I was so scared when Rocky came out to save his life; right before they had talked about being brave, I thought the makers were setting parallels and we were going to lose Rocky. I cried...a lot. People gave me sideeyes.
It was wonderful. Such unexpected meeting and the beautiful bond they both have.
Amaze, Amaze, Amaze!
Loved it. Please go and watch if you have not yet.
i am SOOOO incredibly grateful and honored…. you have absolutely no idea. this goes beyond anything i can even put into words. it’s so sooo beautiful !!!!! the time, care, and thought you put into this means so much to me, truly. i don’t think i’ll ever be able to thank you enough for it <333
It’s been about three years since I last painted a Versailles fanart, but here I am again! A Philippe I always wanted to paint, but never did 💙
I have a time-lapse of my painting process here, if anyone is interested!
Please don’t repost, but reblog 🥰 ko-fi | instagram
Summary : She’s the most dominant player in women’s volleyball and media favorite known for her killer serves and perfectly styled hair. She’s also a massive Formula 1 fan. More specifically, an Oscar Piastri fan.
Oscar has no idea… until Lando shows him an interview of her revealing her crush.
Pairing : Oscar Piastri x volleyball player!reader
Genre : SMAU, fluff, request, suggestive
Face claim : Duru Türknas
Series : Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Main Masterlist
The sliding doors of the Nice Côte d'Azur Airport opened to let in a soft wave of summer heat, the Mediterranean sun spilling across the arrival hall in a gentle haze. Oscar stood a few feet away, slightly bouncing on the balls of his feet as his eyes scanned the crowd. His palms were clammy despite the air-conditioned terminal, one hand clutching his phone while the other rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck.
He had arrived twenty minutes early. Of course he had.
In the past, he'd always prided himself on being calm and composed, on track, during press, even in front of wild fans. But this? This had him undone. Because this wasn’t just anyone flying in for a weekend. It was her.
The girl he had watched on screen, spiking balls with impossible grace and laughing under fluorescent gym lights. The girl who had blushed in interviews when his name came up. The girl who, against all odds, was now texting him, flirting with him, going on dates with him. And now, stepping off a flight to spend the weekend in his world.
When he spotted her, dragging a small suitcase and wearing that bright smile that made his stomach twist in ways he hadn’t felt before, Oscar actually forgot how to breathe.
"Hi," she said, slightly breathless, eyes lighting up when she saw him standing there, white tee slightly wrinkled, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times.
He blinked, swallowed the lump in his throat, then finally moved forward. "Hi," he replied, smile blooming instantly. "You made it."
She laughed. "I did. Still can't believe it. Monaco feels like a dream."
Oscar reached for her suitcase handle, already pulling it from her hand with a gentleman's ease. "Well, let’s make it a good one. I parked just outside."
The drive from Nice to Monaco was smooth, the coastal roads curving between cliffs and sea, sunlight painting everything in gold. Oscar kept stealing glances at her from the corner of his eye. She looked out the window, hair pulled back loosely, sunglasses resting in her hand as she took in every glimpse of the Riviera.
Every few minutes, he'd ask something.
"Are you comfortable? Want the AC lower? Need water? Snacks? Should I stop for coffee?"
She turned to him at one point, placing a gentle hand on his wrist, laughter in her eyes. "Oscar. Breathe. Please. I'm good. Just really happy to be here."
He exhaled like she'd physically released some valve in his chest. "Okay, sorry. Just want to make sure everything's perfect."
"It already is," she said softly.
And then she pulled a tiny gift bag from her tote and handed it to him.
Oscar blinked. "What's this?"
"A little something. I saw it and thought of you. I hope it’s not too stupid."
He opened the bag carefully and pulled out a small, plush croissant with a smiling face stitched into it. His eyes widened in amusement.
"It’s a Piastri-pastry," she said, cheeks warming. "Pastry. Piastri. You know... dumb wordplay."
He actually choked out a laugh, one of those genuine, uncontrolled ones that made his eyes crinkle.
"That might be the best gift I’ve ever gotten," he said, turning the plush in his hands. "I'm putting this on my nightstand. Or maybe in the car. Permanent seat."
Their eyes locked for a moment longer than necessary. He leaned in slightly, almost without thinking but then pulled back, jaw tight, remembering himself.
She noticed.
He was too careful. Too cautious. Too polite. And it only made her like him more.
Oscar’s apartment in Monaco was sleek and modern, but surprisingly homey. Minimalist furniture, soft neutrals, and a framed photo of his dog back home in Australia on the entryway table.
He helped her with her bag, hovering in the hallway like he wasn’t sure if he should offer her the tour or apologize for not vacuuming.
"You can freshen up here," he said, leading her to the guest room. "Or rest. Or... whatever you need. Again, if you’re hungry or thirsty, I..."
"Oscar," she said gently, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest. "I’m fine. Seriously. Stop worrying so much. Let’s just enjoy this, okay? No pressure. No expectations."
He nodded, trying to absorb her calm like a sponge. "Okay. It’s just, I really want this to go well. You to feel welcome. I’ve never flown anyone out here before."
Her smile softened. "That’s sweet. And a little intimidating. But sweet."
He laughed awkwardly. Then his voice dropped slightly, eyes flickering to her lips before quickly darting away. "Also... I’ve kind of been panicking about when to kiss you since the second I saw you at the airport."
She tilted her head. "Really?"
"Yeah. I keep overthinking it. Like, do I wait for the boat? At dinner? Under the stars? After dessert? Before dessert?"
She chuckled and stepped a little closer, eyes glinting with playful mischief. "Well, boat night does seem like the most cinematic option."
Oscar tried to hide his disappointment, nodding. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."
She stared at his pout for one second too long, then let out a soft sigh. "Oscar."
He looked up.
"I was joking."
He blinked.
She took his hand. "You can kiss me now."
The way his breath caught—like the air had left the room and returned all at once, was almost funny.
Almost.
Then he stepped forward, cupped her cheek with one careful hand like he didn’t trust this to be real, and kissed her.
It was slow and warm at first, uncertain and full of all the nerves they’d been dancing around for weeks. But when she curled her fingers into the collar of his shirt, he melted into it, deepened it, let himself feel all of it.
And when they finally pulled away, their foreheads resting together, both slightly breathless, she whispered:
"Guess I won’t be needing that cinematic boat kiss anymore."
Oscar smiled against her lips. "Let’s do that too. Just for the full experience."
She laughed.
And God, he never wanted her to stop.
The sun hung low over the Monaco skyline, casting a soft golden light across the shimmering waters of the harbor. The cobbled streets were busy but calm, the sounds of gentle waves lapping against yachts mixing with the distant clinks of silverware from seaside cafés. Oscar glanced at her as they strolled side by side, her hand occasionally brushing against his, a quiet spark every time it happened.
He'd taken the afternoon to show her around the city, as much of it as could be covered in a few hours anyway. From the famous Casino de Monte-Carlo to the little market stalls tucked between luxury boutiques, she had marvelled at everything like a kid on Christmas morning. And God, he loved watching her take it all in.
"Okay," she said, pulling off her sunglasses and tucking them into her hair, "Monaco might be my new favorite place."
Oscar grinned, relieved and proud at the same time. "Yeah? That’s a big win."
"I mean... you, ice cream, yachts, sunshine? It’s like a dream."
"You forgot to mention traffic and being stared at by tourists."
"Minor inconveniences," she said, bumping his shoulder lightly with hers.
They stopped at a small gelateria by the harbor, Oscar ordering two cones: lemon and pistachio for him, dark chocolate and raspberry for her. He paid before she could even reach for her wallet.
"Oscar," she protested, laughing.
"Monaco rule number one," he replied smoothly. "When you're visiting, you don't pay for anything."
"Says who?"
"Me. Just now."
She licked her ice cream and raised a brow. "Fine. But I’m buying breakfast tomorrow."
