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 honoredâŠ. you have absolutely no idea. this goes beyond anything i can even put into words. itâs so sooo beautiful !!!!! the time, care, and thought you put into this means so much to me, truly. i donât think iâll ever be able to thank you enough for it <333
Itâs 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 đ
I have a time-lapse of my painting process here, if anyone is interested!
Please donât repost, but reblog đ„° ko-fi | instagram
Summary : Sheâs the most dominant player in womenâs volleyball and media favorite known for her killer serves and perfectly styled hair. Sheâs 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 TĂŒrknas
Series : Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Main Masterlist
The sliding doors of the Nice CĂŽte 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 wasnât 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 hadnât 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 heâd 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, letâs 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 itâs 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.
"Itâs 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 Iâve 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.
Oscarâs 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 wasnât 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 youâre hungry or thirsty, I..."
"Oscar," she said gently, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest. "Iâm fine. Seriously. Stop worrying so much. Letâs just enjoy this, okay? No pressure. No expectations."
He nodded, trying to absorb her calm like a sponge. "Okay. Itâs just, I really want this to go well. You to feel welcome. Iâve never flown anyone out here before."
Her smile softened. "Thatâs 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... Iâve 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 caughtâlike 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 didnât trust this to be real, and kissed her.
It was slow and warm at first, uncertain and full of all the nerves theyâd 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 wonât be needing that cinematic boat kiss anymore."
Oscar smiled against her lips. "Letâs do that too. Just for the full experience."
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? Thatâs a big win."
"I mean... you, ice cream, yachts, sunshine? Itâs 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 Iâm 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 wasnât 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 Landoâs 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, itâs 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, Iâm going to push you overboard."
He laughed, raising both hands in surrender. "Fair. I just..."
"Want to make sure Iâm okay, I know," she interrupted, softer now. She looked at him for a moment, then reached out and took his hand. "I am. Iâm 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 wasnât 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 Iâve 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. Youâre 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... Iâm a bit better at pretending Iâm not."
"Thatâs not fair," he said, shaking his head. "Youâre calm and collected and perfect, and Iâm just here hoping I donât 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 :Â "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. đ„ïž
@_user1:
Wait wait wait⊠isnât she in Monaco?? đ isnât Oscar there too???
@_user2:
okay but like⊠Oscar doesnât have a boat, does he?
@_user3:
maybe itâs 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 đ
@_user7:
can someone confirm if thatâs 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 đđ
@_francesca:
you look so cuteee. enjoy đ
@_user10:
FRANCESCA DONâT JUST SAY THAT, TELL US WHO THE GUY IS
@_user11:
@_francesca blink twice if itâs Piastri
@_user12:
just say his name bestie, youâre in too deep now đ«Ł
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. Sheâd even made a pleased little sound after the first sip, which he stored deep in his memory like it meant something.
She leaned back slightly, still chuckling, and ran her fingers into his hair, slow and light and deliberate.
Oscarâs breath caught.
âOkay,â she said, âyou are very tense for someone whoâs supposedly calm.â
âIâm not tense,â he replied too fast, too stiff. âIâm just... aware.â
âAware?â
âThat your hand is in my hair and I might actually melt into this seat if you keep doing that.â
She laughed, low and warm. âYou like it?â
He hummed. âDangerously.â
Her hand lingered, tugging lightly. His eyes fluttered closed for a second. When he opened them, she was watching him.
And she wasnât smiling.
She was looking at him like she was thinking.
Planning.
Then she leaned in again and kissed him.
This time, it wasnât 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.
âOh God,â he muttered, cheeks flushed, breath ragged.
âI didnât know you made noises like that,â she teased, her voice thick with amusement.
âI didnât either,â 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 wasnât sure where he was allowed to touch.
She was smiling again, that mischievous glint in her eyes. âYou okay?â
âNo,â he said immediately. âAbsolutely not.â
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. âYouâre going to kill me.â
She nuzzled against his jaw. âYouâll die happy.â
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.
