summary: after being dumped for “being bad luck”, you don’t expect that drowning your sorrows will lead to getting married with a fellow heartbroken soul
a/n: Surprise! I am still working on my Vegas fics! It’s just…there’s only so many ways you can get accidentally married in Vegas and I’d like to make them all unique
a/n2: this is set in the 2024/2025 seasons
Masterlist
yn
liked by lando, carmenmmundt, oscarpiastri, and 2,111,445 others
tagged: lando
yn: 4 years with the best man I know 🧡🧡 here's to many many more, my love 😘
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user1: I love them so much
↳user2: couple goals for real
↳user1: exactly!
oscarpiastri: congratulations on four years!
↳yn: thanks osc!!
user3: I love how lowkey they are?
↳user4: seriously the best thing a famous couple could be is quietly in love
↳user5: yes!
↳user3: *side eyes certain couples* I completely agree
lando: 🧡🧡
↳yn: 💋💋
user6: …ok is it just me or was that very…underwhelming?
↳user7: no seriously??? She posted so many nice pictures and wrote poetry about him today and the most he's commented is 2 hearts???
user8: all men do is disappoint, honestly
user9: has anyone else seen ln4fans post?
↳user10: …how dare they??? yn has been by lando's side for YEARS…
ln4fan
liked by user, user, user, and 728,183 others
ln4fan: save my man! This is not his season and I do believe it's all yn's fault! He's had 3 dnfs and a dns in the last 6 races and it's only been the races that yn's been at. He really needs to dump the bad weight
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user11: wow
user12: I couldn't agree more!
user13: every single word you just said was wrong actually
user14: I've never seen anyone be so extremely wrong in my life really
user15: finally someone else is saying this!! I've BEEN saying it for years oh my god
↳user16: I don't know why you're celebrating? Lando and yn have been in love since before he started f1? Like he talks about their unspoken thing all the time
↳user17: be for real she's totally not fit to be a wag — she's never at the races, she's done nothing to support his brand…
↳user16: she has her own life? She doesn't need to revolve her life around his
↳user15: but a little more support to him wouldn't be too much to ask?
user18: I'm still stuck on the fact that Lando has had so much bad luck lately
↳user19: I went back to see which races she's been at and what lando finished and it's not great
↳user18: what really?
↳user19: he's never scored higher than 7th when yn is at a race — and that was only a single race, more commonly it was 9th or lower
↳not_lando: what?
↳user18: that's so crazy!
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,823,813 others
f1gossip: Trouble in paradise? Fans spotted Lando Norris and long term girlfriend yn ln fighting after his disastrous qualifying today. Is this just a bump in the road or are certain rumors (that state that yn is Lando's bad luck charm) true?
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user20: Lando if you make my girl yn cry, I'm gonna make you fight
user21: dump her dump her dump her
↳user22: oh my god get a life
user23: I've been a Lando fan for pretty much his entire career and have watched them grow up together…I've never seen them act like that
↳user24: no my heart is literally breaking for them
user25: are we children of divorce right now?
↳user26: I think we might be
↳user25: 😭😭
user27: I need more information right now actually…
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,922,111 others
f1gossip: Something must be in that Vegas air — mere hours after Lando and yn were spotted arguing, Alexandra Saint Mleux (Charles Leclerc's girlfriend) was seen storming through the Harry Reid International Airport. Is this the end of another one of the paddock's iconic relationship?
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user28: I don't know what's happening in Vegas but if it touches either of the lily's I'm hopping on a flight and fist fighting them myself
↳user29: mood
user30: ok but we don't actually know if yn and lando are broken up!
↳user31: dude…they're totally broken up
↳user30: we don't know that yet! Let me have hope
user32: good! I never liked her
↳user33: just say you're jealous and get over yourself
user34: petition to ban Vegas forever? I can't take this anymore
↳user35: SIGNING RIGHT NOW
Private Messages: The Leclerc’s
Instagram Stories
user36 responded noooooo this is the worst timeline
oscarpiastri responded did you guys really break up?
user37 responded what do you mean you broke up???
user38 responded FINALLY YOU DROPPED HER
alex_albon responded lily is yelling at me right now what do you mean you guys broke up?
user39 responded this is gonna be good for you
user40 responded girl I'm so sorry
lilymhe responded what happened?? The one race I actually miss
user41 responded omg he actually did it
carmenmmundt responded call me hun
user42 responded was it mutual??
Private Messages: Charles and yn
lasvegasgossip
liked by user, user, user, and 17,222,125 others
lasvegasgossip: word on the street is that a famous but heartbroken athlete got hitched last night…who could it be?
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user50: oh my god who's in Vegas this weekend?
↳user51: the raiders and the browns are in town
↳user52: so are the knights and the kraken
↳user53: and so is f1…
user54: so many teams in the city this weekend and yet it could be any athlete that's not playing too
↳user55: I'm more focused on the heartbroken part like who's recently been heartbroken??
↳user56: I mean Lando Norris and yn ln just broke up?
↳user57: there's like 5 recent breakups with the hockey teams it could be
↳user58: there's no one in the football teams that could be described as heartbroken?
↳user59: there was something weird happening with Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux?
↳user60: so it could literally be anyone?
user61: I'm placing money on lando
↳user62: he does seem like someone who would get spontaneously drunk married
↳user63: drunk?
↳user62: all marriages in Vegas are drunk
f1fan
liked by user, user, user, and 2,822,193 others
f1fan: in a shocking turn of events, Lando Norris finishes the 2024 season with a DNF, DNS, DSQ, and a rare DNQ respectively — what a massive disappointment this must be for the British driver that was the favorite underdog of the season
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user64: HA this is totally because he dumped his biggest support system like a loser
↳user65: harsh but I agree
user66: who do I need to fight?? Like what the hell was that
↳user67: that was KARMA and JUSTICE for yn!!
↳user68: JUSTICE FOR YN
user69: I just…what the fuck happened? He was literally catching up to max and then all that shit happened??
↳user70: she probably cursed him or something honestly
↳user71: seriously! Like did you see how she confirmed the breakup? He was all respectful and she…wasn't
↳user70: I still cringe when I think about it
user72: the whiplash I get between this post and charles'… good lord 😂
↳user73: Charles took all of his bad luck and dumped it on Lando!
↳user72: for real!
charles_leclerc
liked by maxverstappen1, scuderiaferrari, oscarpiastri, and 2,778,445 others
charles_leclerc: what an amazing end to the season — thank you to Ferrari and to my good luck charm. now it's time to rest and recharge for next year
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user74: hell yeah!
↳user75: you totally rocked it!
maxverstappen1: Congratulations Charles liked by charles_leclerc
↳user76: they still don't follow each other btw
user77: fricking amazing to watch this!
oscarpiastri: congrats!!
user78: good luck charm??? Who??
↳user79: it's not Alex is it?
↳user78: highly unlikely - it seems like they've broken up. they haven't been seen together since Vegas and while Alex has privated her instagram, the number of posts have gone way down
user80: calling it now! Charles is the one who got married in Vegas
↳user81: iconic if true!
user82: 4 wins right in a row? Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen
Private Messages: Charles and yn
charles_priv
liked by notyn, madmax, op81, and 2,945 others
tagged: notyn
charles_priv: spending the winter break with my wife ♥️♥️
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notyn: the best winter break I've ever had
↳charles_priv: same chérie
madmax: when did you get married???
↳charles_priv: when I got drunk in Vegas
↳notyn: not gonna lie I don't remember anything about that night…
↳charles_priv: me either
↳madmax: hilarious but congrats
pierre: you've been married for months now and are just telling us???
↳charles_priv: …oops?
↳notyn: that's on Charles!
↳charles_priv: chérie!
↳pierre: oh you're perfect for one another
op81: awkward but congratulations
↳charles_priv: we would appreciate it if this news doesn't reach Lando
↳op81: yeah that's not going to be a problem, I don't even know who you people are
op81: but fyi he's hard key moping
↳notyn: he made his bed
arthur: it was great to get to know you! Might have to take your side if you get a divorce
↳charles_priv: Arthur!
↳arthur: only one of you 2 made me fresh baked cookies and it wasn't you
↳notyn: you're welcome arthur 💙
↳op81: wait cookies are in the table?
↳charles_priv: only for Leclerc's!
↳op81: you adopted me so I count! liked by notyn
↳notyn: he's got a point babe
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,182,283 others
f1gossip: romance in the air? Charles Leclerc has been spotted with a new girlfriend in recent weeks — who might this mystery woman be?
view all comments
user83: don't worry guys it's just me
user84: who is she????
user85: that's so fast?
↳user86: really?
↳user85: it's only been a couple of months
↳user86: a lifetime for him honestly
↳user87: ummm rude??
↳user88: but fair I feel
user89: twitter detectives! Who is she?
↳user90: no idea yet! It's still too new
↳user89: but I need to know??
user91: I don't really care who she is because HE looks so happy with her
↳user92: he does! And I'm so happy for him
Private Messages: Charles and yn
charles_leclerc
liked by yn, pierregasly, maxverstappen1, and 2,111,203 others
tagged: yn
charles_leclerc: that mystery woman happens to be my wife, thank you
view all comments
user93: holy shit PLOT TWIST
↳user94: I honestly did NOT see this coming
↳user93: it definitely wasn't on my bingo card for the year
maxverstappen1: Congratulations again you guys
↳yn: thanks max!
user95: I'm loving this so much?? Like Lando really dumped her for being bad luck and then Charles is literally dominating this season liked by yn
↳user96: It's even better! He calls her his lucky charm
↳user95: I can see why!
landonorris: what the hell is this?!?
comment has been deleted by the author
yn: love you too babe! liked by charles_leclerc
user97: did you guys seriously get married in Vegas?
↳yn: we did!
↳user97: …and you're gonna stay married despite it starting in Vegas?
↳yn: well something good had to come from our broken hearts liked by charles_leclerc
↳charles_leclerc: despite the beginning, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me liked by yn
f1
liked by user, yn, user, and 2,991,988 others
tagged: charles_leclerc
f1: This weekend decides it all! Should Charles Leclerc score a single point this weekend, he becomes the 2025 World Drivers Champion — will this be the year the Monégasque driver takes home the championship? Or will Max Verstappen become a 5x champion?
view all comments
user98: Charles! Charles! Charles
↳user99: Leclerc! Leclerc! Leclerc!
user100: we're all rooting for you Charles!
yn: it'll be my husband for sure
↳user101: alright there Mrs Leclerc, flexing on us
↳yn: 😂😂
user102: I'm so sat right now
↳user103: BIG SAME
↳user104: it's gonna happen for sure!
charles_leclerc
liked by yn, arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and 3,102,291 others
tagged: yn
charles_leclerc: I got to marry my lucky charm all over again
comments have been disabled
Taglist
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Summary: While you're left standing in the rain waiting for Max to pick you up, his ex posts a story from his passenger seat.
5.2k words / Part 2 / Masterlist
You’re soaked.
There’s a coldness in your bones that isn’t just from the rain or the way your shoes squelch with every step. It's not the kind of damp that can be shrugged off with a towel or warmed away with a dry change of clothes. No this is the kind of wet that seeps through every layer, clinging to your skin and settling in your bones like a curse. It’s something deeper. It’s betrayal laced with humiliation and it’s sticking to your skin more stubbornly than the water running down your cheeks.
You blink hard trying to clear your vision, not just from the relentless downpour, but from the disbelief clouding your thoughts as you look down at your phone again. Just once more. Just to make absolutely sure this isn’t some cruel misunderstanding, some glitch in the matrix of your relationship.
But no. There it is.
Her Instagram story.
Max.
Her voice lilting in the background, unmistakable even after all this time, sweet and soft.
His car.
The soft interior glow, the distinct hum of the engine, the carbon fibre dash that he used to let you rest your feet on even though he always said he hated it when people did that. The same grip on the steering wheel, the same slow pull into gear.
It’s the same seat you were supposed to be sitting in.
The same car he promised he’d pick you up in tonight.
The same plan you both agreed on.
The timestamp mocks you, posted ten minutes ago.
Your pickup time was fifteen minutes ago.
And now it’s been five minutes since that.
You’re standing in the rain, alone, watching the story that confirmed what you never wanted to believe. You should’ve known. God, you did know. Some small part of you always knew this was a possibility. You just never thought he’d actually choose her again, not after everything. Not after you.
She’s always been there, lingering at the frayed edges of your relationship like an echo you couldn’t shake. The ex who ended things on her terms, who left him the second things got real only to float back into his orbit whenever the timing suited her. The one whose name you never liked saying aloud because of the way it made something in Max shift. Not in a way he ever acknowledged outright, but in subtle, telling ways you couldn’t unsee. The way he gripped your hand tighter when someone mentioned her in passing. The way he looked at you after those conversations, with guilt swimming just beneath the surface, always followed by a whispered “I love you. Only you.”
You didn’t even mean to see it. You weren’t looking. You’d been waiting. Trusting. Standing beneath a flickering streetlight, phone in hand, counting raindrops and minutes, hoping.
It was your best friend who sent it, who shattered the illusion with a simple ping, a link to the story, followed by a rapid-fire string of messages that bled across your rain-slicked screen.
“Are you okay?”
“Y/N he’s literally driving her. She tagged him.”
“Please call me.”
“Did he tell you??”
You never made it into his car.
Max arrives and he doesn’t see you.
The car slows to a crawl as he pulls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the downpour like a desperate searchlight. The windshield wipers swipe frantically back and forth, barely keeping up with the torrent hammering the glass. The world outside is a blur of water and streetlights, distorted silhouettes and shimmering reflections on wet pavement. He squints through it all, eyes scanning every shadow, every figure under every awning looking for you.
He shouts your name, his voice barely audible over the dull roar of rain pelting the roof.
He glances at the time glowing on the dash.
Over fifteen minutes late.
He winces.
He knows how much you hate waiting. It’s one of the first things you ever told him about yourself, that you’d rather leave than be left waiting. And you especially hate waiting in the rain
Now here he is.
Late.
He taps the unlock button on his car, the familiar soft click echoing through the cabin as the passenger door opens. He half expects to see you jogging up from wherever you might’ve taken cover, hood pulled up, expression annoyed but forgivable.
But the sidewalk stays empty.
No umbrella.
No footsteps.
No bag slung over your shoulder.
No you.
A flicker of unease coils in his gut. It starts small, like a drip in a bucket, but it doesn’t take long to flood into something heavier. He cranes his neck, looks around again. Maybe he just missed you. Maybe you’re still coming.
He grabs his phone.
Calls you.
It rings once. Then again.
Then the call cuts to voicemail and a recorded voice answers instead of you. He stares at the screen, thumb hovering, not sure if he should redial or just wait.
That’s when it happens, he sees the notification across the top of his screen.
Instagram.
His ex tagged him in a story.
His blood runs cold.
His thumb moves before his brain can even catch up. He taps the alert. The app opens. The story loads.
And there it is.
Her voice.
Her laugh.
His car.
This car.
The very same seat beside him that you were supposed to be in, now caught in a three-second video that feels like a goddamn gunshot now that he knows you must’ve seen it. The angle is unmistakable. Her giggle is unmistakable. The timestamp damning.
“Fuck,” Max breathes, the word torn from his throat as if punched out of him.
He clicks the story again, watches it a second time, as if maybe it’ll change. As if maybe this is some kind of mix-up. But it doesn’t change. And it isn’t.
You saw this.
You had to have seen this.
And now you’re not here.
He swears again, louder this time, slamming his palm once against the steering wheel. He doesn’t care about the sting. Doesn’t care that he’s still parked with his hazard lights blinking in the middle of the street.
“No. No, no, no—fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his rain-dampened hair, the adrenaline surging now, panic blooming in his chest like wildfire.
He dials again.
And again.
Still nothing.
Straight to voicemail.
His heart is pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else. The rain, the storm, the voice in his head screaming at him that he fucked up.
And the worst part?
He knows exactly why you’re gone.
And exactly what it looks like.
Because it is exactly what it looks like.
You’re still walking.
No umbrella.
No direction.
Just away.
From him. From the place he was supposed to be. From the people whose eyes are probably on their screens right now asking themselves if you knew. If you expected it. If you’re the fool.
Your legs are moving but your mind is frozen. You can’t stop picturing her in the passenger seat. The seat you’ve sat in countless times, laughing, teasing him, letting him kiss the back of your hand at red lights. You picture her leaning in. Laughing at something he said.
You can see it so clearly it makes you sick.
Her sliding in like it meant nothing. Him not stopping her.
That’s what kills you.
Because it wasn’t an accident.
He had to slow the car.
Had to pull over.
Had to let her open the door.
Had to know what it would look like.
Had to know you were waiting.
And still, he made a choice.
Back in the car Max is unraveling.
He’s not thinking clearly anymore. His grip on the wheel is too tight. His jaw clenched. His thoughts spiral faster than the tyres beneath him.
He doesn’t know where to go.
So he just keeps moving.
He loops the same few blocks again and again, slowing near every café, every covered bus stop, every alley that might give him even a glimpse of you. He checks his mirrors like you might suddenly appear behind him. He pulls over recklessly scanning faces through fogged glass.
His phone buzzes in his hand, slippery with the sweat of panic. He’s called you five times now maybe six. Every time it ends the same way.
Voicemail.
He sends messages instead.
Where are you?
Please Y/N.
It’s not what it looked like.
But even as he types the words, they look pathetic. They look like what they are, hollow.
Because he doesn’t know what to say.
How do you explain something that should never have happened at all?
He hadn’t planned to see her, it was by chance, truly. He’d run into her when the rain started coming down hard. She said she was stranded and would get soaked. She smiled like she still knew how to get what she wanted. Said she just needed a quick lift.
He told himself it was fine, it would be a couple of minutes, that it didn’t mean anything, that you’d never know, that you didn’t need to know.
And that... that was the mistake.
Because he was thinking about timing. About rationalising. Not about you.
He thought he could drop her off and still pick you up like nothing happened.
He thought it would be fine.
He thought it wouldn't matter.
He thought wrong.
You don’t go home yet.
You don’t answer his calls. You don’t open his messages. You don’t even let yourself cry.
Not yet.
Because crying would mean acknowledging that it’s real. That it happened. That the version of him you’ve held onto in your heart, flawed but yours, just unraveled in front of the whole world.
Instead you keep walking until your limbs are too tired to carry you any further and your shoes feel like lead. The rain hasn’t let up, but you finally duck into a dim empty corner of a late-night café. It’s quiet, nearly closing, warm in the way fluorescent lights can be, not comforting exactly, but bearable.
You slide into a booth in the back away from the windows, away from the door. The smell of burnt coffee and old pastries drifts through the air, grounding you just enough. You pull your soaked sleeves over your hands and clench your fists inside them, pretending the tremble in your body is from the cold. Pretending that’s all it is.
Your phone buzzes again.
The vibration against the table is sharp. Insistent. Like it knows it’s already too late.
You don’t want to look.
But you do.
Of course you do.
I’m so sorry. Please talk to me.
She asked for a ride and I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I love you.
Three more messages. Short. Desperate.
Each one a blow softened by the kind of words you used to ache to hear.
Now they feel meaningless.
Weightless.
Too late.
You stare at the screen, unmoving, your reflection faint in the black of the glass. You don’t react. Don’t type. Don’t scream. Just let the words sit there like ashes, hot and bitter in your chest.
Then the screen dims and you turn the phone off, because none of it, none of it, changes the truth.
It doesn’t change the fact that he left you standing in the rain, waiting, heart open, believing in him.
He let her in.
Even if it was only for fifteen minutes.
Even if it was just a ride.