He smiled to himself as they continued their slow walk along the marina, passing polished yachts, local fishermen packing up for the day, and the occasional couple arm-in-arm. With every passing minute, he felt himself relax a little more. Her laugh came easily. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She wasn’t overthinking this the way he was.
As they reached the far edge of the harbor, the private docks opened up before them, quieter and more secluded. Oscar led her down a narrow path between the boats, their steps echoing faintly on the wood.
He stopped when they reached Lando’s borrowed yacht.
"This is the one," he said, trying to sound casual, but the nerves were creeping back into his voice.
She turned toward the boat, then back at him, a slow grin forming. "Of course it is."
"I know, it’s a bit... much."
She tilted her head. "It's Monaco. Everything here is a bit much. But I love it."
They climbed aboard, and Oscar helped her down onto the deck with exaggerated care, his hand lingering in hers for a few seconds longer than needed.
"You okay?" he asked for the fifth time that afternoon.
"Oscar. I swear. If you ask me that again, I’m going to push you overboard."
He laughed, raising both hands in surrender. "Fair. I just..."
"Want to make sure I’m okay, I know," she interrupted, softer now. She looked at him for a moment, then reached out and took his hand. "I am. I’m really happy to be here."
They sat side by side on the back deck, the sky fading slowly into shades of amber and rose. The sun dipped behind the hills, leaving a trail of light dancing on the water. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. It wasn’t awkward. It was just, peaceful.
Oscar finally broke the silence. "Can I ask something stupid?"
She turned to look at him, intrigued. "Always."
"Are you... not nervous? At all? Because I’ve been in a constant state of panic since noon."
She smiled and looked down at their hands, still loosely tangled. "I was terrified."
He blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"God, yes. You’re Oscar Piastri. The guy I crushed on through a screen, remember? The one who had no idea I existed while I was out here embarrassing myself in interviews."
Oscar winced playfully. "I loved those interviews. I watch them on repeat after your match. I think my favorite was when your teammate called me your imaginary husband."
"God no, but that's because you didn't know me, I tough you will never saw those."
"Well I saw it eventually."
They both laughed.
She continued, voice softening. "But yeah, I was nervous. I just... I’m a bit better at pretending I’m not."
"That’s not fair," he said, shaking his head. "You’re calm and collected and perfect, and I’m just here hoping I don’t say something dumb every two minutes."
Their laughter faded into another moment of quiet, one that lingered just long enough for her to lean against his shoulder. The air had cooled slightly, but her presence was warm.
"This might be my favorite day," she murmured.
Oscar tilted his head to rest lightly against hers. "Same."
Then, after a beat he says : "No pressure, right? Just... enjoy the moment?"
She smiled, eyes closed. "Exactly."
And as the stars began to blink into view above them, Oscar felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest. Not nerves. Not anxiety. Something calm. Something hopeful.
@volley_yn
Boat day with perfect company. 🛥️
@_user1:
Wait wait wait… isn’t she in Monaco?? 👀 isn’t Oscar there too???
@_user2:
okay but like… Oscar doesn’t have a boat, does he?
@_user3:
maybe it’s just another guy?? maybe a random date??
@_user4:
NO bc Lando does have a boat and he was at her match too
@_user5:
but she was crushing on Piastri HARD, so like why would it be Lando now??
@_user6:
plot twist: she changed favorite McLaren boys 💀
@_user7:
can someone confirm if that’s the same white shirt Oscar wear all the time or am i just delulu
@_user8:
the grapes. the lighting. the boat. THE MAN. I NEED TO KNOW.
@_user9:
nah fr WHO IS HE 😭😭
@_francesca:
you look so cuteee. enjoy 😌
@_user10:
FRANCESCA DON’T JUST SAY THAT, TELL US WHO THE GUY IS
@_user11:
@_francesca blink twice if it’s Piastri
@_user12:
just say his name bestie, you’re in too deep now 🫣
The stars had claimed the sky above Monaco by the time they finished their glasses of wine. The yacht floated steady beneath them, anchored just outside the main harbor, where the city lights shimmered in the dark sea like a reflection of the stars above.
Oscar had brought a bottle of white, something Italian and crisp he thought she might like and to his relief, she did. She’d even made a pleased little sound after the first sip, which he stored deep in his memory like it meant something.
They were curled up on the back lounge of the boat now, close but not quite tangled yet. The wind was soft and salty, her legs bare where her skirt had slipped higher, and Oscar, trying very, very hard not to be a cliché, had placed his hand gently on her thigh when she leaned into him with a giggle. He didn’t even know what they were laughing about anymore.
Probably the wine.
She leaned back slightly, still chuckling, and ran her fingers into his hair, slow and light and deliberate.
Oscar’s breath caught.
“Okay,” she said, “you are very tense for someone who’s supposedly calm.”
“I’m not tense,” he replied too fast, too stiff. “I’m just... aware.”
“Aware?”
“That your hand is in my hair and I might actually melt into this seat if you keep doing that.”
She laughed, low and warm. “You like it?”
He hummed. “Dangerously.”
Her hand lingered, tugging lightly. His eyes fluttered closed for a second. When he opened them, she was watching him.
And she wasn’t smiling.
She was looking at him like she was thinking.
Planning.
Then she leaned in again and kissed him.
This time, it wasn’t sweet or shy or careful.
This time, it was slow, deliberate, her mouth opening beneath his, her tongue brushing his in a way that made his pulse skyrocket. He kissed her deeper, one hand firm on her thigh now, the other sliding up her waist to keep her close. Her fingers stayed in his hair, pulling softly, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until he groaned.
Actually groaned.
She grinned against his mouth.
“Oh God,” he muttered, cheeks flushed, breath ragged.
“I didn’t know you made noises like that,” she teased, her voice thick with amusement.
“I didn’t either,” he said honestly.
Then she did something that short-circuited every remaining rational thought in his brain.
She climbed onto his lap.
Effortless. Confident. Gorgeous.
Straddling him in one smooth movement, her legs on either side, her body warm and soft against his.
Oscar blinked, hands frozen in place like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch.
She was smiling again, that mischievous glint in her eyes. “You okay?”
“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
She laughed, leaned down and kissed him again, deeper this time, hungrier. He finally moved, hands sliding down her back, pulling her just a little closer. She shifted in his lap and he bit his lip to keep another sound in.
Her mouth moved to his neck, kissing, teasing, then a little bite.
Oscar swore under his breath. “You’re going to kill me.”
She nuzzled against his jaw. “You’ll die happy.”
His hands started to explore more now, drifting lower on her back, brushing the edge of her shirt where skin met fabric. And then he paused.
Pulled back just an inch. Enough to look at her.
“You know,” he said carefully, his voice quieter, “I didn’t invite you here for… this.”
She blinked. “Really?”
He flushed. “I mean… not that I don’t want to. I just… it wasn’t the plan. I wanted you to see Monaco. I wanted to show you the boat. Lando might’ve had… other ideas.”
She tilted her head. “Lando ?”
“Condoms on the main desk,” he muttered.
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh my God. That was him?”
“Yeah,” Oscar groaned. “I try to hide them the minute we step in here. And then I spent the entire afternoon praying you wouldn’t notice.”
“I did notice.”
“Of course you did.”
She started laughing, really laughing. Her whole body shaking against his lap.
“I thought you put them there!” she managed.
“What?! No! I would never...” he cut himself off, then muttered, “he’s such a menace.”
“He’s just a good friend. A little too involved.”
Oscar huffed. “Too involved. That’s putting it lightly.”
There was a pause. Then he ask again. “So… we’re not actually doing anything, right?” he asked, brows raised.
She smiled, brushing hair from his forehead, her hands resting on his shoulders. “Yeah. No way.”
“Right.”
“Yeah.”
“...You don’t sound convinced.”
She leaned in again, her mouth hovering just over his.
