hey, could you do one for kimi antonelli where everyone notices how well his family treats his girlfriend?
like, at that recent miami grand prix. she was following his parents around the paddock like a little duckling, and his little sister was glued to her the whole time (plus that super cute kiss they shared when he won the race.)
The Antonelli Effect
Kimi Antonelli x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: Kimi wins Miami, and the whole paddock watches his family treat you like one of their own — trailing after his mum, hand‑in‑hand with his little sister, and sealed by the soft, giddy kiss he gives you the moment he takes the win.
Moonlight Radio: I adored that brother-sister moment at the gp, it was so cute
The Miami heat was already doing its best to melt you into the asphalt, but honestly, that wasn’t the reason you were flushed.
It was because you were, once again, trailing behind Kimi Antonelli’s mum like a very devoted, very eager little duckling.
You hadn’t meant for it to become a thing.
But somehow, every time you were in the paddock, you ended up gravitating toward his family like it was gravitational law.
And today? Miami had you in full duckling mode.
“Come on, sweetheart,” his mum laughed, looping her arm through yours as if you’d been part of the family for years. “Shade’s better this way.”
You followed her without hesitation, smiling like an idiot because she always called you sweetheart, and it always made your chest go warm.
Kimi’s little sister, Maggie, was glued to your other side — literally. One hand wrapped around your wrist, the other swinging your joined hands dramatically as she chattered about school, the beach, and how she’d painted her nails McLaren papaya “because it’s lucky.”
You were pretty sure she’d adopted you.
You were also pretty sure you didn’t mind.
Every few minutes, someone would walk past and do a double take.
Because it wasn’t subtle.
You weren’t just tolerated by the Antonellis.
You were claimed.
At one point, Toto Wolff walked by, paused, looked at the three of you, and said, “Ah. The Antonelli women,” before continuing on like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You nearly choked.
Maggie tugged your hand. “Come on, I want to show you the garage! Papa said I can bring you.”
Her parents exchanged a look — the kind that said she’s not going anywhere without you anyway — and waved you off.
And so you went, hand-in-hand with a ten-year-old who had decided you were her emotional support adult.
---
Later, In The Garage
Kimi spotted you before you spotted him.
He was still in his fireproofs, hair damp with sweat, eyes bright with that pre-race adrenaline. But the second he saw you, his whole expression softened — that quiet, private smile he only ever gave you.
“Hey,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “You good?”
You nodded. “Your sister kidnapped me.”
“She does that,” he said, but he was smiling like he loved it.
His mum appeared behind you. “She’s been perfect. Honestly, Kimi, she’s easier when your girlfriend is around.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” she said, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re good for all of us.”
Kimi’s ears went pink.
Yours probably did too.
---
The Race
You watched from the garage, Maggie perched on a stool beside you, her small hand wrapped tightly around yours every time Kimi overtook someone.
And when he crossed the finish line — first, unbelievably, beautifully first — the entire garage exploded.
You screamed.
Maggie screamed louder.
His mum hugged you so tightly you lifted off the ground.
And when Kimi ran in, helmet off, grin blinding, he went straight to his family.
But then he saw you.
And everything else blurred.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t care that cameras were everywhere.
He grabbed your face in both hands and kissed you — quick, breathless, joyful — the kind of kiss that tasted like victory and disbelief and you’re the person I want to share this with first.
The garage erupted again, louder this time.
Someone wolf-whistled.
Someone else yelled, “GET IT, ANTONELLI!”
Kimi pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“You saw that?” he whispered, breathless.
“I saw everything,” you said, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
His sister barreled into both of you, hugging your waist. “YOU WON! YOU WON! YOU WON!”
Kimi laughed, wrapping an arm around her and another around you, pulling you both in.
And that was the moment — the three of you tangled together, sweaty and emotional and glowing — when you realized everyone was staring.
Not in a bad way.
In a soft, knowing way.
Because it was obvious.
The Antonellis didn’t just like you.
They didn’t just approve of you.
They had folded you into their family like you’d always belonged there.
---
After The Podium
You were walking back through the paddock, Kimi’s hand in yours, when a group of mechanics passed by.
One of them nudged another. “Look at that. The whole Antonelli clan today.”
Kimi squeezed your hand. “You know they adore you, right?”
You shrugged, shy. “I adore them too.”
He stopped walking, turning to face you fully.
“They treat you like family,” he said softly, “because you are.”
Your heart did a very dramatic, very embarrassing flip.
“And,” he added, leaning in, “because you’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”
You kissed him again — slower this time, softer, the kind of kiss that wasn’t for cameras or celebration, but for him.
When you pulled back, his sister was waiting impatiently with two ice creams.
“One for you,” she said, handing you the one with extra sprinkles, “because you’re my favourite.”
Kimi groaned. “She’s known you for five minutes.”
Maggie shrugged. “She’s still my favourite.”
Kimi looked at you like he couldn’t even argue with that.
Summary: A little smau about all the times Kimi has been simping about you over the radio, featuring poor Bono just trying to do his job.
Tags: fluff, humor, established relationship
Warnings: swearing
Other drivers: Radio Check | Masterlist
antonellisradio
Liked by georgerussell63, mercedesamgf1, f1gossippofficial, and 2,847,663 others
antonellisradio Kimi’s radio just hours after the picture of him and Y/N kissing was posted by the official Mercedes instagram account! 🩶🥹
view all comments
username now i finally get what people mean when they say puppy love
username Oh to be young and in love for the first time again 😭
username 18yo old boys at my school should take notes fr
username Ikr, Kimi’s so fucking successful at 18 and yet he’s such a lil puppy in love AND PROUD OF IT
olliebearman When you simp so hard you gotta belt out some tswift
kimi.antonelli I swear I switched off the radio!!!
yourusername I’m glad you didn’t ❤️
kimi.antonelli ❤️❤️❤️
username i feel sick
antonellisradio
Liked by maxverstappen1, georgerussell63, and 3,193,093 others
antonellisradio Kimi’s radio after his first ever podium in Canada! Congrats on P3, Kimi!🇨🇦🩶
view all comments
username Guy got everything he worked his whole life for just to say chilling with his girl AT SCHOOL is better
username it’s moments like these that remind you he’s basically still a kid in a race car
maxverstappen1 Rookie mistake
kimi.antonelli MATE!!!
yourusername Big words after telling me you’d sometimes rather spend time at home with the cats
username Clocked him real fast lmao
username not her exposing max 😭😭 ain’t no one tryna attack her man
antonellisradio
Liked by yourusername, f1gossippofficial, and 3,987,020 others
antonellisradio Kimi’s radio after his DNF in Japan today. 😢
Also, isn’t Bono just the sweetest sometimes? 🩶
view all comments
username the whole team is always so so soft with him i’m gonna cry 😭
username Lmao yeah, a rookie winning a race. Shouldn’t promise such bullshit to begin with.
username Do you ever get tired?
username Of?
username Living with your pathetic self.
username Find someone who loves you the way Kimi loves Y/N
username it actually looked like he had tears in his eyes, he didn’t want to disappoint her 😭
username everyone in this comment section is so fucking dramatic istg, this shit happens in F1 and if he can’t deal with it he doesn’t belong there
yourusername Wow, you must be very miserable ❤️ by author
username Y/N defending Kimi as always 🥹
antonellisradio
Liked by charles_leclerc, olliebearman, yourusername, and 5,929,003 others
antonellisradio Kimi’s first radio after the summer break is here! Seems like he’s still stuck in the summer with Y/N.
view all comments
username I think Bono needs another summer break after this conversation lmao
username imagine going to work just to get terrorised by a 18yo kid
bono 💔
kimi.antonelli I’m sorry mate
username not Bono lurking in the comments 😭
username omg he’s such a lovesick fool
username Hey God it’s me again 🙏🏻
antonellisradio
Liked by georgerussell63, yourusername, kimi.antonelli, and 3,997,182 others
antonellisradio Baku, Q3: Another DNF for Kimi after he crashed into the wall. However, where he was holding back tears last time, he’s still able to joke about it this time.
