sorry you had to see that. And intervene. It was… humiliating.”
He reached out, his fingers gently touching your forearm, a light, comforting pressure. “Hey,” he said softly, making you look at him. His eyes were kind, understanding.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Y/N. You were caught off guard. And your friend… she needs help, not judgment right now. Most importantly, you’re safe.”
The simple words, the genuine concern in his voice, were like a balm to your frayed nerves. A pleasant warmth spread through your chest again, eclipsing the lingering embarrassment.
You found yourself studying him as he spoke, noting the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the subtle stubble along his jawline. He was undeniably attractive, in an understated, confident way that rather took your breath away.
He had a way of making you feel seen, truly seen, and wonderfully at ease.
“Still,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “It’s not exactly the best first impression, is it? My best friend, drunk and yelling about me hogging men.” You managed a weak, self-deprecating laugh.
Isack chuckled, a soft, reassuring sound. “On the contrary,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. “It was certainly memorable. And it showed me you have a friend who cares, even if she expresses it… uniquely. Besides,” he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping conspiratorially, “it saved me from having to make an awkward excuse to steal you away myself.”
A genuine smile bloomed on your face this time, chasing away the last vestiges of your mortification. “Oh?” you asked, a lightness entering your voice. “And why would you need to steal me away?”
He met your gaze, and the jolt, subtle yet unmistakable, passed between you again, stronger this time. His smile lingered, a slow, confident curve of his lips.
“Because,” he said, his voice a low murmur, “our conversation out there was getting interesting. And quite frankly, I was enjoying your company far too much to let you escape.”
The flush on your cheeks returned, a warm, pleasant heat, and this time, you knew it had nothing to do with the sun. “I was enjoying yours too,” you admitted, the confession slipping out easily.
You felt a profound sense of relief, of connection, that the incident with Chloe hadn't ruined this fragile, blossoming spark.
"It's time, birthday girl!" Sarah stage-whispered, peeking from the doorway of the house.
You nodded, a rush of warmth suffusing your cheeks. As you were led towards the beautifully decorated cake table, Isack fell into step beside you.
His presence was immediately comforting, a solid, warm anchor in the swirl of excitement. You felt a soft brush of his arm against yours as you navigated the increasingly dense crowd, a fleeting contact that sent a shiver down your spine. Your heart quickened its rhythm, a drummer's beat in your ears.
The lights in the room dimmed significantly, casting a spotlight on the elaborate two-tiered cake. It was adorned with intricate floral designs, just as you’d described to Sarah.
But your gaze quickly lifted from the sugary masterpiece to the faces surrounding you. A sea of smartphones rose into the air, their lenses glinting, ready to capture the moment.
Your friends, your family, your colleagues – everyone was there, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the cake's dozens of tiny flames.
Suddenly, a familiar chord struck, and the collective voices of your loved ones swelled into the joyful, slightly off-key harmony of "Happy Birthday."
You stood rooted, a bashful smile playing on your lips, feeling an almost overwhelming surge of affection for everyone present. Isack stood so close beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. You could feel the warmth of his body, the subtle scent of his cologne—woody and a little spicy, uniquely him.
He was singing too, his voice a low, steady rumble next to your ear, perfectly on key. You risked a quick glance at him.
He was smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners, fixed on the cake, then flicking to you, his gaze lingering for a fraction longer than necessary.
The song swelled to its crescendo, the final "Happy Birthday, dear Y/N!" echoing through the room.
The moment arrived. A deep breath. The warmth of the candle flames kissed your face, a gentle heat that made your eyes water just slightly.
You squeezed them shut, the chaotic joy of the room fading into a quiet hum in your mind.
This was it. The wish.
What did you wish for? A new car? A promotion? World peace? All noble, all deserving, but in that moment, with Isack’s warmth a solid presence beside you, only one thought crystallized.
It wasn't about grandeur or material things. It was about connection, about the profound, unexpected joy he had brought into your life.
I wish to have more friends like Isack.
The thought felt safe, almost mundane, yet it held a deeper truth. You didn't dare wish for him, not explicitly. That felt too presumptuous, too vulnerable.
But wishing for more friends like him? That encompassed everything you admired: his kindness, his unwavering support, his quiet understanding, the way he made you feel seen.