“Neither do you.”
Oscar leaned forward, guiding her gently down onto the cushioned bench, his breath shallow and rapid, the wine and heat and desire fogging everything else. She let herself fall back easily, pulling him with her, their mouths still connected in a slow, hungry kiss.
Her hands were on his neck, then in his hair again, tugging softly as he trailed his lips down her jaw, to the line of her throat.
Then lower.
He kissed her neck, soft and warm, then again, deeper this time, slower, lingering as he began to truly taste her skin. He found that spot just beneath her ear and she gasped. It made him smile, and then do it again, this time letting his teeth graze lightly before soothing the mark with his mouth.
Her body arched under him.
Her shirt had ridden up slightly in the motion, and with trembling fingers, Oscar slipped one hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over the warm, bare skin of her waist.
She didn’t stop him.
In fact, she sighed, soft and pleased and shifted her hips beneath him, her legs slowly parting to make space between them. She welcomed him there, like she had been waiting for it all night.
That single movement undid him.
His breath hitched, his hand tightening on her hip for a second as he pulled back just enough to look down at her, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright in the dim yacht lighting.
He swallowed hard, heart racing, then leaned up and pulled his shirt over his head in one quick motion.
He didn’t think.
Didn’t overanalyze.
He just… let go.
Her eyes followed the movement and lingered, on the planes of his chest, the soft shadow of muscle, the way his breath rose and fell quickly now. She bit her bottom lip, smiling as if seeing him like this was both unexpected and completely inevitable.
And then her hands were on his skin too, her palms warm and steady against his ribs, her nails grazing softly as she explored him with a confidence that only made his heart beat faster.
Oscar kissed her again, more desperate now, more certain. The kind of kiss that says “I want all of you” without ever needing the words. His body pressed between her open legs, fitting there like it had always belonged.
Maybe they weren’t planning anything.
Maybe they still weren’t sure.
But the boat rocked gently beneath them.
And when she take off her shirt in a heated move, he stopped pretending he wasn’t all in.
The morning sun filtered softly through the half-closed curtains of the yacht's main cabin, casting streaks of golden light across the bed. The sea outside was calm, gently rocking the boat with a rhythmic lullaby. Oscar lay on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting lightly on her bare waist, fingers curled in the sheets.
He’d been awake for a while now, quietly basking in the warmth of her body against his. Her breathing was slow, deep, still lost in dreams, and God, she looked so peaceful. Her cheek pressed into his chest, lips slightly parted, hair a soft mess against his skin. Every now and then she’d shift in her sleep, pulling herself closer, curling into him like he was her favorite place to rest.
Oscar had barely moved except to grab his phone at one point to text Lando. A decision he immediately regretted. As soon as the texts started spiraling into chaos, he regretted everything.
He was mid-scrolling through Lando’s 25th message asking him for details when she stirred.
She let out a tiny hum, barely audible, before pressing a sleepy kiss to his chest. Then her head lifted, eyes slowly blinking open.
"Hey," she whispered, voice raspy and low.
Oscar froze, dropped his phone off the side of the bed with a quiet thump, and turned to face her fully. "Hey," he replied, a little too quickly, a little too brightly.
She smiled, soft and sleepy, then immediately tucked her face back into his neck. "God. Is this real?"
"I’ve been asking myself the same thing for an hour," he whispered into her hair.
They lay like that for a few minutes, tangled together, the morning light warming the room, the smell of salt and sunshine slipping in through the open window. She shifted, resting her leg over his, pulling herself impossibly closer.
"You’re really warm," she mumbled.
Oscar chuckled. "You’re literally on top of me."
"Exactly." She looked up at him, eyes clearer now, teasing. "Human heater."
He laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Do you want something? Water? Breakfast? I could go grab you a..."
She gently pressed her hand over his mouth.
"Oscar."
He blinked.
"Stop. You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Overthinking. Panicking. Offering me seventeen different types of juice."
"Only three," he muttered behind her hand.
She smiled, dropping her hand to his chest. "I’m here. I’m happy. Can we just... stay like this for a second?"
Oscar nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we can do that."
She leaned up and kissed him gently, slow and sleepy, her lips tasting like last night and morning sun. And when she pulled away, she looked at him with this wide, almost nervous look.
"So... does this mean you’re like... my boyfriend now?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was afraid saying it out loud might ruin something.
Oscar's eyes softened.
He cupped her cheek with one hand and leaned in again, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then her lips.
"Oh, I am," he said between kisses. "For real now, baby."
She grinned, cheeks turning warm as she pulled him into another kiss, this one deeper, more certain. She rolled back against the pillows, pulling him with her, the sheets twisting around their legs. Their laughter echoed softly in the cabin, mixing with the morning breeze, with the gentle sway of the sea.
@_oscarpiastri
Just a perfect weekend.💙
@_user1
not to be dramatic but WHO is that girl 😭😭😭
@_user2
Oscar… boyfriend era??????????
@_user3
sir we are gonna need a face reveal RIGHT NOW
@_user4
wait wait is this THE soft launch ????
@_user5
that’s not Oscar casually soft launching a gf like we wouldn’t notice 😭
@_user6
y’all it can be Y/N right?? she’s been posting similar boat stuff lately 👀
@_user7
omg it better be her I love her so much they’re cute together
@_user8
STOPPP IF IT’S HER I’LL SCREAM
@_landonorris
Bro you’re terrible at this. Just post her face already we were all literally there when you kept looking at her at her volleyball match💀
@_user9
LANDO WHAT 😭😭😭
@_user10
ANDDDD THE COVER IS BLOWN LMAOOOOOO
@_user11
@_landonorris is actually the messiest wingman I love him
@_user12
this confirms it omg it’s Y/N for real
@_user13
Y/N AND OSCAR CONFIRMED I’M GONNA FAINT
@_oscarpiastri
Ignore him.
@volley_yn
Well, since everyone clearly knows now 🙄
Guess nothing’s stopping me from posting my favorite Oscar pics from my very personal gallery. Hope he doesn’t think I’m crazy after this...
@_oscarpiastri:
You ARE crazy. But I love you so that’s my problem now ❤️🔥
@_landonorris:
You're welcome btw.
This love story wouldn’t exist without me.
@_francesca
Okay but Lando’s right for once. Also… Lando, you single or what 👀
@_user1
from celebrity crush to boyfriend??? girl is LIVING THE DREAM 💘
@_user2:
no bc imagine telling your bf “this is my fav meme of you” and it’s HIM 🤣 she’s texting Oscar with his own memes rn i just know it
@_user3:
girl went from “he’s cute” to “he’s mine”
@_user3:
the beach pic?? the dinner pic?? I AM NOT OKAY 🫠
@_user4:
I want what they have. and also her camera roll. and her boyfriend.
@_user5
i just KNOW she made the dinner one her lockscreen 💅
@_user6
everyone shut up she deserves him. this is the cutest reveal in f1 couple history
Author note: It's the last part of this serie, thank you again so much for the request, hope you like it :)
Summary: Max never believed in soulmates until he met you. The only problem? You’re already dating Lando. Somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and Max became best friends. He tells himself it’s enough. That the friendship is worth the ache. But as your connection deepens, Max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.
Author’s Note: I’ve had so much fun writing this series, and I can’t thank you all enough for every comment, like, reblog, message, and kind words of support. It truly means the world to me. I really hope you enjoy the final part! <3
8.3k words / Part 3 / Masterlist
He finds you in his apartment later that night.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, phone loose in your hand, legs drawn up beneath you like you’re trying to take up less space in a world that suddenly feels too loud. The room is dim. Quiet, but not peaceful.
You don’t look shocked.
You just look… tired.
Max closes the door gently behind him, careful not to let the latch click too loudly. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. You don’t answer right away, just stare at the floor for a beat, chest rising and falling like every breath is heavier than the last.
