#f1community

[maragivesyouwings]

Accidentally On Camera Max Verstappen × reader

Monaco, late evening.

The soft hum of the PC fans filled the apartment, blending with the faint sound of Max’s voice through his headset. Three curved monitors glowed in front of him, their light reflecting off the glossy paint of his helmet collection neatly mounted on the wall above his desk. The room smelled faintly of rubber and the salty evening breeze drifting in from the balcony, just behind the swaying curtain.

Y/N stood quietly at the door for a moment, plate in hand, watching him with a small, fond smile. His back was rigid in the racing seat, fingers gripping the wheel tight, voice sharp and focused. “Oh god, what the hell? What the hell was that?” he muttered frustratedly.

She stepped forward silently, the curtain moving gently behind her. Her footsteps were barely audible as she placed the plate of pasta down on the narrow space between his keyboard and the glowing PC tower.

Max jumped. Instinctively, he reached out and covered the webcam mounted above the central monitor. With his other hand, he hit mute on his mic. The live chat exploded. @OrangeArmy33: WHO IS THAT?? @maxyfanforever: …did we just see Max’s girlfriend?? @f1girlies: omg she brought him food that’s so cute @teamredlinefan: LOL he panicked so hard @sstrangecatzz: WHAT JUST HAPPENED?? @15senna.thebest: OMG, a WOMAN @maxfutureGF: nah, no chance for me now

“You scared me,” he muttered, glancing nervously over his shoulder with a sheepish smile. “Also… congrats, you just leaked yourself to like twenty thousand people.”

Y/N’s eyes went wide as she looked at the screen, reading the chat. “Wait, what? Did they see my face too?” she asked, a bit anxious. “They saw you, but I think your face didn’t show clearly… just wait for the internet detectives to start digging,” Max said with a small laugh.

By the time the pasta had gone cold, the internet had already connected the dots. Gossip accounts on Instagram were posting the clip in 4K quality, and Twitter threads were pairing screenshots from the stream with blurry paparazzi shots of her at the Monaco marina and near stores—right alongside Alexandra Saint-Mleux, which would mean nothing if she weren’t Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend.

@F1Tea (1.2M followers)

@F1Tea: Spotted on Max Verstappen’s stream tonight 👀. Same girl who was seen with Alexandra Saint-Mleux at that festival? @monacogurl: Same hair as the girl seen with Alexandra in the Barcelona race omggg!!! @cuppoftea: Shirt matches that one Max wore in Austria… @maxxxine1: You’re all crazy, maybe it’s his sister Victoria. ↳@f1is4thegirls: Nope, his sister’s blonde. The girl on stream had long brown hair… like this one.

Later that night, Y/N curled up on the sofa in the living room corner, directly opposite the glass shelves where Max’s trophies caught the dim light. “I didn’t… I mean, I didn’t want people to know like that,” she said softly, eyes glued to her phone. “What if they hate me? What if they follow me everywhere now?” She glanced at him, searching for reassurance.

Max sat down beside her, his knee brushing against hers. “Look, if some people don’t like it, that’s their problem. I’m not hiding you, Y/N. I’m happy with you. That’s what matters.” He gently took her hand. “Maybe they’ll talk, yeah, but you just let them. Everything’s gonna be alright.” “I hope you’re right,” she whispered, looking back at her phone as he kissed the top of her head.

A couple days later, Y/N was out shopping in Zara with Alexandra and Rebecca (Carlos’s girlfriend). “I’m just nervous people might start leaking stuff about my family or something…” she said, running her fingers over the soft silk of a dress. “At first it’s confusing, girl… but you have to act confident. Trust me,” Alex said. Rebecca chuckled in agreement. “She’s right, and besides, now you’re with the group. The other girls will love you.” That made Y/N feel a little lighter.

Two days later, their social feeds spoke for themselves. @maxverstappen1

@maxverstappen1: Not much of a secret anymore, I guess. I love you so much to keep you secret.❤️ @yourusername

@monacogurl: GUYS I KNEW. WE WERE ALLLL RIGHT @yourusername: I love you too <3<3 @f1wagspretty: We should start thinking of ship names. @maxxxine1: oh. ↳@maximaxdududu1: for real, that's the only thing I can say now.

@yourusername

@yourusername: Getting used to the spotlight… ✨

@f1channel: I think we will love her @girlystuffig: She looks so pretty and confident!!! @redbullracing: Welcome, Y/N @monacogurl: Hi Y/N, you say hiiii? ↳@yourusername: Of course love, hello! @maxxxine1: She is kinda cute for Max yeah...

The change was gradual but real. Y/N started walking into the paddock with her head held high, chatting with the other girlfriends, even posing for the occasional photo.