Bono was there too, I guess.
view all comments
username y’all gotta go actually listen to this istg bono was so fucking done
username ikr the way he mumbled that last one to himself, simply defeated
yourusername This whole convo just further proved my point, greenest flag there is @/kimi.antonelli ❤️
kimi.antonelli You’re just too sweet to me, amore mio ❤️
georgerussell63 You guys talk like an old married couple
kimi.antonelli Well we’re going to be one, one day
username that’s it. i’m deceased.
mercedesamgf1 @/bono, please don’t leave us. We promise it’s gonna get better. Just hang in there.
—
Other drivers: Radio Check | Masterlist
Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! (For a particular driver or every version is up to you!)
after five races in a row, kimi antonelli feels like he’s on top of the world. at the end of the day, though, he might just be on top of you.
genre: short-short-shooort fic. romance.
warnings: suggestive. kimi antonelli is so hot omg. waist grab and… yeah.
word count: 646.
a/n: I KNOW I KNOW, KIMI AGAIN. i'm not normal about him, sorry. guys, to be totally honest, this doesn’t even count as a fic. i did to write something for kimi’s fifth victory because, seriously… it’s just delicious.
Down below the podium, you watch Kimi Antonelli take his fifth consecutive victory.
You're clapping, but honestly, the motion is completely absent-minded, because your attention is fixed on the boy who, just hours earlier, had tilted your chin up in the middle of a heated make-out session in the drivers' room and murmured against your lips, "I'm getting that win for you today.” Then he'd left you stranded on the couch, breathless and flushed, desperately in need of the coldest shower of your life.
Kimi was never someone who broke promises to you. Never.
At that moment, he's covered in a mix of sweat and champagne. His hands, your favorite hands, are around the base of the trophy while he looks completely in disbelief that it belongs to him. Yeah, pretty boy, you did it again. And amid all the chaos, his gaze finds yours.
You stop clapping.
He shoots you a wink before dragging his tongue across his lower lip... that damned tongue he seems utterly incapable of keeping inside his mouth.
The crowd around you keeps roaring, and the noise only swells when he raises the trophy high above his head. Deafening — and every second of it is for him.
Your Kimi Antonelli.
From the huge grin stretching from ear to ear across his face, you can tell he loves it. Loves the attention. Loves the feeling. Loves the power that comes with a crowd of people screaming his name because, yeah, he is just that good.
Slowly, people begin to disperse as the podium ceremony comes to an end. The cameras are already turning elsewhere around the paddock, and you make your way toward the podium steps, where Kimi is the last one to climb down after everyone else has left. You don't even have to try to get him to see you. In less than a second, Kimi is right in front of you, so close it should be a crime.
"There you are." He greets you, one hand finding your waist before you can even respond.
“You smell like cheap cocktail” you complain, wrinkling your nose.
He just laughs and slides his free hand to the other side of your waist, pulling you even closer.
“Is that any way to talk to Kimi Antonelli, Grand Slam winner and victor of five consecutive Grands Prix?”
You roll your eyes and rest your arms on his shoulders, lifting a finger to brush a damp strand of hair away from his cheek.
“All this winning is making you arrogant.”
He lets out a soft laugh, his hands tightening slightly around you.
“Oh, you have no idea just how arrogant I can be.”
“Yeah?” you ask, your eyes fluttering shut.
Kimi brushes his lips against your cheek, leaving a soft kiss there before moving higher, his mouth grazing your skin until it reaches your ear.
“I bet I can make you come five times as easily as I can win five races in a row,” he whispers. Your breath catches instantly. A shiver races down your spine, and your knees nearly give out beneath you. “What do you think?”
“I... I...” you stammer, swallowing hard as your gaze drops to the ground.
His grin only grows.
Another kiss lands on your cheek, quick and affectionate, because someone from the team is already calling for him from the other side of the paddock. He lifts his head, arches an eyebrow, and just like that, he transforms back into the victorious driver everyone expects him to be, jogging toward the engineers waiting to celebrate with him. Not before stealing one last kiss, though.
A quick peck that leaves your head spinning — not because of the contact itself, but because of the promise he'd just made. And because you know by the way your thighs press together, it's going to completely ruin the rest of your day…
the world has always known you as the other verstappen. max's teammate, his closest person, his other half. quiet. untouchable. all sharp edges and locked doors.
love was never part of the plan. racing was. racing was supposed to be enough.
then kimi antonelli arrives.
nineteen, wide-eyed, painfully earnest — following max around like a lost puppy, which means he keeps running into you. again. and again. and again.
and somehow, without trying, he becomes the one person that gets you to open up. to feel. you've never let anyone this close. and max notices. but max also notices how kimi looks at his sister like you're the only person in the world.
fc : stephmandich on ig
(a/n) : hello guys!!!!!! sorry i've been missing, i have been busy w/ work and actually planning big things for you all! big announcements coming soon;) anyways about the fic, this is based on the 2025 season and kimi is 19 at the beginning of the season and reader is 20 and has been in f1 since 17 :) (reader has max's old #) (warnings of j*s verstappen being j*s verstappen!) (also this takes place in 2025 season BUT laurent has already replaced christian bc i said so) (also ty to whoever requested lysm)
The lights of London blur past the tinted windows as the car slows near the venue, the city glowing like it knows something important is about to happen. The F1 launch event is always excessive—grand staircases, photographers packed ten deep, flashes like lightning—but tonight it feels heavier. Real. The season begins here.
You step out beside Max, Laurent Mekies already straightening his jacket with an amused smile as the crowd reacts instantly. Cameras swing toward you and Max like magnets.
You loop your arm through Max’s without thinking. It’s instinct—always has been.
The black lace gown clings to you in a way that feels both elegant and dangerous, sheer in places but never careless. Long sleeves, delicate patterning, the fabric moving like smoke when you walk. Your hair is swept back, makeup soft but sharp enough to hold its own under a thousand lights. Max leans in slightly.
“You good?” he murmurs.
You nod, smiling. “Always.”
The carpet is chaos, but familiar chaos. You greet faces you’ve known for years—team principals, drivers, partners. Max does his usual understated nods and half-smiles, letting you take the lead when someone stops you. You’re warm, composed, effortlessly charming. Laurent watches the two of you with quiet pride.
Inside, the room is opulent—low lights, crystal everywhere, the hum of anticipation buzzing under the music. Assigned seating pulls you toward your table. Right next to Mercedes.
You clock George Russell immediately, already mid-laugh, animated as ever. His face lights up when he sees you.
“There she is,” George says, standing to greet you. “Red Bull’s secret weapon.”
You laugh, hugging him lightly. “Still trying to steal me, Georgie?”
“Always,” he replies easily. “One day you’ll get bored of him.” He nods toward Max.
Max smirks. “Not happening.”
You slide into your seat between Max and George, the dynamic comfortable, familiar. But then—just across from George—you see him.
Kimi Antonelli.
He looks younger than he does on screen, suit tailored perfectly but posture still slightly unsure, like he’s reminding himself he belongs here. His eyes flick to Max again and again, unmistakable admiration written all over his face.
Max notices immediately.
“Kimi,” Max says casually, already standing. “Come here.”
Kimi looks like he might short-circuit.
He steps over, hand extended, a little stiff. “Max—hi. I mean—hello.”
Max shakes his hand, amused. “Relax.”
Then Max turns slightly, placing a hand at the small of your back.
“This is my sister,” he says. “YN.”
Kimi’s brain fully leaves his body.
“Oh,” he says, too fast. Then, softer. “Hi.”
You smile at him, easy, kind. “Hi.”