Then, finally, “I knew it would happen eventually.”
“Not like this,” Max says.
You nod once, still not looking at him. “They’re already twisting it.”
He crosses the room in three steps and sits beside you, his thigh pressing lightly against yours. His presence is steady. He doesn’t touch you yet, just lets the silence sit between you.
Quietly, you whisper, “It feels like they’ve already decided who I am. Like they already wrote the final story and I’ve barely had time to figure out who I am for myself.”
That’s when Max turns fully to face you, jaw clenched, eyes dark. “You’re not some headline. You’re not theirs to define. You’re perfect to me, always have been.”
Your gaze finally lifts to meet his, wet and guarded, your mouth pressed in a tight line. “No one’s perfect Max.”
He exhales through his nose. “Maybe not, but you’re mine.”
You blink. Once. Twice.
Then your voice breaks, raw and small, “Am I?”
His hand finds yours, fingers lacing through with no hesitation. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. “You are. And I don’t care who knows it. Let them talk. Let them spin whatever story they want. I know the truth and so do you, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
You lean into him then, slow, hesitant, forehead pressing into the side of his neck. He wraps his arm around you without question, his hand splaying over your back like a shield, like he could absorb the world’s cruelty if it meant you got to rest.
For the first time since that photo dropped, since your name trended for all the wrong reasons, since every headline felt like a knife disguised as curiosity, Max feels you start to breathe easier.
He can feel it in the way your shoulders soften against his chest. In the way your fingers finally uncurl from the blanket. In the way you lean into him like maybe, just maybe, you believe he can hold the weight with you.
And he will, because you’re here, and he’s not letting go. Not now. Not ever.
You both hole up in his Monaco apartment for two days.
No interviews. No statements. No posts.
Outside the world spins louder and messier by the hour. Headlines multiplying like weeds. Speculation clawing at every corner of the internet. Reels cut from stolen frames, fan edits soundtracked to heartbreak. Twitter threads trying to timeline your entire history, piecing together moments that were never meant to be public.
Everyone wants an answer.
A label.
A side.
Max wakes late, your leg draped across his hip, your hand still resting over his heart like it belongs there. He lies still for a while, watching the way the morning light spills across your bare shoulder, soft and gold and almost too tender to look at directly.
You stir eventually. Press a kiss to his chest before wandering into the kitchen barefoot, wrapped in the shirt he was wearing the day before. You make breakfast in silence, hair a mess, skin glowing in the light that pours through the glass doors.
And it hits him again, just like it did the first time he saw you in Florence.
You’re really his.
Not a distant hope. Not a headline. Not some question mark at the end of a tabloid caption.
Real. And here.
With him.
Max leans against the doorway, arms folded, eyes fixed on you as you sip your coffee like the world isn’t burning outside. And maybe it is. Maybe everything out there is on fire. But in here, it’s just this.
Just you.
Just the soft clink of a mug being set on the counter. The echo of your laugh when he finally says something sarcastic about the circus they’re both trying to ignore.
You catch him staring and tilt your head, smiling like you already know what he’s thinking. He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes is enough.
They don’t get to define this.
Not what it means.
Not what it is.
Not who you are to him.
If the world wants to scream, let it, because in this quiet, golden corner of Monaco, Max finally has everything he’s been fighting not to want.
You’re the one who finally breaks the quiet.
Curled up on the couch, the city lights outside casting soft reflections on the windows, muted by the stillness of the room. Your legs are tangled with his beneath the blanket, your cheek pressed to his chest, rising and falling with every steady breath he takes.
Your voice is barely louder than a thought. “We should talk about what we’re going to do.”
Max doesn’t answer right away.
He just keeps running his fingers through your hair, slow and careful, like maybe if he moves gently enough they can stay in this moment a little longer, suspended somewhere outside of headlines and timelines and noise.
Eventually, he murmurs, “What do you want to do?”
You shift slightly, looking up at him, eyes tired but warm. The kind of tired that comes from more than just lack of sleep, it’s months of quiet endurance, of being watched and whispered about, of waiting for peace to arrive and trying to hold onto it with bare hands.
“I want to stop hiding,” you say, simply. “But I don’t want to be consumed by it either.”
Max nods, slow and deliberate. “We don’t owe them anything.”
“No post? No joint statement from the Notes App? No exclusive interview where we sit on opposite couches and say we’re just really happy?” You tease gently, and it works his mouth quirks into the ghost of a smirk.
Max rolls his eyes, smirking. “Especially not that.” he says, and the spark in his voice makes your smile twitch wider.
But then it fades again, just a little. Your fingers trail over his ribs beneath the blanket, almost absentminded. “I just… I wanted it to be ours before it becomes theirs, before it becomes something they try and destory.”
And fuck, that hits harder than anything else has. He exhales, low and rough. Cups your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek.
It’s the truth he’s been circling in his own head for weeks but hasn’t found the right words for. That this, you, were the only real thing in his life untouched by cameras, untouched by questions, untouched by everyone else’s idea of what love should look like.
He cups your cheek with one hand, turning your face gently toward his, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.
“It is ours,” he says, voice rough with certainty. “It always was. They just don’t know that yet. And we’ll decide if they ever get to.”
You close your eyes, leaning into the warmth of his palm like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. “I don’t want to give them room to ruin this.”
He shifts to kiss your forehead, soft and reverent. “They won’t,” he promises. “Not unless we let them. And I won’t.”
There’s no bravado in his tone, just something fierce and something solid.
He thinks you believe him, because he’s not asking for permission anymore. He’s claiming something he already knows is his to protect.
You.
This.
The space between his ribs and your heartbeat that no one else gets to touch.
For now, that’s more than enough.
That night you turn off your phones. Not just silent. Off.
No buzzing. No news alerts. No headlines fighting for attention.
Just the clink of silverware on plates and the soft hum of an old jazz playlist in the background as you eat slightly burnt pasta, too hungry and too tired to care about presentation. Your legs are tucked under his on the couch, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, red wine staining your bottom lip as you smile at him over the rim of your glass.
He can’t stop staring. At the flush on your cheeks. At the curve of your mouth. At the fact that your here, still.
You put on an old F1 documentary, something half-dramatic and half-boring. Max groans every time his younger self appears on screen, muttering things like, “That wasn’t even my fault,” and “God, who edited this?”
You laugh and not just a little, not politely or cautiously, but wide and open and real, head thrown back, eyes crinkling, the sound cracking through the quiet like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
He doesn’t say it aloud because he doesn’t have to, because in that moment, Max knows, truly knows, that they’re going to make it.
Not because it will be easy. Not because the world will suddenly be kind, but because you’re still laughing. Because no matter what happens next they’ve chosen this. Each other.
And they’re going to do it on their own terms.
Together.
You arrive together.
No curated photo. No statement drafted by a publicist. No soft-launch or headline-grabbing reveal.
Just the quiet sound of jet engines winding down and the two of you descending the stairs, shoulder to shoulder, as the sun crests low over the early morning skyline.
The tarmac is still warming beneath the morning light. A few logistics vans hum in the distance. Media crews are only just beginning to set up, cables trailing like veins across the gravel, half-empty coffee cups perched on folding tables, cameras still tucked away in cases.
But even in that soft, in-between quiet… the shift is immediate.
The moment your feet hit the ground of the paddock Max feels it. The tension in the air. The pause. The eyes.
They’re everywhere, hidden behind reflective sunglasses, peeking out from under reporter caps, flickering from one phone screen to the next. Whispers coil in the corners of conversations that stop mid-sentence. You’ve barely taken five steps before someone from the media team glances up, eyes narrowing slightly. One of the McLaren engineers nearly walks into a stack of tires.
Max doesn’t react, but his hand finds yours. Not like a signal. Not like a performance. Instinct.
Your fingers slip between his like they were made to fit there, and you don’t hesitate. Don’t look around. Don’t look back. And he doesn’t let go.