It was a wish for more of him in your life, even if disguised under the veil of platonic friendship. It was a wish for the continuation of this bright, hopeful feeling he inspired.
You opened your eyes.
And Isack was already looking at you.
His gaze was intense, unblinking, as if he’d been watching you the entire time, even with your eyes closed. There was an unreadable depth in his dark eyes, a quiet curiosity, perhaps even something more.
A private smile formed on your lips, a genuine, unforced expression that welled up from the sheer unexpectedness of meeting his gaze like that. His eyes crinkled further, a soft smile mirroring yours.
Without thinking, on pure instinct, you leaned in, a silent invitation. You reached out, a gentle hand on his arm, and pulled him closer. He responded readily, his arm circling your waist, pulling you flush against his side.
The cameras flashed, a flurry of rapid-fire pops, capturing the moment. Your cheek was almost touching his shoulder, and you could feel the solid warmth of his body through your dress.
You held the pose, your smile steady for the cameras, but inside, your mind was racing.
If today was the only day you see him, at least you had evidence of him.
The thought, sharp and bittersweet, cut through the euphoria. It was a quiet fear you'd harbored since you'd first realized the depth of your feelings for him – that this connection, so perfect and ephemeral, might vanish as quickly as it had appeared.
He was so good, so kind, so there. What if he was just passing through your life?
What if this was the peak of your shared experience, a beautiful memory to be savored but never relived?
This photograph, these fleeting seconds of physical closeness, would be your proof. Proof that he had been real, proof that for one glorious birthday, he had been right there beside you, smiling, his arm around you.
The flashes subsided, the crowd dispersed slightly as Sarah announced the cake cutting. You and Isack naturally separated, though his arm lingered for a moment longer than necessary before dropping away.
The rest of the party unfolded in a blur of cake, drinks, and more conversations. You found yourself drawn back into the celebratory chaos, but your awareness of Isack never truly faded.
You'd catch his eye across the room, or he'd gravitate towards your group, inserting himself effortlessly into conversations, his presence a comforting hum beneath the surface of the party.
As the evening wore on, the energy of the party began to wind down. One by one, guests started to trickle out. Hugs were exchanged, goodbyes murmured, promises made to meet again.
You stood by the door, a little tired but still buzzing from the day’s events, waving off friends and family. Each departure felt like a step towards the end of the magic.
You collected your few gifts, placed them carefully in a corner, your eyes scanning the thinning crowd.
More guests left. Your aunt, your cousin, a couple of colleagues. You were down to a handful of close friends, and Isack.
He was engaged in conversation with Sarah, but you noticed his gaze kept drifting to you, a quiet reassurance that he wasn't going anywhere just yet.
Then, the last of your friends said their goodbyes, promising to call tomorrow. You hugged Sarah, thanking her profusely for everything.
"Go on," she said, winking conspiratorially, "I'll handle the rest." She clearly understood, or at least suspected.
And then, everyone left, except Isack.
The silence that settled over the house was profound, almost startling after hours of boisterous celebration. The staff were already moving through the tables, clearing away plates, stacking chairs, their movements quiet and efficient.
The air still hung heavy with the scent of cake and celebratory champagne, but it was tinged now with something else – a quiet anticipation.
You turned, your heart doing a strange little flip-flop in your chest. Isack stood a few feet away, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, a relaxed posture that belied the sudden tension in the air between you.
The low ambient lighting caught the highlights in his hair, making it gleam. He looked incredibly handsome, and devastatingly present.
"So," he said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to fill the quiet room, breaking the spell. "A good party."
You managed a small, slightly breathless laugh. "Yeah. Exhausting, but good." You hugged yourself, suddenly feeling a little exposed in the vast, emptying space. "I… I really appreciate you staying."
He took a step closer, then another, until he was just a comfortable arm's length away. "Of course. I wouldn't have missed it for anything."
"Do you want to eat some cake?" you asked, the question tumbling out, part nervous habit, part genuine desire to prolong the moment, to find a normal activity to anchor this swirling, fragile intimacy.
Isack’s smile softened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I thought you’d never ask, birthday girl. I’ve been eyeing that masterpiece all night.”