Even if it meant nothing to him.
Because to you?
It meant everything.
Sometimes it only takes minutes to destroy something you spent years building.
And now?
Now there’s nothing left to say.
Max is still searching when the rain finally begins to ease, tapering into a quiet drizzle that does nothing to calm the storm inside him.
He’s been driving for over an hour now, aimlessly circling through streets that feel both too familiar and suddenly foreign without you in them. He’s tried all your favourite places, places you go when you need to think, when you need space, when you need him to find you. But you’re not there.
He’s called your friends, most of them didn’t answer. The ones who did gave him the kind of silence that says you fucked up, followed by clipped responses and quick hang-ups.
He’s left voicemails he already knows he’ll hate himself for when he hears them again, his voice cracking, rambling, repeating please like it’s the only word that matters. Like it might somehow undo everything.
His throat is raw, not just from the cold or the shouting over traffic, but from apologising to no one, just the air, the rain, the quiet passenger seat that reminds him over and over again of what’s missing.
His chest aches in a way he can’t quite name. It’s not the sharp, fleeting pain of anger or the clean cut of guilt. It’s something deeper. A hollow, echoing kind of grief for something he hasn’t lost entirely, but knows he’s pushed to the edge of slipping through his fingers.
He let someone in, the someone you’ve always worried about, the one you never asked him to choose between, but silently hoped he already had.
He knows he made a mistake.
He’s not delusional. He’s not trying to spin it into something it wasn’t.
He just doesn’t know if this is the kind of mistake you can come back from.
When you finally get home hours later, dry but numb, you stop at the edge of your street and freeze.
There, parked just beyond the curb, is a car you know like the back of your hand.
His car.
You pause. You should've expected it really.
For a moment all you can do is stare. Like if you blink long enough it might vanish. Like maybe it’s just a cruel trick of the night and your exhaustion.
But then the driver’s side door opens.
Max steps out as if propelled by instinct, like he’s been holding his breath waiting to see you for hours. His movements are stiff, tired, soaked in something close to panic. His clothes are rumpled, his hair damp, and his face… his face is drawn tight with guilt and hope and the kind of desperation that makes you want to look away.
His eyes find yours instantly. Wide. Searching. Haunted.
“Y/N,” he breathes your name like it’s salvation and punishment all at once. He takes a cautious step toward you as if any sudden movement might make you disappear. “Please—just let me explain—”
You hold up a hand. To your own surprise your voice doesn’t shake when you speak
“You don’t need to explain Max. I saw everything.”
His face crumples. His shoulders drop. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again like he doesn’t know where to start.
“It wasn’t what it looked like,” he says quickly, stepping forward. “She asked for help. She looked stranded, it was pouring—I couldn’t say no—I—”
“But you did say no! You said no to me. You left me there.”
Your words slice through his excuses like a blade.
That shuts him up.
You watch the realisation settle into his expression, slow and suffocating. The words hang there between you, suspended in the silence, heavier than rain. You let them linger. Let him feel it. Let him sit in the same quiet that wrapped around you when every notification buzzed against your palm, when your phone screen lit up with pity and betrayal, when you stood on that sidewalk like the punchline to a joke everyone else was in on.
“That’s what’s killing me. You knew where I was. You knew exactly where I’d be standing outside at what time, in the dark, in the rain, waiting for you.”
“I didn’t think—” he starts, almost reflexively, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.
“No. Don’t do that. Don’t say you didn’t think. Because that’s exactly the problem Max. You didn’t think. You didn’t think about me. You didn’t think about how it would feel for me to stand there cold and alone, checking my phone and telling myself you were just stuck in traffic or your car broke down or literally anything other than the reality I had to see with my own eyes on a fucking Instagram story."
“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he says quickly, stepping forward, hands slightly raised, like that might somehow soften the blow. “She didn’t have anyone, I thought it would be five minutes, I didn’t—”
“You didn’t want to say no to her, but you said no to me without even realising it,” you cut in again, this time quieter, but it hits harder.
He winces. “I know. I know I fucked up. I didn’t think it through, I swear, it was just—”
“It was just a ride, right?” you say bitterly, the words tasting like rust. “Just a few minutes. Just her looking helpless and you caved. You didn’t even think about me. You didn’t even consider that I might find out not because it mattered to you, but because you thought I wouldn’t have to.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you—I would never—”
“But you did Max,” you snap, and now your voice finally rises, not with rage, but with raw, exhausted grief.
His mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something else, but there’s nothing he can offer that you haven’t already crushed beneath the truth.
“Fifteen minutes,” you whisper. Your voice is thinner now, but it doesn’t waver. “That’s all it took. For her to be in your passenger seat. For the entire world to see it before I even knew.”
He moves closer, desperate. “You don’t understand—”
“No, Max,” you cut in, sharper now. “I do understand. You didn’t think it mattered. You didn’t think I’d find out. You were just going to show up late unlock the door like nothing happened, kiss me on the cheek and pretend it was all fine. Like she hadn’t just been in your car. Like I wasn’t standing in the rain waiting.”
Your voice cracks then, a single crack that betrays how deeply it hurts. How close you are to breaking entirely. You wrap your arms around yourself not to keep warm, but to hold yourself together.
“Do you want to know what I thought Max? When I saw that video?”
He opens his mouth, but you don’t give him the chance to answer.
“I thought, of course. Of course she gets to climb back into your life like she never left. Of course you said yes when she asked. Because she’s always had a hold on you. One I could never quite erase no matter how much I loved you.”
“That’s not true,” he says, but the words are brittle.
You shake your head, blinking fast. “She’s the one you chased. I was the one who stayed. I was the one who showed up. And still... you picked her. Even if it was just for fifteen minutes.”
His eyes fill, red-rimmed and glassy, and he takes another step forward like he might close the distance between you with his regret alone. He reaches for you, hand trembling slightly.
You take a step back.
It’s gentle. But it’s a wall.
“I need space,” you say. “I need to not see you right now. Because I don’t know if I can look at you without seeing her. Without wondering if fifteen minutes was all it took to make you forget everything we had.”
Max doesn’t follow. He nods, slowly, eyes shining with regret.
As you turn and walk toward your door this time it’s him left standing in the rain, watching you disappear into the night, too afraid to follow. Too late to fix it. Too broken to speak.
Wondering if he’s truly lost the one person he can’t live without.
The rain hasn’t let up.
It’s thinner now, less furious, but it keeps falling almost like it knows he doesn’t deserve clarity yet.
Max sits alone in his car watching the droplets slide down the windshield, tracing the same pattern over and over again like a punishment. It’s been hours since you walked away. Hours since he saw your face, your eyes wet and brimming with disbelief, your expression cracked open by pain you didn’t deserve. And still, he hasn’t left.
Because where would he go?
What could possibly matter more than waiting for the impossible chance that you might come back outside?
You didn’t force him to draw lines. You never issued ultimatums. You didn’t weaponise your love. You just trusted him.
Still, somehow he’d made the wrong decision.
He didn’t mean to hurt you.
God, he didn’t mean it.
That’s the thing about pain though, intentions don’t matter when the damage is done.
He leans his head back, resting it against the headrest with a dull thud. His eyes close, but there’s no peace. Just the roar of rain, the weight of silence, and the past clawing its way back in through every fractured piece of him that he thought was sealed shut.
Her.
His ex.
Her voice used to be intoxicating, alluring, manipulative, dangerous in ways that took him years to fully understand. Laughing in his ear one second, then gone the next, radio silent for days, just long enough to make him panic. Then she’d come back like nothing happened, smile sweetly, make it seem like he was the one who made her run. When she came back it was always on her terms and with just enough sweetness to keep him hooked, just enough vulnerability to keep him wondering if maybe, maybe this time would be different.
She made him chase.
Always.
He remembers one night in Monaco, a party, an argument, her storming out after accusing him of flirting with someone he’d barely spoken to. He remembers running after her, practically begging her to talk to him while she lit a cigarette on the curb not even looking at him.
She loved the power.
He remembers being twenty-two and stupidly in love with someone who needed him to feel small so she could feel big. In love with a version of her that didn’t actually exist, an idea, not a person. Someone who could only love him if he bled for it.
She never told him what she wanted. She just made him guess. And every time he got it wrong, and even when he didn’t, she’d punish him.
Emotionally.
Silently.
With withdrawal.
With just enough affection to keep him on the hook.
And when she finally broke it off for good he felt relief so strong it made him dizzy.
But even then… he didn’t see it for what it was. Not really.
Not until he met you.
You, who texted back without delay.
You, who laughed with your whole chest and never made him earn your approval like a prize.
You, who spoke to him like he was human, flawed, emotional, not perfect, but worth loving wholeheartedly anyway.
You didn’t make him guess. You didn’t turn every disagreement into a battlefield. You didn’t leave him wondering if he was too much or not enough.
He didn’t have to earn your attention. He didn’t have to guess how you felt every time he looked at you. You didn’t keep score. You were soft and honest and that terrified him at first.
Because when you’re used to love that feels like punishment, kindness feels like a trap. Stability feels like a trick. And for a while he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it never did.
You were gentle with him, even when he didn’t deserve it.
He remembers one night after a brutal race pressures too high, tempers flaring. He came home angry, silent, pacing like a storm and instead of pushing or asking too much or pulling away, you simply touched his face. Softly. Thumb tracing his jaw.
“I know,” you whispered. “I know you’re trying.”
That undid him. No one had ever said that before. Not like that. Not with grace instead of judgment.
You cracked something open in him.
You made him want to be better.
Now he’s sitting in the very car that used to take you everywhere, on late-night drives, to secret hideouts, to beach parking lots where he kissed you with sand still clinging to your ankles and all he can think is:
He ruined it.
Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes was all it took to let the wrong person slip back into his world.
She’d called his name in the parking lot like no time had passed, half-laughing, soaked from the rain but still composed, still playing at vulnerability like it was some kind of charm looking exactly the same as the last time he saw her. Polished. Icy. Familiar.
“Max,” she called out, flashing that same curated smile he’d once mistaken for softness. “Just one ride. It’s pissing rain and I can’t get a driver.”
He hesitated. He really did.
But she was already pulling open the door, acting like it was obvious he’d say yes, like she knew he’d let her in... and he did
That’s what pisses him off now, not the fact that she asked, but the part of himself that still responded like a reflex. Like muscle memory. Like the version of him she used to own hadn’t fully died.
The part of him that still caved to her chaos for fifteen fucking minutes while you were waiting for him in the rain.
He didn’t want her in the car.
He didn’t enjoy it.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t talk.
He just drove. Silent. Detached. Numb.
Still he didn’t stop to think about you.
You, who was waiting fifteen minutes away.
You, who trusted him not to put you in that position.
You, who never asked for promises, only presence. Only honesty.
And now… maybe he’s lost you, and he thinks he probably deserves to.
Max runs both hands through his damp hair, fingers tangling at the nape of his neck as frustration twists inside him like a knife. His whole body feels wired, restless, like if he could just go back turn the wheel, say no, stop her, he might undo it all.
He can’t believe how fast it all crumbled.
One video. One tag. Three seconds of her voice over his engine and suddenly the entire illusion of security you felt with him shattered, and rightfully so, because you weren’t just hurt by the image.
You were humiliated.
He should’ve known better. He should’ve protected you.
Not just from her, but from himself.
From the part of him that still hasn't learned that not all people who smile at you deserve a seat beside you.
The trust you’d so carefully handed him had splintered.
He pictures your face again. The way you looked at him like he wasn’t the person you loved anymore. Like you didn’t recognise him.
In that moment, maybe you didn’t.
Maybe he didn’t either.
He scrolls through your texts. No responses. Nothing since you asked for space.
He doesn’t blame you.
And yet… every part of him aches to reach you.
To go up to your door.
To hold your face and swear again that it didn’t mean anything.
That it was a thoughtless mistake.
That he would never, ever let her between you again.
You were never the rebound.
You were never the easy option.
You were everything he didn’t know he was allowed to have until he had you.
His mind drifts back to a conversation you had a few weeks ago. He’d asked if you trusted him. You smiled, curled up next to him in bed, your fingers running along the inside of his wrist.
“I do. Of course I do… but please don’t make me feel stupid for it.”
He didn’t answer then.
He just kissed you.
Now that sentence haunts him like a fucking echo.
He gets out of the car finally.
Walks in the rain without an umbrella.
Because maybe he deserves to know how it felt. To be cold, soaked, vulnerable, standing there watching someone drive past with a ghost in their passenger seat.
Maybe he needs to remember it viscerally, the water in his shoes, the ache in his gut, the burn in his throat from not saying no when it mattered. Maybe he needs to know what it’s like to stand outside in the dark, and realise, really realise, that the person he loves might not be coming.
He pulls out his phone. His hands are shaking, rain slipping off his fingertips as he unlocks the screen.
He doesn’t expect you to answer.
But he has to try.
I keep thinking about how she used to make me feel like I was never enough, like love was some kind of test I could never quite pass, no matter how much I gave or how hard I tried, like I had to earn every scrap of her affection while constantly fearing I might lose it for reasons she’d never explain.
And then you came into my life calm and steady and you loved me without asking me to prove a single thing. You didn’t make me guess. You didn’t make me bleed for your attention. You just gave it. Freely. Without hesitation. Without agenda.
You saw the parts of me I tried to hide, the temper, the pride, the insecurity, and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You stayed, and you made me feel like maybe I was someone worth staying for.
And I let you down.
Because for fifteen stupid, careless minutes I let a shadow slip back into the space that should have only ever belonged to you. I let her in enough to make you doubt me. Just enough to make you question everything we built. Just enough to hurt you in the way I promised I never would.
That’s what kills me. That I didn’t have to touch her to betray you. That all it took was silence. Thoughtlessness. The absence of a ‘no’ when you deserved every no in the world.
I'm not trying to make excuses only to explain. I would give anything to undo it. To go back and shut the door. To keep that seat empty until it was you in it. To turn the car around, to call you, to remember that fifteen minutes of convenience was never worth five seconds of losing you.
You’re it for me. You’ve always been it.
You’re the only one I want beside me, in my car, in my life, in every version of the future I’ve ever let myself hope for.
I love you.
I love you more than I ever thought was possible.
And if I never get the chance to show you again… if this is it… if I’ve already ruined it beyond repair… then I just hope you know that every word I’m saying now is true.
You were never temporary.
You were never second-best.
You are everything.
Please don’t let this be the end. But if it is…
Then I’ll carry this regret for the rest of my life knowing I had something rare, something real and I lost it the moment I forgot to protect it.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
Always.
summary: She’s given him her all, keeping his life on schedule without complaint, but now it’s her turn to shake things up. She's leaving him in just two weeks.
content warnings: max being not a great boss
word count: 2.5k
pairing: max verstappen x assistant!reader
SERIES: my dear assistant || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!
a/n: ITS HEREEEE! nawr because i had so much fun writing this like im ACTUALLY so stupid super excited for this series
Max, I love you. I’m your biggest fan, please send me—
You sighed, dragging the email into the trash.
“Seriously, he needs to take his business email out of his Instagram bio,” you muttered under your breath.
Mornings always looked the same. Blue light glasses perched on your nose, emotional support blanket wrapped around your shoulders, laptop balanced on your knees. Max’s inbox was the most consistent thing in your life. You’d learned early on that it was faster to just keep it bookmarked—front and center—ready for whatever chaos awaited overnight.
Your fingers tapped next again and again, skimming the latest flood of messages that had piled up while you were asleep. Most of them weren’t worth your time, fan mail begging for signed driver cards, free merch, or worse, his phone number.
Filtering through that mess was easily your least favorite part of the job. Max was perfectly capable of checking his own emails, eventually. But every morning, before he even woke up, it was your job to make sure his inbox looked spotless.
Your phone alarm blared suddenly, cutting through the quiet. You glanced at the clock: 7 a.m. sharp.
Another sigh. You closed the laptop, tucked it under your arm, and pushed the blanket off your legs before heading to the door.
Your studio apartment in Monaco wasn’t exactly the dream. Max had requested—more like insisted—that you move closer six months into the job. And when Max requested something, there was rarely an option to say no.
Keys in hand, you slipped downstairs and slid into your car. You turned on the seat warmer, for the passenger side, of course, stopped by the convenience store for a Red Bull, and headed toward Max’s luxurious penthouse to pick him up for the gym.
Just like you did every day.
You pulled up to the curb and picked up your phone. The Here. text was practically muscle memory by now. Short, simple, and the same every morning. Max, your mom, and your best friend back home were the only pinned chats at the top of your messages.
You reached across the passenger seat to test the warmth of the cushion. Warm, but not too warm. You quickly shut off the heater, he always complained if it got left on too long. You switched your music over to light instrumentals, low enough to fade into the background while you drove him between commitments.
Everything you did ran like clockwork now, fine-tuned around his habits. You knew what he liked, what he couldn’t stand, and every tiny detail in between. It wasn’t efficiency so much as self-preservation—every well-timed adjustment kept you safe from one of his early-morning lectures.
It didn’t take long before he appeared at your car door, opening it with practiced ease and sliding into the passenger seat. You reached for the Red Bull waiting in the cupholder, popped it open with one hand, and passed it to him. He took it without looking, as usual.
“What’s planned for today after the gym?” he asked, taking a sip before setting it down, halfway on the console, halfway in the cupholder like he owned the car himself.
“You’ve got two video shoots—one for ORB, one for Ford—lunch with your dad, social shoots for ORB, dinner with investors, then you’re free for the night.”
“What about paddle?”
“What about paddle?” you echoed, glancing over at him.
“Lando and I made plans to play before lunch.”
“Max, did you tell anyone about these plans?”
“No, but you know I don’t like my schedule so tight.”
You exhaled through your nose, already bracing for the rest of the day. “Max, those things have been on the calendar for months. You can’t keep making plans during work hours.”
You eased the car to a stop in front of the gym.
He pointed to the clock on your dashboard before stepping out. “Looks like you have an hour to fix it. Don’t cancel on Lando or Dad.”
The door shut harder than necessary, and you winced.
You muttered a few quiet expletives, then let out a breathy laugh. “Unbelievable. I don’t even make his schedule.”
Pulling out your phone, you dialed the Red Bull comms manager.
“No, no, I understand. Thank you anyway, he’ll be there for sure.”
You hung up and leaned your head against the headrest, groaning at the clock. 15 minutes left to fix this.
“I was on such a good streak of him not yelling at me,” you said to yourself, scrolling through your contacts. There was one more person you could try.
You tapped on Lando Norris. You’d only gotten his number because you’d once needed help getting a very drunk Max into his apartment. Still, it was worth a shot.
To your surprise, he answered after two rings.
“Hello?”
“Lando? This is Max’s—”
“Right-hand man, yeah, I know,” he said with a laugh. “Everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Just checking, are you supposed to be playing paddle with Max before lunch?”
“Yes? Why, what’s up?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if there’s any chance you could move it to later in the day? He’s got back-to-back shoots, and he didn’t mention it to anyone.”
“Just texted him. Will eight o’clock work, you think?”
You blinked. Honestly, speechless over how easy that was. “Uh, yeah. That’s perfect, actually. Thank you so much.”
“No problem. I know how he can be,” he said before hanging up.
By the time the clock hit 8, Max walked out of the gym, hair damp, phone in hand, same as he did every day.
“You got lucky,” he said, sliding into the seat. “Lando texted me and said he needed to move paddle.”
You only nodded, keeping your eyes on the road.
“Don’t let them schedule things that close together again,” he added.
You wanted to remind him that you didn’t handle his scheduling. You wanted to remind him how out of the many things you did quietly manage for him every single day, that was the one thing you did not have to worry about.