Not when the first camera shutters click. Not when someone behind a barrier whispers your name like a question they’re not sure they’re allowed to ask.
Not when Helmut glances over his shoulder with that particular brand of raised-eyebrow interest that says we’ll talk later.
You keep walking, one foot in front of the other, pace matched perfectly, like you’ve done this a thousand times before, even though this is the first time you’ve done it out loud. The paddock stretches out ahead, a maze of trailers and media pens and journalists waiting to pounce.
But Max doesn’t care.
Because your hand is still in his.
And after all the hiding, all the doubting, all the time spent loving each other behind closed doors. This moment isn’t for them.
It’s for you.
The tension stays there all day.
Not between you, never between you, but around you, thick in the air like static before a storm.
It clings to every corner of the paddock, hiding in glances that linger half a second too long, in greetings that feel stiffer than they did the week before. No one says anything outright. No one dares. But every smile is too polite. Every nod too measured. Every “Good morning” wrapped in careful subtext.
Max notices it all.
He can feel the scrutiny like a pulse beneath his skin, familiar and manageable for him. He’s used to being watched. Used to being dissected by people who think they understand more than they do. It’s part of the job. He’s trained for it.
But this, you, were never supposed to be part of the spectacle.
He keeps looking down at you, checking. Not obviously. Just small glances between steps. The curve of your mouth is calm, but he can see the tension in your jaw. See the way your shoulders stay just a bit too straight. How your hand tightens in his for a moment before relaxing again.
You’re holding your own. Staying beside him with a kind of quiet grace that dares anyone to say something out loud, but still he wonders how long you’ll be able to.
He knows what they’re thinking. They’re not subtle about it.
That you moved on too fast.
That there was overlap.
That he stole something that didn’t belong to him.
And the worst part? It doesn’t matter that they’re wrong.
They won’t care.
Speculation spreads faster than truth. And once a narrative takes hold, once they decide who you are tearing that image down is like running a race in the rain with slick tyres and no grip.
If they want a villain, he’ll play it. He’ll take the whispers. The smirks. The headlines.
But he won’t let them get to you.
The Red Bull hospitality door closes behind you, and for the first time all morning, Max finally exhales.
You stop halfway down the hallway, just before the lounge opens into the larger shared space. Your fingers are still laced with his, but you’re no longer walking just looking up at him, eyes wide and guarded, like you’re bracing for something that hasn’t hit yet.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice low and even.
You nod at first.
Then you shake your head. Just once. “Everyone’s staring.”
“I know,” he says. It’s not an attempt to comfort, just an acknowledgment. A fact. One that carries weight.
You’re both quiet for a beat. Then you try to smile, and it’s the kind of smile Max knows is mostly armor. “Do I look scandalous enough for the headlines?”
It’s so dry, so you, that Max can’t help it he huffs out a quiet laugh through his nose, leans down, and presses a kiss to your temple. His hand slides to the small of your back, grounding you, reminding you that you’re not in this alone.
“You look like you’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin.
Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter closed, just for a second. Just long enough to steady yourself.
Then you pull back, nod once. “Let’s get through today,” you whisper. “Then we figure out the rest.”
Max meets your gaze and sees all of it, your strength, your fear, your fire, your choice.
He nods. No hesitation. Takes your hand again.
And when the door opens, you don’t flinch. You walk in beside him.
Not hiding.
Not apologizing.
Seen.
And the world, whether it’s ready or not, knows exactly what that means.
Focus.
That’s what Max has always been good at, blocking out the static, drowning out the noise. Letting everything else fall away until there’s nothing left but track and tyre and timing screens.
But this weekend… it’s harder. Not because he’s distracted, not really, not in the way people would expect, but because the noise isn’t out there anymore. It’s in here, inside the very walls of the paddock he’s ruled for over a decade.
It’s in the glances that dart toward him and away just as quickly. In the change of tone during briefings. In the way every question now comes laced with an edge he knows better than to bite at.
The whispers don’t rattle him. The scrutiny doesn’t surprise him.
What does surprise him, though, what keeps catching him off guard, is the weight of it all on you and how much that kills him.
Because while he’s had years to grow calloused to the noise, you’re walking through it raw.
And online it’s only getting worse.
@supermax_33:
Sorry but the math isn’t mathing. Either she moved on too fast or he was always in the picture 👀
@sainzgrf4:
Y’all mad but she’s literally glowing. Girl is winning in more ways than one.
@girlsonsofts:
I want to believe it’s real love. But it’s hard when Lando hasn’t even said a word.
@tifosibabez:
The fact that Max looks happy for the first time in forever and people are still dragging her is so wild.
@turn1truthers:
Nothing about this is giving genuine. It’s PR disasterbait and Max fell for it. 🙃
@f1_mess:
She’s ruined their friendship for good. How do they possibly move past this?
@lando_nation7:
I don’t care what anyone says. This whole thing feels wrong 😑
@teamwhatevermakesmaxhappy:
Honestly? She seems kind. She’s never said a bad word about Lando. We don’t know the full story. We never did. Let them live.
@teamLH44:
The real drama isn’t that Max is dating her. Date whoever you want.🤷 It’s that nobody's admitting what went down behind the scenes 🫣🤫
@max4yappen:
She’s giving pick-me with a side of homewrecker.
@griddreamer:
I don’t know... yeah, it looks messy, but people fall in love at the wrong time sometimes. Doesn’t mean it was planned.
@slowpitstop16:
Imagine losing your girl and your friend in the same year and to each other. Lando deserves better.
@drsopenpls: Wild idea: what if we all stayed out of it and let grown adults manage their own relationships?
@trackrat_99:
So she just hopped from one teammate to the next like it’s Love Island? Girl, be serious.
@mclarensoul:
Yeah it hurts to see, but maybe they really didn’t do anything wrong. Timing doesn’t always line up clean.
@paddocktea:
Not saying she’s a clout-chaser… but where’s the lie? You really date two of the grid’s biggest stars back to back? 😬🫢
@f1sidenotes:
If they’re happy, what’s the issue? Stop projecting your parasocial expectations onto people you don’t know. Maybe they could have handled it better. But does that mean she deserves to be torn apart like this?
@maxielover4ever:
It’s actually gross. 🤮 Lando was clearly still into her and she’s off playing happy families with Max? Nah.
@pitlaneprincess:
You’re all giving way too much energy for people who swore they just ‘watch for the racing.
It’s relentless. Debates in every comment section. Threads unraveling by the hour. TikToks dissecting glances, timelines, the angle of your smile in the background of a Red Bull garage clip.
Max can take it, you’re the one he worries about.
You’re not a moment or a scandal or a clickbait phrase they can chew up and spit out before the next race weekend. You’re the hand he holds when no one’s looking. The quiet voice on the phone after back-to-back double-headers.
The first breath of peace he’s taken in a year.
And they’ll never understand it.
The rest of the grid doesn’t say much.
Not out loud anyway, but Max sees it, feels it, in all the unspoken ways that come from years of reading the paddock like a second language.
Some do dare to speak. Fernando claps him on the back before FP1, a little too firm, a little too knowing. “Finally, huh?” he mutters, smirking just enough to make it unclear whether he’s impressed, amused, or both. Maybe it’s approval. He’s not entirely sure.
Max just nods. Keeps walking.
During the drivers briefing, Nico gives him a look across the table, eyebrow arched, eyes sharp and then mouths, “You good?” like it’s just casual curiosity, but Max knows better. Knows it’s code for you sure you’re ready for what’s coming now that it’s not just racing on the line?
He doesn’t answer. Just leans back in his chair and stares down the briefing notes like they’re more interesting than the heat crawling up the back of his neck.
Oscar won’t meet his gaze at all.