The noise from the crowd no longer made her insecure — she knew what was real and what wasn’t, and that’s all that mattered. She could kiss him, hold his hand, and be his support — on the paddock and in the garage — without hiding. All thanks to being caught accidentally on camera.

Hiii! It's my first time writting and posting here, I've been reading fanfics and stuff since a lot and got my ideas but was too embarrassed or lazy to write/post... so I'm trying now!

If you are a writter or know well how to use this, I'd love the help!!

THANKS

[lex2205]

Em...judge, what is this? Is it 4real??

If I don't see it, I don't hate.

[bucket-hat-lando]

Commented on one TikTok about Taylor’s swift new album saying her music is not for me personally and I can confirm her fanbase makes the f1 community look sane bc some of the replies were boarding on disturbing

[purplerain-94]

Many F1 content creators and blog owners really don't get the recognition that they deserve. They should be invited to more races and there should have been more of them present at the F1 movie premiere. I think that if influencers and celebrities can be invited as PR when many of them know nothing about the sport and probably don't watch it, then surely the same invitation can be extended to these creators that literally take time out of their own lives to commentate, create content and bring exposure to the sport.

[alarwynnwhispers]

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴡʜᴏ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ🕶️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴅɴɪ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

ꜱɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ

ᴍɪʟᴅ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ

ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ

The sun burned brightly over the Riviera, turning the cobblestone streets of Monaco into a shimmer of warmth and sea salt. The glint of expensive watches, the rustle of designer skirts, and the whisper of languages laced with wealth and influence wrapped around Lewis Hamilton like silk—comfortable, familiar, but also, lately, insufferably predictable.

At forty, he had grown accustomed to the cadence of adoration. He knew what it meant when strangers glanced at him for a beat too long, when they crossed the street subtly to intercept his walk, when their phones lifted discreetly under the guise of texting but angled perfectly for a snapshot. He wore sunglasses and a hoodie not for fashion today, but for escape.

That’s why when he noticed her, again, his patience wavered.

A young woman with long, unbothered strides, hair pulled back carelessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline, pretending not to look at him. He first clocked her outside of Café de Paris. Then again at the marina when he’d stopped to check messages. And once more near the old casino steps. It was subtle, but the kind of subtle that raised alarms when you’ve spent years in the public eye.

By the fourth time, when he slowed at a quieter side street and saw her again across the way, Lewis stopped walking altogether.

He turned. Waited.

And she froze.

Her eyes widened slightly—an expression of a deer caught mid-thought, not quite guilt, but something adjacent. Surprise.

That did it.

“Alright,” Lewis muttered under his breath, then strode toward her with calm resolve.

She took a tentative step back, but stood her ground as he approached. Her eyebrows furrowed now, lips parting as if to speak, but Lewis got there first.

“Okay, seriously, are you following me?” he asked, arms crossing in a casual yet unmistakably defensive posture.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been behind me since the harbor,” Lewis said, pointing vaguely over his shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but this is Monaco, not Times Square. It’s kind of obvious.”

She stared at him, stunned. Her lips moved, but no words came. Then, a beat later, her brows lifted, and she scoffed with soft disbelief. “You think I’m stalking you?”

Lewis tilted his head. “Well, aren't you?”

A pause. Then her cheeks flushed, not with guilt, but with something closer to offense.

“I have no idea who you are,” she said plainly.

He blinked.

“I’m not following you. I’m... I’m following them,” she continued, stepping sideways and subtly motioning across the plaza. “My best friend is on a date. A suspicious one. She asked me to keep an eye.” (Author: It's a lieee~)

Lewis followed her gesture. A couple sat on the terrace of a rooftop café, seemingly engrossed in one another. Nothing about them screamed drama, but Lewis could see how someone might be wary.

Just then, as if summoned by the very act of being observed, the woman at the table turned. Her eyes narrowed. Recognition dawned.

“Oh no,” the woman beside him muttered.

The friend stood abruptly and made her way across the plaza with brisk, purposeful steps.

“I take it that’s her?” Lewis asked dryly.

She winced. “Yeah.”

The approaching woman came to a sharp stop in front of them and crossed her arms. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais là?” (“What are you doing here?”) she hissed, voice low but sharp.

The woman beside Lewis stammered. “Je… Nous passions juste par là. C'est une coïncidence.” (“I... We were just passing by. It's a coincidence.”)

Lewis watched the exchange, bemused as her friend scolded her rapidly in French. The young woman’s shoulders slumped in surrender. Finally, she raised both hands in mock defeat, responding calmly in fluent French, her tone soothing even as her friend remained riled.

Then, without warning, she turned back to Lewis. “Sorry about that,” she said quickly, and before he could react, she slipped her hand into his.

His brows lifted.