But you didn’t. You never did.
“I’ll make a note of that,” you said, instead, shifting the car into gear and pulling out toward his first commitment of the day.
Despite Max being a royal pain in your ass, he was never that to anyone else. Always polite, always charming, always perfectly composed. He smiled for the cameras, thanked every crew member, and acted like he hadn’t just handed you a scheduling disaster two hours ago.
The first shoot ran over, naturally. You stood just off set, answering texts and calls from PR and the comms team while keeping one eye on him. He looked like he was born for this. For all of the bright lights, cameras, the constant hum of attention. You, on the other hand, were apparently born for crisis control.
“His outfit for the Ford shoot hasn’t arrived yet, he told us to tell you. That you would fix it” the stylist whispered urgently, rushing over to you.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Of course he did.”
Five minutes later, you were sprinting across the parking lot, car keys in hand, off to pick up the missing garment yourself. When you returned, slightly winded, Max didn’t even blink before reaching for the clothes as if they’d been there all along.
Between shoots, you handed him a towel, a protein bar, a fresh Red Bull, all without a word. He didn’t thank you, but he took them like he always did.
By the time you both got back in the car, your phone was buzzing nonstop. PR wanted confirmation on his post-shoot interview slot, his dad’s assistant was trying to move lunch, and the Red Bull team wanted to push up his next event by fifteen minutes. You were juggling it all while merging into Monaco traffic.
“You know,” Max said casually from the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, “they should really hire someone to handle my scheduling.”
You turned your head just enough to glare at him before refocusing on the road. “Yeah. Imagine that.”
He didn’t even look up, but you caught the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
After the investors' dinner, you barely had time to breathe before heading to the paddle courts. The sun was dipping just enough to turn the sky gold, the city still buzzing around you. Max adjusted his sunglasses, scrolling through his texts.
“Lando’s already there,” he said. “Don’t make me late.”
When you pulled into the lot, you spotted Lando immediately, leaning against the fence, grinning and giving you both an excited wave.
“Made it on time?” Lando called out as Max stepped out of the car, looking down at his watch. “That’s a first.”
You stayed in the car while the boys talked to each other, your phone in hand, already drafting an email about tomorrow’s rescheduled shoot, hoping to get around an ‘overloaded’ schedule early.
Max grabbed his paddle bag from your backseat and tossed you a look. “You’re staying, right?”
You raised an eyebrow without looking up from your phone. “In case you forget how to hold a paddle?”
He rolled his eyes. “In case I need something.”
You sighed and turned the car off. Because of course you were going to stay. You always did.
You followed the boys onto the courts, taking up space on the bench you always sat on when you stayed at the courts.
“I’m going to change,” Max said, disappearing into the changing rooms.
Lando’s eyes flicked to you. “You know, I don’t know how you manage him all day. Honestly. You’re like, superhero-level organized.”
You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “It’s mostly endurance and Red Bull,” you said dryly.
“No, seriously,” he said, stepping closer. “I’d pay double whatever he pays you to work for me. Two million a year?”
You physically coughed at the number out of pure surprise. Two million a year. That was way more than double what Max paid you. That was more than enough to finally get at least a one-bedroom apartment and not a studio. Your first instinct was to say yes, right here, right now. But before the words could escape, the changing room door swung open.
“Ready?!” Max called from inside.
You blinked. He always seemed to have perfect timing. You laughed quietly, shaking your head. Of course he had to come out right now.
Max strutted onto the court, towel over his shoulders, still scrolling on his phone. Lando picked up a paddle, grinning at him. “Ready to lose?”
“You’re on,” Max shot back, smirking.
By the time the match ended, Max had disappeared to the bathroom once again to change. Lando turned to you, leaning on the fence. “So, you’re thinking about my offer, right? I was being serious.”
You hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yes, I will take your offer.”
“Wait—think about it for a few days,” Lando said, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve already made up my mind,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll give Max two weeks. Enough time to find someone else, train them, make sure he doesn’t completely implode on them.”
Lando laughed, shaking his head. “That’s actually impressive. Most people would just bolt. You’re solid.”
“I’m loyal,” you said lightly. “And apparently crazy.”
He grinned. “Fair enough. Well, still think it over anyway. You never know.”
You shook your head. “Nope. I’ve thought it through. Two weeks, then the new job starts.”
And just like that, the decision was made, but you knew the next two weeks promised to be very interesting.
When Max reemerged, you instinctively packed up his gear while him and Lando continued to talk and tease each other. By the time you both slid back into the car, the sky had deepened into a dark navy, and streetlights stretched across the Monaco streets. Max leaned back in the seat, stretching his arms, and within minutes, his head lolled slightly to the side. He had always had a habit of dozing off if you were driving at night.
You drove in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space, enjoying the rare moments of calm after a day of chaos. Your phone buzzed on your lap. Your mom. You hadn’t spoken to her in a few days. Max’s packed schedule had left barely a moment for your own life.
You hesitated, glancing at the sleeping figure beside you. Then, carefully, you answered. “Hi, Mom,” you whispered, keeping your voice low.
“Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay? How’s everything?” Her voice was warm and familiar.
You smiled faintly, pressing the phone closer. “I’m fine, just, busy,” you said quietly, glancing at Max, who stirred slightly but didn’t open his eyes. “I just wanted to talk for a minute.”
“Of course, I just—”
Before you could finish, Max’s head lifted, blinking sleepily, irritation creeping into his voice. “You couldn’t wait until I’m back home?”
You muttered an apology to your mom before quickly hitting the end call button. Something inside you snapped. The two years of constant juggling and reworking his schedules, waiting on him hand and foot, managing his quirks, keeping every moving part in line, it all suddenly felt too heavy to carry in silence.
“I’m leaving, Max! I’m actually leaving this job!” you said, louder than you intended, voice carrying in the quiet car.
Max froze, eyes wide with shock. “What do you mean? You can’t do that?” he said slowly, his voice catching in disbelief.
“Yes, I can,” you said, forcing calm into your voice, but letting a hint of frustration bleed through. “Look, I’m giving you two weeks. Two weeks to help you find someone else, train them, and hopefully make sure you don’t completely scare them off.”
He went quiet. You could feel the tension in the car surge. It was so thick you swore you could physically feel it. For a moment, it was just the hum of the engine and your own heartbeat.
You tried to gauge his reaction, and for the first time all day, or maybe for as long as you had known him, you couldn’t. There was no playful smirk, no teasing remark, no nostrils flaring, no raised eyebrow, no eye roll. Just quiet.
“I—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head, sighing further into the seat.
You softened slightly, leaning back in your seat, too. “Max, I’ve thought about this for a long time. I like keeping things running smoothly for you, I like knowing everything is under control, but I need to look out for myself, too. And yes, the timing isn’t perfect, but I’m going to try my best to make this transition easier for you.”
He finally exhaled, running a hand over his face, and the silence stretched again. The weight of your words hung between you.
You finally pulled up in front of his penthouse, engine idling. Max didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance at you. He opened his door and stepped out, shoulders stiff. You watched him go inside without another word.
You sat there for a second, staring at the blinking streetlight outside of his apartment that he always commented on. Two weeks. That’s all he had before the world you’d kept running for him would start to shift, before he’d have to face just how indispensable you really were.
You took a deep breath, bracing yourself. Two weeks. Enough time to help him adjust, but not enough to undo the decision you had already made.
summary: you disappear for a week, come back with new hair, and accidentally start a cheating scandal that breaks the f1 internet.
pairing: charles leclerc x gf!reader
warnings: media/fan speculation, online harassment (mentioned), mild language, public rumor stress, miscommunication, fake cheating accusations, parasocial nonsense, use of y/n, established relationship (duh)
notes: sorry i've been so inactive gang 😔, i've got more midterms starting up and i've been so locked in with that + living my normal life that i've been neglecting writing LMAO BUT HERE YALL GO!! a cute lil smau fic to hold you over while i balance my shit 😝
f1 masterlist !
INSTAGRAM
yourusername
liked by charles_leclerc, carmenmmundt, carlossainz55 and others
yourusername, this weekend <3
view comments
charles_leclerc, ❤️ ♥︎ liked by creator
friend3, most beautiful girl 😏
— yourusername, you gon make me blush 😊
lilymhe, stop being cute it’s making the rest of us look bad 😭
— alex_albon, honestly.
— yourusername, LMAO
f1wagupdates, imagine being this soft omg
carmenmmudt, body tea or whatever the kids say these days
— yourusername, CARMEN AHAHAHA
yncharlesenthusiast, her laying down on him 🥹🥹🥹
user1, if you see someone laying on the road tonight, thats me! 🤗
arthur_leclerc, it was torture being with the two of you. disgusting people.
— yourusername, ur just jelly 🤣🤣
— arthur_leclerc, jealous of people who dont have to third wheel you? yes. 100%.
iamrebeccad, my beautiful girl 🤍 ♥︎ liked by creator
Posted 1 week ago.
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TWITTER
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INSTAGRAM
f1wagsightings
liked by charlesleclercupdates, wagsoff1 and others
f1wagsightings, Charles Leclerc seen with mystery girl in Monaco 👀 thoughts?
view comments
y/nfanpage, brooo that’s def not her 😭
charlesleclercupdates, he’s moving mad again 😭 someone slap the shit out of him
yncharlesenthusiast, you must be fucking joking.
wagsleuths, y/n hasn’t posted in a week either... oh my days
charlestheangel, MAN. i've got to change my username cuz what the hell.
y/nhatepage, finally. y/n didnt deserve him anyway
— 16lovergirl, man shut up.
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TEXTS
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TWITTER
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INSTAGRAM
yourusername
liked by lilymhe, pierregasly, iamrebeccad and others
yourusername, same girl, new hair 💋
view comments
charles_leclerc, never taking you to dinner again 😭
— yourusername, you love me
kikagomez, bro he almost died for no reason 💀 ♥︎ liked by creator
iamrebeccad, well, atleast you look beautiful as a brunette 😅 ♥︎ liked by creator
lilymhe, the chaos you caused omg 😭
— yourusername, whoops
wagsleuths, well, i guess were all truly stupid LMAO
friend3, Twitter owes you an apology fr 😭😭
carmenmmundt, next time you dye your hair, maybe upload the change immediately 😙 ♥︎ liked by creator
yncharlesenthusiast, mother’s power even with a color change 🫶
arthur_leclerc, i was gonna rip a new one into charles...
— yourusername, i was told🤣🤣
charynprotector, I WAS RIGHT!!! never doubt me 😎 ♥︎ liked by creator
— charynprotector, OMG SHE LIKED MY COMMENT
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charles_leclerc
liked by landonorris, pierregasly, alex_albon and others
charles_leclerc, the only thing I cheat on is UNO when she’s winning 😇
view comments
yourusername, I KNEW IT. THERE WAS NO WAY YOU WENT FROM 8 CARDS TO 2💀
— charles_leclerc, sorry chérie 😍
landonorris, we almost had a national crisis because of you two 😭 ♥︎ liked by creator and yourusername
y/nfanpage, welp. atleast we know he didnt cheat on her 😅
alex_albon, UNO cheating > relationship cheating
carlossainz55, deleting my paragraph... ♥︎ liked by yourusername
— charles_leclerc, what paragraph...😟
— iamrebeccad, dont worry about it charles!
pierregasly, never a dull moment with the Leclercs! ♥︎ liked by creator
maxverstappen1, this was a fun adventure, do it again. ♥︎ liked by yourusername
yourusername, dyed my hair for fun and almost started a global crisis #sorrycharles
— charles_leclerc, never again. stay brunette forever pls 😭
george russell x !estranged verstappen doctor reader (smau/written)
you never meant to fall in love with someone famous. you were busy enough — night shifts, residency, constant studying, the quiet exhaustion that came with being a doctor. george was supposed to be a brief breath of air in the middle of your chaos, a soft little distraction with a sharp smile and far too much charm.
and then he stayed. and then he loved you. and then he asked you to marry him. you said yes privately, quietly, the way you lived most of your life.
but the internet is fast, and f1 fans are faster. one blurry picture of you in the paddock — hair tossed by the wind, george reaching for your hand, sunlight hitting you just right — and suddenly the whole world thinks they’ve uncovered a secret: george russell is marrying a verstappen.
you laugh it off at first. until max verstappen himself stops in front of you, eyes wide with something between confusion and recognition, and says softly, “i… think we need to talk.”
and your whole life tilts.
fc : yaelshelbia on ig
a/n : this is terribly long so grab a snack or somethin. also i combined two recent george requests and realized i've never done a george x reader 😭 (y'all are welcome to slander me for that) but i hope you enjoy and ily all
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doctoryn
liked by kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, alex_albon and 456,000 others.
doctoryn : since georgie had a minor slip up and the whole world knows im a fiancée now...why not open up the ig! enjoy my life in pictures ☺☺☺
tagged : georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli
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view 81,000 other comments.
username008 : THE RING??? HELLO???? DID GEORGE HAVE SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE LOURVE HEIST????
↳ doctoryn : happy to report that he was at a race at the time of the robbery :)
liked by georgerussell63 and kimi.antonelli
↳ username55 : oh she has a sense of humor and she is a doctor. new fave wag omg
username007 : george calling you his fiancée like it was nothing and YOU LAUGHING ABOUT IT??? power couple behavior
liked by doctoryn
username010 : im still stuck on the ring. i need a dollar amount someone pls
↳ username075 : someone on twitter said it is rumored to cost around 1.2 million
↳ username010 : mans got that contract extension and bought a yacht AND a 1.2 million dollar ring. i wanna be george russell
georgerussell63 : i could not contain my excitement my love! you are too perfect to not share with the world xx
liked by doctoryn, kimi.antonelli, alex_albon and lando
↳ lando : nice save georgie
liked by doctoryn and alex_albon
↳ doctoryn : you are so lucky i love you
liked by georgerussell63
↳ georgerussell63 : only the luckiest
olliebearman : ring is bigger than my future...congrats again guys!
liked by georgerussell63 and doctoryn
kimi.antonelli : mamma e papà
liked by georgerussell63 and doctoryn
↳ doctoryn : mio figlio :)
liked by kimi.antonelli and georgerussell63
lewishamilton : Congratulations to the beautiful couple! ❤️
liked by doctoryn and georgerussell63
alex_albon : since everyone is talking about the ring...i want everyone to know that i helped pick it out and I KNEW BEFORE ANYONE!!!!!!!
liked by doctoryn and georgerussell63
↳ doctoryn : maybe next you need to go pick out a ring for my best friend...👀
liked by alex_albon, lilymhe and georgerussell63
lilymhe : my beautiful girlllllllll<3 so happy for you 🥹
liked by doctoryn
↳ doctoryn : my maid of honor 😍
liked by lilymhe
↳ alex_albon : george when am i being asked to be best man??
like by georgerussell63 and doctoryn
↳ doctoryn : you failed the test to be best man the minute you let him open his mouth about the engagement
liked by georgerussell63 and alex_albon
↳ alex_albon : blame his press secretary not me!!!!!
liked by georgerussell63 and doctoryn
babickovaeli : you are going to be the most beautiful bride omg 🥹
liked by doctoryn and georgerussell63
↳ doctoryn : love you my girl 💕
mercedesamgf1 : congrats to our favorite couple! we love you both!!
liked by doctoryn and georgerussell63
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You’re not even supposed to be looking at your phone. Not when you’re standing in a cramped room, hair tied back messily, scrubs wrinkled from twelve hours of nonstop patient turnover. But one of your coworkers bursts in, eyes wide, and shoves her phone toward you.
“Your boyfriend is trending,” she whispers like it’s national security.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “What did he do now?”
She plays the clip, and there he is — George, still flushed from the race, grinning like the sun is stuck inside him. He’s answering some post-race question, blissed out and tired, and then—
“Yeah, I can’t wait to get back home and see my fiancée—”
He stops. You watch the exact second his brain catches up with his mouth.
Your coworker gasps. You choke on air.
He stutters, laughs nervously, moves on like nothing happened, but the reporters definitely notice. Twitter definitely notices. The entire world definitely notices.
You press a hand over your mouth to smother a laugh, your coworker staring at you like you’re hiding state secrets.
“I need to get back to my patients,” you say, cheeks burning but grinning.
You spend the next hour between cases biting back laughter every time your phone buzzes with another notification. By the time you finish assisting in your last consult and finally get a quiet minute, your phone rings. George.
You answer immediately. “Hi, darling—”
“I am so sorry.”
You burst out laughing so hard you have to lean against the wall for support. “George, oh my God.”
“I didn’t mean to say it,” he rambles, mortified, “it just slipped out, I was tired, and I didn’t even notice until I saw Kimi smirking like a menace across the room, and then Toto looked like he’d aged ten years, and—”
You’re wheezing now, trying to breathe. “George, breathe.”
“I proposed to you privately for a reason—”
“And I loved that,” you interrupt gently. “But this? This is hilarious.”
He groans loudly. “I don’t want this to be how you feel pressured into doing anything. And if you’re uncomfortable, I’ll fix it—”
“George,” you say, soft but amused, “I am literally scrubbing in between laughing fits. I’m not mad. I think it’s cute.”
“You do?”
“I do. You were excited. You love me. It slipped. That’s sweet.”
He exhales like you’ve just saved his soul. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Now stop worrying and get home safe. I have like seven hours left.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you more. Go sleep.”
“I’ll try,” he says, sounding a bit lighter now. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
You hang up, heart warm, and finish your shift with a dumb smile on your face.
By the time you get home, the sun is rising over the apartment building, and you’re expecting to find George passed out somewhere — couch, bed, kitchen floor, wherever the jetlag takes him.
Instead, the entire apartment smells like fresh coffee and something warm and buttery. You push the door open slowly.
George is in the kitchen, still in sweats and a faded Mercedes tee, hair messy from travel and eyes sleepy but sparkling when he sees you.
“Hi, angel,” he says, stepping toward you and gathering you into a hug before you can even drop your bag.
“You’re awake?” you laugh into his chest.
“I made breakfast.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Sit. Shoes off. Scrubs off if you want, but not in a weird way—”
You start laughing again.
He’s flustered. “I meant— okay, yes, in a weird way, but also not. I just want you comfortable.”
You kiss him once, slow and grateful, before changing into one of his hoodies and joining him at the kitchen island. He’s prepared pancakes, eggs, fruit, and coffee. It’s almost absurd.
“You should be sleeping,” you tell him, but you’re already taking a bite.
He shrugs, sitting across from you. “Couldn’t. Not until I saw you.”
You blush, ducking your head. “Stop.”
“Never.”
You both fall into easy conversation. You tell him about the nightmare of your shift: the toddler who refused to open their mouth, the elderly patient who flirted with you aggressively, the nurse who played your engagement clip on loop for the entire ward.
George tells you about the race, how he almost spun, how Kimi nearly fell out of the car at the driver's parade and how Alex has already threatened to tell the entire grid you’re his fiancée just to make him suffer.
Breakfast turns into lingering touches, soft smiles, legs brushing under the table. Once you’re both done eating, George reaches for your hand.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
You curl onto the couch together, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder. His heartbeat slows under your cheek. His breathing evens out. Jetlag starts to win.
But before he drifts off completely, he speaks.
“YN?”
“Mm?”
“Will you… come to the next race?”
You blink up at him. “The next one?”
He nods, cheeks faintly pink. “It’s my home race. And… I’d really like you there. I know you’re busy, and I don’t ever want to pull you away from work, but—”
“George.”
He meets your gaze.
“You don’t have to convince me,” you say softly. “Of course I’ll come.”