Not out of judgment, Max thinks, just discomfort. The kind that belongs to people caught in the crossfire of something they don’t fully understand. He catches Oscar fiddling with his water bottle, eyes fixed on the far wall like if he stares hard enough, he can dissolve into it.
And then there’s Lando.
Lando doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t glance. Doesn’t acknowledge.
Just sits with his arms crossed, posture relaxed but eyes sharp, face unreadable in that carefully constructed way Max knows all too well.
The distance is deliberate. The silence louder than anything else in the room.
Max feels it settle across his shoulders, not guilt, not quite, something heavier than tension. Something that looks a little like consequence.
He doesn’t try to break it. Not here. Not yet.
The media though?
They’re not subtle. Not anymore.
Every interview starts with a grin that’s just a little too wide, a question that’s just a little too rehearsed, a tone that sounds casual but never is.
“So, Max… about your personal life, anything you’d like to share?”
“New energy in the garage lately. Must be feeling good off-track too, huh?”
“Fans are speculating. You want to clear anything up?”
He deflects. Again and again.
Smile tight. Voice clipped.
“It’s not something I want to comment on.”
“We’re here to race. That’s my focus.”
“I’m happy. That’s all that matters.”
He keeps his answers short. Safe. But each time the words leave his mouth, he wonders if you’re watching. If you’re tucked somewhere behind the hospitality glass, listening to him walk the tightrope between protecting you and not denying you.
He’s not ashamed.
Not for a second.
But he knows what this world can do to people like you, how fast curiosity can curdle into obsession, how quickly strangers decide you’re either a villain or a trophy. Nothing in between.
They turn women into narratives. Love into leverage. They’ll take your silence as consent and your smile as spin. So he keeps you close, but out of reach. At least for now.
He finds you between sessions, exactly where he knew you’d be.
Curled up in the corner of the Red Bull motorhome, oversized team hoodie hanging loose over your frame like armor. You’ve got your earbuds in, but you look up the second he walks through the door.
That small smile you always save just for him appears, quiet but unshakable.
“You surviving?” you ask, voice low, knowing.
“Barely,” he mutters, collapsing onto the couch beside you. “Starting to miss when everyone ignored me.”
You laugh, warm and a little tired. “You? You’ve never been ignored a day in your life.”
“Feels different now,” he says, leaning into you, letting his forehead graze your temple, his hand brushing yours on the cushion between you.
You nod slowly. “It is.”
You don’t elaborate. You don’t need to. You’re exposed in a way neither of you were quite ready for. Held up under lights that don’t always feel warm, but when he glances down at your fingers, tangled gently with his, hidden in the shadow of your sleeves, he feels steadier.
He’s not in this alone.
And neither are you.
After quali, they’re both in the garage when someone from Sky tries to slide in a comment during a live shot.
“So Max, must be nice having [Y/N] around again. Looks like she’s your good luck charm this season.”
Max stares at the reporter. Then slowly smiles.
“Always has been.”
And he doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t laugh it off or change the subject.
He just lets the words hang there, simple and true. When your eyes meet across the garage, your lips part in something like a breathless smile, your fingers curling tighter around the headset you’re holding.
Later that night, he finds you already in his hotel room, curled on top of the duvet with your knees drawn up. The glow from your phone lights your face, and even from across the room, he can see the slight crease in your brow.
You don’t look angry.
Just... quiet.
Too quiet.
He shuts the door softly and kicks off his shoes. The room smells faintly of your shampoo and his cologne, grounding him instantly, but the tension in your shoulders knots in his chest.
He climbs into bed beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and leans forward to press a kiss to your bare shoulder. His lips linger there.
“What are they saying now?” he murmurs, low against your skin.
You don’t answer right away.
Then, with a breath that doesn’t quite sound like a sigh, you say, “Depends on who you ask.”
He waits.
“Some people think it’s romantic, that we seem genuinely happy, that’s far and few between though.” You swallow, thumb scrolling absently. “Most think it’s horrible. Or that it’s PR. Or worse some calculated move to hurt Lando.”
Max frowns, jaw tensing.
“They’re already rewriting it,” you say, softer now. “Turning us into characters. Picking sides. Calling me names I haven’t even heard since high school.”
He reaches over, takes the phone gently from your hand.
You don’t stop him, even when he closes the screen, even when he drops it facedown on the bed.
“Hey—” you start to protest, halfhearted.
But he cuts you off, voice firmer than before. “They don’t know us.”
His hand finds yours, fingers threading through your knuckles. “They didn’t see what I saw. What we’ve been through. What this actually is.”
You turn to look at him fully now, eyes searching his face like you’re trying to find something solid in all the noise.
He lets you.
You’re silent for a moment, heart kicking hard against your ribs.
Then you squeeze his hand.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Late into the night he reaches across the bed and finds you gone, he stumbles aorund the hotel room in the quiet, and finds you in the dark, the only light spilling in from the cracked balcony door, he follows the faint shift of breeze, the sound of your breathing.
You’re sitting on the floor of the balcony, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his sweatshirts, sleeves pulled over your hands. The city hums quietly below, a distant wash of headlights and water. But up here, it’s silent. Still.
Max doesn’t speak right away. Steps out barefoot, the concrete cool under his feet, and lowers himself to his knees in front of you. He brushes your hair back gently, tucking it behind your ear with a featherlight touch.
Your eyes glint in the dim light, glassy. Not crying, but so close it aches to look.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You hesitate, then shake your head. It’s not dramatic. Not performative. Just a quiet, almost apologetic no, and then your voice catches.
“I haven’t been fair to you,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “Not at all.”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
You pull your knees in tighter, like you’re trying to hold yourself together before you unravel completely. “This whole time... I’ve been so focused on how I’d look. How it would reflect on me. Like I’d be branded the cheater, the girl who couldn’t decide, the selfish one who left one golden boy for another.”
You swallow hard. “I thought if I disappeared long enough, if I kept quiet enough, I could come back clean. That the world wouldn’t stick that version of me to their walls forever.”
Max says nothing, just watches you with a growing ache in his chest.
“But you,” you say, the words spilling faster now. “You can’t hide. You’re the one in front of the cameras every single day. You’re the one they ask over and over, ‘How long has this been going on?’ like you’d done something wrong.”
Your voice cracks. “And I let them. Let you handle everything alone.”
Max reaches out, rests his hands gently on your knees. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” you argue, shaking your head. “I left you to carry it. All of it. While I stayed quiet, and now I’m here but it’s still you who takes the heat. The questions. The headlines. I keep saying I’ll be ready soon but I don’t know when that is, and it’s not fair.”
Your breath hitches. “I feel so selfish.”
Max exhales slowly, then shifts to sit beside you, shoulder to shoulder. The city stretches out in front of you both, glittering and uncaring.
“I’d take worse for you,” he says softly.
You blink, turning to look at him. “I know, but that’s part of the problem. Even now you’re the one comforting me. None of this is fair.” Fresh tears spill down your cheeks.
He reached out to rub your back, soothing, but his eyes stay fixed on the city below, jaw set but calm. Steady in a way that feels like safety.
“I’d take all of it forever.” he continues, “if it meant I still got this.” He gestures vaguely, but you know what he means. “The judgment, the press, the comments... I don’t care. Not even a little bit. I have you. We have each other. That’s the part that matters.”
You stare at him for a beat, something twisting and loosening in your chest.
Another tear slips down your cheek, but this one’s different. Lighter.
“You’re too good to me,” you murmur.
Max shakes his head. “I’m not. I’m just sure.”
He finally turns to look at you, and his expression is so full of belief, of devotion, of every quiet promise he’s ever kept without saying a word.
“I’m sure of us. Of what this is. Of you.”
You exhale shakily, then lean your head against his shoulder. His arm curls around you instantly, protective and warm, like a barrier between you and everything outside this moment.
“I want to be brave,” you whisper. “Like you.”
Max kisses your temple. “You already are. You just don’t know it yet.”