He blinks, then laughs nervously. “Sorry—uh—I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Only good things, I hope.”
“All of them,” he blurts out, then winces. “I mean—yeah. You’re incredible. I mean—not just—your driving—”
You laugh, warm and unbothered, and something in his shoulders loosens instantly.
“It’s okay,” you say gently. “I get nervous meeting people too.”
Max watches closely from beside you, arms crossed now, expression unreadable—but his eyes never leave Kimi.
The conversation settles into something easy. Kimi asks about your off-season Porsche work, genuinely fascinated. You ask him about the step up to F1, his tone brightening when he talks about learning from George, from Max, from everyone. He listens when you speak—really listens—like every word matters.
Later, Red Bull is called to the stage. You rise smoothly, Max trailing just behind you like he always does at events like this. On stage, the lights are blinding, the crowd loud—but you don’t falter.
You take the lead naturally, speaking about the season ahead, the work behind the scenes, the trust in the team. Max stands beside you, nodding occasionally, offering a short sentence here and there—but it’s clear who’s carrying the room.
And you feel it. A gaze. You don’t have to look to know where it’s coming from. Kimi.
When you finally glance toward the Mercedes table, his eyes meet yours instantly. He looks like he’s watching something unreal—pride, awe, something softer tangled together.
As you step down from the stage, you send him a small smile. Just for him. It floors him.
After the event winds down, the room softens. Music lowers. People begin to drift. Max is deep in conversation with Kimi near the bar, George hovering nearby.
You approach, heels quiet against the floor.
“I’m heading back,” you say, touching Max’s arm.
Max turns immediately. “You want me to—”
“I’m good,” you reassure him.
Kimi hesitates for half a second, then gathers his courage.
“I can walk you,” he offers. “If that’s okay.”
Max’s eyes flick between the two of you.
Then, surprisingly, he nods. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
Protective. Watching. Approving—just a little.
Outside, the night air is cool, London calm in that rare way it gets after something big. You walk side by side, close but not touching.
“Thanks,” you say. “For earlier. You were very sweet.”
Kimi rubs the back of his neck. “I was terrified.”
You smile. “I noticed.”
He laughs, then grows thoughtful. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How do you… handle it?” he asks quietly. “The pressure. Being compared. Living up to a name.”
You slow slightly, considering him. “You stop trying to be someone else. Even if that someone else is a legend.”
He nods, absorbing every word.
“You’re here for a reason, Kimi,” you add softly. “Don’t forget that.”
When you reach your hotel, he stops, hands in his pockets.
The air in Melbourne feels different at the start of a season. Sharper. Charged. Like the track itself is holding its breath. By the time the race rolls around, routines have already formed.
Max’s driver room has quietly become yours too. Between sessions, you slip inside with practiced ease, kicking off your shoes, perching on the couch or the edge of the table while Max debriefs with engineers or stares blankly at data like he’s trying to absorb it through sheer will. It’s your safe space—quiet, controlled, familiar.
The morning of qualifying, you’re mid-sentence, talking with your hands as you explain something inconsequential—how the wind felt weird through Turn 9, how the car wants more rotation than you expected—when there’s a knock on the door.
Max doesn’t even look up. “Yeah?”
Kimi steps in hesitantly, like he’s entering a church.
“Sorry—uh,” he says, glancing between the two of you. “I wanted to ask Max something.”
"Ask,” Max replies flatly.
But Kimi doesn’t. Not immediately. Because you turn toward him with a small smile, completely at ease, and say, “You can sit, you know. You don’t have to hover.”
He freezes. Then, awkwardly, he lowers himself to the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up slightly—like he’s afraid to take up too much space. Max notices. Of course he does. Says nothing. You keep talking. Kimi listens.
Not the polite kind of listening, where someone waits for their turn to speak—but the kind where their whole focus narrows. He watches the way your hands move, the way your voice shifts when you’re thinking through something technical, the way Max occasionally glances at you for confirmation without realizing he’s doing it.
Eventually, Kimi forgets why he knocked in the first place.
This would slowly become a pattern.
Drivers’ briefings—Kimi somehow always ends up next to you. Media pen—he trails Max, which means he trails you. It’s subtle enough that no one comments on it, but consistent enough that you notice.
He’s like a shadow. A quiet one. You don’t mind.
That night, the paddock finally goes still. The kind of stillness that settles after adrenaline has burned itself out but sleep refuses to come. Your thoughts won’t shut up. Your body feels wired, restless.
So you change into running clothes and slip out into the night.
The air is cool, the city muted. Your breath evens out as you settle into a steady pace, shoes striking pavement in rhythm. It helps—usually.
You round a corner and nearly collide with someone coming the other way.
“Kimi,” you say, surprised.
He slows to a jog, then a walk. “Oh—hi.”
You glance at his watch, then the empty street. “What are you doing out here?”
He hesitates. Shrugs. “Nerves.”
You huff out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah. Same.”
No teasing. No jokes. Just honesty.
You fall into step together, side by side. No words. Just shared breath, shared pace. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s heavy, but not uncomfortable. Like both of you understand this is something that doesn’t need to be filled.
When you part ways later, you don’t say much. Just a quiet, mutual good luck hanging unspoken between you.
The next morning is sharp and bright. Time to race.
Kimi comes by the Red Bull garage early, looking for Max. He doesn’t announce himself—just walks down the hallway, hands tucked into his pockets, nerves buzzing under his skin.
That’s when he hears voices. Yours.
And another unfamiliar voice. Jos.
You’re just around the corner, unaware you’re not alone. Your voice is controlled—too controlled. Calm in the way that comes from years of practice.
“You can’t talk to me like that,” you say.
A scoff. “Someone has to. You think you’re untouchable now.”
“I am doing my job.”
“Barely,” he snaps. “And if you keep embarrassing yourself, I won’t keep showing up. I won’t keep supporting this.”
Your jaw tightens. “That’s your choice.”
“It shouldn’t be,” he says cruelly. “You’re wasting your potential. Both you and your brother. Getting soft.”
There’s a pause. Long enough to hurt. Kimi’s chest tightens.
“You don’t get to define me anymore,” you say quietly. “Or him.”
He doesn’t wait to hear more.
Kimi backs away, heart pounding, guilt and anger and something protective twisting together in his stomach. He turns, nearly colliding with Max moments later.
“Hey,” Max says, instantly reading his face. “What’s wrong?”
Kimi swallows. “Nothing. Just—wanted to wish you luck.”
Max studies him for a beat longer than necessary, then nods. “You too.”
When you walk back into the garage a few minutes later, the atmosphere shifts instantly. Kimi looks up. Your expression is composed—perfectly neutral—but your eyes give you away. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t push. Just steps closer and offers a soft smile.
“Good luck today,” he says.
You return it, small but genuine. “You too.”
And as you turn away, both of you carry the same unspoken thought— Some battles are fought on track. Others are survived quietly, together, without anyone ever knowing.
Miami arrives loud and bright and unforgiving, the kind of place that doesn’t let you disappear even when you want to.
By now, the rhythm of the season has settled into something familiar. Max and Kimi are inseparable in the way only mentor and student can be—Max answering questions without judgment, pulling Kimi into debriefs, looping him into conversations with engineers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Kimi absorbs everything, eyes sharp, always listening.
And somehow, quietly, you and Kimi have found your own rhythm too. It starts with the runs. Before every race weekend, before the noise and the expectations and the weight of it all, the two of you run. No music. No talking. Just side by side, shoes hitting pavement in sync. It’s never discussed, never labeled. If one of you is already stretching, the other just joins in. If one of you doesn’t show up, there are no questions.
Kimi never pushes. When you’re quiet, he stays quiet. When you isolate, he gives you space—but never distance. He’s learned the shape of your silence and treats it gently, like something fragile instead of something to be fixed.