âYou know,â he said carefully, his voice quieter, âI didnât invite you here for⊠this.â
She blinked. âReally?â
He flushed. âI mean⊠not that I donât want to. I just⊠it wasnât the plan. I wanted you to see Monaco. I wanted to show you the boat. Lando mightâve had⊠other ideas.â
She tilted her head. âLando ?â
âCondoms on the main desk,â he muttered.
Her mouth dropped open. âOh my God. That was him?â
âYeah,â Oscar groaned. âI try to hide them the minute we step in here. And then I spent the entire afternoon praying you wouldnât notice.â
âI did notice.â
âOf course you did.â
She started laughing, really laughing. Her whole body shaking against his lap.
âI thought you put them there!â she managed.
âWhat?! No! I would never...â he cut himself off, then muttered, âheâs such a menace.â
âHeâs just a good friend. A little too involved.â
Oscar huffed. âToo involved. Thatâs putting it lightly.â
There was a pause. Then he ask again. âSo⊠weâre not actually doing anything, right?â he asked, brows raised.
She smiled, brushing hair from his forehead, her hands resting on his shoulders. âYeah. No way.â
âRight.â
âYeah.â
â...You donât sound convinced.â
She leaned in again, her mouth hovering just over his.
âNeither do you.â
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 didnât 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 didnât think.
Didnât 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 âI want all of youâ without ever needing the words. His body pressed between her open legs, fitting there like it had always belonged.
Maybe they werenât planning anything.
Maybe they still werenât sure.
But the boat rocked gently beneath them.
And when she take off her shirt in a heated move, he stopped pretending he wasnât 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.
Heâd 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 sheâd 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 Landoâs 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?"
"Iâve 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.
"Youâre really warm," she mumbled.
Oscar chuckled. "Youâre 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. "Iâm here. Iâm 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 youâre 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.đ
@_user1
not to be dramatic but WHO is that girl đđđ
@_user2
Oscar⊠boyfriend era??????????
@_user3
sir we are gonna need a face reveal RIGHT NOW
@_user4
wait wait is this THE soft launch ????
@_user5
thatâs not Oscar casually soft launching a gf like we wouldnât notice đ
@_user6
yâall it can be Y/N right?? sheâs been posting similar boat stuff lately đ
@_user7
omg it better be her I love her so much theyâre cute together
@_user8
STOPPP IF ITâS HER IâLL SCREAM
@_landonorris
Bro youâre terrible at this. Just post her face already we were all literally there when you kept looking at her at her volleyball matchđ
@_user9
LANDO WHAT đđđ
@_user10
ANDDDD THE COVER IS BLOWN LMAOOOOOO
@_user11
@_landonorris is actually the messiest wingman I love him
@_user12
this confirms it omg itâs Y/N for real
@_user13
Y/N AND OSCAR CONFIRMED IâM GONNA FAINT
@_oscarpiastri
Ignore him.
@volley_yn
Well, since everyone clearly knows now đ
Guess nothingâs stopping me from posting my favorite Oscar pics from my very personal gallery. Hope he doesnât think Iâm crazy after this...
@_oscarpiastri:
You ARE crazy. But I love you so thatâs my problem now â€ïžâđ„
@_landonorris:
You're welcome btw.
This love story wouldnât exist without me.
@_francesca
Okay but Landoâs right for once. Also⊠Lando, you single or what đ
@_user1
from celebrity crush to boyfriend??? girl is LIVING THE DREAM đ
@_user2:
no bc imagine telling your bf âthis is my fav meme of youâ and itâs HIM đ€Ł sheâs texting Oscar with his own memes rn i just know it
@_user3:
girl went from âheâs cuteâ to âheâs mineâ
@_user3:
the beach pic?? the dinner pic?? I AM NOT OKAY đ«
@_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 đ
@_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? Youâre 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 itâs 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.