He gestured to the cake table, which Sarah’s team had already cleared of plates, leaving only the magnificent, mostly deconstructed two-tiered wonder.
You laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that surprised you. “Come on then. Let’s get you a slice.”
You walked over to the table, the subtle scent of vanilla and sugar still thick in the air. The staff, observant and discreet, had left a cake knife and a couple of small plates.
You picked up the knife, feeling a little awkward now that the celebratory fanfare was gone. Isack stepped in smoothly, his hand gently covering yours on the knife.
“Allow me,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your arm.
His fingers were warm and firm against yours as he guided the knife through the rich layers. The simple act felt charged, an echo of the earlier moment when his arm had been around your waist.
You felt the subtle shift of his weight as he leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours. He cut a generous slice, then another, mirroring your unspoken desire for this moment to stretch.
You each took a plate, finding a quiet, untouched corner of the room, near a large window overlooking the city lights. The chairs here were plush, comfortable.
You settled in, the soft hum of the street below the only sound besides the quiet clinking of forks on plates. The cake was even better than you remembered – light, fluffy, perfectly sweet.
“This is incredible,” Isack said, after a moment, his voice laced with genuine appreciation. “Sarah outdid herself.”
“She really did,” you agreed, taking another bite. The silence that followed wasn't awkward, but companionable, filled with the comfortable weight of shared presence.
You glanced up, catching his eye. He was watching you, a gentle smile on his face, a smear of frosting at the corner of his lip.
You reached out, almost without thinking, and gently dabbed it away with your thumb. His eyes widened slightly at the contact, but he didn’t pull back. His gaze was steady, warm.
“Better,” you whispered, your thumb lingering for a moment, tracing the line of his jaw.
Isack's smile grew, a hint of surprise in his eyes. He leaned in, ever so slightly, and the air between you seemed to thicken. Your heart was racing again, a pulse in your ears that drowned out the distant city sounds.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice a warm whisper, the vibration of it tickling the sensitive skin of your thumb.
The world around you seemed to pause. The city lights outside the window became a blur as you found yourself lost in the dark depths of his eyes, feeling the heat of his breath on your fingertips.
The cake, the party, the room – it all melted away until there was only the two of you, the sweetness of the moment hanging in the air like the scent of vanilla and frosting.
You could feel the warmth of his body so close, the heat of his skin radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. His eyes searched yours, as if looking for something – permission, perhaps.
The air between you was electric, charged with a current that you hadn't noticed before, but now it was all you could think about.
Your hand remained on his jaw, your thumb resting just beneath his full bottom lip. He took another bite of cake, his gaze never leaving yours.
The sight of him, so close, so focused on you, was intoxicating. You felt a strange, thrilling sensation in the pit of your stomach, a fluttering that spread through your chest, making it feel tight, like a fist squeezing your heart.
The door to the house unlocked with a soft click, jolting you out of the moment. You both jumped, the spell broken by the sudden reminder of the outside world.
"Oh no," you breathed, glancing at the time on your phone. "My parents – they must be here."
Isack's gaze followed yours, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. He set his plate aside, standing up swiftly. "Let's go see them."
The sound of their footsteps grew louder, echoing through the corridor, as they approached the living room. You straightened your dress, swiping at any lingering frosting on your own lips, your heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves.
The sight of Lewis and Aisha Hamilton, your parents, brought a rush of relief to your cheeks.
They looked exhausted, but the lines of tension around their eyes and mouths smoothed out as they saw you, their only child, safe and happy.
Their shoulders dropped slightly, and your mother’s smile grew as she took in the remnants of your birthday bash.
You could see the love in their gaze as they stepped into the room, a love that was tinged with something else – relief that the day had gone well, that you had enjoyed yourself.
"Ah, you two are still at it," Lewis said, his voice a gentle rumble as he took in the half-eaten slices of cake on the small side table.
Aisha followed closely behind, her eyes lighting up when she saw you sitting so close to Isack. She looked tired but happy, the kind of happy that comes from a long day of worry and effort, the kind that makes every line on her face seem more pronounced but somehow more beautiful.
"Hello, sweetheart," she called out, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. "Your father and I were so worried we had to come home early but it seems like everything was taken care of."