Miami qualifying is supposed to be good. The car feels decent. Not perfect, but workable. You tell yourself that over and over as you pull on your gloves. Then everything goes wrong. Traffic. A yellow you didn’t cause. A compromised lap that never had a chance to breathe. Q1 ends with your name too low on the timing screen. Knocked out.
The moment you climb out of the car, the world feels too sharp. Too loud. You barely register the engineers’ voices, the hands on your shoulders, the reassurances that blur together into nothing.
All you can think about is one thing. Jos.
You speak to the media, reluctantly. You wait patiently for qualifying to end, proud to see Kimi and Max do so well. Max meets you in your drivers room.
“Hey,” he says softly, closing the door behind him. “Hey.”
You don’t even try to hold it together.
The tears come fast, ugly, humiliating. You press your palms into your eyes, shaking your head like that might undo what just happened.
“I messed it up,” you choke. “I should’ve—if I’d just waited—this is on me.”
“It’s not,” Max says immediately, firm but gentle. “You know that.”
“I know what he’s going to say,” you whisper. “I know how this looks.”
Max pulls you into him without hesitation, one arm solid around your shoulders, the other resting protectively at the back of your head. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t try to logic you out of it.
He just stays.
Out in the hallway, Kimi paces. He hasn’t even processed his own qualifying yet—not really. P3 feels distant, unreal, like something that happened to someone else. All he can think about is the way your voice sounded on the radio replay he heard. Flat. Too calm.
He stops when the door opens.
Max steps out, closing it quietly behind him. His expression tells Kimi everything before he even speaks.
“She’s blaming herself,” Max says low. “Even though it wasn’t her fault. She’s… shutting down.”
Kimi nods once. “Can I?”
Max looks at him for a long moment. Protective. Assessing.
Then he steps aside. “Yeah.”
Kimi exhales and pushes the door open.
The room is dim. You’re sitting on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, face blotchy and red, eyes unfocused like you’re somewhere far away. Max squeezes Kimi’s shoulder as he passes him in the doorway.
Kimi doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t announce himself. He just walks over and sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t look at you like you’re broken.
He offers you his hand. That’s it.
You stare at it for a second, then lace your fingers through his and grip tight—like if you let go, something worse might happen. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, steady.
He stays silent. And somehow, that’s what finally lets you breathe.
Later, when Kimi stands in front of cameras, the adrenaline hits all at once. The questions come fast—rookie performance, P3, pressure, expectations.
He answers the first one.
Then the second.
Then someone asks about the weekend overall.
And he forgets himself.
“I mean—today was… mixed,” he says slowly. “Because obviously I’m happy with the result, but—” He hesitates, then continues anyway. “I think people forget how incredible YN is. One thing doesn’t define her. She’s one of the most talented drivers I’ve ever seen, and she deserves so much respect.”
The interviewer blinks. Kimi keeps going.
“She’s strong. And smart. And she makes everyone around her better. I learn just by watching her.”
He realizes what he’s doing about three sentences too late.
His ears go red. “Sorry—I’m rambling.”
Later that night, curled up in your hotel room, phone warm in your hands, you see the clip on Twitter.
You watch it twice. Then a third time. A warm feeling twisting in your stomach each time.
f1gossipgirls : kimi worming his way into the verstappen family has been my favorite part of the season so far. he always talks so highly of max and yn and says that they have taught him so much🥹
—
user has limited comments on this post.
username775 : did anyone see him blushing when he was talking about yn in that interview after miami????
liked by f1gossipgirls
↳ username009 : so cute omg
username101 : i feel like kimi has healed something in both of them ❤️
liked by f1gossipgirls
username710 : funny how their own competition can say incredible things about them but their own father drags them in the press...make it make sense.
The break after Miami almost feels necessary. Four weeks with no race schedule, no alarms set around sessions, no radio crackling in your ear. Just heat and salt and space to breathe. Max calls it a reset. You call it survival.
When Max mentions the trip, he does it casually—like it isn’t a big deal.
“Kimi’s coming,” he says one morning, already scrolling through something on his phone. “Invited him.”
You don’t look up. “Okay.”
Your heart does something stupid anyway.
The island is quiet in the way only places far from everything else can be. White sand, water so clear it looks fake, a villa tucked just far enough from the beach that the waves are a constant, gentle soundtrack.
It’s… domestic. In a way you’re not used to.
Penelope runs through the open doors the moment you arrive, already barefoot, already excited. Lily is passed between arms like the most precious cargo on earth. Kelly is radiant in the sun. Victoria claims a room immediately and Sophie moves through the space like a mother on a mission.
Kimi arrives last, a little sunburnt already, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, grin unmistakable when he sees Max.
“Hey kid,” Max says, pulling him into a quick hug.
Kimi laughs, relaxed in a way he rarely is during race weekends. “Thanks for inviting me.”
You catch his eye from across the room. He smiles at you like it’s instinct now.
The beach day happens naturally, like it was always meant to.
You’re sitting in the sand with Penelope, helping her build something that looks nothing like a castle and everything like chaos. Lily is next to you on a blanket, little fists grabbing at the air, fascinated by the light and the sound of the waves.
You’re laughing—actually laughing—when Kimi appears, already barefoot, shorts rolled up.
“Need help?” he asks.
Penelope looks up at him seriously. “She’s bad at this.”
You gasp. “Traitor.”
Kimi drops down into the sand beside you without hesitation. “Okay. I’ll fix it.”
He doesn’t fix it. He just joins in, scooping sand, letting Penelope direct him completely. When Lily fusses, he’s the first to notice, reaching for her gently, instinctively.
“Is it okay?” he asks you softly.
You nod.
He lifts her carefully, like he’s been doing it his whole life, bouncing her slightly until she settles. Lily grips his finger with surprising strength, eyes wide and curious.
Something in your chest tightens.
You watch him like this—kneeling in the sand, Lily against his chest, Penelope climbing over his back, completely unbothered by the mess, the noise, the sun.
He looks… right.
It scares you a little.
Later, as the sun dips lower, you’re on the balcony with Max and Victoria, drinks sweating in your hands. The air is warm, the sky streaked pink and gold.
“You’re quiet,” Victoria says, glancing at you knowingly.
You shrug. “Just tired.”
Max leans against the railing, looking out toward the ocean. “He’s good with them,” he says casually.
You know exactly who he means.
Inside, Kimi is helping Kelly and Sophie. You can hear his voice drifting through the open doors—animated, curious.
“So you raced?” he’s saying, awe clear even from here.
Sophie laughs. “A long time ago.”
“YN always says she gets everything from you,” he replies easily.
Sophie softens at that. “She was always watching. Always listening.”
Kimi hums thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”
They talk easily, comfortably. Sophie asks him about his season, about his family. He listens the same way he listens to you—fully, respectfully.
When dinner is ready, it’s laid out on the beach. Lanterns glow softly, the sound of waves filling the spaces between conversation. Lily babbles from Kelly’s lap. Penelope is already half-asleep, curled against Victoria.
Kimi sits beside you without comment. Your knee brushes his. Neither of you move away.
He passes you a plate. You thank him. Your fingers linger just a second too long.
Across the table, Max watches with a quiet smile. Victoria catches his eye and raises her brows, amused.
You don’t notice. You’re too busy watching the way Kimi looks at you when you speak—like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.
This race feels like momentum. It is undeniable—whatever has been building between you and Kimi has crossed the line from coincidence into something real. Not spoken. Not defined. But present in the way he always finds you without trying, in the way you move toward him instinctively after sessions, in the quiet runs you still take together before race days.
Side by side. Always side by side.
You’ve realized something over the last few weeks, and it terrifies you more than any high-speed corner ever could.
You have feelings for him.
Real ones. The kind you can’t outthink or outdrive or bury under discipline. And you’ve never let yourself have that before—not once. Vulnerability was never safe growing up. Love always felt conditional. Earned. Temporary.