Authorâs Note: Iâve had so much fun writing this series, and I canât 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.
Youâre sitting on the edge of the bed, phone loose in your hand, legs drawn up beneath you like youâre trying to take up less space in a world that suddenly feels too loud. The room is dim. Quiet, but not peaceful.
You donât look shocked.
You just look⊠tired.
Max closes the door gently behind him, careful not to let the latch click too loudly. âIâm sorry,â he says softly. You donât 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, âI knew it would happen eventually.â
âNot like this,â Max says.
You nod once, still not looking at him. âTheyâre already twisting it.â
He crosses the room in three steps and sits beside you, his thigh pressing lightly against yours. His presence is steady. He doesnât touch you yet, just lets the silence sit between you.
Quietly, you whisper, âIt feels like theyâve already decided who I am. Like they already wrote the final story and Iâve barely had time to figure out who I am for myself.â
Thatâs when Max turns fully to face you, jaw clenched, eyes dark. âYouâre not some headline. Youâre not theirs to define. Youâre perfect to me, always have been.â
Your gaze finally lifts to meet his, wet and guarded, your mouth pressed in a tight line. âNo oneâs perfect Max.â
He exhales through his nose. âMaybe not, but youâre mine.â
You blink. Once. Twice.
Then your voice breaks, raw and small, âAm I?â
His hand finds yours, fingers lacing through with no hesitation. âYeah,â he says, like itâs the only thing in the world that matters. âYou are. And I donât care who knows it. Let them talk. Let them spin whatever story they want. I know the truth and so do you, and I wonât let anyone hurt you.â
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 worldâs 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 youâre here, and heâs 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.
Youâre 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 isnât burning outside. And maybe it is. Maybe everything out there is on fire. But in here, itâs 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 theyâre both trying to ignore.
You catch him staring and tilt your head, smiling like you already know what heâs thinking. He doesnât say it out loud, doesnât need to. The look in his eyes is enough.
They donât 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 heâs been fighting not to want.
Youâre 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. âWe should talk about what weâre going to do.â
Max doesnât 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, âWhat do you want to do?â
You shift slightly, looking up at him, eyes tired but warm. The kind of tired that comes from more than just lack of sleep, itâs 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.
âI want to stop hiding,â you say, simply. âBut I donât want to be consumed by it either.â
Max nods, slow and deliberate. âWe donât owe them anything.â
âNo post? No joint statement from the Notes App? No exclusive interview where we sit on opposite couches and say weâre just really happy?â You tease gently, and it works his mouth quirks into the ghost of a smirk.
Max rolls his eyes, smirking. âEspecially not that.â 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. âI just⊠I wanted it to be ours before it becomes theirs, before it becomes something they try and destory.â
And fuck, that hits harder than anything else has. He exhales, low and rough. Cups your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek.
Itâs the truth heâs been circling in his own head for weeks but hasnât 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 elseâs 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.
âIt is ours,â he says, voice rough with certainty. âIt always was. They just donât know that yet. And weâll decide if they ever get to.â
You close your eyes, leaning into the warmth of his palm like itâs the only thing keeping you grounded. âI donât want to give them room to ruin this.â
He shifts to kiss your forehead, soft and reverent. âThey wonât,â he promises. âNot unless we let them. And I wonât.â
Thereâs no bravado in his tone, just something fierce and something solid.
He thinks you believe him, because heâs not asking for permission anymore. Heâs 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, thatâs 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 canât 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, âThat wasnât even my fault,â and âGod, who edited this?â
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 doesnât say it aloud because he doesnât have to, because in that moment, Max knows, truly knows, that theyâre going to make it.
Not because it will be easy. Not because the world will suddenly be kind, but because youâre still laughing. Because no matter what happens next theyâve chosen this. Each other.
And theyâre 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.