Her friend’s mouth dropped open.

“Bye, Clémence!” she called over her shoulder, already tugging Lewis down the street. Her fingers gripped his for only a few seconds, but it was long enough to leave a strange warmth on his skin.

Once they rounded the corner and out of sight, she let go with an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “Well, that was dramatic.”

Lewis looked at her, still baffled. “Did you just use me as an escape plan?”

She met his gaze unapologetically. “Yes. And thank you for playing along, even if unintentionally.”

He smirked. “You could’ve just told her the truth.”

She scoffed lightly. “You don’t know Clémence. Telling her the truth would’ve meant a full interrogation, and I wasn’t in the mood for that.”

Then, muttering in French, she added something that sounded irritated and vaguely poetic. Lewis, not fluent beyond basic phrases, frowned.

“What did you just say?”

She glanced sideways at him. “Nothing.”

That look in her eyes—annoyed, intelligent, amused—sparked something in him. Before she could disappear again, Lewis called after her, “Wait.”

She turned, arching a brow.

He hesitated for only a second. “What’s your name?”

She tilted her head slightly, considering. Then: “(Y/n) Robinson.”

He smiled, extending his hand. “Lewis.”

“Just Lewis?” she asked, not taking it.

“That’s all you get until you stop pretending not to know me,” he said, half teasing, half challenging.

But she only shrugged. “I wasn’t pretending. Still not sure why you’re familiar.”

Lewis chuckled, genuinely thrown. It was such a foreign experience, he wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or intrigued.

She turned away again and began walking. He followed.

“You’re not going to shake me off that easily,” he said casually.

“Are you the stalker now?”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

She stopped abruptly outside a small patisserie tucked between two narrow buildings. It wasn’t flashy, no golden signs or velvet ropes, just a quaint spot with a chalkboard menu and glass display filled with confections. She looked at him. “You really don’t have anywhere better to be?”

“Right now?” he said, hands in his pockets. “No. Got some time.”

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re being weird.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She pushed open the door. He followed.

The smell of butter, sugar, and espresso wrapped around them like a memory. Inside, only three other patrons sat scattered between tables. The soft clink of china and faint jazz music filled the space.

(Y/n) stepped up to the counter and pointed to a slice of raspberry cheesecake. “And a lavender latte, please.”

Lewis ordered something simpler, an Americano and a plain almond croissant.

They sat at a small table near the window. The afternoon sun slanted through the glass, streaking the table with warm light.

He watched as she quietly opened a novel from her tote bag and began to read, seemingly unbothered by his presence. She didn’t ask him questions, didn’t glance at her phone, didn’t fish for details.

Lewis studied the side of her face, her soft expression as she turned pages. He sipped his coffee and tried to place what felt so unusual about the moment.

It was the silence.

It wasn’t uncomfortable or expectant. It was... easy. She wasn’t pretending not to care, she genuinely didn’t.

For once, he wasn’t the spectacle in someone else’s story.

Eventually, after a few attempts at small talk that were met with polite nods and monosyllables, he gave up trying to draw her into conversation. Instead, he leaned back and let himself enjoy the peace.

She finished her cheesecake slowly, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and finally closed her book. Standing, she looked at him and offered a simple smile.

“Well. That was oddly pleasant,” she said.

Lewis nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the company, Lewis.”

“Anytime, (Y/n),” he replied.

And just like that, she walked out.

He watched her disappear down the street, her figure weaving through late afternoon foot traffic.

For a long moment, Lewis sat alone. Then he looked down at the empty table, at the fork she had set gently across her plate, at the faint imprint her coffee cup left on the tablecloth.

No selfies. No squealing. No asking him to rev the engine of his fame.

Just cheesecake, silence, and the odd feeling of not being known.

He smiled to himself, pulled out his phone, and opened the notes app.

He typed two words:

Find her.

To be continued...❤️

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ʙʟᴜᴇ-ᴇʏᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ🕶️

📝 Note from the Author: Hello my dear Alarwynnites! First post again for this very first title of the month of September hehehe, I hope you like this one! There will be some MDNI moments here, and a huge age gap I tell y’all. If you’re uncomfortable with these kinds of things, it’s totally okay to skip it, yes? Yeeeesss.

I love you guys so much, thank you for always supporting me! To my new followers—welcome, welcome! I’ll try to post as much as possible for this title. Andddd, anyone wants to request something? Another title maybe? I’m running out of ide—just kidding HAHAHA. This author has way too many ideas, but I’d love to hear yours too so the stories don’t all feel the same. So, if you have any, just drop me a message or leave it on my wall, okay?

Also, a huge thank you to Firefly Graphics for the amazing border—they make everything look so beautiful!

Thanks again, always.