Kimi doesn’t feel like any of that. That’s what scares you.
The race itself is electric. Everything clicks in a way that feels rare and fragile, like the universe decided to be kind for once. Max is untouchable out front. You’re relentless behind him. Kimi drives like he belongs there—calm, sharp, fearless.
When the checkered flag falls, the radio explodes with noise and emotion. P1. P2. P3.
Red Bull. Red Bull. Mercedes—but it feels like family anyway.
On the cool-down lap, Max laughs over the radio. “Not bad, huh?”
You grin so hard your face hurts. “I’ll take it.”
By the time you three make it to the podium, it is chaos. Champagne sprays everywhere. Max pulls you into his side, knocking his head gently against yours. Kimi stands just close enough that your shoulders brush, his laughter unrestrained, eyes bright with disbelief and joy.
When you look at him, he’s already looking at you. Something warm blooms in your chest.
Later, the noise fades. The motorhome is quiet, dimly lit, a cocoon away from the world. You’re sitting beside Kimi on the couch, still buzzing, still riding the high.
Your phone lights up.
Jos.
Your stomach drops instantly.
Kimi notices. “You don’t have to answer that,” he says softly.
You stare at the screen for a second longer. Then you turn it face down.
“I don’t want him to ruin this,” you whisper. “I don’t want him to take another good moment.”
Your voice cracks despite yourself.
The tears surprise you—not loud, not dramatic. Just sudden and overwhelming, like your body finally deciding it’s safe enough to feel.
Kimi moves without thinking.
He pulls you into him, arms solid and warm, holding you like you’re something precious instead of fragile. You curl into his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like an anchor.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
When you pull back, he doesn’t let go completely. One hand stays at your waist. The other comes up, gentle, wiping the tears from beneath your eyes with his thumb.
You look at him. Really look. The room feels too quiet. Too small. His breath stutters just slightly, like he’s nervous too. And then—he kisses you. It’s soft. Careful. Like a question more than a statement. You kiss him back without hesitation.
The moment breaks when he pulls away abruptly, panic flashing across his face. “I—wait—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to push—I—”
You stop him, hands still resting against his chest.
“No,” you say quickly. Then softer, more honestly than you’ve ever been with anyone. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never… had this.”
He stills completely. Then he smiles—not big, not triumphant. Just warm and steady and sure.
“That’s okay,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He pulls you back into him, no rush, no expectations. Just holding you while the world stays kind a little longer.
The Hungarian Grand Prix always feels like a threshold. One last push before the season exhales.
And for the first time in a while, you feel light. You and Kimi are… together. Quietly. Intentionally. No rush, no labels shouted into the void. Just mornings that start with side by side runs and end with his hand finding yours without thinking. Just the way he looks at you when you talk—like he’s memorizing you, not consuming you.
Since Canada, everything has clicked. Your driving is sharper, freer. Podium after podium stacks up beneath your name, each one earned without panic clawing at your throat. The pressure hasn’t disappeared—but it no longer owns you.
Max notices. Of course he does.
He watches you from across garages and debrief rooms, clocks the way you smile easier now, the way your shoulders don’t sit quite so tense. He doesn’t say anything. He never pushes. Max knows you well enough to understand that when you’re ready, you’ll come to him.
Hungary delivers again.
Another clean weekend. Another strong result. When you climb out of the car on Sunday, sweat soaked and glowing, Max pulls you into a hug that’s all pride and familiarity.
“Good job,” he murmurs.
You beam. “Thanks.”
Later that evening, the paddock winding down, Max finds you sitting outside the motorhome, legs tucked beneath you, helmet resting at your side. The sun is low, casting everything in gold.
“Hey,” he says, leaning against the railing beside you. “Kelly and I were thinking—first week of summer break. Somewhere quiet. Kids, beach, no schedules. You should come.”
Your heart stutters just a little.
“I can’t,” you admit.
Max turns to look at you fully now. “Oh?”
“I’ll be in Italy.”
He raises an eyebrow slowly, expression unreadable but knowing. “Italy,” he repeats. Then, dryly, “Does this have anything to do with a certain Italian?”
You feel your face heat instantly. You look down. Then nod. Just a little. There it is.
Max exhales, something between a laugh and a sigh of relief. “Finally.”
You glance up at him, nervous now. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” He scoffs. “I was going to be mad if it was anyone else.”
You blink. “What?”
Max smiles, softer now. “He’s good to you. I can see it. And he listens. That matters.”
Your throat tightens. “We’re… together,” you say quietly. “Taking it slow.”
Max nods once. “Good.”
The door opens behind you before either of you can say more.
Kimi steps out, still in team gear, hair damp from a shower, smile already forming when he sees you—until he clocks Max’s expression.
Max turns slowly. Crosses his arms.
“Well,” he says flatly. “There is the boy who is dating my sister.”
Kimi freezes.
“Oh—uh—hi,” he says, instantly panicked. “I mean—hello. Sir. Max.”
You bite your lip, fighting a laugh.
Max lets the silence stretch just long enough to be cruel—then breaks. He pulls Kimi into a sudden hug, squeezing him hard.
“Relax,” Max says. “If anyone was going to date my sister, I’m glad it’s you.”
Kimi laughs, breathless, stunned. “You scared me.”
“Good,” Max replies, smirking. “That’s my job.”
You watch them, heart full in a way that feels almost unreal. Everything fits. And you don’t feel like running from it anymore.
Italy feels like a deep breath. Not the dramatic kind—the quiet one that slips out of you when you finally realize you’re safe.
You’ve been here a few days now, tucked into the Antonelli home where mornings are slow and loud in the best way, where windows are always open and someone is always cooking. Kimi fits here so naturally it almost makes your chest ache. And somehow, impossibly, so do you.
You wake to soft light spilling across the room and the sound of birds outside the open window. Kimi is still asleep beside you, hair a mess, face relaxed in a way you rarely see during race weeks. One arm is slung loosely around your waist, like he reached for you in his sleep without thinking.
You don’t move right away. You just watch him breathe. When he stirs, it’s slow. Sleepy. His eyes blink open and soften instantly when they find you.
“Hi,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“Hi,” you whisper back.
He smiles, small and private, and presses his forehead to yours. No rush. No urgency. Just warmth. Just this.
Eventually, you slip out of bed, pulling on one of his shirts before padding downstairs. The kitchen is already alive—sunlight pouring in, the smell of coffee and something sweet in the air.
Veronica is at the stove, humming to herself.
“Buongiorno,” she says brightly when she sees you. “Did you sleep well?”
You nod, smiling. “Very.”
“Good. Come—help me with this?”
You join her without hesitation, slicing fruit, stirring batter, listening as she talks about nothing and everything. It feels domestic in a way you never realized you craved.
At the counter, Maggie is perched on a stool, tongue poking out slightly as she concentrates on a drawing. She looks up when you pass her a napkin.
“It’s you,” she says proudly. “And Kimi. And me.”
You lean closer. “Is that supposed to be me?”
“Yes,” she says seriously. “You’re tall.”
You laugh, warmth blooming in your chest.
Later, you and Kimi take Maggie out for the day. She drags you both through her favorite gelato place, insists you try three flavors each, talks nonstop as you walk through the streets. Kimi listens like every word matters. You do too.
She slips her hand into yours at some point, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Back at the house, the afternoon settles into something lazy and golden. You step out onto the balcony when your phone buzzes, already knowing who it is.
Jos.
You answer before you can talk yourself out of it.
“Where have you been?” he snaps immediately. “I’ve been calling.”
“I’ve been busy,” you say carefully.
“With what?”
“I’m in Italy.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “Italy? You’re on break and you’re resting? You should be on the sim. Training. Improving.”
“I’ve been on the podium every race since Canada,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s working.”