Theyâre 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. Youâve 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 doesnât 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 donât hesitate. Donât look around. Donât look back. And he doesnât let go.
Not when the first camera shutters click. Not when someone behind a barrier whispers your name like a question theyâre not sure theyâre allowed to ask.
Not when Helmut glances over his shoulder with that particular brand of raised-eyebrow interest that says weâll talk later.
You keep walking, one foot in front of the other, pace matched perfectly, like youâve done this a thousand times before, even though this is the first time youâve done it out loud. The paddock stretches out ahead, a maze of trailers and media pens and journalists waiting to pounce.
But Max doesnât 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 isnât for them.
Itâs 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 âGood morningâ wrapped in careful subtext.
Max notices it all.
He can feel the scrutiny like a pulse beneath his skin, familiar and manageable for him. Heâs used to being watched. Used to being dissected by people who think they understand more than they do. Itâs part of the job. Heâs 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.
Youâre 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 youâll be able to.
He knows what theyâre thinking. Theyâre not subtle about it.
That you moved on too fast.
That there was overlap.
That he stole something that didnât belong to him.
And the worst part? It doesnât matter that theyâre wrong.
They wonât 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, heâll play it. Heâll take the whispers. The smirks. The headlines.
But he wonât 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 youâre no longer walking just looking up at him, eyes wide and guarded, like youâre bracing for something that hasnât hit yet.
âYou okay?â he asks quietly, voice low and even.
You nod at first.
Then you shake your head. Just once. âEveryoneâs staring.â
âI know,â he says. Itâs not an attempt to comfort, just an acknowledgment. A fact. One that carries weight.
Youâre both quiet for a beat. Then you try to smile, and itâs the kind of smile Max knows is mostly armor. âDo I look scandalous enough for the headlines?â
Itâs so dry, so you, that Max canât 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 youâre not in this alone.
âYou look like youâre mine,â 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. âLetâs get through today,â you whisper. âThen we figure out the rest.â
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 donât flinch. You walk in beside him.
Not hiding.
Not apologizing.
Seen.
And the world, whether itâs ready or not, knows exactly what that means.
Focus.
Thatâs what Max has always been good at, blocking out the static, drowning out the noise. Letting everything else fall away until thereâs nothing left but track and tyre and timing screens.
But this weekend⊠itâs harder. Not because heâs distracted, not really, not in the way people would expect, but because the noise isnât out there anymore. Itâs in here, inside the very walls of the paddock heâs ruled for over a decade.
Itâs 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 donât rattle him. The scrutiny doesnât 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 heâs had years to grow calloused to the noise, youâre walking through it raw.
And online itâs only getting worse.
@supermax_33:
Sorry but the math isnât mathing. Either she moved on too fast or he was always in the picture đ
@sainzgrf4:
Yâall mad but sheâs literally glowing. Girl is winning in more ways than one.
@girlsonsofts:
I want to believe itâs real love. But itâs hard when Lando hasnât 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. Itâs PR disasterbait and Max fell for it. đ
@f1_mess:
Sheâs ruined their friendship for good. How do they possibly move past this?
@lando_nation7:
I donât care what anyone says. This whole thing feels wrong đ
@teamwhatevermakesmaxhappy:
Honestly? She seems kind. Sheâs never said a bad word about Lando. We donât know the full story. We never did. Let them live.
@teamLH44:
The real drama isnât that Max is dating her. Date whoever you want.đ€· Itâs that nobody's admitting what went down behind the scenes đ«Łđ€«
@max4yappen:
Sheâs giving pick-me with a side of homewrecker.
@griddreamer:
I donât know... yeah, it looks messy, but people fall in love at the wrong time sometimes. Doesnât 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 itâs Love Island? Girl, be serious.
@mclarensoul:
Yeah it hurts to see, but maybe they really didnât do anything wrong. Timing doesnât always line up clean.