His relief is immediate, like you’ve lifted a weight off his chest. He pulls you closer, burying his face in your hair.
“You’re my lucky charm,” he murmurs.
“You’re dramatic.”
“And hopelessly in love with you.”
You laugh, settling back against him.
“Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m in love with you too.”
He falls asleep like that — holding you tightly, morning sunlight warming your legs, the apartment quiet and safe around you. And somewhere out there, the world is screaming about George Russell’s fiancée. But here, in your living room, it’s just you and him. Soft. Warm. Happy. Right where you belong.
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Silverstone feels different the moment you step through the gates. You’ve been to races before — a handful, always quietly, always slipping in and out with little attention. But this time? This time you’re walking into the paddock as George Russell’s fiancée, and people definitely notice.
George hasn’t taken his hand off your waist for even one second. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, smiling so wide it almost looks painful. Every few steps he glances down at you like he needs to make sure you’re still here. A couple journalists approach, microphones out, hoping for a quote.
George steps in front of you immediately, shoulders squaring, voice firm.
“We’re not doing personal questions today,” he says, polite but absolutely done.
“George,” you whisper, tugging his sleeve, “I’m okay.”
“I know,” he murmurs, leaning slightly toward you, “but I’m not taking chances.”
A camera clicks nearby and he subtly shifts again, blocking you from the shot until his PR secretary reminds him he actually does have work to get to.
“I’ll take her to hospitality,” She offers.
George hesitates. Actually hesitates.
“George,” you laugh, cupping his cheek for a moment, “go. I’ll be fine.”
He kisses your forehead like he’s leaving for war, then reluctantly jogs off toward the Mercedes garage, glancing back every ten seconds.
She snorts. “He’s going to check the cameras every two minutes to see if you’ve moved.”
You absolutely believe him.
You don’t even make it ten steps inside hospitality before you hear a familiar voice behind you.
“YN!!!”
You barely turn before a blur — and a mop of curly hair — slams into you.
“Kimi!” you laugh, stumbling slightly as he hugs you tight. “I saw you like a week ago.”
“But you’re here now,” he says, squeezing you again. “And officially! Do I have to call you Mrs. George now?”
“No, absolutely not.”
“Good,” he nods seriously. “It sounds weird.”
You swat his arm. “That’s what you took from that?”
He beams. “I’m happy you’re here.”
“You doing okay for quali?”
He shrugs, grinning. “I’m faster when you’re around to keep George calm.”
So that’s what this is — he missed you both. Kimi follows you around like a golden retriever until Bono calls him in for engineering briefings. He waves wildly as he goes.
“Don’t disappear!”
“I won’t!”
“If you leave I’m telling George!”
You’re scrolling through your phone, waiting for George to finish prep, when you hear:
“There she is!”
Lily is the first to reach you, pulling you into a hug.
“Show me the ring,” she demands immediately.
You lift your hand and she whistles. “Jesus Christ. Did he propose or try to blind you?”
“It’s big,” you admit, blushing.
“It’s massive,” Alexandra says as she joins the group, her eyes widening. “Charles could never.”
“I heard that,” Alexandra mutters under her breath but she’s smiling as she hugs you.
Then Kika and Eli come over — and suddenly you’re surrounded by the sweetest chaos.
Kika takes your hand delicately, staring at the ring like it’s the crown jewels. “This is… oh my god, this is stunning. George did so well.”
“Ridiculously well,” Eli adds. “Do you need sunglasses to look at it?”
Everyone laughs, and you feel your nerves melt away. Being here is easier with them — warm voices, big smiles, gentle teasing.
Lily links her arm with yours. “How does it feel?”
“You look like you belong here,” Alexandra says softly.
You smile, feeling your cheeks warm. “I just feel really… happy.”
“Good,” Kika beams. “Then we’re happy too.”
They pull you into a group hug. Someone takes a picture. It’s chaos and soft and girly and perfect.
You make your way back into the garage after driver prep, and George lights up the second he sees you.
“Hi, darling,” he says, kissing your cheek. “How’s my girl?”
You roll your eyes affectionately. “The girls love the ring.”
He blushes. “Good. I had… help picking it.”
“Who helped?”
Alex raises a hand from across the room. “Me. I have taste.” (when is alex not in george's garage or george is not in his?)
“You bought it because Albon told you to?” you tease.
“I bought it because you deserve the best,” George corrects softly.
Your heart melts. He’s half in his race suit, the sleeves tied around his waist. You step closer, brushing a small smudge off his cheek.
“Hold still,” you murmur.
He closes his eyes as you adjust the collar and smooth out the fabric over his shoulders. Your fingers run through the hair at the nape of his neck as you gently pull his balaclava in place.
He leans into your hands like it’s instinct.
“Are you ready?” you ask quietly.
He opens his eyes — clear, bright, focused.
“I am now.”
Your thumb brushes his cheek. “You’re going to be great. You always are.”
He takes your hands in his, squeezing them.
“Look at me,” he says gently.
You do.
“You being here means more than any win ever could.”
You swallow. “George…”
“I mean it.” His forehead touches yours. “You’re… everything.”
Your breath catches.
“Go win something,” you whisper.
He grins. “For you? Always.”
He gives you a final kiss — soft, sure, lingering — before pulling his helmet on and stepping toward his car.
Before he climbs in, he looks back over his shoulder, finds you instantly, and gives you a small wave. And you wave back, heart full. Silverstone has never felt more like home to him.
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f1gossipgirls
4,350,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : george russell’s fiancée makes her first official paddock appearance at silverstone — and she’s already everyone’s favorite. the couple were seen looking disgustingly in love all morning.
but here’s where it gets interesting… fans noticed that yn bears a striking resemblance to a certain dutch world champion 👀 and after some old family photos leaked on twitter this morning… let’s just say the rumor mill is working overtime. is george russell marrying a verstappen?! stay tuned.
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user has disabled comments on this post.
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You wake up to sunlight streaming across your face and the familiar weight of George’s arm wrapped around your waist. It’s quiet, peaceful… the exact opposite of what’s happening online.
You have no idea. You stretch a little, shifting under the blankets, and George mumbles something into your shoulder — still half asleep, curls a complete mess.
“Morning,” he says, voice deep and soft.
“Morning,” you whisper back.
Neither of you check your phones. Neither of you look at the outside world. You get dressed slowly, eat breakfast together, tease George for taking forever to do his hair, and laugh when he tries to convince you his shoes match the pants even when they clearly don't.
You leave the hotel hand in hand. Life feels normal. Perfectly normal.
The moment you step inside the gates, something feels off.
The reporters aren’t shouting the typical questions — they’re staring. Whispering. Looking at you with expressions you can’t quite place. Some of them raise their microphones but ask things like:
“YN, can you comment on the rumors?”
“Any thoughts on the family resemblance?”
“George, how does it feel to marry into—”
“Are the Verstappen allegations true?”
George freezes.
“The what?” he asks sharply.
But PR swoops in before either of you get answers, guiding you down the main paddock walkway with a little more urgency than usual.
“That was… weird,” you whisper.
“I don’t like that,” George mutters, protective instincts flaring. “We’ll sort it out inside.”
You nod, though you’re still confused — and increasingly curious.
The moment you walk into the Mercedes garage, Kimi Antonelli stops dead in his tracks.
He is mid-conversation with an engineer, holding a tablet, when he spots you. His jaw drops. His eyes go huge. The tablet slowly lowers like he’s forgotten what hands are.
“Kimi?” you laugh. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Kimi looks between you and George. Then back at you.
Then at George again.
“You guys haven’t seen anything?” he asks.
George frowns. “About what?”
Kimi hesitates for half a second — then blurts:
“The internet thinks YN is a Verstappen.”
You blink. George blinks. The garage goes silent for half a beat. Then you snort so loudly one of the mechanics jumps.
“Kimi,” you say through laughter, “that’s insane.”
“I know!” Kimi says, flailing slightly. “But they’re serious! They’re comparing your faces, and someone leaked photos of Max’s family when he was younger, and it’s everywhere.”
George looks simultaneously horrified and deeply confused.
“We don’t even— You’ve never even met— What?!”
You’re still laughing. “Okay, that’s ridiculous. It’s just the internet being the internet. We look like a thousand different people.”
Kimi nods slowly. “Probably. But, uh… it’s definitely the rumor of the day.”
You wave it off. “It’ll pass by tomorrow. They’ve said worse things.”
George relaxes at your nonchalance, sliding his hand into yours. “If you’re okay, then I’m okay.”
You squeeze his fingers. “It’s fine. Honestly, it’s funny.”
Kimi exhales dramatically, like you’ve lifted a boulder off his shoulders. “Good. Because I didn’t know if I should congratulate you or hide from you.”
You burst out laughing again. “Definitely hide from me.”
You spend the afternoon in hospitality, chatting with Lily and Kika, sipping iced coffee, and scrolling through your phone only to see memes — some flattering, some ridiculous, all of them hilarious.
You send one particularly unhinged TikTok to George.
He replies in all caps:
STOP MAKING ME LAUGH. I’M IN DRIVER BRIEFING.
You laugh even harder.
The race itself is fun. Loud. Warm. Familiar. You watch George wave at you before climbing into the car. You cheer during pit stops, clutch the railing when things get tense, and beam when he finishes strong.
George jogs over after parc fermé, still flushed and wired from adrenaline, and pulls you into a hug.
“Good race?” he asks against your hair.
“Great race,” you say, grinning. “And great boyfriend. Well, fiancé.”
He kisses your forehead, clearly relieved that whatever storm is brewing outside… hasn’t touched you. Not yet. You leave Silverstone that evening hand in hand, blissfully unaware of the fact that the rumor won’t disappear.
Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until Max Verstappen sees it — and starts demanding answers.
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a few weeks later...
It had been weeks of chaos. What started as one silly Silverstone gossip caption had spiraled into something massive — “YN LN looks suspiciously like a Verstappen,” “the timelines match,” “the photos leaked of YN as a baby look eerily similar,” and on and on and on.
By Belgium, the rumors should’ve died. They didn’t.
If anything, they grew teeth.
The press wouldn’t stop. Fans were split between joking, theorizing, and genuinely investigating. And George… George had gone full mother hen, always at your side, always one arm around your waist, always stepping between you and any camera that looked like it might ask something stupid.
You had laughed it off at first. Now? It felt like standing in the eye of a storm.
You and George had just arrived at Spa when another cluster of reporters surged forward.
“YN, do you have any comment on the Verstappen rumors?”
“Is Jos Verstappen your father, YN?”
George stiffened like steel beside you.
“Okay, that’s enough,” he said sharply, guiding you through. “Absolutely not. Move, please.”
You squeezed his hand.
“Georgie, it’s fine—”
“It’s not fine,” he muttered, jaw tight. “They’re crossing lines.”
You had tried your best to forget about it — cheering with Lily, Alexandra, Eli, and Kika during quali, watching George’s lap times, being your usual supportive and bubbly self.
But in the back of your mind, there was a quiet buzzing.
You didn’t like it. You didn’t believe it. You didn’t entertain it. Until someone else did. Someone you least expected.
Max Verstappen did not get nervous. Max Verstappen did not hesitate.
But right now, he was standing ten feet away from you in the paddock, hands stuffed in pockets, shifting his weight like a teenage boy trying to confess he liked someone.
You blinked.
“…Max?”
He cleared his throat once, twice.
“Uh. YN. Hi. Can—can we talk? Privately.”
George stepped forward instantly, taller, broader, protective all over again.
“Why?” he asked, voice flat.
“George, it’s fine,” you murmured.
“No, actually,” Max said quietly. “It isn’t.”
That… was not something you expected to hear from him.
You exchanged a look with George, gently touching his arm.
“I’ll be okay. Just… let me hear him out.”
George looked like he wanted to protest, but he swallowed it down, nodding stiffly before letting you walk off with Max to a quieter hallway behind hospitality.
Max took a slow breath.
“Look… I didn’t want to get involved in any of this bullshit. It’s invasive and disrespectful. But… the longer it went on, the more things didn’t add up. Or… did.”
You folded your arms gently across your chest, bracing yourself.
“Max… what are you saying?”
He pulled out his phone. Not for social media. For photos. Private photos.
Your stomach dipped.
“These are from when I was a baby. Jos kept everything. And when the rumors started, I checked. Not because I believed it — because I wanted to shut it down. But…”
He swiped.
A picture of baby Max — chubby cheeks, soft eyes, blonde hair. He swiped again. Another. Younger still. Swaddled in a blanket.
Then he pulled up one grainy screenshot — the leaked photo of you as a baby. The resemblance was…painfully, unnervingly strong. Max’s voice was quiet.
“You look more like me in these than some of my actual cousins.”
Your throat tightened.
He paused before continuing, carefully.
“When did your mother pass?”
Your breath hitched, just slightly.
“W-When I was fifteen,” you whispered. “I don’t… I don’t have answers. She never talked about my biological father. Ever.”
Max nodded slowly.
“I asked Jos,” he said, jaw clenching. “I figured he’d laugh and tell me to ignore it. But instead he—he got angry. Defensive. Told me to mind my own business. And that’s when I… I realized he wasn’t denying anything.”
Your world tilted.
You gripped your own arms a little tighter.
“Max,” you whispered, “I don’t—I don’t know what to say.”
You had spent weeks laughing this off. Weeks pretending it didn’t bother you. Weeks brushing it aside.
But now? Your chest felt hollow.
Max met your eyes — not as a world champion, but as a boy who grew up with too many secrets and not enough love.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly. “I’m not trying to cause… anything. But if the rumors are true… if Jos…” He swallowed. “You deserve to know.”
You blinked rapidly, eyes burning.
And then footsteps echoed down the hall.
“Okay, we’re done,” George said firmly, stepping between you and Max. “Whatever this is, you don’t get to upset her—”
“George,” you said, voice trembling but steady. “I need to hear this.”
His expression shattered for a moment. Protective. Worried. Aching. Max took a step back, hands raised.
“I’m not trying to take anything from you,” he said quietly to George. “Or from her. I just… think she deserves the truth, if she wants it.”
You exhaled shakily, staring at the floor because it was easier than staring at either of them.
Your life — your identity — felt like it was splitting open.
You whispered: “I don’t know if I want to know the truth.”
Silence hung heavy. George gently wrapped an arm around you. Max nodded once — respectful, distant, uncertain.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Max murmured. “Or if you never are — that’s okay too.”
And then he walked away, leaving you and George alone in the hallway.
Despite the chaos. Despite the revelation. Despite your heart pounding like it was trying to escape your chest— You went on with the race.
You stood beside George on the grid. You calmed your breathing. You placed your hand over his where it rested on your hip.
You tried to pretend the world hadn’t just shifted beneath your feet. But the truth — or the possibility of it — now lived quietly inside your chest. And it wasn’t going away.
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You had tried — really tried — to move on. To bury yourself in normalcy. To kiss George good morning. To go to work. To fold laundry. To pretend Max’s photos and Jos’s reaction and the uncanny resemblance meant nothing.
But every night, when everything else got quiet, your mind circled back to it. And then a Dutch article leaked.
Not speculation. Not jokes. Not blurry fan edits. Real photos.
Your mother — smiling in a sunlit café. Jos Verstappen — sitting across from her, leaning in. The timestamp: months before you were born.
And then the supposed copy of your original birth certificate.
The father’s name: redacted but clearly overwritten at some point.
You stared at your phone until your vision blurred.
By midnight, your hand shook as you dialed the one person you never expected to call voluntarily.
“Hello?” Max answered, voice soft, cautious.
You swallowed hard.
“I want the test,” you whispered.
A pause — but not surprise.
“Okay,” Max said quietly. “I’ll arrange everything.”
George insisted on coming. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
“If you’re doing this, I’m with you,” he said as he laced his fingers with yours.
And so the two of you walked into the private clinic together — nerves bundled in your chest like live wires. Max was already there. Shockingly not alone.
Victoria Verstappen stood beside him, arms wrapped around herself, smiling softly when she saw you.
“Hi,” she said gently.
You blinked. “Hi.”
George nodded politely, shaking Max’s hand.
The four of you stood in the lobby like a group project no one had emotionally prepared for. The small talk was painfully awkward.
Max cleared his throat.
“So… how was traffic?”
“Fine,” George answered briskly. “Rainy.”
Victoria offered a tiny smile.
“At least they opened the new road. It used to be awful.”
You nodded, trying not to implode.
“Yeah. Convenient.”
Everyone nodded. No one made eye contact.
Finally, a nurse called:
“Verstappen party?”
You and Max looked at each other.
“Guess that’s… us?” Max said.
You exhaled shakily.
George squeezed your hand once more, letting go only when the nurse guided you both inside.
It was quick. Swabs. Names. Confirmations.
You and Max sat side by side, knees bouncing in alternating rhythms.
Victoria sat across from you, offering occasional reassuring smiles.
George stood behind you, one hand resting on your shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles.
When it was over, the nurse told you:
“Results will be ready in about a week.”
A week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. A lifetime.
You didn’t expect Max to follow up. You expected him to retreat into his usual bubble of racing and privacy. Instead… he did the opposite.
On Monday, your hospital administration informed you:
“Mr. Verstappen contracted additional private security for the building. Strictly for safety during your shifts.”
You nearly choked on your coffee.
You texted Max immediately:
Max what is this??
Just making sure the press doesn’t harass you.
You don’t deserve that.
Accept it please.
You did. Because the attention had gotten worse. And his gesture — quiet, sincere — meant more than you could express.
Then Tuesday came.
You received a message from Victoria:
I’m nearby. Tea?
You said yes.
Tea became two teas. A walk. Then tea again two days later. Victoria was warm. Gentle. Curious in the softest possible way. She talked about her kids. About the insanity of Dutch tabloids. About her own messy relationship with her father.
And she listened — truly listened — when you told her about your mom. About the good parts. About the painful parts.
Every time she hugged you goodbye, you felt something heal and ache at the same time.
You, George, Max, and Victoria met again at the clinic.
No one spoke during the elevator ride. Your palms were damp. Max’s knee bounced nonstop. Victoria kept wringing the sleeve of her sweater. George kept rubbing your back, steady and grounding.
The doctor entered with an envelope.
“I have the results of the DNA test.”
Your heart hammered so loudly it drowned out the world. Max’s breath hitched. George grabbed your hand. Victoria whispered a tiny prayer under her breath. The doctor opened the envelope. Read silently. Looked up.
And then said the words that split your life in two:
“Based on the analysis, the probability that you Doctor,"—he nodded to you—“and Mr. Verstappen share a biological father is 99.98%.”
The room didn’t spin. It detonated. Your lungs forgot how to work.
Your vision blurred instantly. Max froze — utterly still — his expression collapsing into something raw and shattered and overwhelmed. Victoria covered her mouth, tears spilling immediately.
George pulled you into his chest, whispering:
“It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
But you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Your entire life — your identity — had been rewritten in a single sentence. And then you heard it.
A tiny, broken whisper from Max:
“I’m… I have another sister.”
That was what cracked you open.
Not the biology. Not the paperwork. Not the decades of secrets.
That.
The disbelief. The hope. The quiet, aching wonder in his voice.
You lifted your head, eyes blurry with tears. He looked terrified to approach you — like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
So you took the step toward him first.
Max exhaled sharply — a sob disguised as breath — and wrapped his arms around you.
Not cautiously. Not politely. But like someone holding something precious they never knew they’d lost. You cried into his shoulder.
He cried into yours. Victoria joined, arms wrapping around both of you, silent tears falling onto your sleeve.