“I don’t care,” he cuts in. “That’s not enough. It’s never enough.”
Something in you wilts.
You hang up with shaking hands.
You don’t realize Marco has heard until he steps out onto the balcony, concern etched into his face.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Can I sit?”
You nod, tears threatening.
He doesn’t ask questions. Just sits beside you, close but not crowding.
“You know,” he says after a moment, “when Kimi talks about racing… he talks about you.”
You blink, surprised.
“He says you drive with instinct,” Marco continues. “With heart. That cannot be taught.”
Your throat tightens.
“You are doing more than enough,” he says firmly. “And you deserve to rest. To live.”
He pats your shoulder, warm and grounding. “You are family here.”
Later, you curl up on the couch with Kimi and Maggie, a movie playing softly. Maggie is wedged between you, Kimi’s arm around your shoulders, his thumb tracing absentminded patterns against your sleeve.
You let yourself sink into it. Into them. Into the quiet certainty that for once, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
You’re curled up on the couch at Max and Kelly’s place, sunlight spilling through the tall windows, the muted sound of old race replays filling the room. Lily is warm and heavy on your chest, fast asleep, her tiny breaths puffing against your collarbone. One of her hands is fisted into the fabric of your shirt.
Kimi sits beside you, legs stretched out, attention split between the screen and Lily. He’s carefully letting her grip his finger, smiling every time she squeezes like it’s the most incredible thing he’s ever felt.
“She’s strong,” he murmurs.
“Like her dad,” you whisper back.
It’s peaceful. Domestic. Safe. Then your phone starts vibrating. Once. Twice. Then nonstop. Your chest tightens before you even look.
You carefully shift Lily so she doesn’t wake, lifting the phone with your free hand. Notifications stack on top of each other—texts, DMs, tags, missed calls.
You open Twitter.
Photos. Blurry at first, then clearer. Italy. Monaco. Your hand in Kimi’s. His arm around your waist. A kiss, caught from too far away to be private.
YN VERSTAPPEN & KIMI ANTONELLI CONFIRMED??
THE PADDOCK’S IT COUPLE?
VERSTAPPEN’S SISTER DATING HER OWN RIVAL?
Your breath leaves you all at once.
“Oh god,” you whisper. “Oh god, oh god—”
Kimi turns instantly, concern flooding his face. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
He leans in, scanning the screen, jaw tightening—not angry. Focused.
“Okay,” he says calmly. “Look at me.”
You shake your head, tears already stinging. “I can’t. This is bad. This is really bad. He’s going to—”
“Hey,” Max’s voice cuts in from the hallway as he walks out of the room where his sim is, towel slung over his shoulder. “What’s—”
“They found out,” you choke. “About us.”
Max frowns. “And?”
You stare at him, incredulous. “Max. Jos. He’s always said nothing comes before racing. No distractions. Ever. This—this is exactly what he warned me about.”
Max is quiet for a long moment.
Then he shrugs.
“If it becomes a problem,” he says simply, “I’ll deal with it.”
Your eyes fill immediately.
Kimi slides closer, one arm steady around you, grounding. “You’re not alone,” he murmurs. “Not in this.”
The rest of the afternoon drifts by like you’re underwater.
Max and Kimi disappear into the living room, arguing over a game controller, competitive and loud in that familiar way. Laughter bursts through the apartment every so often.
You’re in the kitchen with Kelly and Penelope, flour dusting the counters, cookie dough sticking to your fingers. Penelope is beaming, proudly cutting misshapen shapes while Kelly sneaks chocolate chips when she thinks no one’s looking.
For a moment, you almost forget. Then there’s a knock at the door. Three sharp raps. Your stomach drops.
Max stands. “I’ve got it.”
The door opens.
You hear Jos’s voice immediately—tight, furious. “Where is she?”
Your heart starts racing. You wipe your hands on a towel and step out of the kitchen at exactly the wrong moment.
“There you are,” Jos snaps, eyes locking onto you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Before you can answer, he’s already unloading.
“You’re embarrassing yourself. The team. The family. Dating a competitor? Distracted, unfocused—this is why I warned you. This is why—”
“Stop,” Max says sharply, stepping between you without hesitation.
Jos scoffs. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“She’s my sister,” Max growls. “It concerns me.”
Kimi appears beside you instantly, hand finding yours. You’re shaking now, barely holding it together.
Jos points at you. “You’re throwing everything away for a boy—”
“That’s enough,” Max snaps.
Kimi doesn’t wait. He gently but firmly pulls you away, guiding you down the hallway, into the bedroom. The door closes behind you, muffling the shouting.
The second it does, you break.
Kimi wraps you up immediately, arms strong, steady, shielding you from everything. Your face presses into his chest, sobs tearing out of you like they’ve been waiting for this moment.
“I’m sorry,” you cry. “I’m so sorry—”
“Hey,” he says softly, holding you tighter. “None of this is your fault. None.”
You cling to him, fingers digging into his shirt like a lifeline.
The yelling goes on for a long time.
Too long.
When Max finally comes back—fifteen minutes later—his face is pale, jaw clenched, hands shaking slightly.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just crosses the room and pulls you into his arms, hugging you so tightly it almost hurts.
“He won’t be a problem anymore,” Max says quietly, voice rough. “I promise you.”
You nod into his shoulder, exhausted, spent.
Kimi stays close, one hand warm at your back, the other tangled with yours. You let yourself believe that no matter how loud the world gets— you’re protected.
Abu Dhabi. The city hums with energy, a mix of luxury, heat, and anticipation. The final race of the season always carries extra weight, but this year—it feels like everything is coming full circle. The air is charged, the track glittering under the artificial lights, and somewhere inside, you can feel the culmination of months of hard work, tension, and quiet victories.
The race itself is flawless. Max is untouchable, calm and precise, carving his way to his fifth championship. Every lap, every corner, every overtake seems effortless, like the culmination of a lifetime of dedication. Kimi is strong, sharp, finishing P3, and you—well, you’re right there, driving with focus, with determination, with heart, finishing just behind Max. Your efforts throughout the season have secured you second place in the championship battle, and for the first time, the results feel like more than numbers—they feel like validation.
When the checkered flag waves, the emotion hits all at once. You climb out of the car, helmet under your arm, chest heaving from adrenaline and relief, and your eyes immediately find Kimi. His face is radiant, eyes wide, breathless, a grin breaking across his features. Max approaches you both, laughing, his own exhaustion tempered by triumph.
The podium celebration is chaotic in the best way. Champagne sprays everywhere, laughter and cheers filling the air. You and Kimi can’t stop grinning at each other. He takes your hand, squeezing it once, then leans down, kissing you softly in front of the cameras. The press erupts, flashbulbs exploding, fans online going wild. Everyone is eating it up, but it doesn’t matter. The moment is yours.
Max laughs loudly, clapping both of you on the shoulders.
Kimi’s family is there, smiling proudly—Marco and Veronica beaming, Maggie waving excitedly. Your own support system is close as well: Victoria, Sophie, Kelly, Penelope, all cheering, all sharing in the moment. It’s a rare thing to feel so surrounded by love, by family, by people who see you for who you truly are.
Later, the team hosts a celebration at a club near the paddock. Music pulses through the air, laughter bouncing off the walls. You and Kimi slip in together, shoulders brushing, hands intertwined. The team surrounds you, everyone caught up in the euphoria of the season’s final victory.
You’re sitting at a table, sipping a drink and watching the chaos, when Max suddenly appears. In one fluid motion, he grabs Kimi by the waist and hoists him up. “Dance floor, now!” he announces. Kimi laughs, struggling briefly before Max drags him out, spinning him around. You watch them, laughing, shaking your head. Kimi’s face is flushed, radiant, caught between embarrassment and joy, and Max is gleeful, a giant grin splitting his face.