With love, me 🧡

[alarwynnwhispers]

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅꜱ🕶️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛʀᴏꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ ꜰᴀᴛɪɢᴜᴇ

ʜɪɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ

ꜱʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄ

Monaco, for all its glamour, had an odd stillness to it when he returned.

Lewis stepped into his apartment, the familiar scent of oakwood polish and ocean salt lingering just beneath the surface of luxury. It had been nearly a month, twenty-eight days to be exact, since he'd last walked through his own front door. The season was in full swing. Races blurred into one another—Bahran, Saudi Arabia, Miami. The weight of time zones clashed with the thrill of podiums. Airports, circuits, press conferences, tire strategy—he lived in a world dictated by split-seconds, mechanical symphonies, and roaring applause.

But none of that filled the quiet now. The emptiness of his home echoed around him, pressing into his skin. It was beautiful, his Monaco flat. Sleek, expansive, with glass doors that opened out to a view of the marina. Yet somehow, today, it felt impersonal. Cold. Too quiet.

He had unpacked only the essentials, leaving his travel-worn suitcase slumped near the entryway. He moved slowly, methodically, as though reacquainting himself with stillness. He tried to read, to scroll aimlessly, to drown himself in music, but his mind kept circling back.

To her.

(Y/n).

That unexpected stranger who had somehow embedded herself into his thoughts like a soft refrain he couldn’t quite forget.

And so, the next morning, he found himself standing outside her apartment door, hesitating for only a breath before he knocked. His knuckles hit the wood three times, measured and patient. He waited. No answer. He tried again.

Still silence.

Just as he was about to turn away, a voice caught his attention.

“She’s not home, monsieur,” came a gentle, accented tone. An elderly woman leaned slightly out from the next-door balcony, her pale hair pinned back neatly with bobby pins and a faded scarf. “She left town last week. Business, I think. She’ll return in two days.”

Lewis offered her a grateful nod and smile. “Merci, madame. Thank you.”

She nodded in kind, then disappeared behind her curtains, leaving him alone once again with the Mediterranean breeze curling around his jacket.

Two days. He could wait two days.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

While Lewis raced across continents, (Y/n) Robinson had been writing her own quiet narrative. It was one laced not with speed, but with intention.

Her modeling career was flourishing, but never chaotic. She chose her projects carefully, more curator than participant. Her shoots took her across Europe: a sustainable fashion campaign in Amsterdam, a barefoot coastal editorial in Lisbon, a moody winter piece for a Danish brand in Copenhagen. The lens loved her, but it was never just about beauty. Her images spoke—through her eyes, her stillness, her grace. They captured something often elusive in the industry: sincerity.

She turned down more offers than she accepted. When a luxury handbag label approached her with an extravagant proposal, she politely declined after learning about their exploitative labor practices. It wasn’t about the money. It never had been.

Her boy best friend, Julian, a French-Moroccan designer rising rapidly through the fashion world, often roped her in for his brand’s campaigns. With him, there were no pretenses. Their work was collaborative, fluid, playful. She modeled. He sketched. She captured behind-the-scenes moments on her vintage film camera.

And in the spaces between, she lived.

Charity was never for show. Once a month, she’d visit a local youth center in Nice, offering workshops in photography and design. The children there never knew her as a model, only as “Miss Y/n,” the woman who brought them paint supplies and listened to their stories.

Her life wasn’t loud. But it was rich.

So when she opened her door that day—hair tousled, dressed in an oversized shirt that fell to her thighs, and blinking in mild confusion—it took her a moment to register who was standing there.

Lewis.

Real, in front of her, with that slightly sheepish grin and hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“You came back,” she said, surprised but not displeased.

“I did,” he replied, voice warm. “Was hoping you’d be home this time.”

She stepped aside without hesitation. “Come in.”

Her apartment was modest, but it breathed with personality. Light filtered softly through gauzy curtains, landing on books stacked along the windowsill and half-developed photographs pinned haphazardly to the wall above a vintage desk. The scent of lavender clung faintly in the air.

“Coffee? Tea? Biscuits?” she asked as she padded barefoot toward the kitchen.

“Coffee and biscuits sound perfect,” Lewis answered, easing onto the couch.

Minutes later, she returned with a wooden tray: two mugs, a tin of shortbread biscuits, and a bar of dark chocolate cracked into neat squares. She placed it on the coffee table and sat across from him, curling her legs beneath her.

“I’ll go change real quick,” she added. “Unless you’re into pajama interviews.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, you’re good. But go ahead. I’ll still be here.”

She disappeared into her room and returned soon after in denim shorts and a loose white shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Comfortable, understated, lovely.

“So,” she asked, settling in again, “what brings you here?”