George stood behind you — heartbroken, relieved, protective, proud — stroking your back as you held your newly found family.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. It was messy and painful and overwhelming. But it was real. You pulled back, wiping your face, still breathing unevenly. Max looked at you with red, glassy eyes.
“Hi,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’m… your brother.”
You let out a laugh-sob that broke halfway through.
“Hi,” you whispered. “I’m your sister.”
♡✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚ ♡✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚ ♡✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚
doctoryn
liked by maxverstappen1, victoriaverstappen, georgerussell63 and 1,750,000 others.
It had been a few weeks since the DNA results. A few weeks of: Max texting you about various nonsense when he was in the sim at 2 am, Victoria checking in every few days with voice notes. You three slowly building something that felt like a real sibling bond — hesitant at first, then warm, then unexpectedly natural.
But when Max sent a message saying:
“Family dinner at my place? Everyone’s coming. I want you to meet them.”
your heart immediately dropped into your stomach.
You read the message five times. By the time George walked into the living room with a mug of tea, he found you staring at your phone like it had personally offended you.
“Baby? What’s wrong?”
You inhaled shakily.
“Max wants us to come tonight. For dinner. With… everyone. Kelly, Penelope, Lily… Victoria’s kids… their mum. His mum.”
George sat down beside you slowly, placing the mug into your hands before curling an arm around your shoulders.
“That’s a good thing,” he said softly.
“I know.” Your voice wobbled.
“But what if they don’t like me?”
George blinked at you like you’d just said gravity stopped working.
“YN.” He turned you to face him. “You are smart, kind, hilarious, strong, warm, thoughtful—Baby, you’re you. Anyone would be lucky to meet you.”
You exhaled, pressing your forehead to his chest. George kissed the top of your head.
“It’s family. And they want you there. Not because of the DNA, but because you’re… you.”
You nodded slowly.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s go.”
Max’s house was warm and noisy before you even stepped inside — children laughing, muffled voices, the sound of dishes and music. George squeezed your hand once before you knocked. The door flew open almost immediately.
Max stood there looking… frazzled. Hair messy. Baby spit-up on his shirt. A dish towel thrown over his shoulder like he’d given up pretending to be put together.
“There you are!” he said, sounding both relieved and wired. “Come in! Please! Quickly! Before someone escapes.”
You laughed in spite of your nerves.
Inside, the chaos was instant and comforting: Victoria was chasing her toddler daughter, who was running around wearing a blanket as a cape. Two older boys were arguing over a toy car. Tom was trying to negotiate with all three at once.
Kelly was in the kitchen holding baby Lily while stirring something on the stove. Penelope sat at the counter coloring, humming to herself.
And standing beside her, smiling warmly, was Sophie.
Your breath caught — she looked so much like Max and Victoria it almost hurt.
Max followed your gaze.
“Oh—Mum!” he called. “She’s here!”
Sophie spun around, eyes lighting up instantly.
Before you could even brace yourself, she walked straight toward you and wrapped you in the softest, warmest, most immediate hug.
“Hello, sweetheart,” she said gently. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
You froze for half a second — and then melted. You didn’t even realize you were hugging back until your arms tightened around her. She smelled like lavender and rosemary. Like someone who had spent years being a mother. You pulled back with a trembling exhale.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “Thank you for—everything.”
Sophie cupped your cheek affectionately.
“Family is family,” she said. “We’re just glad we finally found you.”
Victoria rushed over next, pulling you into an excited hug.
“You look beautiful!” Victoria gushed. “And oh my god, is that a new necklace? It’s so cute—come meet the kids!”
You were immediately swept into: a three year old who proudly showed you his dinosaur drawing, an five year old who declared George his favorite driver and ignored Max’s offended gasp and a toddler girl who handed you a plastic teacup and demanded you drink.
George played along perfectly — sipping imaginary tea, bowing dramatically, letting the boys climb him like a jungle gym.
Victoria grinned at him.
“He’s going to be a great dad,” she whispered teasingly.
You blushed so hard you pretended to adjust your hair.
Kelly approached you with baby Lily on her hip, smiling warmly.
“Hi, YN,” she said softly. “I’m really glad to meet you. Max has talked about you nonstop.”
Lily, somehow already matching her father’s serious expression, stared you down for a moment… then reached for your hair with grabby baby hands. You laughed and let her. Penelope came next.
She walked up shyly and held out a drawing.
“It’s you,” she said, “and Maxie. And Uncle George. And Victoria. And me. And Lily. And Mum. And Grandma. And Nino. And Jimmy and Sassy.”
It was absolute chaos on paper. You adored it immediately.
“It’s perfect,” you whispered.
Penelope beamed.
“You’re part of the family now. Maxie says so.”
You blinked. Hard. Then hugged her tightly.
Dinner was loud. Warm. Full of laughter. Max kept scooping extra potatoes onto your plate. Victoria kept telling embarrassing Max stories. Tom kept refilling George’s wine glass. George kept giving you that soft, smitten look across the table.
At one point, Sophie said:
“It’s like she’s been here forever.”
And your chest tightened with something that felt dangerously close to healing.
But the moment that broke you completely was when Victoria leaned back, grinning wickedly.
“Hey, Mum,” she said. “Tell YN about the time Max cried because he thought a pigeon was following him home.”
Max slammed his fork down.
“VICTORIA—”
The entire table erupted. Max went bright red. Lily laughed like she understood the drama. And you? You laughed until your stomach hurt.
After dinner, you stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.
Max joined you a moment later, hands in his pockets, expression softer than usual.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, eyes slightly glossy.
“I… haven’t felt this in a long time,” you admitted. “Family. Belonging. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”
Max swallowed, looking down at the ground.
“Good,” he said softly. “Because you deserve it. And you deserve us. And we’re really lucky we found you.”
Your breath caught. Then Max did something unexpected — something that must’ve taken everything in him: He hugged you. Slow. Secure. Brotherly.
You closed your eyes and let yourself sink into it. For the first time, the ache in your chest felt a little less sharp. A little less lonely. A little more… whole. George eventually stepped outside, slipping an arm around your waist.
“You ready to head home?” he asked softly.
You looked at Max. At the house full of loud, chaotic, overwhelming warmth. At the new family you never knew you needed.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “But we’ll come back soon. I… want to.”
Max’s answering smile was small but impossibly full.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because you’re stuck with us now.”
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You had finally started to feel comfortable in the paddock again. People were adjusting to the news. The media frenzy had died down. You had your new family. Max checked on you constantly. Victoria texted almost daily. Sophie sent you recipes.
And George — sweet, grounding George — held your hand through it all. So when you and George walked into the paddock together, laughing softly about something Kimi had posted, you felt… okay.
Safe. But then you heard your name. Sharp. Too unfamiliar.
Too cold.
“YN.”
Your entire body went rigid. George turned instantly, hand tightening around yours. And there he was. Jos Verstappen. Older in person than you expected. Harsher. Eyes calculating in a way that made the air thicken.
You hadn’t seen him since the truth came out. You never intended to. You didn’t owe him anything. But now he was walking toward you with a look that made your stomach lurch.
“YN,” Jos repeated, stopping in front of you. “We need to talk.”
You didn’t speak. Your throat closed. Your palms went cold. George shifted slightly, stepping half in front of you.
“She doesn’t want to talk,” George said calmly but firmly.
Jos scoffed. “This isn’t about you.”
Before George could answer, a blur of navy appeared between you. Max. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause. Didn’t breathe.
He stepped directly into Jos’s path — physically blocking you from view. The shift in his expression was instant and terrifying. Gone was the soft, tentative brother you’d grown close to.
This was Max Verstappen, the one the entire grid feared when pushed too far.
“What are you doing?” Jos demanded. “I’m speaking to my—”
“No.” Max’s voice was ice. “Don’t say it. You lost the right.”
Jos glared. “She is my daughter—”
“She is none of your concern.”
Jos took a step forward. Max took a step forward too — faster, sharper — chest brushing Jos’s in a way that made even passing mechanics stop and stare.
“Whatever you want from her,” Max said, voice low and lethal, “the answer is no.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” Jos snapped.
“I don’t care,” Max shot back. “And she doesn’t owe you anything.”
Your breath caught. Jos tried again.
“I just want to—”
“Stop.” Max’s voice cracked with something raw and dangerous.
“You had twenty something years. You didn’t want her then. You don’t get to want anything from her now.”
George placed a steadying hand on your back, but you couldn’t look away. Jos’s jaw tightened.
“You’re making a mistake, Max.”
Max laughed once. Sharp. Bitter.
“No. You made all of them.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Jos looked between you and Max one last time — anger, regret, bruised ego, whatever it was — and then turned and walked away, muttering under his breath. Only when he disappeared around a corner did Max exhale. Slow. Shaky. Like he’d been holding his breath through the entire confrontation.
He turned to you immediately. The fury melted off him the second he saw your face. His features softened — completely, heartbreakingly.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
You tried to speak, but your voice caught, so you nodded instead.
Max stepped closer. Gently. Carefully. He rested a hand on your shoulder — hesitant at first, then firmer when you didn’t pull away.
“He doesn’t get to hurt you,” Max said softly. “Not now. Not ever again.”
Your chest tightened.
“Thank you,” you whispered, the words trembling. “For stepping in.”
Max looked down, almost shy now.
“You’re my sister,” he murmured.
Like it was still something he was learning to say. Something he cherished. Something he meant.
“And I protect my family.”
George nodded beside you, adding softly:
“Always.”
You blinked back tears — overwhelmed, but safe. Between the two people who loved you fiercely in completely different ways. And for the first time in your life— Someone stood between you and the man who had abandoned you.
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months later...
The weeks blur together in ribbons of color and planning boards and half finished to do lists. Between work, fittings, and the rapidly approaching wedding date, you barely have a second to breathe — but today is the one day you’ve protected on your calendar with your entire soul. Dress shopping. And not just with anyone — with your people.
When you step into the private bridal suite, you swear it feels like walking into sunlight. The room is warm and bright, mirrors everywhere, soft music playing under the hum of excited chatter.
Victoria is the first to sweep you into a hug, already misty-eyed. Kelly follows with flowers she insists are “just because.” Sophie arrives last, pausing in the doorway like she’s worried she’s intruding — until you hug her so tightly she whispers, teary, “I’m so honored to be here, sweetheart.”
Then the chaos parade arrives. Lily, balancing a coffee in each hand and grinning like she’s about to cause trouble. Eli, already filming on her phone. And then Kimi, who practically skips into the room like a child at Disney World.
“I brought snacks,” he announces, dramatically setting down three bags of chips and a container of strawberries. “Lily and Eli said I needed to be useful.”
“You begged to come,” Lily laughs, nudging him.
“Semantics,” he whispers.
You’re already laughing. Your chest feels full in a way that’s new — a way that still surprises you sometimes. Family. Not the one you were born into, but the one that keeps gathering around you anyway.
It is magical. Dress after dress, each one bringing a different reaction:
Kimi gasping loudly every time like it’s the first dress he’s ever seen. Eli fanning her face dramatically. Kelly giving the most supportive, mom-coded compliments humanly possible. Victoria crying. Every time. Lily just looks like she has seen an angel.
And Sophie — sweet, gentle, steady Sophie — sits on the little sofa by the mirror with tissues in her lap, giving comments that sound so achingly maternal they nearly undo you.
“My goodness… your mother would be so proud,” she whispers once, so softly you almost don’t hear it.
You swallow around the ache in your throat.
Hours pass in warmth and laughter and teasing until finally — finally — you step out in the dress. The dress.
Everything goes silent. Kimi’s hand flies to his mouth. Lily is openly crying. Victoria is sobbing into Kelly’s shoulder. Eli pushes Kimi halfway off the couch for a better view. Sophie stands. Just stands. And stares. Her eyes glossy but soft. She walks toward you slowly, like approaching something delicate.
“Beautiful,” she murmurs, smoothing the fabric near your waist. Her voice wavers. “You look… absolutely beautiful.”
Your chin trembles. And you nod.
“This is the one.”
Everyone cheers, and you end up wrapped in a pile of hugs that smell like perfume and coffee and people you adore.
That evening is quiet. Peaceful. You’re on the balcony of your apartment later that night, the city lights shimmering below you. Lily is curled against your chest, half asleep, her tiny breaths against your collarbone grounding you.
You don’t hear the sliding door until someone steps out. Max.
He’s holding two mugs of tea — one for you, one for himself — and sets them down on the ledge before joining you.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just leans on the railing beside you, looking out at the skyline. The soft glow of the city reflects in his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“I think so,” you whisper.
And for a moment, that’s enough. Just the two of you, breathing the same cool night air, listening to the soft noises of the apartment behind you.
But something inside you has been building all day — a knot of emotion, fear, longing, grief, love — and it pushes its way up your throat.
You look at him. Truly look at him. Your brother. Your miracle. Your safe place.
“Max,” you say softly, your voice trembling. “Can I… ask you something?”
He straightens immediately, eyes sharpening with concern.
“Of course.”
You swallow hard.
“I…” Your voice catches. “I don’t have a parent to walk me down the aisle. And I’ve been trying not to think about it but today—”
You break. The tears come quietly, sudden and unstoppable.
Max’s face falls. “Oh, sweetheart…”
He reaches for you, his big brother instincts taking over effortlessly. He slips Lily into his arms with all the gentleness in the world — as if she’s made of spun sugar — so you can wipe your face.
You breathe shakily.
“I want it to be you,” you force out, voice cracking. “If you want to. If you’d be okay with that. I just… you’ve become… everything I wished a brother would be. And it would mean so much to me if—”
You don’t finish.
You can’t.
Max steps forward and pulls you into a hug — tight, grounding, protective — careful not to jostle the baby in his arm. His voice is thick when he speaks.
“Of course I will,” he whispers into your hair. “Of course I will. I’d be honored. Truly honored.”
You sob harder, hands fisting in the back of his shirt.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“You’re my sister,” he murmurs, steady and sure. “And I’m going to be there for every moment you want me for. Always.”
When he pulls back, his eyes are shining too — and he laughs softly at himself, wiping at them with the back of his hand.
“Look at us,” he jokes weakly. “Two emotional disasters.”
“Shut up,” you sniff.
He nudges your shoulder gently. “I love you, you know.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling through tears. “I know.”
As you stand together — Max holding Lily, you leaning into his side — the city humming quietly beneath you, you feel something inside you finally settle. Not fixed. But healing. Healing and getting the peace you both should've had as children.
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doctorynrussell & georgerussell63
liked by maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli, victoriaverstappen and 12,090,000 others.
doctorynrussell : officially mr and mrs russell and happier than ever<3
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The day you’ve been imagining — planning, dreaming, and sometimes panicking over — has finally arrived.
The room is alive with laughter, chatter, and the quiet chaos of all your favorite people helping you get ready.
Victoria fusses with your hair, brushing soft strands away from your face and adding final curls, while Sophie checks your makeup with meticulous care, her hands gentle and steady.
Lily is crouched near the floor, carefully tucking your shoes away and reminding everyone not to trip. Eli is hovering with the veil, draping it perfectly, and Kimi… well, Kimi is in his own world, holding up a mirror and offering a running commentary on every angle of the dress.
“You look… like a princess,” he says finally, grinning. “Like… a royal princess.”
You laugh lightly through your nerves, feeling a little dizzy from the love in the room. This is your family now — messy, loud, warm, real.
When the bustle calms, Max steps aside, waiting for a moment alone with you.
You take a deep breath, smoothing the skirt of your gown. “I’m… nervous,” you admit, voice soft.
Max smiles, his expression gentle but protective. “Of course you are. But look at you — calm, beautiful, strong. You’ve got this. And I’ve got you.”
“I… thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. For walking me down the aisle.”
He nods, emotion catching in his throat. “It’s an honor, YN. You’re my sister. Today, tomorrow, always — I’ll be there for you.”
You rest your forehead against his chest for a moment, taking in the steady beat of his heart. For the first time since discovering your family, the knot of anxiety in your chest loosens.
Outside, guests are seated in a sun-dappled garden, flowers spilling from every corner. Cameras are tucked discreetly in pockets, but most of the focus is on the ceremony itself — intimate, meaningful, and brimming with love.
Kimi and Ollie are tasked with being the ring bearers. Chaos ensues almost immediately: Ollie trips over the hem of the aisle runner, nearly sending the pillow flying. Kimi tries to guide him, tugging his sleeve, whispering frantic instructions, but Ollie is determined to march forward in his own time.
The guests laugh quietly, and you can’t help but giggle behind your bouquet.
Then there is Max, standing tall, looking impossibly proud and emotional, waiting for you. His hand reaches for yours, and it feels like coming home.
Victoria and Sophie are seated nearby, hands clutched together, tears spilling freely. They’ve watched Max grow into the fiercely protective brother who helped you through so much, and now — seeing him in this moment — their hearts can’t contain it.
The music begins, but it’s the quiet squeeze of Max’s hand that keeps you centered.
When you reach the end of the aisle, you take a deep breath, meeting George’s eyes. His smile is soft, awed, and completely his own. You slide your hand into his, fingers interlacing naturally, and for the first time, the nerves melt away completely.
The ceremony ends, vows whispered, rings exchanged. You and George steal a quiet moment at the edge of the reception space, hidden just behind a flowering arch.
George lifts your hand, brushing a stray curl from your face. “You’re incredible,” he whispers. “You’ve made me so lucky.”
You laugh softly, resting your head against his chest. “I feel the same. Today, all of this… feels right.”
He kisses the top of your head gently. “Let’s make sure it always does.”
You smile against him, heart full, soul at ease, ready to start this next chapter together.
"Let us go celebrate, Dr. Russell."
The reception is lively and perfect chaos — a celebration of love, family, and your new life.
Max and Victoria can’t stop bragging about you. “Our sister is a vision,” Max says to anyone who will listen, proudly pointing to you and George as you dance together. “Look at her — just… incredible.”
Sophie is there, radiant, welcoming everyone with warmth and laughter, treating you like the daughter she’s longed to embrace.
Lily and Eli are dancing on the sidelines, giggling and cheering. Kimi is nervously attempting a slow dance with Victoria's youngest, while Ollie is reenacting the ring-bearer chaos of earlier for anyone who will watch.
The food is abundant, the music lively, the toasts heartfelt and hilarious. George and you share private smiles between conversations, sneaking small moments to steal each other’s hands or laugh over inside jokes.
Your new family surrounds you — Max beside you, Sophie hugging you every five minutes, Victoria constantly checking that everyone has a drink and feels included. The children are running around, sticky fingers and laughter filling the air.
Even half the grid is in attendance — smiling, teasing, and celebrating. They marvel at how natural you are in this world, how the love between you and George radiates, and, increasingly, how seamlessly you fit into this extended, found family.
The night stretches on in laughter, dancing, and countless shared smiles — a beautiful, chaotic, emotional celebration of the life you’ve built together.
And as you sway in George’s arms under the fairy lights, surrounded by your siblings and friends, you realize that this — all of this — is exactly where you were meant to be.
Summary ━━━ In a world where everyone is born with a soulmate mark, most people live their entire lives without ever finding the one person it binds them to. Some are lucky enough to discover their match in old age, often in their 70s or 80s. A blessed few find theirs early in life—and when they do, it’s considered a miracle. The universe offers no promises, only the mark itself.
Throughout all of recorded history, not a single person has ever rejected their soulmate.
But Y/N believes she will be the first to be rejected.
When Y/N, a shy but fiercely guarded woman haunted by childhood trauma and deep insecurities, discovers that her soulmate is Lando Norris—one of the most famous, charming, and emotionally unreachable men she’s ever met—she makes a decision that changes everything. She tells no one. Not even him.