Lando finds him the next day. When the sun’s almost gone and the paddock is bleeding into dusk.
Max is still in his fireproofs, half-zipped, sitting on the back steps of the Red Bull garage. His race boots are untied, one leg stretched out in front of him, a half-drunk bottle of water dangling from his hand. The air smells like rubber and oil and faint victory.
He hears the footsteps before he sees the figure. He doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.
Lando sits down beside him. Not close, but not far. The kind of distance that used to be instinctive, comfortable. Now it’s just measured.
They sit in silence. A long one. Max doesn’t fill it. He lets it stretch.
Eventually, Lando speaks.
“She told me everything.”
Max turns slightly, eyes flicking sideways. “What?”
Lando doesn’t look at him. He’s peeling the label off his water bottle with careful fingers, the shredded paper fluttering in his lap.
“She came to talk to me. Explained everything from the start.”
Max’s grip tightens around the plastic. “You okay?”
There’s a beat. Then Lando huffs out a breath that’s half-sigh, half-laugh. “Didn’t punch a wall if that’s what you mean.”
Max lets the edge of a smile ghost his lips, but it fades quickly.
“She said she didn’t want to hurt me again,” Lando says. “Said she knew it might feel like she already had. That it looked bad. Seemed fast. But that she couldn’t keep apologising for finally doing something that made her feel whole again.”
Max swallows. That sounds like her. Careful. Kind. Braver than she thinks.
“She told me she loves you.”
Max closes his eyes. The weight of those words lands even harder hearing them secondhand.
“Wasn’t easy to hear, but she said it kindly.” Lando adds, quieter now. “I know she didn’t say it to twist the knife. She said it because she thought I deserved the truth.”
“Do you believe her?” Max asks.
Lando nods. “Yeah. I do.”
Max doesn’t reply. He just stares out at the dimming horizon, heart heavy in a way that doesn’t quite hurt anymore.
Lando exhales through his nose.. Then, like it’s been sitting heavy on his chest too, he says, “The stuff people are saying about her… it’s brutal.”
Max’s head lifts slightly.
“I know I’m not the one who needs to protect her anymore,” Lando goes on. “I could tell the comments were getting to her.”
Then Max says, “She’s trying to carry it all quietly. Like always.”
Lando nods. “She’s strong. But she shouldn’t have to be that strong.”
Max glances sideways, his voice less guarded. “We’ll get through it.”
Lando, leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m not gonna lie mate. I hated you for a minute.”
“I know.”
“I thought maybe it was more calculated than it was.”
Max shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that.”
“I know that now,” Lando says. “I think part of me knew it even then. Just didn’t want to admit it.”
Max nods slowly. “I love her.”
“I know,” Lando says, then stands, brushing off his fireproofs.
He hesitates.
“I’m not happy about how it ended. But I’m not angry anymore, and I’m not gonna hold it against you both.”
Max rises too, slower, cautious like the ground between them is still a little fragile. “Thank you, you’re a good guy, and for what it’s worth I’m sorry.”
Lando offers a crooked smile, tired but real. “Just don’t screw it up alright? She deserves someone who won’t make her question everything again.”
“I won’t,” Max says, firm and certain.
Lando studies him, and then quietly, “I believe you.”
He turns and walks away into the shadows of the emptying paddock, leaving Max standing alone under the soft buzz of the overhead lights.
This time, the silence left behind feels like something else entirely.
Closure.
Two days later, the headlines shift again.
Not because of a blurry photo. Not because of a cryptic post or a new angle of a lingering glance in the paddock.
But because of a Sky Sports interview.
It’s late afternoon in Montreal. The race weekend’s in full swing. Lando stands in front of the mic, sunglasses perched on his nose, posture easy, arms folded like the weight of the world isn’t pressing just beneath the surface.
The segment’s mostly standard, questions about quali pace, tyre degradation, the usual dance of expectations versus strategy.
And then, right at the end, the interviewer smiles, tilts their head a little, and says lightly:
“So, there’s been a lot of talk off-track this week, about relationships, reunions, some familiar faces back in the paddock. Care to comment on any of it? Maybe clear the air?”
There’s a beat. The kind where everyone watching leans in, producers, fans, journalists waiting to dissect every word and read between every line.
Lando doesn’t flinch.
He just smiles, one of those half-lopsided ones, and lowers his sunglasses just enough to meet the camera.
“I’m happy for them,” he says. Smooth. Measured. But not empty. “Look, things change. No one really knows what goes on behind closed doors. People forget we’re human. She’s happy. He’s happy. I’m happy. That should be enough.”
He shrugs, lets the moment breathe.
“Let them have some peace.”
Then he looks away from the camera, just slightly, just briefly.
And throws a little smile off to the side.
It’s blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.
But Max doesn’t miss it.
He watches it backstage later on a screen in the media center, one leg bouncing, pulse a little too high for someone with nothing left to prove. He watches Lando deliver the words. Watches him look off-camera with a smile.
For the first time since the photo leaked, since the speculation, the interviews, the cautious walks through the paddock with your hand in his, Max finally exhales.
It’s not fixed everything. Not exactly.
But it offers some peace.
And it’s enough.
You show up in Hungary. Not through the back gate, or tucked into the shadows of a tinted car like you’ve been doing since that first time you showed up together,
You walk into the paddock like you belong there.
Max sees you before anyone else. He’s just stepped out of the garage, helmet still in hand, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends from the heat of the session. His suit is unzipped to the waist, fireproofs clinging to his frame, sweat still drying on his skin, but everything stills when his eyes land on you.
You're wearing his shirt the one that fits too big, sleeves rolled to your elbows, collar slightly stretched from the last time he pulled it over your head.
Your sunglasses are perched in your hair, and there’s a quiet confidence in your posture he’s missed, chin high, steps sure, the unmistakable look of someone done hiding.
The paddock doesn’t move at first.
Or maybe it does, but it feels slower somehow. Heads turn and phones lift like always. Whispered recognition spreads like a current through the crew members, the journalists, the PR reps hovering just out of frame.
You walk straight toward him. Unbothered. Unrushed. And when you reach him, you take his hand without hesitation. That simple gesture is met with a chorus of shutters, the sharp, mechanical click of cameras flaring to life. The sound follows you both, echoing down the pit lane as you walk together past open garages and stunned silence.
It trails you through the corridor, past the media zone, and into the hospitality building where, even now, someone is already drafting the headline, but Max doesn't care, because you're smiling.
Not the cautious smile you’ve worn in recent weeks. Not the small, rehearsed one that tries not to show too much. This smile is different, real, bright, free. The one you used to give him when the world was quiet, over morning coffee in his kitchen, during late-night conversations, under dim restaurant lights where your knees brushed beneath the table and you’d both pretend not to notice.
Now, it’s here.
Out in the open.
Everything finally feels like it’s in the right place.
He doesn’t know who took the photo.
Could’ve been a team photographer, a social media intern, a lucky fan with a long lens and a good eye. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it ends up on Red Bull’s Instagram just before sunset, perfectly timed, perfectly framed, and it hits the internet like a meteor cracking the surface of everything that came before.
It’s them.
Walking hand-in-hand through the paddock after the race. Laughter mid-bloom on both their faces, the sun casting golden light across their skin. Max is caught mid-look, gaze angled toward you with something so unmistakably full in his eyes, like the rest of the world could disappear and he wouldn’t even blink.
Because it could.
Because your all he sees.
Because you always have been.
The caption doesn’t need to say much. It doesn’t try to.
Just:
Happiness looks good on them.
No tags. No announcement. No formal confirmation. Just that one line and the truth written all over their faces.
The internet loses its mind of course, but for once in a long time, neither of you checks any of it.
He’s on the couch in the driver’s room, legs stretched out and draped across your lap. His phone is somewhere on the floor, forgotten the moment your head hit his shoulder and you laced your fingers with his.