“Wanted to see you,” Lewis answered honestly. “And I figured I better do it before either of us flies off again.”

(Y/n) smiled, and it reached her eyes.

Conversation flowed easily after that, pausing and resuming like tides. They spoke of places visited, moments missed, people encountered along the way. He told her about the intensity of race weekends. She told him about an off-the-grid eco retreat she’d modeled for in Spain, where phones were locked away for seventy-two hours.

He liked hearing her speak. She chose her words carefully, not for affectation, but because she thought before she spoke. He liked that about her.

As the sun crept higher, hunger began to stir.

“Want to grab lunch somewhere?” Lewis asked, half rising.

(Y/n) shook her head with a small grin. “No need. I’ll cook.”

“You sure?”

“Sit. Enjoy the view.”

He watched her work in the kitchen—chopping, stirring, seasoning. She moved with a kind of rhythm that made it look effortless. The kitchen was her studio now, her canvas. Soon, she plated the dishes with the same care she gave to styling photoshoots: pan-seared salmon with lemon butter, sautéed greens, and a bowl of herb-infused couscous.

As he took his first bite, he closed his eyes briefly in appreciation. “Damn,” he muttered. “That’s good.”

“Only ‘good’?” she teased.

“Okay, amazing. Might need to up your salt game next time, though,” he added with a grin.

She laughed and tossed a napkin at him. “Noted.”

After lunch, he insisted on helping with the dishes. Elbow to elbow, they worked through plates and cups, their hands occasionally brushing beneath the water. Neither acknowledged it, but both noticed.

That day turned into a quiet evening, and the next followed in much the same rhythm. He came by again, bringing flowers this time—lavender and peonies, her favorites, though he never asked. She raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Who told you?”

“Lucky guess,” he lied, knowing full well he’d caught a glimpse of dried petals in a jar on her windowsill last time.

By the third day, it felt like a pattern had been carved. A warm, strange pattern of closeness stitched between their vastly different worlds.

She folded laundry in the living room while he scrolled through his phone, lounging in the same spot on her couch as he had the past two afternoons. He looked at home there—barefoot, relaxed, a world away from the hyper-polished figure seen on television and billboards.

Then her phone rang.

Her eyes flicked toward the screen and lit up.

“Ciao!” she answered brightly.

Lewis looked up.

Italian. Her voice shifted into a melodic cadence, quick and lilting.

The man on the other end laughed, teased, congratulated. She beamed.

“Cinque giorni,” (“Five days,”) she repeated. “Non di più.” (“No more.”)

There was an ease in the way she spoke to him. Familiarity. Warmth. Maybe even history.

Lewis listened, catching fragments of the conversation—cinque giorni, non di più—but not enough to follow it fully. The rest slipped past him like music half-heard through a wall. Still, he could read everything in the tilt of her head, the warmth in her tone, the way her fingers twirled the edge of her shirt absentmindedly. He knew enough to feel it, and he didn’t know why that unsettled him.

When she hung up, she glanced at him.

“That was my friend,” she explained. “He’s taking me to Italy for a few days. Kind of a thank-you gift after our last campaign.”

“Campaign?” Lewis echoed.

She nodded. “We worked together last month. Brand launch. It did well.”

He smiled. Or at least, he tried to.

“That’s great,” he said. “You excited?”

She beamed, shrugging casually. “Of course. I love Italy. I leave tomorrow.”

He nodded again, eyes dropping briefly to his phone. “You deserve the break.”

Something in his voice made her look at him more closely, but she said nothing. She just smiled again and began folding the last of her shirts.

The next morning, she left. Early flight. Taxi waiting. Passport and film camera in her tote bag.

She didn’t text him goodbye. He didn’t expect her to.

Still, he stared at her empty building later that evening, wondering what kind of silence was left behind when someone took their light with them.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Time moved quickly when it was structured by race calendars. Lewis found himself pulled back into the vortex—media appearances, simulator sessions, press obligations, and strategy meetings. He boarded his flight out of Nice with a practiced ease, the private jet engine roaring to life beneath a sky streaked with gold.

Yet through it all, something sat quietly beneath his ribs—a curious, persistent ache.

He didn’t know what he and (Y/n) were, not exactly. It wasn’t a romance. Not yet. But it wasn’t casual either. It was the beginning of something that refused to be labeled. A quiet chemistry. A budding comfort.

And now she was in Italy. With a man.

Lewis wasn’t jealous, not in the possessive way he’d once been in his younger years. He respected her independence, admired it even. But still, it stirred something. An ache that whispered: you miss her.

And as the plane soared above the clouds, he wondered if she thought of him too.

He hoped, somewhere between the vineyards and sun-drenched cafes of Italy, she did.