Lewis wrapped an arm around her waist, a gesture that was both possessive and protective. "The house looks great," he said, surveying the scene.
"Thanks to you," you replied, standing up and walking over to give them both a hug.
The scent of your mother's perfume was familiar and comforting, a stark contrast to the heady nerves still swirling in your stomach from your moment with Isack.
They both hugged you tightly, holding you for a beat longer than usual. "Thank goodness," Aisha murmured into your hair, her grip on you a little too fierce for a casual greeting.
You stepped back, the moment of intimacy with Isack now a secret thrumming under your skin. "Sarah really outdid herself," you said, gesturing to the half-eaten cake. "I'm surprised she didn't force you to stay."
Lewis chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Your aunt can be quite persuasive."
"Well, she said she had it all under control," Isack said, standing to join the conversation. "And she certainly did."
Your mother's gaze lingered on him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Isn't it wonderful how friends come through when you need them?"
The air grew thick with unspoken meaning, and you felt a blush creep up your neck.
"Indeed," Lewis said, his arm sliding from around your mother's waist to give Isack a firm pat on the back. "We're lucky to have you around."
The affection in your father's voice was unmistakable, and Isack's smile grew. "Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I wouldn't have missed it."
Your mother, ever astute, picked up on the unspoken tension between you two. "So, tell us all about the party. Did you have a good time, Isack?"
He nodded, his eyes still locked on yours. "It was amazing. Your daughter knows how to throw a party."
You felt your cheeks heat up even more at his words. "It was mostly Sarah," you protested, but the warmth in your voice betrayed your own delight.
Lewis chuckled. "Well, we know where she gets it from."
The four of you talked about the party, the games, the gifts, the laughter – all the little moments that had made the night so special.
As you recounted the events, your mind replayed the shared glances, the touches, the whispers that had filled the space between you and Isack.
Your parents listened with rapt attention, asking questions, adding their own observations. They had always liked Isack, had always welcomed him into their home.
It was easy to get lost in the conversation, to let the warmth of their affection for you both soothe the nerves that still danced in your stomach.
But the clock was ticking, and with a heavy heart, Isack spoke up, "I think it's time for me to go."
You felt a sudden pang of loss, the warmth of the evening starting to dissipate with the words.
Without hesitation, you stood up alongside him, your hand brushing against the firm muscles of his back. "I'll walk you out," you offered, your voice a little too bright.
Your parents exchanged a look, the kind that spoke volumes without uttering a single syllable. It was a knowing glance, a silent conversation that only years of marriage could convey.
Your mother's eyes sparkled with mischief, while your father's expression was one of quiet approval.
"Oh, it is?" Aisha said, her voice a little too casual. "Already?"
Lewis nodded solemnly. "It's been a long day for us all."
Isack's smile remained in place, but there was a tightness to his jaw that you hadn't noticed before. "Yes, I should get going. I have to fly to Italy in the morning," he said, his hand sliding into his pocket as if looking for his phone, though you knew it was there all along.
You felt your heart sink slightly at the thought of him leaving. The party was over, the magic of the night dissipating with each passing second. But you didn't want this to end.
You didn't want the spell to break.
"Thank you for staying," you murmured, as you both moved towards the door.
Isack's eyes searched yours, the same question lingering in them. "Of course," he said, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to resonate through the air around you. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world."
You could feel the warmth of his body as you walked, his shoulder brushing against yours with every step.
The sensation was a gentle reminder of his presence, a comforting weight that made the thought of his impending departure all the more unbearable.
The soft click of the lock, the cool night air seeping in as you opened the door just a crack. You stepped out onto the porch, the silence of the night a stark contrast to the party's vibrant energy.
"So, Italy," you began, trying to sound casual, but your voice was infused with a tremor you couldn't quite disguise. "Are you ready for the race?"
He leaned against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on you. "As ready as I'll ever be. Been training like crazy. Just hoping for decent weather, you know? And that my tires hold up."
He chuckled, a low, easy sound that made your stomach flip. "It's a tricky circuit, lots of blind corners. But I feel good about it this year. I've been visualizing the whole thing."
"I know you'll do great," you said, meaning every word. You’d always admired his dedication, his quiet intensity when it came to his passion.