Sophie leans over, resting her head on your shoulder, eyes soft and full of pride. “He’s good for you,” she murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never seen you this happy, YN. Never.”
You lean into her, heart full, watching Kimi twirl with Max on the dance floor, laughter spilling from him in waves that make you feel like it’s only ever been you two against the world. You squeeze Sophie’s hand, nodding, because it’s true. You’re finally happy. Truly happy.
The night stretches on, filled with music, laughter, and celebration. Champagne flows, congratulations are exchanged, and the lights blur around you. But even in the chaos, you and Kimi find each other’s hands. Even in the crowd, you stay connected. Even in the noise, there’s a quiet certainty: you belong.
Abu Dhabi, the last race, the final champagne toast, the laughter, the dancing—everything comes together. Max has his fifth championship. You’ve earned your place as a rising star. And with Kimi beside you, family around you, love finally allowed to be seen, it feels like the perfect ending.
You lean back against the booth, resting your head on her shoulder, smiling as the world keeps spinning around you. Sophie squeezes your hand once more, whispering, “Enjoy this, lieve. You’ve earned it.”
And you do. You finally do. The season ends. The championship ends. But this—this is yours. And it’s only just beginning.
served with: kimi antonelli x fem!bff!reader
chef's note: it turns out, gold is a very cold metal when you have no one to hold it for you.
portion size: 2.9k
💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)
note: Hey besties! I hope you're having a great weekend. This is a request I received, and here it is. I hope you like it. I also knew I had to write something about Kimi for his first victory!!! Wow, such a huge achievement for him and an important point in F1 🥺😭 & very happy as well for the first podium of Lewis in Ferrari!!! <3 xx
The air in Kimi’s Bolonia apartment was thick with the scent of espresso and the low hum of a racing simulator. For weeks, the pressure of his debut season had been building like a localized storm system. The media was calling him the "Next Big Thing," the "Chosen One," and every time he closed his eyes, he saw apexes and brake markers.
You were the only one who didn't talk to him about tire deg or downforce. You were the one who brought him takeout at 11:00 PM and made him laugh until his ribs hurt. But tonight, even your presence felt like a weight he couldn't carry.
"Kimi, you haven't eaten anything but protein bars all day," you said softly, leaning against the doorframe of his sim-room. "I ordered that pasta from the place down the street. Come on, five minutes?"
He didn't look up from the screen. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "I’m busy, Y/N. The Shanghai circuit has a high-speed entry into Turn 1 that I need to nail. Not now."
"You’ve been 'nailing' it for four hours," you countered, walking over to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Your eyes are bloodshot. Just a break, please?"
He flinched away from your touch as if it burned. The car on the screen spun out, the virtual tires screeching in a digital protest.
Kimi slammed his palms against the wheel and stood up so fast the chair skidded back. "Can you just stop?" he snapped, his voice sharp and jagged. "I have the weight of an entire factory on my shoulders, and you’re worried about pasta?"
"I’m worried about you," you said, your voice steady but hurt.
"Well, don't be! Honestly, Y/N, sometimes I think you forget that this isn't karting anymore. This is my life. It’s my career. And lately, having you around feels like… like I’m dragging a distraction behind me."
The room went deathly silent. The "distraction" comment hung in the air, cruel and impossible to take back.
"A distraction?" you whispered.
"Yes," he spat, the stress of the upcoming Chinese GP leaking out as misplaced venom. "Maybe that’s why I haven’t won yet. Maybe I’m too comfortable. So, you know what? Don’t come to China. I need to do this alone. I need to remember why I’m here, and I can’t do that when I’m constantly worried about making sure you’re entertained in the paddock."
You didn't cry. Not in front of him. You just nodded, the "just friends" mask you’d worn for years finally cracking down the middle.
"Okay, Kimi," you said, your voice hollow. "If that’s what you need to win, then I won't be there."
You left his apartment five minutes later. He expected to feel a sense of relief—a "focus" settling over him. Instead, he just felt cold. He looked at the two portions of pasta sitting on the kitchen counter and realized he had no appetite at all.
Two Days Later
Kimi sat in the lounge, checking his phone every thirty seconds. He expected a text. A "good luck" or even an "I’m still mad at you."
Nothing.
For the first time in his professional life, he boarded a plane for a race weekend without a "fly safe" text from you. He told himself it was for the best. He told himself he was a professional.
But as the plane took off for Shanghai, he looked at the empty seat beside him—the seat you usually occupied, leaning your head on his shoulder and falling asleep before the wheels even retracted—and he felt a sickening pit form in his stomach.
He had his focus. He had his solitude. But as he looked out at the clouds, he realized he’d never felt more alone.
-
The Shanghai International Circuit was a blur of neon lights and gray asphalt. Usually, the "Great Wall" of fans at the entrance would be a source of energy for Kimi. He’d point out the funny posters to you, or you’d tease him about how many "Kimi" headbands you counted.
This weekend, he kept his head down, his noise-canceling headphones blaring music he wasn't even listening to. He had what he wanted: total, uninterrupted focus.
In the garage, Kimi was a machine. His feedback to the engineers was surgical. He didn't joke with the mechanics. He didn't linger at the hospitality suite. He was fast—terrifyingly fast.
"Great job, Kimi. That’s P1 for tomorrow," Toto’s voice crackled over the radio after qualifying.
Kimi stared at the steering wheel. Normally, the first thing he’d do after unbuckling was find you in the back of the garage. You’d give him that specific "I knew you could do it" look, and the weight of the world would lift.
He climbed out of the car, his heart heavy. He reached into his hoodie pocket for his phone, his thumb hovering over your name. He wanted to tell you about the wind shift in Turn 6. He wanted to tell you he missed the way you always had a water bottle ready for him.
He put the phone back. He had told you he didn't need distractions. He had to prove he was right.
The lights went out, and Kimi was a demon on the track. He drove with a cold, desperate aggression. Every time his mind drifted to the empty seat in his hospitality room, he pushed the car harder, braking later, flirting with the edge of disaster.
Lap 20. Lap 40. Lap 56.
"Purple sectors, Kimi. You’re five seconds clear," his engineer, Bono, confirmed. "Just bring it home."
As he rounded the final hairpin, the grandstands erupted. The checkered flag waved—the black-and-white symbol of everything he had worked for since he was seven years old.
"P1, Kimi! P1! History made!"
He waited for the rush. He waited for the explosion of joy that every driver talked about. But as he crossed the line, the only thing he felt was a crushing, physical ache in his chest. The cockpit felt too big. The air felt too thin.
He parked the car under the #1 sign. He jumped onto the nose of the Mercedes, throwing his arms up for the cameras, playing the part of the triumphant hero.
But as he pulled his helmet off, his eyes immediately went to the "inner circle" fence. He saw his father, his manager, and the sea of Mercedes green.
He searched. He looked for the one person who had seen him cry when he lost championships, the one person who knew he hated the taste of the podium sparkling wine.
She’s not here.
The realization hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. The "distraction" he had pushed away was actually the only thing that made the victory real. Without you there to share the weight of the trophy, it just felt like a heavy, cold piece of metal.
He stood on the top step, the Italian anthem playing for the first time in his F1 career, and all he could think about was the look on your face when he called you a "distraction."
"I won," he whispered to himself, the words lost in the roar of the crowd. "And I’ve never felt more like a loser."
-
The flight from Shanghai to Nice was thirteen hours of agonizing silence. Kimi sat in the back of the private jet, the first-place trophy buckled into the seat next to him like a passenger. Every time the plane hit a pocket of turbulence, the metal clinked against the leather, a constant, ringing reminder of what he’d traded for it.
He hadn't slept. He’d spent the flight staring at his phone, re-reading his own cruel words from a week ago. Distraction. Dragging me down. By the time he landed, the sun was just beginning to peek over the Mediterranean. He didn't go to his apartment. He didn't even drop off his bags. He told the driver to head straight to your place.