Even just a little.

To be continued...❤️

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴀꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴇɴ🕶️

[alarwynnwhispers]

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴍᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ🛏️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴀʟ ɪᴅᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

ꜰʟɪʀᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ / ꜱʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ʜɪɴᴛꜱ

ʜɪɢʜ-ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ ꜰ1 ᴄᴀʀᴇᴇʀ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ

ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

Weeks had passed since the hill.

Since the edge. Since the ice cream. Since her.

Lando had returned to the whirring rhythm of his life, the hum of obligations buzzing back into his bones. There was no time to pause anymore, no space for quiet. The media circuits spun with endless interviews, post-season reviews, and reflective commentary dissecting every tenth of a second from the championship that had slipped through his fingers.

He smiled more now. It wasn’t always real, but it wasn’t a lie either. He was doing better. Breathing easier. Sleeping some nights without waking up at the memory of wind against his skin and the silence of that ledge.

Oscar remained close, the young champion busier than ever with press and appearances. Lando held no resentment; if anything, their camaraderie had only deepened. A quiet understanding pulsed beneath their banter, a recognition that the sport they loved could be both crown and cross.

So, when Zak Brown, with his ever-commanding tone and sharp eyes, told them they had a final obligation before the winter break, Lando didn’t complain. Not when he mentioned the name Cho.

"One of the best designers in Europe. She’s doing the suits for the charity gala next month. I want you both looking sharp. This is a high-stakes crowd. Old money, new media. We don’t cut corners with this one."

That was how he and Oscar ended up in the backseat of a sleek black town car, windows fogged slightly as they sped through city streets toward a studio tucked into a quiet cobbled lane. It was one of those buildings that seemed to hum with importance, its facade minimalist and glassy, etched with the gold-foiled name: Maison de Cho.

The driver pulled up to the curb and wordlessly opened their doors. Lando stepped out first, fingers tugging at the collar of his coat. Oscar followed, hands in his pockets, head swiveling with mild curiosity.

Inside, the studio was an elegant hush of cream and gold. Sunlight spilled through vaulted windows, catching on crystal pendants that hung like frozen stars. Mannequins stood poised in corners, draped in suits that whispered wealth and precision.

But what caught their attention wasn’t the polished floors or the fragrant air, faintly sweet like peonies and leather.

It was the music.

A grand piano stood in the corner of the marble-floored lobby, its black lacquer gleaming like a mirror. Seated on its cushioned bench was a woman, her fingers gliding across the ivory keys with effortless grace.

The melody drifted like something from a memory. A Thousand Years.

Her eyes were closed, head swaying gently, lips parted as if she could taste every note. She wasn’t just playing—she was feeling it, breathing life into every progression, every gentle crescendo. There was something achingly vulnerable about the way she played, as though the music was a confession only the piano could hold.

Lando froze.

He knew her. Even before she opened her eyes, he knew.

And when she did, when she lifted her head and those familiar eyes flickered toward them, the rest of the world seemed to drop away for a moment.

(Y/n) Hwang.

Her gaze met his and widened, not with shock but amusement. A smile curled on her lips, subtle but unmistakably teasing.

"Well, well. Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Norris," she said, voice soft with humor.

Oscar looked between them, brows raised. Lando said nothing at first, just blinking as if to make sure she was real.

Before he could speak, another voice sliced through the serene air.

"Gentlemen!" A woman swept into the room, her heels clicking like a metronome. She was dressed in all black, her hair pulled into a severe chignon, eyes sharp behind thick-framed glasses.

"Welcome to Maison de Cho. I am Madam Cho. You must be Lando and Oscar. It is an honor."

She smiled with practiced warmth, then turned to (Y/n), who had stood from the bench and now stood quietly beside it, hands clasped politely in front of her.

"(Y/n), darling, would you be so kind as to take our guests to the private fitting suite? And perhaps prepare a tray—something light, some tea, perhaps a few of those matcha things you make. I will gather the fitting essentials shortly."

"Of course, Madam Cho," she replied, bowing her head slightly.

She turned back to Lando and Oscar, giving them a playful wink. "Right this way, gentlemen."

Oscar nudged Lando with a smug grin. "Friend of yours?"

Lando didn’t answer. Not yet.

They followed her down a narrow corridor lined with sketches and framed fabric swatches. Everything smelled of cedarwood and jasmine, like memory and refinement woven into the walls.

The fitting room was less a room and more a private lounge. Velvet sofas in emerald green flanked a mirrored wall. Spotlights hovered like halos, adjustable but currently dimmed. A large rack stood to one side, draped in pristine garments waiting to be tailored.