You remembered watching him practice on Dad's simulator once, his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his hands moved with such precision. "I'll be watching."
"Hopefully you'll be watching to support me," he joked, his eyes bright. "Thought about getting you a team shirt, actually. For good luck."
Your heart swelled. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to," he said, his voice firm, yet tender. "It'd be nice to know you're cheering me on, even if it's from halfway across the world."
The implication hung in the air: distance. The reality of it was settling in, heavy and cold. "I'll always cheer you on even though I want my dad to win, Isack," you corrected, your voice softer now, your eyes meeting his. The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken longing.
He took a small step closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back up to your eyes, a question in their depths. "This was… this was an amazing night," he murmured, his voice husky. "More than I expected."
"Me too," you whispered, your breath catching in your throat.
The urge to close the minuscule gap between you was overwhelming, a silent ache that echoed in the space between your chests.
His gaze lingered on your mouth, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leaned in. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet night.
Your hand, as if with a will of its own, lifted to his neck, your fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin. The subtle scent of his cologne, mingled with the faint aroma of the party, enveloped you.
His hand rose, settling gently on your waist, his thumb brushing a soft, feather-light circle against your hip. The contact sent a shiver down your spine, but it was a delicious shiver, one that promised more.
He continued to lean in, slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, but you met him halfway, your lips parting slightly in anticipation.
Then, his lips met yours.
It was soft at first, tentative, a gentle press that tasted of lingering dessert and the fresh night air. But almost instantly, it deepened. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, your bodies molding together.
Your fingers tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer still as the kiss grew more insistent, more desperate. Time seemed to stop, suspended in the shared space of your embrace, the world outside fading to a meaningless blur.
He pulled back slowly, reluctantly, his eyes still closed for a fraction of a second before they fluttered open and met yours. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, mirroring your own.
You were both breathless, dazed, the air between you still humming with the aftershocks of the kiss.
That was when you saw it. A faint smudged pink, a perfect imprint of your lip combo – a subtle berry tint layered with a shimmery balm – dusted across his mouth.
It was such a small, human detail after such an intense moment, and a giggle bubbled up from deep within you, light and joyful and a little shy.
"You have my lip combo," you whispered, reaching up to swipe it away, your fingers still trembling slightly.
He caught your hand, stopping your motion. His eyes, dark and sparkling with mirth and something deeper, held yours as a wide, boyish grin spread across his face.
"Leave it," he said, his voice a low, throaty rumble that sent another shiver through you. "To remind me this wasn't a dream."
For a moment, you just stared at him, the warmth of his hand enveloping yours. You felt your own smile grow, a soft, lopsided curve of your lips that matched his.
"Okay," you murmured, your voice a soft echo. The city sounds beyond the porch were a faint backdrop to the thunder of your heartbeat.
Isack's thumb stroked the back of your hand in a slow, soothing rhythm. "I should really go," he said, but his voice was thick, reluctant.
His eyes searched yours, looking for something unspoken, something you were equally afraid to voice.
You nodded, the warmth of his touch anchoring you to this moment, to the reality of his presence. "Yes," you agreed, your voice barely a whisper.
Isack leaned in, his breath a warm caress against your cheek as his lips brushed against your skin. It was a kiss so gentle, so tender, it was as if he was afraid to break the fragile spell that had woven itself around the two of you.
His mouth lingered, the barest whisper of contact, and you felt your eyes flutter closed, savoring the sensation of his breath, his closeness.
When Isack finally stepped back, you felt the chill of the night air rush in to fill the space he'd left behind. He searched your eyes, his own dark and unreadable, before speaking again.
"I'll call you," he said, his voice a little rough around the edges. "As soon as I get to Italy."
You nodded, trying to keep your own voice steady. "I'd like that."
Isack took a step back, his hand lingering on your cheek for a heartbeat longer than necessary before dropping away.
You felt the loss of his touch like a physical ache. "I'll see you soon, birthday girl," he said, his voice a warm caress.
The words seemed to hang in the air, a promise that was both thrilling and terrifying. You watched as he turned away, the porch light casting a golden glow on his form as he descended the stairs.