For fourteen months, she carries this devastating secret while Lando unknowingly breaks her heart over and over again. He flirts with other women in front of her, maintains ties with his ex-girlfriend, and treats Y/N with a casual cruelty that cuts deeper than he could ever imagine.
What Y/N doesn’t know is that Lando feels something too—something that unnerves and confuses him. So he buries it beneath sharp words and cold shoulders, lashes out, and pushes away the one person he can’t seem to get out of his head.
He feels the pull. He just doesn’t understand what it means.
Until one moment, by pure accident, he sees the mark on her body.
The universe stops.
Suddenly, the girl he’s spent over a year pushing away is no longer just another name in his orbit—she’s his. His soulmate. The one fate carved into him before he was ever born.
As realization crashes down on him, Lando finally understands why she always looked at him like he was both everything she wanted and everything she feared.
And Y/N—fragile, angry, and terrified—must face the one thing she’s spent months trying to avoid: the truth that he knows.
But the cruelest truth of all? She still doesn’t believe he could ever want her back.
Because while no one in history has ever rejected their soulmate, Y/N has spent her entire life being rejected by everyone else.
And she’s convinced that not even cosmic destiny can make her worthy of love.
Pairing ━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader
Overview:
soulmate AU
enemies to lovers trope
loads of angst
loads of sexual tension and frustration
fuckboy Lando
complicated relationship with emotionally abusive parents (Y/N)
hyper-independent and emotionally guarded Y/N
jealous Lando
“I don’t need anyone” Y/N vs “I’d give her everything” Lando
protective Lando once he finds out the truth
unrequited love (but not really)
Y/N hiding her trauma behind success and control
slow burn
Y/N putting up walls Lando desperately tries to break through
yearning and longing
smut (at some point)
mutual pining
idiots fighting fate (mostly Y/N)
Lando falling first and harder
touch-starved but terrified Y/N
moments of softness that wreck them both
“I’m not good enough for you” trope
Each chapter contains its own content warnings.
Chapter 1: Fight
| 10.9k | Summary: A brutal fight erupts between Y/N and Lando at a friends' gathering, where he unknowingly destroys his soulmate in a way no one thought possible. His attack confirms every fear she’s carried alone for years, shattering the last piece of hope she had. That night, overwhelmed by heartbreak and years of buried trauma, Y/N suffers a panic attack more severe than anything she’s ever experienced.
Chapter 2: Breaking
| 4.8k | Summary: After the fight with Y/N, Lando is left reeling in guilt and self-loathing, realizing too late that his cruelty came from fear of how deeply he cared for her. Meanwhile, Y/N suffers a severe panic attack and is hospitalized, feeling irreparably broken and unloved.
Chapter 3: Spain
| 11.9k | Summary: Pietra persuades a reluctant Y/N to join a vacation in Spain, where a booking mix‑up forces her to share a room and a king‑size bed with Lando. All week, she must keep her hidden soulmate mark concealed from him while wrestling with her nerves and his unexpected closeness.
Chapter 4: Tension
| 16.8k | Summary: Y/N panics when she breaks her foundation, and Lando unexpectedly spends an entire day helping her search Spanish shops to find a replacement. Despite growing attraction and moments of connection, both misinterpret each other's signals—Y/N thinks Lando finds her repulsive while he's actually desperately attracted to her but hiding it.
Chapter 5: Realization
| 11.6k | Summary: Y/N secretly masturbates while listening to Lando jerking off in the shower. Later, he says something that completely devastates her.
Chapter 6: Truth
| 14.8k | Summary: Lando and Y/N see each other for the first time since the Spain trip—and the truth is finally revealed in a single, accidental moment.
Chapter 7: Conversation
| 25.3k | Summary: Y/N and Lando have a serious and heartbreaking conversation.
Chapter 8: Change
| 13.8k | Summary: Lando begins pursuing Y/N with thoughtful gestures and messages, making significant changes to his life to prove his sincerity. Despite being moved by his efforts, Y/N struggles to trust his intentions after being hurt before and chooses to protect herself rather than risk further disappointment.
Chapter 9: Dreamy
| 17.3k | Summary: Lando gets jealous during a dinner with friends. Later that night, a dream occurs.
Chapter 10: Exposed
| 10.4k | Summary: Paparazzi photos of Lando and Y/N leaving dinner together leak online, and Lando witnesses a phone call between Y/N and her mother.
Chapter 11: Cracks
| 21.5k | Summary: After her mother's call, Y/N breaks down in Lando's arms, but panic overwhelms her, and she pushes him away, unable to trust that his feelings are genuine. Later, she meets Pietra for coffee but still can't reveal the soulmate secret. Meanwhile, Lando drives to his parents and confesses everything.
Chapter 12: Shattered
| 20.5k | Summary: A confrontation between Lando and Y/N reaches a devastating breaking point that forces both to face painful truths. In the aftermath, Y/N begins to lower her walls for the first time, though she still can't promise him anything.
Chapter 13: Closer
| 2.4k | Summary: Things deepen between Lando and Y/N as she slowly lets him past her walls.
Chapter 14: Surrender
| 9.5k | Summary: A slow morning that stretches into afternoon, just the two of them. Lando meets every one of Y/N's retreats with patience instead of punishment, and slowly, warily, she stops bracing for the warmth to switch off.
you and lando are friends. which is why, when he asks for your help with his public image, you accept. you and lando are friends—but fake-dating in the media storm has a way of blurring the lines
pairing: lando norris x roommate!reader
contents: fake dating, roommates to lovers, friends to lovers, romance, light angst, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, smau elements, drinking/alcohol, she fell first but he fell harder, lando and r are emotionally constipated, max fewtrell my favorite designated third wheel <3, title from gorgeous by taylor swift, largely inspired by king of my heart.
word count: 10.1k
eve’s notes: this is my entry for @tsunodaradio’s the formula 1: eras collab !! so so so excited to be part of this collab with some of my most talented mutuals <3
Lando is your friend. He has been for a while—one of your closest ones, in fact. After all, there’s a reason why, six months ago, the two of you started living together.
Now, it’s not what you think.
Lando had been the one to come up with the idea. He’d realized he spent more time away from his apartment than living in it—and he didn’t quite like the idea of strangers looking after his place and personal belongings while he was away. He’d also been insisting for years already that you should move to Monaco, to which you always replied that you weren’t exactly in the correct tax bracket to do that. You intended it as an off-hand comment when you mentioned your job was becoming more of an online situation, when you mentioned you would be able to visit more often.
Really, it was a joke when Lando said it. You’d both gone out to some fancy restaurant after Max had ditched the two of you last minute. He’d been sipping his drink when he teased, “Maybe it’s finally time you move here—you could move in with me.”
You’d laughed it off, but by the time Lando had set down his drink, paper umbrella poking his cheek, there was a more determined set of his brows—and he wasn’t laughing anymore.
You don’t know how he managed to convince you. Though, really, it’s Lando—and Max likes to tease that you always fold for him. Which you deny. Obviously.
It’s since been six months since the two of you started living together. He keeps the rent very cheap for you—even though he insisted you didn’t have to pay for it—and you keep his apartment well-taken care of while he’s off being famous. For a while it felt more like you were house-sitting rather than being his roommate, with triple headers and flights to MTC becoming more and more noticeable. Still, you’ve noticed he’s found more time to come back to Monaco. You know that only because Max pointedly mentioned during a stream that he didn’t used to spend as much time in Monaco as he has this season.
“Yeah, ‘cause I’ve missed my bed,” Lando retorted, but you knew he was doing it for your benefit. Probably because some misplaced guilt was catching up to him in leaving you alone in a home that still doesn’t quite feel like your own.
Either way, living with Lando is… surprisingly nice. He was cautious the first few days of him being back. Constantly checking on you, asking “is this okay with you?” more often than not. But by the fourth day, you could see his shoulders relax, his posture ease, as if he suddenly remembered that it’s just you. From then, it doesn’t take him long to start streaming late at night with shouts that make you want to put your head through the wall.
“Are your neighbors complaining?” Ginge asks through Lando’s headset. “They must loathe you. Y’should install a soundproof booth, Lando.”
“What? No, my neighbors don’t—SHIT!” His yelling is promptly followed by a loud banging against the wall besides him. He winces. “Sorry!”
“Oh, someone’s angry at you.”
“Yeah, she’s gonna kill me,” Lando replies distractedly, ducking to lower the master volume of his headphones. He calls out an apology followed by your name. It’s late, and you’re working tomorrow—and he rather appreciates not being maimed and killed in a fit of sleepless rage.
“She’s visiting?” Ginge asks, and Lando huffs as he finally fixes his settings.
“What?” He scrunches his nose. “No you muppet, she lives with me.”
Lando doesn’t realize the impact those seven words have until much later.
Next morning, when you’re sitting on the kitchen island with your laptop propped open and your breakfast served beside you, you hear a muffled phone call from Lando’s room—something you can’t quite make out. Either way, it’s not a moment later that Lando is standing across the table from you, shirtless, with a half-panicked half-pleading expression on his face.
“Please don’t be mad.”
Your eyes slowly shift away from your screen and towards him. “What did you do?”
“You have to promise not to be mad at me. ‘Cause it was an accident, and I didn’t mean—I didn’t realize—”
“Lando,” you enunciate slowly. “What did you do?”
He winces, looking borderline constipated. He tilts his phone screen towards you, where you find texts from Max accompanied by a screenshot of the trending tab on Twitter.
You arch a brow. “I thought you didn’t use Twitter.”
“I don’t, I just—” he inhales deeply, exhales. “Just read it.”
You squint, and your brow furrows as you read the trending topics.
“You have a girlfriend?” you ask, turning back to your laptop. “How come you didn’t tell me? Do I know her?”
“You’re my girlfriend.”
You raise your brows. “Oh my god, babe, really? This is so soon though! So unexpected!”
Lando doesn’t even look slightly amused. “You’re not funny.”
You can see his frown deepen when your lips curve with a bemused tilt. “So, why does Twitter think I’m your girlfriend?”
Lando closes his eyes, scratching his neck. “…I might’ve mentioned that we’re living together.” He quickly scrambles to continue, “I-I didn’t realize what that would look like until the head of my PR team and Max left me, like, a hundred messages. I’m—genuinely, I didn’t mean to pull you into this.”
You stare at him for a beat. He looks fidgety. As if there’s something else he wants to say, but hasn’t quite figured how. You click your tongue, closing your laptop. “Spit it out, Lan.”
He perks up at that, caught off guard. Now that you’re staring at him more pointedly, you realize he does look a little out of it. Guilty, maybe.
“Lando.”
He tugs at his curls a little too harshly. “My management saw it.”
You furrow your brows. “Okay. Are they, like, mad? Can’t you just tell them it was a misunderstanding?”
Lando finally takes a seat, and despite his bedhead and his lack of a shirt, you can’t help but feel he’s getting serious.
“I need a favor.”
And those words shouldn’t sound too bad—except he looks nervous. You’ve seen Lando nervous before, it comes with the territory of being in his close circle. But it’s been a long while since he’s acted like this when it’s just you.
“…I don't think I like where this is going,” you say carefully.
“Just—hear me out.” He runs a hand through his face, this weird, jittery energy emanating from him in waves. “My team has been on my ass for a while to set me up with some PR girlfriend.”
You snort. “And they say romance is dead.”
He shoots you a look. “Be serious.”
You’re deflecting—Lando can tell. But you can’t stop yourself—it’s a nervous habit. “Have you tried dating apps? I thought your sort used… what’s it called? Raya?” You squint at him. “And since when do you need your management to score you a date?”
“I don’t,” he says defensively. “And it’d be a PR relationship—it’s not a real thing. It’s just to, y’know, create a better public image. It’s a press thing. Tons of celebrities do it.”
“Do other drivers do it?” Lando pauses at that, and your eyebrows shoot up as you inch forward. “Oh my god. Oh my god, who? Do I know them? Have I met them?”
“I feel like you’re missing the point of this conversation.”
“Yeah, only ‘cause you’re dancing around the subject.” You straighten, and Lando mimics the action. “Just say what you wanna say, Lan.”
“My team thinks we’re dating,” he finally manages.
“Yeah, I figured.”
He shifts on his seat to inch closer to you, gesturing with his hands. “Yeah, but they’re happy about it—they say it’s a good thing, for my image or whatever.”
You pause. He’s fidgeting with his fingers, avoiding looking you in the eye. Oh, surely… “So you told them it was a misunderstanding.”
He scrunches his nose as he turns his head up to the ceiling, avoiding your gaze.
Your eyes widen. “Lando!”
“I really need your help in this,” he pleads. “It’d be, like, a small favor! And I’ll pay it back somehow, I promise. Whatever you want.”
“Small favor?”
“It would just be for a few months—just so I can get them off my back about this.”
You blink at him in utter disbelief. It takes you a moment to find the words to answer. He just sits across from you, looking at you pleadingly. “…So what?” you start slowly. “You’re asking me to be your pretend girlfriend?”
Lando tries to smile, but you can see the uneasy anxiety brewing behind it. It’s an important season for him—and if he wants his voice to have weight, he first needs to satisfy his team’s demands. Give in order to get. Even if they are as ridiculous as getting someone to go out with.
“You’d be the prettiest pretend girlfriend,” Lando tries. He inches forward again, stray curls sticking at odd angles. “Please? I love you.” Then, as a last ditch effort, “…There’s no one I’d rather be fake dating than you?”
You don’t appreciate the butterflies that flutter in your stomach. At all. “I need to think about this.”
“Okay, yeah, cool, no problem.” He’s already nodding a little too eagerly, as if you’ve agreed instead of saying you’ll consider it. Lando rushes around the table to press a kiss into the crown of your head. Warmth shoots in your belly as you watch him head back into his room. “Thank you!” he calls out.
“I haven’t said yes yet,” you shout back.
The smile you hear in Lando’s voice goes directly against his words when he calls back: “I know!”
Max was right. You hate that Max was right.
So, you caved. Big surprise there. It’s Lando, after all. He’s your friend, and you’ll always wanna help him in any way you can. Plus, you two already live under the same roof. Just how hard can pretend dating be?
The only person you’ve told—that you both agreed you could tell—was Max. And the moment you did, he responded with a two minute audio of him laughing himself into tears.
Needless to say, it’s not the encouragement you needed.
Now you’re both sitting in the living room across from each other. The two of you are still in pajamas, the golden Monaco sun filtering through the open curtains of your shared flat.
“If we do this, we need to set some ground rules,” you finally say.
“Rules?” he repeats, slowly. “For dating?”
“Pretend dating,” you correct.
Lando tilts his head at you, green eyes watching you for a second. A glint you can’t quite place dances in his gaze for a beat. Finally, he straightens from his reclined position on the couch. “Alright, bug,” he says, with all the formality of someone who hasn’t showered yet. “What are your rules?”
You set your phone on the table, opening your notes app to see the guidelines you’d scribbled out nearing three am last night.
“One.” You hold up your index finger. “You’re dating me for the next four months. I don’t wanna see you or find out you’re flirting or making out or hooking up with other people. If I’m gonna be in the public eye, I don’t wanna be thrown into some scandal.” You narrow your eyes and watch as he raises a brow. “If you get exposed for it I will be calling you a cheater on Twitter.”
Lando gasps dramatically. “Already preparing for the worst case scenario? On our first day of pretend dating?” He makes an over exaggerated motion, pressing his hands against his chest. “My pretend feelings are so hurt.” You arch a brow, to which he nods his head half-heartedly. “Fine, point taken. And it’s seven months.”
“Five.”
“Six.”
“Deal. Number two.” You pause, embarrassment tinging your cheeks. The words feel like molasses in your throat. Viscous, sticky. Hard to get out. You awkwardly shift on your spot on the rug, finally looking at Lando. “No kissing.”
“What?” Lando makes a face, squinting at you. “But we’re dating. How’s anyone gonna buy that if we never kiss?”
You tilt your head. “You’re sounding a little eager there, Lan. Anything you wanna share?”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But can I at least kiss you on the cheek when we’re in public?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Italians do it all the time. And it’s not like we’re not already doing that.”
Heat licks at your face with that last comment. He says it so casually—which, yeah, you suppose it is normal for the two of you. But hearing Lando saying it like that. Like it should be a compromise in a situation like this, but not for the two of you.
Still, you consider it. “Okay. Yeah, cheek kisses are fine.”
Lando nods. “Okay then. Three.” He notices the look you’re giving him and makes a face. “What? I can’t set rules of my own?”
You roll your eyes. “Go ahead.”
“Three,” he continues. He turns his three fingers around to face you. “You go to at least three races with me.”
You hum. “Three is a lot.”
“Not in six months,” Lando says. “They can be like… mini vacations. All expenses paid for.”
“Already trying to prove you can be a decent boyfriend?” you tease, making him roll his eyes again with a smile. “Okay. But I get to choose which races.”
“Deal.” He clicks his tongue. “But Monaco doesn’t count.”
You part your lips to complain. “What? Why not?”
“‘Cause I want you to travel with me,” Lando says in a sickeningly sweet voice as he leans closer to you. You shove his face away. “Oh! And dates.”
Your head snaps up. “What?”
He toys with his thumb as he looks at you. And if you squint, you’d swear he looks borderline embarrassed—that he’s trying to hide it. “Dates. We need to be seen in public. Y’know. Together.”
You hadn’t thought about that. You just figured you would make appearances in his streams, post a picture or two. It makes sense, though. “You’re paying for those.”
“Mhm,” he hums.
“And flowers,” you add. Lando tilts his head at you curiously. Maybe it’d feel more embarrassing to say this if it were anyone but Lando. You raise your chin. “I wanna get flowers. Not generic ones, though.”
Lando nods slowly, almost confused. “Okay, sure.”
You blink. “That easy?”
“Yeah, ‘course. It’s not hard.” He shrugs, unlocking his phone and opening his notes app. He types something before his eyes peer at you. “You like tulips, right?”
“Um, yeah.” You straighten, surprise catching on your voice. “Yeah, tulips work.”
Lando nods. “Okay then. So, just to recap: six months, no kissing, three races—not including Monaco—public dates, aaand tulips.”
You run through your mental list and nod in agreement.
Lando grins impishly. “Okay, then. Are you ready to be my girlfriend?” He leans closer to you, as if telling you a secret. His voice drops. “Remember though: you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”
You scoff with a smile. “Please. I’ve done your laundry before. It can’t be that hard.”
Your first date with Lando is at a place that is nice, fancy. Fancier than any date has ever brought you on—and living in Monaco, that’s saying something. Even then, you know Lando hasn’t gone all out. You know, because you explicitly asked him not to. The last thing you need is to stress over which fork you’re supposed to use for a salad. Still—the restaurant is more posh than you’re used to.
Warm lights illuminate the terrace, appetizers already set in front of you on your plates. For a moment you wondered whether you should’ve ordered something to share, but you are not willing to compromise on fish because of Lando.
It’s not like this is the first time you’ve gone out to eat together. You’ve gone out with Max, or Ria, or Martin—or just the two of you.
Even so, it’s easy to forget you’re here under false pretenses.
It’s hard, putting it into words—but it feels like you’re more aware this time. Unlike other times, today you did your makeup with more attention to detail. Spent more time fixing your hair—even longer choosing a paparazzi-ready outfit. Your nerves still simmer in your gut since Lando told you his team had tipped off a few photographers about the place of your date. It makes you wonder, how often casual pictures in casual settings are staged.
Still. Despite the hours of mental and physical preparation, the fancy restaurant and the pep talk you gave yourself in the bathroom—the moment you sit across from Lando, it becomes easy to forget. Maybe too easy.