(Y/n) moved with fluid precision, adjusting a tray table near the lounge. Within minutes, she returned bearing a lacquered wooden tray. On it were two porcelain cups, a glass teapot filled with golden-hued tea, a small plate of neatly arranged matcha mochi, and two glasses of water with lemon slices.

Oscar was already lounging on one side of the sofa, eyeing the sweets with intrigue.

Lando, however, stood awkwardly near the rack.

She placed the tray on the center table and glanced up at him.

"Still brooding, Norris? Or just shy now that we’re indoors?"

He laughed, quietly. His voice felt strange in his throat. "Didn’t expect to see you again."

“And yet here I am. The universe has a sense of humor.”

Oscar, already mid-bite, looked up between them. “Alright, someone catch me up. What exactly did I miss?"

(Y/n) sat delicately on the armrest of the sofa, crossing her legs with casual elegance.

"Your dear teammate almost mistook a cliff for a balcony view. I happened to be walking by."

Oscar blinked. "Wait. Seriously?"

Lando rubbed the back of his neck. "It was a rough day."

(Y/n) shrugged. "We had ice cream. It ended fine."

Madam Cho arrived moments later, arms filled with fabric rolls, measuring tape slung around her neck like a scarf. The mood shifted with her presence, businesslike but not unkind.

She began her work swiftly, directing them to stand, measure, shift, turn. She barked numbers in French to an assistant who appeared from another door with a tablet. Lando endured it with quiet patience. Oscar made faces every time a measurement was taken.

But Lando's eyes kept drifting.

To the corner where the piano stood.

To the woman who had unknowingly saved him, now humming softly under her breath as she noted down fabric preferences on a tablet. As if she hadn’t held his soul in her arms weeks ago.

When the measurements were done, and Madam Cho vanished behind a curtain to prepare swatches, (Y/n) returned with another pot of tea, this time infused with lavender.

Lando reached for a cup. Their fingers brushed.

She didn’t flinch. Just smiled.

"Nice suit, by the way," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t put it on yet."

She tilted her head, a glint in her eye. "Still suits you."

Oscar groaned dramatically. “God, I need Lily here. This is too much flirting for one fitting."

Lando laughed, a real one this time. Not forced. Not hollow.

As the appointment wound down, and their choices were finalized, Madam Cho returned with sketches and instructions. Business wrapped with precision, but the air lingered with something softer.

On their way out, just as the car pulled up again outside, Lando hesitated.

He turned to (Y/n), who stood beside the grand piano, fingers resting gently on the edge of the lid.

"Do you come with the suit?" he asked, voice low.

She smiled, half-teasing, half-tender.

"No," she replied.

Then added, more gently, "But I’ll be at the gala. Maybe you’ll save me a dance."

Lando nodded slowly, lips parting in a soft breath.

"I will."

Outside, the wind brushed his face. But this time, it didn’t sting.

The hill felt far away. And for the first time, the road ahead didn’t look so lonely.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴋ🛏️

[alarwynnwhispers]

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1: ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇʟᴅ ʜɪᴍ🛏️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴀʟ ɪᴅᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴄʟɪꜰꜰ / ɴᴇᴀʀ-ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ɪᴍᴀɢᴇʀʏ

ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ

ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ / ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ꜱᴀᴠɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

The sky was a dusky canvas of grey-blue, bleeding faint streaks of orange as the sun began its slow descent behind the hills. There was a brittle kind of quiet in the air, the sort that hums inside your ears when your thoughts are too loud to ignore. Wind brushed through the tall grass in shivering waves, the hill sloping down into an expanse of wilderness that looked endless. Lando Norris stood on the edge of it all, his shoes resting dangerously close to the crumbling cliff, the breeze nudging against him like a taunt.

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there. Time had dissolved the moment he parked his car and wandered up the dirt path, led by instinct more than purpose. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, knuckles white from how tightly he clenched his fists. The air stung his eyes, or maybe that was just the lingering burn of tears he refused to let fall.

The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix had come and gone, leaving behind champagne-soaked celebrations, applause, and glittering lights. And yet, Lando could still feel the weight of the moment he knew the championship had slipped from his grasp. One race. One shot. It had been within reach—so close he could practically taste it. But fate, or misfortune, or perhaps just sheer bad luck, had other plans.

Oscar had won.

Oscar Piastri, his teammate, the rookie. The prodigy. The golden boy.

Lando was happy for him. He truly was. But happiness was not a cure for the slow suffocation of disappointment. He had given everything. Years of sacrifice, relentless discipline, pushing past the limits of body and mind. And still, it wasn't enough.

He had smiled for the cameras, clapped for Oscar, lifted his glass in toast. But inside, something had cracked. Something deep. And when the celebration ended, and the world moved on, Lando didn’t.

So here he was.

At the edge of everything.