Each step he took away from you felt like a small part of you was being torn away, leaving you raw and exposed.
He paused at the bottom, looking up, his eyes meeting yours once more. The light played across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his smile.
You felt your heart clench, a silent plea for him to stay. But instead, he gave a small wave, the gesture filled with more weight than you could ever express.
You watched as he strolled away, his movements easy and graceful, the night air seemingly bending to his will. The sound of his footsteps grew fainter with each step until they were swallowed by the distant murmur of his car.
And then he was gone, leaving you alone on the porch, the night suddenly much quieter, much colder without him. . . .
‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡
Miles away, in the bustling paddock of the Dutch Grand Prix, Isack was deep in conversation with his engineers, reviewing telemetry from the morning session.
The air was thick with the scent of fuel and hot rubber, a familiar comfort. Yet, a part of him felt hollow, a space that only Y/N could fill.
He’d tried to focus, to compartmentalize, but the image of her, vibrant and laughing, followed by the soft, unexpected brush of her lips against his at her party, kept flickering in his mind.
He missed her voice, the way her face lit up when she was excited, the simple presence of her.
He was mid-sentence, gesturing towards a data graph, when he noticed a subtle shift in the room. A few of the mechanics and engineers, usually laser-focused, were glancing past him, their expressions shifting from concentration to hushed awe.
Isack frowned, turning his head, and his heart gave a little jolt.
Standing a few feet behind him, a calm, commanding presence, was Lewis Hamilton. Isack’s idol. The man who had inspired him to chase this dream, who had shown him what was possible.
Isack immediately straightened, a deferential smile spreading across his face. "Excuse me," he mumbled to his engineers, already moving, a blend of professional respect and boyish excitement propelling him forward.
Lewis offered a small, knowing smile in return. "Hey Isack, you're not busy right?"
"No, just finished debrief, sir," Isack replied instantly, feeling a slight flush creep up his neck at the easy familiarity from someone he looked up to so much.
"Good, 'cuz I have something to show you," Lewis said, turning and beginning to walk.
Isack didn't hesitate, rushing to keep pace with the seven-time world champion. He didn't ask any questions. Why would he? Lewis Hamilton had something to show him. That was enough.
They weaved through the labyrinthine paddock, past team garages and hospitality suites, the buzz of activity a background hum. Isack's curiosity grew when they started entering the sleek, red Ferrari motorhome, a place he hadn't yet been invited into.
Was it a new car part? A strategy secret? He had no idea what to expect, but his anticipation was electric.
Lewis stopped in front of one of the driver's private rooms, his hand reaching for the digital lock. With a soft click, the door unlocked. He pushed it open, gesturing for Isack to go in first.
Isack stepped over the threshold, his gaze sweeping the comfortable, private space – a sofa, a table laden with snacks, a TV. And then he froze.
His eyes landed on the figure curled up on the sofa, her head resting against the cushion, a book lying open on her lap.
You.
You looked up at the sudden intrusion, your eyes widening, equally shocked. Your book slid to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.
The silence that descended was thick, broken only by Lewis Hamilton's deep voice from behind Isack. "No funny business," he said, the words firm, laced with a familiar paternal warning that made Isack's ears burn.
Before Isack could even process the words, or the situation, Lewis was already closing the door, leaving them alone.
"Yes sir!" Isack blurted out instantly, a reflex honed from years of respecting authority figures, especially that authority figure.
Then, the full weight of Lewis's words hit him, coupled with the sight of you sitting there, and a deep blush spread across his face.
"Wait, what?" he murmured, turning around quickly to question Lewis, to ask why you were here, how you were here, and what he meant.
But the door was already shut, the click of the lock echoing faintly. Lewis was gone.
Isack turned back, his gaze hesitant, meeting yours. You were still on the sofa, a shy, tentative smile playing on your lips, a soft blush mirroring his own.
“Hi,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the lingering shock in the small room.
“Hi,” Isack managed, his mind a scramble of half-formed thoughts.
She’s here. Y/N. In Lewis Hamilton’s private room. And Lewis Hamilton just… left us here. With a warning.
The last part replayed in his head, making his cheeks burn hotter. Did he know? Know about the kiss?