Kimi stood outside your door, still wearing his team-issue jacket, looking every bit like the exhausted, soul-shaken nineteen-year-old he was. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the wood. What if you didn't want to see him? What if you’d realized, in his absence, that your life was easier without his chaos?
He knocked. Softly at first, then with a desperate finality.
When the door finally opened, you were wrapped in an oversized hoodie—one of his, ironically—your eyes sleep-deprived and guarded. You looked at him, then at the floor, then at the massive trophy sitting on the hallway carpet behind him.
"You won," you said, your voice small and devoid of the usual spark. "Congratulations, Kimi. Truly."
"I hated it," he blurted out.
The words stopped you in your tracks. You looked up, confused. "What? You’ve dreamed of that podium since you were seven. You were perfect out there."
"It was the worst two hours of my life," Kimi said, his voice cracking. He took a step forward, closing the gap between you, but he didn't touch you. He didn't feel like he had the right to. "I stood on that top step, Y/N, and I looked for you. I scanned every face in that crowd. I waited for the feeling—the one where everything makes sense—and it never came."
He gestured wildly toward the hallway. "That trophy? It’s just a heavy piece of metal. I looked at it and all I could see was the look on your face when I told you not to come. I thought I needed focus, but I realized... you are my focus. You’re the only thing that makes the racing matter."
You leaned against the doorframe, a single tear finally escaping. "You called me a distraction, Kimi. After everything. After every race, every injury, every late-night sim session... you made me feel like I was a burden."
"I was a coward," he whispered, stepping close enough that his forehead almost touched yours. "I was scared of how much I needed you. I thought if I could win without you, then I was in control. But I don't want to be in control if it means being alone."
He reached out then, his fingers trembling as he tucked a stray hair behind your ear.
"Please," he breathed, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that burned through the 'just friends' lie they’d lived for years. "Don't ever let me be that stupid again. I don't want a career full of wins if you aren't at the finish line. It doesn't mean anything without you."
You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the boy who used to share his karting snacks with you, now grown into a man who had the world at his feet but only wanted the girl at his door.
You didn't say it was okay—not yet—but you stepped back, opening the door wider to let him in. As he slumped onto your sofa, finally letting the exhaustion take him, the trophy remained in the hallway. Forgotten. Because for the first time all weekend, Kimi Antonelli felt like he had actually won.
-
The Imola circuit was a sea of Ferrari red, but inside the Mercedes garage, the tension was different. It wasn't the jagged, anxious energy of the Chinese GP. It was steady. It was grounded.
Kimi stood by the telemetry screens, his firesuit tied around his waist, his thermal shirt clinging to his shoulders. He looked focused, but every few seconds, his eyes would drift to the back of the garage.
Two hours earlier, the "official" moment had happened. Usually, you walked three paces behind him, or arrived at a different time to avoid the "Are they or aren't they?" whispers from the media.
Not today.
Kimi had reached for your hand the moment the car door opened at the track entrance. He didn't just hold it; he laced his fingers with yours, pulling you close as the shutters of a dozen photographers began to click frantically.
"Are you sure?" you had whispered, eyeing the long lens of a prominent F1 journalist. "This is going to be on every blog by the time FP1 starts."
Kimi hadn't even looked at the cameras. He only looked at you. "Let them write. I’m tired of pretending my favorite part of the weekend is a 'distraction.'"
The team’s reaction was a mix of "finally" and knowing smirks. Toto Wolff had given Kimi a look that was half-paternal, half-relieved, before nodding professionally at you. The mechanics didn't say a word, but there was a new energy in the air. The "Golden Boy" wasn't a brooding machine anymore; he was a person again.
As the "10 minutes to session" horn blared, Kimi began his pre-race ritual.
He usually did this alone. Today, he sat on the bench, and you held the helmet for him.
One earbud in his ear, one in yours. No heavy metal or focus-beats—just the playlist you’d made for the flight home from Shanghai.
Instead of a quick "good luck" fist-bump, Kimi pulled you into the small gap between the tire stacks and the wall.
He rested his helmet on the table and leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. The roar of the engines starting up in the neighboring garages was deafening, but in this small pocket of space, it was quiet.
"I’m going to win today," he murmured, his voice vibrating with a confidence you hadn't heard in weeks.
"Oh? Going to make it two-for-two?" you teased, though your heart was racing.
"I have to," he grinned, his eyes softening. "I can't have you flying all this way just to see me come in P4. I have a reputation to uphold now that the boss is watching."
When Kimi climbed into the W17, he didn't look at the screens or the clouds. He looked for the person standing at the edge of his grid slot. You gave him a small, secret thumbs-up, the sunlight catching the "lucky" bracelet he’d bought you in Sanremo years ago.
For the first time in his career, the pressure didn't feel like a weight. It felt like a tailwind. He knew that whether he stood on the podium or ended up in the gravel trap, you’d be the one holding the door open for him at the end of the day.
The "just friends" era was over. The "Kimi and Y/N" era had officially begun.
The Imola podium was a literal sea of red, but as Kimi stood on the second-place step—a hard-fought, brilliant P2—he didn’t feel the hollow ache he’d felt in Shanghai.
This time, when the Italian anthem played, he didn't scan the crowd with desperation. He knew exactly where you were. You were standing right behind the Mercedes pit wall, leaning against the monitors, wearing his spare headset. When he looked down, you caught his eye and gave him a wink—a private, silent "I told you so."
The champagne didn't taste like acid this time. It tasted like triumph.
Later that night, the chaos of the paddock had faded into the cool, damp air of the Emilia-Romagna countryside. Kimi and Y/N were tucked away in a small, family-run trattoria miles from the track. No cameras, no PR agents, just the smell of fresh basil and the low hum of Italian conversation.
Kimi reached across the table, his thumb tracing the back of your hand.
"You're remarkably quiet," you teased, swirling the last of your water. "Usually after a podium, you're buzzing about brake bias for three hours."
"I'm just thinking," Kimi said, his voice dropping to that soft, gravelly tone he only used with you. "About how much time I wasted trying to be a 'professional' by keeping you at a distance. I thought the win was the goal. But the win is just the decoration. This is the goal."
He squeezed your hand, his blue eyes bright with a clarity that had nothing to do with racing lines. "I’m never going to a race without you again if I can help it. I don’t care if people talk. I don’t care if it’s a 'distraction.' You’re my home, Y/N."
An hour later, as you were heading back to the hotel, Kimi pulled out his phone. He had thousands of tags from the race, professional shots of him hitting the apex at Acque Minerali, and sleek Mercedes-AMG graphics.
He ignored them all.
He opened his camera roll and found a photo he’d taken earlier that morning. It wasn't a "glamour" shot. It was a candid photo of you in the back of the garage, bathed in the glow of the timing screens, wearing his oversized team jacket with the sleeves pushed up, looking tired but fiercely proud.
[A grainy, warm-toned photo of Y/N in the Mercedes garage, looking at the track maps. In the second slide, a blurry photo of your intertwined hands resting on his race helmet.]
kimi.antonelli P2 in Imola 🇮🇹 A special weekend for many reasons. I used to think I had to do this alone to be the best. I was wrong. The best part of today wasn't the trophy—it was having the person who’s been there since day one finally standing where she belongs.
No more "just friends." My lucky charm, my focus, my everything. ❤️
mercedesamgf1 We’re not crying, you’re crying 🥹
georgerussell63 About time, mate 👏
user1 THE HARD LAUNCH WE ALL NEEDED.
user2 Look at how he looks at her in the background of slide 1... he's gone 🫠
As you scrolled through the comments, leaning your head on his shoulder in the back of the car, Kimi turned off his screen. He didn't need to read the validation of the world. He had the only person whose opinion mattered tucked under his arm, and for the first time in his life, the race was finally over—and he had won everything.