@paddocktea:
Not saying sheâs a clout-chaser⊠but whereâs the lie? You really date two of the gridâs biggest stars back to back? đŹđ«ą
@f1sidenotes:
If theyâre happy, whatâs the issue? Stop projecting your parasocial expectations onto people you donât know. Maybe they could have handled it better. But does that mean she deserves to be torn apart like this?
@maxielover4ever:
Itâs actually gross. đ€ź Lando was clearly still into her and sheâs off playing happy families with Max? Nah.
@pitlaneprincess:
Youâre all giving way too much energy for people who swore they just âwatch for the racing.
Itâs 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, youâre the one he worries about.
Youâre not a moment or a scandal or a clickbait phrase they can chew up and spit out before the next race weekend. Youâre the hand he holds when no oneâs looking. The quiet voice on the phone after back-to-back double-headers.
The first breath of peace heâs taken in a year.
And theyâll never understand it.
The rest of the grid doesnât 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. âFinally, huh?â he mutters, smirking just enough to make it unclear whether heâs impressed, amused, or both. Maybe itâs approval. Heâs 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, âYou good?â like itâs just casual curiosity, but Max knows better. Knows itâs code for you sure youâre ready for whatâs coming now that itâs not just racing on the line?
He doesnât answer. Just leans back in his chair and stares down the briefing notes like theyâre more interesting than the heat crawling up the back of his neck.
Oscar wonât 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 donât 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.
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 doesnât try to break it. Not here. Not yet.
The media though?
Theyâre not subtle. Not anymore.
Every interview starts with a grin thatâs just a little too wide, a question thatâs just a little too rehearsed, a tone that sounds casual but never is.
âSo, Max⊠about your personal life, anything youâd like to share?â
âNew energy in the garage lately. Must be feeling good off-track too, huh?â
âFans are speculating. You want to clear anything up?â
He deflects. Again and again.
Smile tight. Voice clipped.
âItâs not something I want to comment on.â
âWeâre here to race. Thatâs my focus.â
âIâm happy. Thatâs all that matters.â
He keeps his answers short. Safe. But each time the words leave his mouth, he wonders if youâre watching. If youâre tucked somewhere behind the hospitality glass, listening to him walk the tightrope between protecting you and not denying you.
Heâs 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 youâre either a villain or a trophy. Nothing in between.
They turn women into narratives. Love into leverage. Theyâll 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 youâd be.
Curled up in the corner of the Red Bull motorhome, oversized team hoodie hanging loose over your frame like armor. Youâve 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.
âYou surviving?â you ask, voice low, knowing.
âBarely,â he mutters, collapsing onto the couch beside you. âStarting to miss when everyone ignored me.â
You laugh, warm and a little tired. âYou? Youâve never been ignored a day in your life.â
âFeels different now,â he says, leaning into you, letting his forehead graze your temple, his hand brushing yours on the cushion between you.
You nod slowly. âIt is.â
You donât elaborate. You donât need to. Youâre exposed in a way neither of you were quite ready for. Held up under lights that donât 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.
Heâs not in this alone.
And neither are you.
After quali, theyâre both in the garage when someone from Sky tries to slide in a comment during a live shot.
âSo Max, must be nice having [Y/N] around again. Looks like sheâs your good luck charm this season.â
Max stares at the reporter. Then slowly smiles.
âAlways has been.â
And he doesnât elaborate. Doesnât 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 youâre 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 donât 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.
âWhat are they saying now?â he murmurs, low against your skin.
You donât answer right away.
Then, with a breath that doesnât quite sound like a sigh, you say, âDepends on who you ask.â
He waits.
âSome people think itâs romantic, that we seem genuinely happy, thatâs far and few between though.â You swallow, thumb scrolling absently. âMost think itâs horrible. Or that itâs PR. Or worse some calculated move to hurt Lando.â
Max frowns, jaw tensing.