He hadn’t seen her since. Racing commitments, travel, the relentless F1 schedule had made physical meetings impossible. But their phones had been busy.
Texts had flowed, late-night calls had stretched into the early hours, sharing snippets of their days, private jokes, and a growing intimacy that felt both fragile and exhilarating.
They hadn’t directly addressed the kiss, but it hung between them, an unspoken promise, a question mark.
And now, here you were. Brought to him by none other than your father, Lewis Hamilton, the man whose every move Isack studied, whose legacy he hoped to emulate. The irony was almost too much.
“I… I didn’t know you were coming to Zandvoort,” Isack said, finally finding his voice, though it still felt a little rough around the edges.
You chuckled, a soft, melodic sound that instantly put him a little more at ease. “Neither did I, until yesterday. Dad just… showed up at my flat and basically said ‘pack a bag, you’re coming to the race. You need a break from studying.’ And then he brought me here.”
You gestured vaguely around the room. “He said he had some work, but that I could wait here. He’s been… hovering.” You gave a wry smile. “Then he disappeared, only to return with you.”
Isack’s gaze flickered around the room, then back to you. “He said… ‘no funny business’.” He couldn’t help but blurt it out, the shame of it coloring his face again.
Your blush deepened, but you met his gaze squarely. “He knows, Isack.”
His stomach dropped. “He… he knows about the kiss?”
You nodded slowly. “I think so. He was… quite insistent on the ‘no funny business’ part when he was leaving before the party too. I just thought he was being a typical protective dad. But then he saw me texting someone non-stop for the past few weeks, and he put two and two together. He’s not subtle.”
Isack exhaled slowly, a mix of relief and profound embarrassment washing over him.
So Lewis Hamilton, the legend, had witnessed him kissing his daughter. And then, instead of forbidding contact, he had… orchestrated this.
It was almost too bizarre to comprehend.
“He wanted to ‘show me something’,” Isack mused, a small, wry smile forming on his lips. “Turns out, the ‘something’ was you.”
You laughed, a genuine, delighted sound that made his heart lighten considerably. “Well, I am a sight to behold, I suppose. A very comfortable, book-reading sight.”
You patted the cushion next to you. “Come on, don’t just stand there like a statue. He’s not going to burst in any second, I don’t think. Unless you want him to think we are doing funny business by just staring at each other.”
He took a step, then another, until he was sitting on the sofa, a respectable distance between them, but close enough that he could smell the faint, sweet scent of your perfume.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words tumbling out. “About the kiss. I mean, not sorry it happened, but… sorry he saw. And that it put you in an awkward spot with your dad.”
You looked at him, your eyes soft. “Don’t be. It was… nice. Surprising, but nice. And my dad is my dad. He’s overprotective, but he also cares. He thinks I’m too focused on my studies. He probably secretly wants me to have some fun.”
You paused, then added mischievously, “Or he really, really likes you.”
Isack chuckled, a nervous tremor still in his voice. “I don’t know if ‘likes’ is the right word when he’s threatening ‘no funny business’.”
“Oh, that’s just standard dad talk,” you waved a dismissive hand. “Means he respects you enough not to need to say anything else. He knows you’re a good guy, Isack. He literally tells everyone that he thinks you’re going to be the next big thing.”
The compliment, coming from Lewis’s daughter, hit him with a strange force. “He does?”
You nodded. “All the time. He talks about your driving, your focus, your work ethic. He’s always believed in you. That’s why… this isn’t as awkward as it could be, I think.”
Your eyes searched his. “Besides, I missed you.”
The simple declaration sent a warmth through Isack’s chest that far outstripped the embarrassment. “I missed you too, Y/N. So much. The texts were good, but… it’s not the same.”
“No,” you agreed, your voice softer now, more vulnerable. “It’s not. It’s been… weird. Talking so much, getting to know each other, but not actually seeing you.”
You picked at a loose thread on the sofa cushion. “I wondered if you regretted it. The kiss, I mean.”
“Never,” Isack said, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. He shifted closer, instinctively. “It’s been on my mind every day. It was… the best part of that night. And honestly, it’s been a distraction in the best way. Made the long flights and late nights a little less lonely.”