When you look up from your plate, you find that Lando is already looking at you.
“What?” you ask. He’s wearing that white shirt of his with the first two buttons undone, his curls as unruly as ever. You lick your lips, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh my god, please tell me I don’t have anything on my face.”
Lando blinks. “No, no, you’re fine,” he says, quickly. “Really. You just… you look pretty.”
Warmth shoots across your stomach. You shake your head. You think you hear yourself scoffing. “Already flirting, huh?” you say amusedly, shaking your head as you reach for another forkful of your plate. “You’re quick.”
Lando winks, and you roll your eyes with a smile.
As dinner goes on, you can feel yourself falling into that familiar rhythm. It’s Lando, after all—and it’s always been natural for you to feel at ease around him. And by the time the two of you have ordered desserts, you forget about the fancy restaurant, or the fake-dating thing—and, for a moment, it’s just you and Lando. Not performing some convoluted plan, but just you. Friends. Easy.
You find you like it better when it’s just that. You and Lando.
You listen attentively as he talks, explaining with his hands. The terrace feels noisier now, so you lean closer to hear him. At some point, Lando reaches for your hand, and your heart does a weird thing in your chest. He’s still smiling while he’s talking, but you’re unfocused. His fingers are warm as he caresses your palm. Honey spills inside of you, warm and sweet, casting the night in liquid gold.
Lando smiles softly, tenderly, and your heart jumps. “Okay, that’s good,” he says.
“Hm?” you hum, sounding distracted, maybe even a little dazed.
Lando tilts his head somewhere to the side, and you follow his gaze. Off by the street, a man is packing up his camera.
Oh. Right.
“Really good job.” Lando smiles, offering an encouraging thumbs up. You nod in return with a smile that doesn’t feel as genuine. He lets go of your hand, and you don’t let yourself linger on how you miss the weight of it against yours.
“Yeah,” you say, reaching for your glass of wine. “Thanks.”
deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE ...... NEW WAG ALERT? McLaren Driver Lando Norris & mystery woman spotted dining at Cipriani Monte Carlo, a local restaurant in Monaco 📸 monaco_celebs
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📌 user1 not to be that person but i’m like 90% sure its lando’s friend from those older quadrant videos!!! ♥️ liked by author
user2 okay and this comes out DAYS after lando reveals they’re living together???? this is not a soft launch this is hitting us with a BRICK
user3 WHAT 😃😁
user4 i hope that if it is yourusername then it means we get to see her again in quadrant videos :(
user5 OH MY GOD??
user6 so no one can have a private moment anymore is what i’m hearing
user7 okay but they’re totally kissing right??
user8 i mean the angle is kinda funky so it’s hard to say?
user9 idk it looks like they’re just talking tbh
user10 THEY’RE TOTALLY KISSING
user11 AGREED!!! you are never catching me talking THAT close to other people 😦😵💫
liked by maxfewtrell, lando and 101,871 others
yourusername he got me tulips 💐
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user12 HELLO?????? i thought this was a prank 😭
user13 if it is… they’re really committing to the bit
user14 lando liking this post after being photographed with a “mystery woman”? stop this madness
maxfewtrell orange tulips huh 😐
lando don’t be jealous
yourusername yeah it’s unbecoming max
user15 oh hello hard launch
user16 welp there go my delusions of ever having a chance with lando norris
user17 might we call those…….. papaya tulips
user18 yes
maxfewtrell don’t even start
The picture the paparazzi took of you has been haunting you more than it should.
As soon as you left the restaurant, food sitting oddly in your stomach, it was already making rounds on social media. Each time you open Instagram, you find that you’ve been tagged in yet another upload of it.
It looks like you’re kissing him. Which you’re not, by the way—something you had to explain to Max over text. It was a really loud place! Really, maybe they should invest in less open concepts instead of wasting all their high-end budget in a bajillion differently-sized forks.
Point is, it’s a compromising picture making rounds on gossip pages. It should be a good thing. And yet, it makes you feel… odd. A strange weight on your gut.
It only hits you a little after the date. After the two of you arrived back at the apartment, kicking off expensive shoes and tucking your to-go bag that definitely was not restaurant-certified into the fridge. You bid Lando goodnight and close your door behind you.
Then it hits you. Within the confines of your room, just a wall away from Lando’s. An odd tingle on your skin. A long-dormant flutter in your stomach.
So, here’s a small bit of totally irrelevant information you neglected to mention to Max.
You used to have a crush on Lando. Used to. Past tense. Long forgotten. A thing of the past tucked alongside childhood embarrassments and picture day mishaps.
And, really, could anyone blame you? It’s hardly your fault that you blinked one day and little Lando Norris—Lando who used to be five inches shorter than you—suddenly decided to have a growth spurt.
( “Would you look at that! Looks like I’m taller than you now,” he’d say with that squeaky voice of his, grinning. You squinted at him, noticing it but refusing to acknowledge it. The giveaway should’ve been his trousers—which were significantly shorter on him than they should’ve been.
Summer break had certainly been kind to Lando. And while his voice was still high-pitched and cracking at the edges, not even you could deny noticing the inches he had on you. Or the more golden color of his skin. The sharper lines of his jaw.
Your throat felt tighter, your face warm. You batted his hand away regardless. “You’re wearing sneakers. It doesn’t count.”
But Lando wasn’t listening anymore. He tilted his head at you with a smug look on his face.
“What?”
“You look better from up here.” He poked your cheek with his finger, smiling pleasantly behind his fringe. “Like a cute little bug.” )
Your body slumps against your mattress. Your make-up suddenly feels like too much, your skin crawling. Staring up at the ceiling, your stomach still flutters with that feeling that you refuse to acknowledge.
You can’t possibly be that easy. What, all it takes is a somewhat decent date—a very decent, very fake date—and suddenly you’re back in high school again?
This isn’t happening. You refuse to let it happen.
Your keys jingle in your hand, bedroom door closing behind you. Days are warmer in Monaco—early morning breeze, sunlight stretching across streets and shop awnings. There’s something particularly refreshing about waking up to ocean air in the summer. If anything, it’s one of the many things you love about Monaco.
You open the door of your flat, as quiet as you can manage. Before you can step out, however, you’re met with a roadblock.
“Morning,” Lando greets from the hallway, face sweaty as he pulls out his airpods.
“Hi,” you say, dumbly. A part of you had hoped Lando would’ve stuck to his summer break schedule—waking up late, going around the city in the afternoon. You should’ve known he’d go for morning runs this time of the season.
He gives you a pearly-white smile—similar to those in magazines and ads, except the real thing is more crooked, wider at the corners. He side-steps you, and for a moment, you think you’re in the clear. Before you can make a break for it, though, he asks: “Are you going somewhere?”
“Just the mall,” you say casually.
“Cool,” Lando says, picking up one of the snacks left by his trainer. He’s halfway through chewing his protein bar when he adds, “Can I come with? I need to buy another pair of trainers.”
And because you’re weak—so, so weak—all it takes is a glance at Lando for your resolve to crumble. Despite your best interests, you find yourself smiling. “Yeah, sure.” Lando straightens off the counter. “Just… shower first. You stink.”
He grins. And with his sweaty running gear and sweaty face, he still leans closer to you and presses a kiss to your temple. “I’ll be quick!” he calls out, already halfway into the bathroom.
You wipe your face off, making a sound of disgust. “Lando!”
You can hear his laugh even as he closes the door.
You open the curtain in front of you, walking across the fitting room to nitpick your reflection in a large mirror. Lando lounges on one of the small seats provided for the boyfriends, brothers and husbands that seemed to have all gotten dragged into shopping for women’s clothes. He scrolls on his phone, sinking into his own Quadrant hoodie.
“How’d it go?” he asks absentmindedly.
You tilt your head at your own reflection. Sundresses are tricky—but somehow, after spending the better part of the morning searching for one, you think this is finally it. The material is soft to the touch. It’s not uncomfortably short nor impractically long. It really is beautiful, with blue and white floral details that remind you of those porcelain botanical patterns.
“I think I like it,” you say, turning to see how the skirt fits around your waist. You tilt your head at Lando through the mirror. “What do you think?”
Lando raises his head, meeting your gaze through the reflection. He stops, just a beat, barely a second, before straightening in his seat. “You look—um,” his voice cracks. Lando clears his throat, offering an encouraging smile. “It looks great. I like it.”
You arch a brow, unimpressed. The guy sitting next to him masks a laugh as a cough.
“What?” Lando asks, voice rising an octave. “What’d I say?”
“I need actual, genuine encouragement here, Lan.”
His face twists, brows creasing into a confused bordering on offended look. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, always just a smidge theatric. “That I think you’d look better with nothing on?”
Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Lando!”
“What?” he repeats, voice pitching another octave higher. His cheeks turn noticeably pink.
Your face is warm as you walk past the pointed glances thrown your way. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head and closing the curtains behind you. Much to your surprise though, it’s only once you’re alone in the fitting room again that you realize you’re smiling.
Up until you see the tag.
There are many things you love about living in the principality. The prices, though… they’re certainly not one of them.
“Ah,” you say quietly. You bite into your bottom lip with regret. You get paid every fifteen, meaning you’re still a few days out to have the money to spend on it.
Damn it. You can hear your friends’ voices telling you to pay it with your credit card, but you’ve never been keen on spending money you don’t have yet. What if you have an emergency? What if you break a leg? You already depend on Lando for rent—you can’t depend on him for everything.
You don’t like that, the idea of asking Lando for it. It feels wrong. Because he’d say yes—of course he’d say yes. It feels like taking advantage of him, especially when you’ve seen it happen in the past. People using him for fame, money, access.
You never want to be that person to him.
It’s easier than you thought, putting the dress on the hanger and making the decision. It’s just a dress. You can live without a dress.
You open the curtain as you’re still pulling your thin sweater over your head, fixing the sleeves around your arms. Lando looks up from his phone, giving you a lopsided smile. There’s still a lingering pink flush on the apples of his cheeks.
“You ready?” he asks, already standing up.
“Yeah.” You nod, but as Lando walks you to the register, you leave the sundress where you found it.
He does a double-take, nearly tripping over himself in the process. “Wait, I thought you liked it,” he protests, tone nearing concern. “I was just teasing before, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not that, it just…” You reach to scratch the back of your ear. “It wasn’t really worth it. Itchy,” you say, trying to go for nonchalant.
From the way Lando lingers, even as you’re heading towards the entrance of the store, you know he doesn’t buy it. You can hear him catching up to you.
“But—”
“C’mon.” Unthinking, you reach for his wrist, tugging him forward. Whatever comment he was going to make dies in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “We still have to find those trainers you wanted.”
He follows you without protest.
You’re starting to get used to the butterflies. They settle occasionally—other times you have to crush them down. Even if you were to pluck their wings one by one, you’re certain you would still feel them fluttering about in your stomach.
You’re getting used to them. To the feeling that comes with the prolonged touches. The fleeting glances. The way Lando seems to linger close, always either with his palm guiding you at the small of your back or interlacing your fingers with his. It’s a rhythm that is all-too easy to fall into.
Getting used to the butterflies doesn’t make any of it easier, though.
You’ve committed to your agreement, though. Saying you’re grateful for the invasiveness of gossip media and tabloid magazines would be going a step too far. Still, you’re surprised that planting seeds of your fake-relationship has been easier than you would’ve expected. Going out for a few intentionally public dates, some well-timed paparazzi pictures leaking to the press. Everything that’s been manufactured and orchestrated with detail has been like a feast for F1 rumor sites. There’s blurry pictures of you ordering at a boulangerie holding hands, a few soft-launches in each other’s Instagrams.
There are other pictures, though. Pictures that weren’t planned. An impromptu walk down the piers of Monaco, where neither of you had been wanting to pretend anything. A few clips resurfacing of you and Lando in the Quadrant channel. Glances from you that lingered a beat too long. Smiles that were too wide. Shoves and jabs that bordered on something other than friendship.
When you’re locked in your room at night, scrolling down Twitter threads and Tiktok comments, the butterflies in your stomach feel more like scorpions.
You can hear Lando giggling and shouting through the walls of his room. He’s live on Twitch—right on schedule as you agreed. It’s been a bit under an hour, playing with Max and a few other people you’re not as familiar with.
You knock on his door. It creaks as you open it just slightly.
“Yeah?” he calls.
The room is dark, save for a few purple ambient lights. You don’t think you’re in the frame of his camera—not yet, anyway.
“Lan?” you say, the hesitation and inexplicable shyness in your voice genuine. It’s nervewracking, knowing that this is the first time you don’t really get any do-overs. That thousands of people are watching Lando’s livestream. “Are you still live?”
Even from the doorway, you can see his second monitor speeding through a sudden flood of comments. Lando turns on his seat, pulling down his headphones.
“Hi,” he says, the traces of a grin still lingering at the corners of his lips. It softens, though. Less wide, more private—something kinder.
“Hi,” you repeat, fighting off a smile. “I can come back later.”
Lando shakes his head, leaning back against his chair. “No, it’s okay,” he says. Finally, he glances back at his screen, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he considers it. “You can come say hi, if you want.”
You pause at that. Hesitate. You were just supposed to barely appear in frame. Confirm what’s been obvious to most fans since you started with your little agreement. Then again, it’s not like you haven’t shown up in his streams a handful of times in the past.
It feels… different now. For good reason.
You walk into frame, feeling Lando’s gaze following you as you rest your arms against the backrest of his chair. The violet and orange lights are low, but recognition is evident from chatters. They know who you are—they know what this means.
“Hi chat,” you hum quietly. It almost feels like a challenge, asking you to come close. It makes you bolder.
You can’t be sure where the burst of confidence comes from. Your body moves of its own accord, not allowing you a moment to overthink it. One of your hands reaching down and resting loosely around his neck. Lando freezes for just a split second, caught off-guard, before he nuzzles his nose into your arm. Ticklish.
It feels too soft, too domestic. Bordering dangerously on something you won’t be able to come back from. Still, you can’t help yourself when you murmur into his hair, “Food’s here.”
Lando nods a moment too late, like the words wade through honey before they reach him. He hums in response, stretches a bit, leaning into your touch. “Mhm.” He looks up at you and for a second—just a second—you catch a glimpse of something in his eyes. Something too warm, too tender. It’s gone before you can really place it, overshadowed by a toothy smile. “I’ll be right there,” he says lightly.
You nod, moving to pull away. His hand tightens around yours just briefly—a casual goodbye, probably.
You don’t know what compels you to do it. Unthinkingly, you lean into him from the back of his chair, pressing a kiss into the crown of his head. Lando doesn’t freeze this time. If anything, it’s almost like he leans into you.
It feels a little like revenge, pulling away then. A part of you wants to believe Lando’s not that good of an actor. But the issue is that he is—it’s part of his job, lying. Looking into the barrel of a camera and smiling and pretending like he doesn’t want to cuss out some journalist and tell them all to fuck off. And while the boy you grew up with has always worn his heart on his sleeve, you’re also well-aware of the consequences that has in his line of work.
“Don’t stay until too late.”
By the time Lando walks out of his sim room, takeout is already on the kitchen island, waiting. The smell of Chinese food is enough to make your stomach growl, a handful of spring rolls already missing from the box.
“So? How’d I do?”
Lando’s hair is mussed, his blinks owlish. “Huh?” he asks dazedly. “Oh, um, yeah. You did great. Really convincing.” His voice feels odd, distracted.
Lando grabs one of the kitchen stools, dragging it to sit in front of you. “Max texted me,” you say.
He perks up at that. “What’d he say?”
The corner of your mouth quirks upward as you unlock your phone to show him. “That you’re down horrendously bad. I think it’s his way of saying we really sold it.”
You look up when he doesn’t respond, only to find Lando staring down at the screen with blushing cheeks. It spreads up into the tips of his ears as he scoffs.
“What a fuckin’ prick,” Lando says under his breath. “Don’t listen to a word he says,” he mutters.
The teasing smile on your lips dims at that. Something inside your chest splinters. A fracture line that widens by a fraction. You quietly take back your phone, picking at your lemon chicken. You went too far. When you swallow, it feels like pebbles are lodged against your throat.
you [ 2:01 AM ] : hi so
you [ 2:01 AM ] : this was a bad idea
max f 🐼 [ 2:07 AM ] : Yeah no shit
you [ 2:07 AM ] : stop it stop it stop
you [ 2:07 AM ] : i’m being so serious
you [ 2:08 AM ] : what do i do?????? i think i ruined it. like everything
max f 🐼 [ 2:08 AM ] : Are you gonna listen to me? Coz lately it feels like I’m giving advice to people that just do the exact opposite of what I tell them to
you [ 2:09 AM ] : MAX
you [ 2:10 AM ] : i just
you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think i went too far
you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think he hates me now
max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : What????
max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : Mate there’s no world in which he hates you
you [ 2:11 AM ] : be serious
max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : I AM being serious
max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : Stop typing rn I can see the little text bubble just listen to me for a sec
max f 🐼 [ 2:12 AM ] : He doesn’t hate you. You just think he does cause you’ve probably spent the night locked in your room staring at your ceiling
you [ 2:13 AM ] : i am being vulnerable here can you not mock me for a minute
max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : IM LITERALLY NOT
max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : What I’m trying to get at is that nothing good happens after 2 am.
max f 🐼 [ 2:14 AM ] : Just sleep it off mate I promise you’ll wake up feeling better
you [ 2:14 AM ] : did you just quote how i met your mother to me
max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : It’s a great show and it’s great advice??????
max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : I feel like you’re missing the point
you [ 2:16 AM ] : what even is your point
max f 🐼 [ 2:16 AM ] : That you’re getting stuck inside your head
max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Why do you think that is?
you [ 2:17 AM ] : it’s just something dumb he said
max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Lando’s always saying something dumb
max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : You’re just too busy staring at his face to notice it most of the time
you [ 2:18 AM ] : MAX
max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : WHAT
max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : If he said something hurtful I can talk to him
max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : Knock some sense into that big head
you [ 2:18 AM ] : it’s okay you don’t need to do that
max f 🐼 [ 2:19 AM ] : I’d like to though
you [ 2:19 AM ] : i think i’ll take what you said before and try to get some sleep before this spirals out of hand
you [ 2:19 AM ] : thank you max <3
max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : You know what could also work
you [ 2:20 AM ] : what
max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : Telling him how you feel about his big dumb face
you [ 2:20 AM ] : i would rather die :)
The flat is unusually quiet in the week leading up to the Monaco Grand Prix. You’ve grown accustomed to the silence whenever Lando is off racing across different countries in the calendar. It’s different then, though. His laughter is still tucked like a secret into the corners of the room, exhausted voice notes in your phone lingering in the quiet once his day is over. It’s never this quiet when he’s around.
It becomes an unspoken thing amongst the two of you. A pause. An interlude between the moment that got too real and the day you’re going to be holding hands, walking side-by-side in front of reporters and photographers in the paddock.
Even if the distance wasn’t noticeable, even if it wasn’t tugging at your heartstrings more than you’d like to admit, you’ve got other things to worry about.
The Monaco Grand Prix, for example. The crown jewel of Formula 1—the legendary, glamorous, historical track. And the dreaded realization you don’t know what the hell to wear for it.
It creeps up on you suddenly, unexpectedly. Once it does, though, there’s no shutting down the alarms blaring inside your head.
Clothes are strewn across your bed, closet door and floor. Shelves and hangers alike are left empty. You end up stalking Alexandra Saint Mleux’s Instagram like a psychopath, finding that—unsurprisingly—none of your clothes remotely match hers.
There’s a knock at your door.
“Hey,” you hear Lando’s voice, muffled through the wood. “You there, bug?”