âTheyâre already rewriting it,â you say, softer now. âTurning us into characters. Picking sides. Calling me names I havenât even heard since high school.â
He reaches over, takes the phone gently from your hand.
You donât stop him, even when he closes the screen, even when he drops it facedown on the bed.
âHeyââ you start to protest, halfhearted.
But he cuts you off, voice firmer than before. âThey donât know us.â
His hand finds yours, fingers threading through your knuckles. âThey didnât see what I saw. What weâve been through. What this actually is.â
You turn to look at him fully now, eyes searching his face like youâre trying to find something solid in all the noise.
He lets you.
Youâre silent for a moment, heart kicking hard against your ribs.
Then you squeeze his hand.
âOkay,â 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.
Youâre 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, itâs silent. Still.
Max doesnât 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.
âYou okay?â he murmurs.
You hesitate, then shake your head. Itâs not dramatic. Not performative. Just a quiet, almost apologetic no, and then your voice catches.
âI havenât been fair to you,â you whisper, voice barely audible. âNot at all.â
His brow furrows. âWhat do you mean?â
You pull your knees in tighter, like youâre trying to hold yourself together before you unravel completely. âThis whole time... Iâve been so focused on how Iâd look. How it would reflect on me. Like Iâd be branded the cheater, the girl who couldnât decide, the selfish one who left one golden boy for another.â
You swallow hard. âI thought if I disappeared long enough, if I kept quiet enough, I could come back clean. That the world wouldnât stick that version of me to their walls forever.â
Max says nothing, just watches you with a growing ache in his chest.
âBut you,â you say, the words spilling faster now. âYou canât hide. Youâre the one in front of the cameras every single day. Youâre the one they ask over and over, âHow long has this been going on?â like youâd done something wrong.â
Your voice cracks. âAnd I let them. Let you handle everything alone.â
Max reaches out, rests his hands gently on your knees. âThatâs not true.â
âIt is,â you argue, shaking your head. âI left you to carry it. All of it. While I stayed quiet, and now Iâm here but itâs still you who takes the heat. The questions. The headlines. I keep saying Iâll be ready soon but I donât know when that is, and itâs not fair.â
Your breath hitches. âI feel so selfish.â
Max exhales slowly, then shifts to sit beside you, shoulder to shoulder. The city stretches out in front of you both, glittering and uncaring.
âIâd take worse for you,â he says softly.
You blink, turning to look at him. âI know, but thatâs part of the problem. Even now youâre the one comforting me. None of this is fair.â 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.
âIâd take all of it forever.â he continues, âif it meant I still got this.â He gestures vaguely, but you know what he means. âThe judgment, the press, the comments... I donât care. Not even a little bit. I have you. We have each other. Thatâs the part that matters.â
You stare at him for a beat, something twisting and loosening in your chest.
Another tear slips down your cheek, but this oneâs different. Lighter.
âYouâre too good to me,â you murmur.
Max shakes his head. âIâm not. Iâm just sure.â
He finally turns to look at you, and his expression is so full of belief, of devotion, of every quiet promise heâs ever kept without saying a word.
âIâm sure of us. Of what this is. Of you.â
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.
âI want to be brave,â you whisper. âLike you.â
Max kisses your temple. âYou already are. You just donât know it yet.â
Lando finds him the next day. When the sunâs 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 doesnât 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 itâs just measured.
They sit in silence. A long one. Max doesnât fill it. He lets it stretch.
Eventually, Lando speaks.
âShe told me everything.â
Max turns slightly, eyes flicking sideways. âWhat?â
Lando doesnât look at him. Heâs peeling the label off his water bottle with careful fingers, the shredded paper fluttering in his lap.
âShe came to talk to me. Explained everything from the start.â
Maxâs grip tightens around the plastic. âYou okay?â
Thereâs a beat. Then Lando huffs out a breath thatâs half-sigh, half-laugh. âDidnât punch a wall if thatâs what you mean.â
Max lets the edge of a smile ghost his lips, but it fades quickly.