He inched closer, heels half-dangling now. A sick sense of peace began to blanket his nerves. The stillness below looked inviting. Quiet. Final. His chest rose in a sharp inhale, his body leaning ever so slightly forward—

And then, a hand.

Strong fingers gripped his wrist. Another arm looped around his shoulders and yanked him back with startling force.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?”

Lando stumbled, breath catching in his throat, as he was pulled backwards onto stable ground. He blinked, eyes adjusting, disoriented by the sudden disruption.

A woman stood before him, her brows drawn in tight fury. Her grip on his arm didn’t loosen.

“Were you seriously about to jump? Are you completely out of your mind?”

He stared at her, too stunned to speak.

“Goshhh, do you even realize how close you were? A few more centimeters and—” She trailed off, shaking her head, eyes glistening with frustration and something else. Fear.

He managed a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, I just—”

“Just what? Thought you'd lean over for a better view?” she snapped. “Jes-. You're Lando Norris, right? The Formula One driver?”

His throat tightened. He nodded.

She exhaled sharply, clearly exasperated. “You didn’t win the championship, so what? You're going to throw your entire life away because of one bad season?”

Lando flinched at the words.

“You came second, right? Or third? Do you know how many people would give their entire existence to even race in F1, let alone stand on that podium? Maybe it wasn't your year. Maybe next year is. You don't quit just because the timing isn’t on your side.”

She didn’t stop.

“You endured so much this season. You smiled through the pressure, through the cameras, through the media constantly comparing you to everyone else. You were brave enough to celebrate your teammate when your heart was breaking. That’s not weakness. That’s courage.”

Her voice softened, just a touch. “You matter, Lando. You’re more than just a championship.”

His chest heaved, and without warning, it all came undone.

He broke.

Tears spilled over, unbidden. First a few, then a storm. He cried with a rawness that startled even him, loud and ugly sobs that echoed into the hollow sky. The ache in his chest exploded into something uncontainable.

And still, she held him.

She dropped to the ground with him as his knees buckled, his head burying into her shoulder. Her arms wrapped around him, solid and warm, a stranger's embrace offering the comfort he hadn't known he needed.

She whispered into his ear, a soft stream of words meant only for him.

“You’re not weak. You’re human.”

“You’re strong, even when it hurts.”

“You did good. So good.”

They sat there for what felt like hours, cradled by the earth and silence, the stars beginning to emerge in quiet twinkles above.

Eventually, he spoke, voice trembling. “Who are you?”

She leaned back slightly, giving him a small, tired smile. “( Y/n ) Hwang. I live not too far from here.”

“Why were you up here?” he asked, wiping at his face.

She chuckled softly, gesturing toward the grass. “I needed space to think. I work for a fashion house in the city, the lead designer told me to disappear for a while until I ‘get my creative brain back.’ I guess this hill felt like the right place to vanish for a bit.”

He laughed quietly, the sound still raw. “You always save people when you vanish?”

“Only the stubborn ones,” she teased.

They sat in silence again before she stood, brushing off her jeans. “Come on. There’s a bench nearby. You look like you need to sit somewhere that isn’t this dramatic.”

He let her guide him. A short walk led to a weathered wooden bench tucked beneath a small willow tree. It creaked as they sat, but the view was beautiful, overlooking the sleepy lights of the town below.

“Wait here,” she said suddenly, trotting off toward a small hatchback parked under the trees.

Lando watched her disappear, puzzled.

Minutes later she returned, triumphantly holding a tub of ice cream and a plastic bag filled with spoons.

“You keep that in your car?” he asked, a brow raised.

“Emergency therapy snack,” she said. “I came prepared.”

They passed the tub between them, trading spoonfuls, melting ice cream becoming a balm. Conversation flowed, tentatively at first, then deeper. They talked about racing, about design, about dreams and disappointments. The night air was cool, but not cold, their breath fogging faintly with every laugh and sigh.

At some point, her watch buzzed. A soft chime, not intrusive.

She looked down, smiled.

“That’s my cue. Time to go back to real life.”

Lando frowned. “You’re leaving?”

“We both should,” she said gently. “And you, especially, should go home. Rest. Don’t ever come back to that edge like that again.”

He nodded slowly. “I won’t. Not now.”

She stood, brushing her hands together, the empty tub discarded into a nearby bin. As she turned to leave, she glanced over her shoulder.

“It was nice meeting you, Lando Norris. Try not to break anymore hearts, including your own.”

He watched her walk back to her car, engine purring to life, taillights glowing like little red stars as she disappeared into the night.

And for the first time in a long while, Lando sat alone—not in despair, but in a quiet sort of gratitude.

The hill hadn’t taken him.

It had given him something instead.

Someone.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴍᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ🛏️