“I’m a little busy!”
There’s a beat, a pause. “You okay?” he asks, voice tinged with a hesitant concern. “You sound…”
You open the door, throat tight and insides tangled into a knot. “I don’t know what to wear. What do wags wear?” you ask, and even amidst your blind panic you can hear your frantic tone. “They’re gonna eat me alive.”
Lando raises a brow. “You’ve gone to races before.”
“Yeah but I wasn’t your girlfriend—fake—whatever!” You huff, turning your back to him and sorting through your discarded clothes again. “I’ve seen the posts people make about the wags. I’ve seen them get destroyed for overdressing and underdressing.” You breathe in. Breathe out. Feel as embarrassment tints your cheeks. You turn to Lando apologetically. “I’m sorry. You’re the one that’s driving, and I’m freaking out over clothes.”
A fond smile curls at the corner of his lips. “We’ve all been there, bug. I just get to skip it now ‘cause I have a stylist.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” Lando concedes. Only then do you notice he has one of his hands behind his back. “But hopefully this is.”
He pulls out a dress. The dress.
You blink once. Twice. Three times to make sure you’re not hallucinating the white and blue fabric in Lando’s hand. “You bought it,” you say softly. “When?”
He looks at the ceiling sheepishly. Almost embarrassed. “I’d… rather not say.”
“Lando,” you insist.
“I might’ve doubled back. That day. When you were distracted.” He shrugs, trying to go for nonchalant. “I just asked them to set it aside.”
You look down at the dress. Reach out to feel the fabric underneath your fingertips. “You didn’t have to,” you argue, though there’s no edge to it.
“I wanted to.” It feels a bit like an apology. You’re not sure whether he knows what he’s apologizing for, exactly. Still, here he is—showing up regardless. “You’ve always been shit at getting stuff for yourself.”
Lando hands you the dress, the tag still on—though the price has been conviniently scrawled out with sharpie.
“Besides, rule number three,” Lando says, voice reeling back into something more casual. “I said all expenses paid for race weekends.”
“That’s not what you meant, though,” you protest.
“You don’t know what I meant.”
“Lando.”
“Just learn to take a gift, Jesus,” he says, faux exasperation drawing a smile from him. “Wear it, don’t wear it—it’s your choice.” His lips part to add something else. You see the brief, split-second hesitation before he adds, voice soft, “Either way, you looked really pretty in it.”
His gaze drops down to your lips. Just a second. He clears his throat.
“We leave in an hour!”
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yourusername monaco has never looked better 🧡
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user1 HELLO
riabish gorgeous gorgeous girl <3
lnfour our favorite wag 🧡
user2 ain’t no way the first official confirmation is coming from lando’s merch account
user3 i mean it’s pretty much confirmed that they’re dating though 😵💫😵💫 we all saw the way lando was looking at her during his last stream…..
user4 fully grown adults over here playing at tripping each other btw 😭
lando aww did you write that
yourusername that was NOT me no
lando okay plausible deniability i see what you’re doing 😍
yourusername how long did it take you to spell that
lando jokes on u coz i love it when you’re mean to me
user5 wait why is boyfriend lando kind of endearing :(
user6 no cause i see what you mean…
Nothing could’ve ever prepared you for flashing lights and hounding cameras that greet you at the paddock. You’ve been here before—two years ago, with Max acting as a green-eyed buffer to whatever feelings you’d long wrestled down when it came to Lando.
It’s different now. You can feel it in the way cameras don’t just gloss past you, but rather fix their lenses upon the two of you.
It may have something to do with Lando holding your hand. Fingers interlaced. Walking just half a step in front of you, blocking the most invasive photographers from your path.
You don’t know how he deals with it every race week.
Thankfully, the McLaren garage offers what feels like some semblance of privacy—however misleading that may be. At the very least, you can appreciate that the attention’s no longer set on you. Not for the most part, anyway.
Lando gives you a quick peck on the cheek for the broadcast camera before being pulled away by one of his engineers. Controlled chaos, a reporter from Sky once called it. Engineers and mechanics moving across rooms with spare gear, adjusting comms, analyzing telemetry.
Over on the opposite side of the garage—Oscar’s side—you spot his girlfriend Lily with an orange headset that matches with yours. She meets your gaze, offering a small polite smile.
You swallow your nerves. Smile back. Try not to throw up your breakfast on your shoes. It still makes you anxious, you find—watching Lando race. When it’s just him on a screen, you can at least put it on mute and look away whenever your pulse starts racing.
You don’t think that’s much of an option here.
“Hi,” you hear behind you. You’re met with a friendly blue gaze. She smiles again, warmer this time. “I’m Lily. You must be Lando’s girlfriend.”
It’s one of two options. Either you don’t have as good a poker face as you thought, or Lily’s better at reading people than you could’ve given her credit for. Maybe both—probably both. The way her expression is laced with sympathy tells you she sees the nervousness. Understands it.
You end up sticking by her until the race starts. You’re not surprised to find out she’s soft-spoken and kind-hearted—not that you’d seen or heard much from her before. You suppose that’s probably the whole point.
It’s impossible not to make the comparison. Private, genuine, in a long-time relationship with Lando’s teammate versus you; very public, very fake, placeholder of a girlfriend.
The thought lands harder than you expected it to.
“If it makes you feel any better, I still get nervous every time,” Lily says halfway through your conversation. “Although—actually, you have been at a race before, right?”
“Yeah,” you nod, pushing away your wreck of a train of thought. “Came with Max Fewtrell a few times. Still, everything makes me feel a little…”
“Exposed?” she suggests, nodding knowingly.
“Exactly! I just, last time it wasn’t just me, so I felt less… on the spot. And obviously last time I wasn’t Lando’s—” you trail off, the lie feeling surprisingly heavy on your tongue.
“Lando’s girlfriend,” Lily finishes comprehensively, and you hate the fact that you’re starting to really like her. You hate that your first conversation, your first semblance of common ground, is a boldfaced lie.
“I mean, Lando and I have always been close,” you say, trying to veer the conversation towards the truth.
“Oscar’s mentioned.” Lily’s mouth curls up into a smile. “I don’t know if it’s my place to say, but he kept wondering when Lando would finally ask you out.” She tilts her head, sunglasses perched over her head. “How was that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, you know,” you say vaguely, toying with a lock of your hair. A nervous habit. “It sort of just… happened. I don’t know.” You swallow, and hope that this time she doesn’t see through you. “It still feels unreal.”
Lily’s lips part to ask something else, before a sudden silence washes over the garage. You frown. Lily places it immediately.
She squeezes your hand. “Best of luck.”
Even when resting around your neck, you hear the unmistakable phrase coming from your McLaren-issued headset.
It’s lights out and away we go.
The world narrows into the racing line between the Nouvelle Chicane and Turn 19. Your heart thunders in your ears, as the leading cars make it past Anthony Noughes—the very last corner.
In the tenths it takes for the number four car to make it past the finish line, the McLaren garage is suspended in air. Quiet. Hearts beating.
Someone screams. You’re not completely certain it wasn’t you. Mechanics and engineers run out the garage and onto the pitlane, grinning and shouting.
Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix Winner.
The McLaren garage splits into two large groups, a sea of sunset orange overtaking the parc fermé. A woman in a McLaren uniform—probably from Lando’s PR team—helps you make way towards the very front of the crowd. The metal barrier presses against your body.
You watch as Lando jumps off his car, his energy boundless and ecstatic even with his helmet still on and hiding his face. He leaps into the papaya crowd, receiving congratulatory pats, hugs and cheers.
He takes off his helmet and balaclava. Runs a hand through matted curls. You watch as he looks around, scanning the crowd, searching—
Until he spots you.
His helmet is left behind and forgotten as he runs towards you, grinning widely and brightly. He embraces you instantly, your arms wrapping around his neck like second nature.
His hands reach over the barrier and settle around your waist with a firm grip. Then, without giving you a moment to pull back, he brings you over the barrier and spins you in a hug.
“You’re golden,” you say, giddiness overwhelming. You vaguely register the flashes of cameras. Distantly. Your entire world narrows down into the sweaty, lovely, sunlit boy in front of you. You hold Lando’s face with a grin as he puts you down, hands still resting around your waist. You bury your face into his neck. “Oh my god, you’re golden.”
When he finally pulls away—already sensing some McLaren spokesperson waiting for him—he looks at you and grins. Unguarded. Unrestrained.
And in a way that thoroughly undoes you.
“C’mon, champ,” you say, matching his smile. He’s glowing—honey dipped in sunlight. “They’re waiting for you.”
Music beats against the walls of the club. Blue and pink strobe lights set the dance floor aglow. You vaguely recognize a handful of faces—mechanics, interns, even a couple of social media admins.
As far as clubs go, you suppose it fits the celebration. McLaren footing the bill of the open bar is just the cherry on top.
Alcohol thrums steadily underneath your skin—a pretty combination of Fireball and fancy drinks you didn’t really care to learn the name of.
The night has unfolded in a series of syrupy moments that seem to melt into one another. You remember arriving with Lando—hand in hand, the high of his win still ripe. You remember being introduced to a few other drivers—Oscar, Carlos, maybe Alex—as his girlfriend. Later in the night, you recall dancing with Lando. More than once.
The night stretches like melted sugar, sweet and honeyed. Purple and red lights flash against the floor, leaving the club half-lit half cast in shadows.
You’ve found a more private spot by one of the corners of the club. VIP table, by the looks of it.
You lean back against Lando’s side, legs perpendicular to his. One of his hands rests on your lower back, steadying, while yours toys with the curls at the nape of his neck.
You don’t remember when exactly you ended up on Lando’s lap—not that you’re complaining, anyway. Maybe it’s the lights, the high of his win, the alcohol in your veins—it all has a way of stripping down your inhibitions.
Some distant, muted part of you is half-aware that maybe this is too much. Too close to being PDA. Bordering too much on intimacy. But then Lando leans into your ear to murmur some comment about Carlos’ story and you laugh—you laugh and you forget.
It’s dangerous, this closeness. More so, it’s dangerous how easy it is for you to fall into it. Hook, line, sinker. You never stood a chance.
As Lando talks, as you gaze down at him, you catch Oscar and Carlos sharing a look out of the corner of your eye. You pay them no mind—not when the club lights cast Lando’s face aglow.
“You have really pretty eyes,” you tell him, because it’s the truth. He looks up at you then, lips slightly parted. “Have I ever told you that?”
You hear Carlos attempting to stifle a laugh. He’s not very good at it.
Lando doesn’t pay him any mind. Instead, he gives you a lopsided smile. “D’you think so?”
“I know so.”
“Not to interrupt,” Oscar begins, already moving to stand up. “But I should get going. Congrats on the win, mate.”
“We should do one last round of shots before you leave!” you announce, but Lando’s hands tighten around your waist.
He presses an unintelligible murmur onto your shoulder. When you turn your head, you find he’s already looking up at you. Long lashes cast crescent shadows on his cheeks. “Don’t go,” he mumbles into the exposed skin of your neck.
Your stomach flips. You grin nonetheless. “It’s my mission today to get you just a little drunk, race winner.”
He considers it. Then, “Okay,” he finally says, smiling softly.
There’s a moment before you stand up. A full second. A beat suspended in time. And maybe it’s the drinks you’ve had—but maybe you’re the only one still pretending this isn’t exactly what you want.
“I’ll be right back,” you hear yourself say, before you’re moving into the crowd. You weave through the throngs of people dancing, finally making it to the bar. You flag down the bartender, give him your order—making sure to highlight under who’s tab this is.
“That’s a lot of shots,” you hear someone say beside you. He’s cute—shaggy blonde hair, brown eyes—not your type necessarily, but cute. “Are you here with friends?”
“Yeah!” you say, voice bright. “Celebrating.”
“That’s nice.” You can barely hear him over the music. “What are we celebrating?”
You grin proudly at that. “My best friend won a race!”
“Yeah?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s really listening. He steps a little closer. Only then do you feel his hand on your waist. “That’s cool,” he says relaxedly. “What’s your name?”
It hits you then, how out of it you really are. You shake your head politely, ready to tell him that sorry, you’re not interested, you’re actually here with—
“Hey, you were taking a bit,” you hear behind you. You don’t even have to turn around to know it’s Lando—Lando, who sounds suspiciously out of breath.
He pulls you closer to him—away from the man—and wraps his arms around your waist like a shield. Hooking his chin over your shoulder, he mutters, “Who’s your friend?”
“Actually, we were talking.”
Lando narrows his eyes. “Yeah, well, I kinda wanna spend the rest of the night with my girlfriend, so if you don’t mind.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Girlfriend?” the guy repeats, not quite apologetic. Not really. “Oh, shit, my bad.”
“Yeah.” Lando glares at the guy until he finally walks away. It’s only once he’s gone that he looks at you properly. “What the hell?”
You feel dazed. “What?”
“What happened to rule number one? No flirting?”
You blink once. Twice. “Right. Sorry.” You clear your throat. “I wasn’t flirting, by the way. He just—he sort of came onto me.” You lick your lips, glancing behind him. “Did, um, did anyone see?”
Lando’s been drinking too—you know so, because when he does, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. Has a harder time hiding what he feels. This time, he looks conflicted. “Uh, no,” he says, as if finally settling on a response. He swallows. “No, just me.”
The two of you walk back to the table, quieter this time. You take a seat next to him, the world still swimming around you to the beat of the songs playing. Lando places the tray of shots on the table before he lays his arm on the backrest. Close. Too close. Not nearly close enough.
Oscar winces as he downs his shot, cheeks pink. He clears his throat before turning to you. “Y’know, I’m glad you two finally got together.”
Lando drops his arm. Instead, he tentatively reaches for your hand. Carefully interlaces his fingers with yours.
“Yeah, it was unexpected, huh?”
“Right,” he says with a laugh, as if you’re joking. You don’t get it. Lando’s thumb gently brushes against the back of your palm, drawing quiet patterns. “To be honest, I’m just glad I don’t have to stand by watching and hearing Lando pining after you anymore.”
Lando stops at that, back stiffening. “Oscar,” he hisses.
You blink. “Sorry?”
“Yeah—didn’t he tell you?” Oscar freezes for just a split second as his eyes meet with Lando’s over your shoulder. You can feel Lando tense against you. “Oh. Um.”
You turn to Lando, confused, maybe a little lost—but sobering up. Even in the flashing magenta lights you can see the deep-rooted shame taking shape in his face.
“Lando?” you ask, voice drowning in the music.
But then he’s taking your hand again, and guiding you out. Past the table, past the crowds—out of the club where the two of you can hear yourselves think.
Didn’t he tell you?
Oscar’s voice echoes in the marrow of your skull like the chorus of a song that gets stuck in your head. The cold night air that greets you on the terrace is enough to make the world feel firm around you again.
Lando lets go of you then, tugging at his hair. You want to tell him to stop, that he’s pulling too hard, that he’s going to hurt himself—
“Lando—”
“It wasn’t like that,” he says abruptly, defensively. “It sounds so fuckin’ creepy when he says it. It’s not like—like this is some scheme to get you to go out with me. You know that, right?” Lando doesn’t look at you. Won’t look at you. “I swear, Oscar just has this whole movie in his head about me being into you, but I swear he’s just… he doesn’t get that we’re friends. He’s probably confused because he thinks we’re going out so, just. That thing he said about me pining—I don’t know where the hell he got that from.”
It’s a lot like being punched in the stomach, the way you feel the air leave your lungs. A gut punch. Low. Horrible. Painful.
“‘Cause being into me would be crazy,” you say slowly. The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth.
“Yeah,” Lando agrees. His face twists a second too late. “I mean—no, that came out wrong, I meant, like,” he gestures with his hands, struggling to find the right words. He shrugs half-heartedly. “We’re us, yeah?” he says, voice small. “We’ve been us for so long.”
“Right,” you say.
You were sure you knew heartbreak. You knew it when he introduced you to his first girlfriend, when you thought she was lovely, when you found you couldn’t even bring yourself to hate her. You knew heartbreak. You picked him up at some club in London when he was too drunk to drive. You watched him being flirted with by models and actresses—watched him flirt back.
This feels worse than heartbreak, somehow. It aches deep inside your chest. A fracture line that finally fragments all the way through.
You swallow down the stones lodged in your throat. “Look, I think I’m tired,” you say, voice tight. You can feel the tears threatening to spill. You blink them back. Not here. Not now. “I think I underestimated the jet lag.”
“Jet lag?” He looks understandably confused. You landed days ago.
You bite your tongue. “I mean, like—I think I’m still a little overwhelmed.” Your voice breaks. “I think I wanna go back to the hotel.”
Lando’s face falls. He’s nodding, already moving, “Okay, let me get my—”
“I’ll take an uber,” you cut him off, reaching for your purse and finding you left it at the table. You just can’t get anything right. You’re already pulling away when you add, maybe for your sake: “Really, I don’t wanna ruin your night.”
“Hey, no,” Lando protests, words weak and fragile and filled with something you can’t bring yourself to name. “Wait.” His fingers latch around your wrist. He tugs at your hand. “Please.”
You don’t think he knows what he’s begging for.
The night settles around you. Cold air, the dull sound of music on the other side of the door. You can’t blame the winner’s high. You can’t blame the club music. You can’t even blame the drinks.
You press your lips into his without thinking of the disastrous consequences it will reap. You kiss him like it’s goodbye. For just a second, you let yourself forget the hurt, the heartache, the heartbreak.
His lips are warm against you, soft. It feels like gravity. Inevitable. Like it was always going to end this way.
He doesn’t kiss you back.
When you pull away from him, the world goes on. Cars honk at each other in the street below. The moon hides behind the clouds. Realization of what you’ve done fully settles in your gut.
“Oh my god,” you say, mortified. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have done that.”
But Lando blinks down at you, dazed. He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t look away. Instead, his eyes search your face. Ultimately, they dip down to your lips.
“You said no kissing,” he says slowly, absentmindedly, and you’re unsure whether he’s telling you or reminding himself.
I didn’t mean to, you want to say, but the lie gets stuck in your throat.
Your bottom lip trembles. The back of your eyes prick. You think you’re gonna cry.
Lando’s touch is gentle. His hand tips your head up, thumb caressing your cheek. “Rule two. You said no kissing,” he repeats, voice barely a murmur.
He leans into you then, kisses your forehead. Then presses another kiss below your eye. Then one to your cheek. To the corner of your lips. But not where you want him most.
“Lando—”
“Tell me,” he mumbles into your skin, hand still cradling your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re going to slip through his fingers. His lips press against the corners of your mouth. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want. Please.”
The response is a murmur, a whisper. “I want you to kiss me.”
His lips find yours in a heartbeat.
When you eventually call a cab in the late hours of the night, the two of you end up clumsily stumbling into the backseat. Exhaustion wears you down like gravity.
Lando interlaces his fingers with yours. Tugs you closer to him. You lay your head on his shoulder, breathing out softly. Quietly.
He kisses the crown of your head. Leans down into you.
And for the first time in a long while, it feels like coming home.
liked by lando, oscarpiastri, maxfewtrell and 201,214 others
yourusername okay, take two. for real this time :)
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user1 ?????
user2 are we supposed to know what that means
maxfewtrell well that’s just a wildly inconvenient way to water tulips
yourusername can you ever just lay off
lando pretty girl 🌷
yourusername pretty boy 💐💐
eve’s notes: this took SO LONG i am SOOO not used to writing long fics. completely unrelated but can we just take a second to appreciate the fact that kae writes multiple long fics every week. unbelievable. could not be me even if i tried (i tried) anyways!!!!!! i hope you enjoyed <3