âShe said she didnât want to hurt me again,â Lando says. âSaid she knew it might feel like she already had. That it looked bad. Seemed fast. But that she couldnât keep apologising for finally doing something that made her feel whole again.â
Max swallows. That sounds like her. Careful. Kind. Braver than she thinks.
âShe told me she loves you.â
Max closes his eyes. The weight of those words lands even harder hearing them secondhand.
âWasnât easy to hear, but she said it kindly.â Lando adds, quieter now. âI know she didnât say it to twist the knife. She said it because she thought I deserved the truth.â
âDo you believe her?â Max asks.
Lando nods. âYeah. I do.â
Max doesnât reply. He just stares out at the dimming horizon, heart heavy in a way that doesnât quite hurt anymore.
Lando exhales through his nose.. Then, like itâs been sitting heavy on his chest too, he says, âThe stuff people are saying about her⊠itâs brutal.â
Maxâs head lifts slightly.
âI know Iâm not the one who needs to protect her anymore,â Lando goes on. âI could tell the comments were getting to her.â
Then Max says, âSheâs trying to carry it all quietly. Like always.â
Lando nods. âSheâs strong. But she shouldnât have to be that strong.â
Max glances sideways, his voice less guarded. âWeâll get through it.â
Lando, leans forward, elbows on his knees. âIâm not gonna lie mate. I hated you for a minute.â
âI know.â
âI thought maybe it was more calculated than it was.â
Max shakes his head. âIt wasnât like that.â
âI know that now,â Lando says. âI think part of me knew it even then. Just didnât want to admit it.â
Max nods slowly. âI love her.â
âI know,â Lando says, then stands, brushing off his fireproofs.
He hesitates.
âIâm not happy about how it ended. But Iâm not angry anymore, and Iâm not gonna hold it against you both.â
Max rises too, slower, cautious like the ground between them is still a little fragile. âThank you, youâre a good guy, and for what itâs worth Iâm sorry.â
Lando offers a crooked smile, tired but real. âJust donât screw it up alright? She deserves someone who wonât make her question everything again.â
âI wonât,â Max says, firm and certain.
Lando studies him, and then quietly, âI believe you.â
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.
Itâs late afternoon in Montreal. The race weekendâs 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 isnât pressing just beneath the surface.
The segmentâs 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:
âSo, thereâs 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?â
Thereâs a beat. The kind where everyone watching leans in, producers, fans, journalists waiting to dissect every word and read between every line.
Lando doesnât flinch.
He just smiles, one of those half-lopsided ones, and lowers his sunglasses just enough to meet the camera.
âIâm happy for them,â he says. Smooth. Measured. But not empty. âLook, things change. No one really knows what goes on behind closed doors. People forget weâre human. Sheâs happy. Heâs happy. Iâm happy. That should be enough.â
He shrugs, lets the moment breathe.
âLet them have some peace.â
Then he looks away from the camera, just slightly, just briefly.
And throws a little smile off to the side.
Itâs blink-and-youâll-miss-it.
But Max doesnât 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.
Itâs not fixed everything. Not exactly.
But it offers some peace.
And itâs enough.
You show up in Hungary. Not through the back gate, or tucked into the shadows of a tinted car like youâve 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. Heâs 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 thereâs a quiet confidence in your posture heâs missed, chin high, steps sure, the unmistakable look of someone done hiding.
The paddock doesnât 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 youâve 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 youâd both pretend not to notice.
Now, itâs here.
Out in the open.
Everything finally feels like itâs in the right place.
He doesnât know who took the photo.
Couldâve been a team photographer, a social media intern, a lucky fan with a long lens and a good eye. It doesnât matter. What matters is that it ends up on Red Bullâs Instagram just before sunset, perfectly timed, perfectly framed, and it hits the internet like a meteor cracking the surface of everything that came before.