He turns to you, watching the way your thumb brushes over his knuckles.
“Happy?” he asks softly, eyes searching yours.
You smile. “With you? Always.”
Later, long after the garage has emptied and the champagne’s dried sticky in his curls, after the press conferences and the late-night debrief and one more kiss outside the motorhome that someone will definitely catch on camera, he picks up his phone, can’t resist a quick look.
He scrolls.
He finds the post.
Stops at the top comment.
They didn’t owe us this. But I’m so glad they shared it anyway.
And just below it—
a blue checkmark.
Lando’s account.
Two words, nothing more:
About time.
Max stares at the screen for a long second. Then he smiles and closes the app.
The villa in Lake Como is quiet in the mornings.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty just still, like the world’s holding its breath in the best way.
Max wakes first. He always has. Years of early training sessions and endless flights and instinctual discipline have carved it into his bones. But now, instead of sliding out of bed to run drills or scroll through racing news or check on whatever chaos the world has spun overnight, he stays still.
Because you’re there curled beside him, your cheek pressed against his shoulder, hair a tangled halo on his chest, one leg thrown lazily over his, like even in sleep, you're trying to keep him close. He watches you breathe, slow and even and safe, and for the first time in years, maybe longer, there’s nothing heavy in his chest.
No headlines looming. No guilt gnawing. No questions hanging unanswered between you.
You're his.
Fully. Finally. Unapologetically.
You chose him. Chose each other. Not in the shadows. Not in stolen seconds behind closed doors.
You chose him where everyone could see.
Where the noise lives. Where the judgment breathes. Where the truth doesn’t just echo, it rings.
And that?
That means everything.
The days in the villa are lazy in the best way.
Breakfast is slow and unhurried on the terrace, the sunlight warming your bare legs as you sit across from him in one of his old t-shirts. Breakfast goes cold between laughter, legs bare and propped in his lap as you try to cut an avocado and butcher it so badly he insists it’s a personal attack.
“You’re a hazard,” he says.
You gasp in mock offense. “I’m a chef compared to your airport diet.”
You tease him about how he still eats like a teenager, toast loaded with everything, jam smeared on the edge of his mouth.
You steal his sunglasses when he turns away. He doesn’t even try to get them back. Just squints into the sun and says, “You’re lucky I love you.”
“Very,” you agree with a wink, stretching your arms.
Later, back inside, it’s the kind of evenings that turns to skin against skin under tangled sheets, the kind that starts with a kiss in the kitchen and ends with you gasping his name into his neck, your fingers clutching his back like you’ll never let go. And he lets you take what you need, gives it just as easily, because it’s about the way your body fits against his like you were made to ruin each other again and again.
Eventually when you’ve exhausted your bodies you take the boat out on the lake, just the two of you and the distant sound of other people's joy echoing off the water. You lean back against the railing and argue over who’d survive longer on a deserted island.
“You’d die in a day Max.”
He scoffs, pretending to be offended. “Excuse me? I am deeply resourceful.”
“You’re high-maintenance and allergic to mosquitos.”
“I am not allergic. I just hate them. Everyone hates them!”
“You left a hotel once because the AC wasn’t strong enough.”
He gives you a long-suffering look. “That was Monza in July, and I was being proactive.”
You grin. “You were being dramatic.”
He starts to argue again, but you cut him off with a kiss, sun-warmed and smug and far too distracting.
Later, on the dock, towel-damp and windswept, you call him something you haven’t in months.
“Max-a-million.”
It slips out easy, part of a joke, a nickname from when things were simpler, lighter, when all he wanted was to be your everything.
He pauses.
Not just at the sound of it, but at the way it lands in his chest, soft and steady and full of memory.
You catch the look on his face and tilt your head. “What?”
He swallows, smile tugging slow at the corner of his mouth. “Haven’t heard that in a while.”
You lean into him again, smile brighter than the sun and kiss him, deep and sure. The lake, the sky, the entire world spins on without you, but in that moment, you both finally feel still.
It feels like friendship again.
Not because the romance has faded, far from it, but because this has always been the foundation beneath everything else.
Before the stolen glances. Before the late-night calls and hushed secrets and heartbeats that stuttered in silence.
There was this.
The ease.
The rhythm.
The constant, unshakable knowing.
It’s in the way your banter still hits like muscle memory, one-liners layered with inside jokes that no one else would even try to understand. The way you both interrupt each other mid-sentence because the punchline’s already obvious. The way Max laughs without hesitation when you do impressions of one of his engineers, and how you always know when he's lying about being fine even before he does.
It’s the dumb gaming nights where you talk more shit than strategy and still somehow win.
The terrible movies you never finish.
It’s the identical eye-rolls.
The shared glances across crowded rooms.
The wordless “let’s get out of here” agreement before either of you speaks.
It’s not just chemistry.
It’s not just history.
It’s home.
The kind of connection you can only build by showing up again and again, even when it’s messy. Even when it’s hard. Even when the world wants to twist the story into something smaller than what it really is.
That’s what makes this different. Not just the love, but the knowing. The knowing that you can fall asleep mid-conversation and wake up to him finishing your sentence and tucking you into bed. The knowing that even when you're not together, you're not alone.
It means more now because you’ve both seen what the world can do when it sinks its claws in.
You’ve felt the sting of headlines. You’ve carried the guilt that was sometimes fair and other times wasn’t. You’ve looked at each other and wondered if love would be enough, and still here you are.
Side by side.
And when you both hear through a mutual friend, in that low-effort way good news travels that Lando is seeing someone new, someone outside the paddock, someone kind and low-key and funny in that exact way he always liked your smile lingers a little longer.
Because it matters.
Knowing he's okay. That he’s moved on in his own time, his own way. That the storm you were all part of didn’t leave permanent wreckage behind.
There’s a peace to it all now.
Not tied up in a bow. Not perfect. But real.
You’re in love, yes, stupidly, deeply, overwhelmingly so, but you’re also something harder to come by.
You’re best friends.
And you always will be.
One late night, when the air is quiet in the villa. The kind of quiet that comes only when the world finally stops spinning.
You’re curled in the sheets. The room that smells like his skin now, and yours. Like rose from the candle you lit before dinner and something warmer, deeper, unmistakably you two.
Max is behind you, his chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other tracing slow, absent circles across the bare skin beneath your shirt. His touch isn’t urgent. It’s familiar. Like breathing. Like this is exactly where his hands were always meant to be.
Your voice breaks through the dark, quiet and careful, as if you’ve been holding it in.
“Do you ever think about how it could’ve been so easy to miss this?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts closer, presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then to the edge of your hairline, each one slow, deliberate, like punctuation, saying yes without needing the words.
“All the time,” he murmurs, his voice barely a breath against your skin.
You turn to face him, curling into his chest, limbs tangling under the sheets until there’s no telling where you ends and he begins. Your eyes are soft and open in the moonlight spilling through the windows, sleepy, but sure.
“I think we were supposed to find each other,” you say. “Even if it was messy. Even if it took too long. Even if we almost ruined it before we ever had a chance.”
Max reaches up, brushes his thumb along the curve of your cheekbone.
“We were always going to end up here,” he says. “Even if we took the hard way.”
You smile then, small and private, the one you never gives to anyone else and something in his chest pulls tight at the sight of it, the world finally aligning.
“I love you,” you whisper. “More than I ever thought was possible.”
Max breathes you in like a memory he doesn’t ever want to fade. Then he leans down and kisses you.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, lips still brushing.
“I’d choose you,” he tells you. “Every time. In every version of life.”
You close your eyes, like you’re letting the words sink deep into every corner that once doubted.
And when you finally fall asleep in his arms, tucked into his chest, hand resting just above his heart. Max doesn’t dream.
Because for once, the reality is better than anything he could have ever imagined.
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