You finally looked up, a radiant smile gracing your lips. “Good. Because it was for me too. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Your hand, almost unconsciously, reached out and gently touched his arm. The contact was electric, a jolt that went straight to his core.
“So,” Isack said, his voice a little shaky, “he just… wants us to… hang out?”
You giggled. “I think he’s playing matchmaker, in his own extremely unsubtle Lewis Hamilton way. He probably thinks we’re both too busy and socially awkward to make the next move ourselves, so he decided to lock us in a room.”
You leaned back, a thoughtful expression on your face. “It’s… kind of sweet, actually. For him.”
Isack couldn’t help but agree. It was sweet, in a terrifying, idol-sanctioned way. The man who had inspired him to live his dream was now actively involved in his personal life. It was surreal.
“What does this mean?” Isack asked, his voice low. “For us, I mean. With the racing schedule, and your studies…”
You squeezed his arm gently. “It means we figure it out. We’ve been texting all this time, right? We make time. Maybe I come to a few more races, when I can. You’ll be in Italy sometimes for work, won’t you?”
He nodded, hope blossoming in his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I will. We can… we can definitely figure it out.”
He found himself reaching for your hand, his fingers intertwined with yours. Your skin was warm, soft against his.
“Good,” you said, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand.Your
gaze met his, and this time, there was no shyness, only a deep, shared understanding. The unspoken question of the kiss was answered, firmly and sweetly.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward this time. It was comfortable, filled with the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of the paddock.
Isack found himself studying your face, tracing the curve of your cheekbones, the slight upturn of your nose. He noticed the faint dark circles under your eyes, a testament to your hard work, and felt an urge to just… care for you.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, the words heartfelt. “It’s been… lonely, sometimes. Out here.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, a surprisingly comforting weight. “Me too, Isack. Definitely me too.”
A soft knock on the door made them both jump, breaking the spell. Isack instinctively pulled his hand away, a fresh wave of panic momentarily seizing him.
Had Lewis been listening the whole time?
The door clicked open, and Lewis Hamilton’s head poked in, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Everything alright in here? Ten minutes, Isack. Your next session debrief.”
He didn’t look at Y/N, but his gaze lingered on Isack for a fraction longer than necessary, a subtle eyebrow raise that said, I told you ‘no funny business’.
“Yes, sir! Everything’s fine,” Isack stammered, feeling the heat rise to his face again.
Lewis’s smile widened, and he disappeared, the door closing softly behind him, but not locking this time.
Y/N lifted her head from his shoulder, a playful glint in her eyes. “He definitely knows, Isack.”
“I know,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. “This is going to be mortifying every time I see him now.”
You nudged him with your elbow. “Nah. He’s just happy. Happy for both of us, I think. And besides,” you leaned in, your voice a conspiratorial whisper, “he might just be okay with ‘some’ funny business, as long as it’s within reason.”
Isack laughed, a genuine, unburdened laugh. The tension that had been a tight knot in his stomach for weeks, ever since that kiss, suddenly unraveled.
He looked at you, truly looked at you, and felt a surge of pure, unadulterated happiness. The racing weekend was important, yes, but suddenly, the hollow feeling he’d carried was gone.
Replaced by a warmth, a sense of belonging, and a beautiful, unexpected complication.
“I should go,” he said, but made no move to get up.
“I know,” you replied, linking your pinky finger with his, a silent promise. “Good luck out there, Isack. I’ll be watching.”
He finally stood, a lightness in his step. As he reached the door, he paused, looking back at you. You were still on the sofa, a book back in your hand, but your eyes were on him, a soft, encouraging smile on your face.
“Y/N?” he said, the name feeling natural on his tongue.
“Yeah?”
“Can I… can I see you later?”
You laughed, a clear, bright sound. “Of course you can, Isack.”
He grinned, a wide, genuine grin he hadn’t felt in days. He stepped out of the room, into the bustling corridor, the scent of fuel and hot rubber still in the air.
But now, it was mixed with something else, something sweet and hopeful. He walked towards his debrief, his mind no longer scattered, but focused.
Not just on the data graphs and lap times, but on the vibrant, laughing presence he’d just left behind, and the surprising, wonderful future that was now unfolding before him, all thanks to a 7x world champion playing Cupid. . . .