Itâs 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 wouldnât even blink.
Because it could.
Because your all he sees.
Because you always have been.
The caption doesnât need to say much. It doesnât 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.
Heâs on the couch in the driverâs 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.
âHappy?â he asks softly, eyes searching yours.
You smile. âWith you? Always.â
Later, long after the garage has emptied and the champagneâs 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, canât resist a quick look.
He scrolls.
He finds the post.
Stops at the top comment.
They didnât owe us this. But Iâm so glad they shared it anyway.
And just below itâ
a blue checkmark.
Landoâs 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 doesnât feel empty just still, like the worldâs 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 youâre 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, thereâs 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 doesnât 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 itâs a personal attack.
âYouâre a hazard,â he says.
You gasp in mock offense. âIâm a chef compared to your airport diet.â
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 doesnât even try to get them back. Just squints into the sun and says, âYouâre lucky I love you.â
âVery,â you agree with a wink, stretching your arms.
Later, back inside, itâs 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 youâll never let go. And he lets you take what you need, gives it just as easily, because itâs about the way your body fits against his like you were made to ruin each other again and again.
Eventually when youâve 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 whoâd survive longer on a deserted island.
âYouâd die in a day Max.â
He scoffs, pretending to be offended. âExcuse me? I am deeply resourceful.â
âYouâre high-maintenance and allergic to mosquitos.â
âI am not allergic. I just hate them. Everyone hates them!â
âYou left a hotel once because the AC wasnât strong enough.â
He gives you a long-suffering look. âThat was Monza in July, and I was being proactive.â
You grin. âYou were being dramatic.â
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 havenât in months.
âMax-a-million.â
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. âWhat?â
He swallows, smile tugging slow at the corner of his mouth. âHavenât heard that in a while.â
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.
Itâs 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 punchlineâs 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.
Itâs the dumb gaming nights where you talk more shit than strategy and still somehow win.
The terrible movies you never finish.
Itâs the identical eye-rolls.
The shared glances across crowded rooms.
The wordless âletâs get out of hereâ agreement before either of you speaks.
Itâs not just chemistry.
Itâs not just history.
Itâs home.
The kind of connection you can only build by showing up again and again, even when itâs messy. Even when itâs hard. Even when the world wants to twist the story into something smaller than what it really is.
Thatâs 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 youâve both seen what the world can do when it sinks its claws in.
Youâve felt the sting of headlines. Youâve carried the guilt that was sometimes fair and other times wasnât. Youâve 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 heâs moved on in his own time, his own way. That the storm you were all part of didnât leave permanent wreckage behind.
Thereâs a peace to it all now.
Not tied up in a bow. Not perfect. But real.
Youâre in love, yes, stupidly, deeply, overwhelmingly so, but youâre also something harder to come by.
Youâre 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.
Youâre 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 isnât urgent. Itâs 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 youâve been holding it in.
âDo you ever think about how it couldâve been so easy to miss this?â
He doesnât 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.
âAll the time,â 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 thereâs no telling where you ends and he begins. Your eyes are soft and open in the moonlight spilling through the windows, sleepy, but sure.
âI think we were supposed to find each other,â you say. âEven if it was messy. Even if it took too long. Even if we almost ruined it before we ever had a chance.â
Max reaches up, brushes his thumb along the curve of your cheekbone.
âWe were always going to end up here,â he says. âEven if we took the hard way.â
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.
âI love you,â you whisper. âMore than I ever thought was possible.â
Max breathes you in like a memory he doesnât ever want to fade. Then he leans down and kisses you.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, lips still brushing.
âIâd choose you,â he tells you. âEvery time. In every version of life.â
You close your eyes, like youâre 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 doesnât dream.
Because for once, the reality is better than anything he could have ever imagined.
I have read a lot of Gaon x Yohan on ao3. Some are really really well written. How come there are no Yohan x Fem!Gaon stories? It would make an interesting read.