heyyyy!!! I just discovered your blog and I’ve been reading EVERYTHING. I’ve seen you haven’t been posting much so please don’t take pressure from this but any chance there will be a part 3 to Max’s oh baby???
Yes! There will be! I had a lot going on the past six months but fingers crossed I have more time now to complete it! Part 3 will be the final part of Oh, Baby. I've loved writing it and I'm excited to show you all what's to come!
PS. I think it's hilarious I started writing this before we all found out about his actual real life baby and by now kelly has given birth lol
i'd love to! what would you like to see from driver! reader and lando specifically? more of the smut, drama of the fallout when people find out, fluff, some (not) friendly competition? i'm really open to any ideas!
peeping Tom Lando! Lando and reader are teammates. They are friendly but have this awkward tension going on with all the papaya rules. When Lando accidentally watches her undress in drivers rm he gets fascinated and can’t stop peeping like a pervy teen. And myb reader isn’t that mad when she finds out myb a bit mean condescending reader?
prompt: you're landos teammate and well…he's a peeping tom
pairing: lando norris x driver!reader
word count: ~3.8k
warnings: 18+, smut, cursing, lando is a complete perv and he watches reader when she's changing, p in v sex, hand job, making out, oral, mentions of masturbation, suggestive language
a/n: let's just say i never thought my first time writing for lando would be with this sort of ask. alas i can't control what tickles my brain. this fic is simply lando being a little creep but it works out in the end. let me know what you think in the comments or reblogs or if there is any other warning i should add. other than that please enjoy! and for whoever asked for it, i hope this is sort of what you imagined?
When you signed the contract to join McLaren's Formula One team as their second driver, the rules were simple.
Don't cause any damage to the other teammate's car.
Do not begin any romantic relationships with anyone from the McLaren team. Drivers. Principal Director. Mechanics. Engineers. Sponsors. None.
It was the rule they emphasized most. Zac Brown looked at you and Lando in the eyes, pleading. His reasoning was fair. Once feelings like love become involved, everything gets messy. McLaren is so close to a championship that they can't allow distractions.
But a woman and a man can be just friends. They can be co-workers. Right?
All previous flirtatious banter between the two of you was put on hold. Shoved in the corner of your mind as you put your head down to become an irreplaceable part of the team. Whatever attraction the two of you had in the past was buried and forgotten about.
It was easy at first; the friendship bloomed, even if there were heated glances and longing touches that would never come to fruition. Lando was easy to get along with, and if an argument came up, it was typically fixed within 24 hours.
The public loved you as teammates. Lando complimented you, and you complimented him. The results were undeniable. So the company paired you up to do press, sponsor events, and red carpets. They were monetizing on the perfect image of teammates in the F1 world.
Lando loved to seek you out as well. He'd drag you clubbing, dinner, shopping, even for his barber appointments. In return, he'd happily keep you company in the hairdresser's. Oftentimes, taking pictures of the foils tangled in your teased hair. He'd join you for nights of self-care where you popped in a rom-com and wore hydrating face masks.
McLaren was playing a dangerous game. It's a threat if their drivers get too close. Yet, they push them together for the cameras, unaware of the simmering beneath the surface.
It was both a curse and a blessing in disguise. Lando became your solace in a career that got lonely with all the traveling. But at what cost?
After a particularly warm race in Singapore and hours of press, Lando retreats to his driver's room. Stepping out of his race suit, he quickly showers to cool down his champaign-coated body.
Toweling off his hair, he tugs on the outfit the stylist left for him. Race weekend was over, but he had a night of celebration ahead of him. Lando agreed to wait for you after today's podium to go get dinner before heading to the club, so he heads across the hall.
The door to your driver's room is slightly ajar, the lock failing to click shut. You'd been complaining about the busted door and all the times it's sprung open, so he's far from surprised.
He hears the soft pop music playing in the background as he grabs the handle to push the door open. Except, he looks up through the crack of your door to find you shrugging off the race suit off your hips.
Lando gasps quietly, the music providing enough cover. You must've been caught up in interviews and only just got back to your driver's room. Blood rushes to his ears, and he can't concentrate on anything else.
Instead of making his presence known or walking away, Lando freezes. He holds his breath as the fireproof fabric slides down the round of your ass, exposing your thighs and the black underwear you're wearing. You finish kicking it off, leaving it in the hamper for the staff to take and clean.
Lando licks his lips as his green eyes focus on your naked skin. He's seen you in bikinis before; it's not new, but bikinis were purposeful, and this was different. It was fucked.
Watching you like this tickled something in his brain. It was wrong. So wrong. He should turn around immediately and leave. Or knock and make himself known.
A huff leaves his mouth as you, unaware of his presence, pull off your long-sleeved top with the McLaren sponsors. The marching black bra caught his attention. Lando stifles a groan at the sight of your glistening skin, a mix of champagne and sweat. What he wouldn't give to taste the intoxicating blend.
He's mesmerized. It's wrong. Lando is too far gone, he couldn't care less. It's like your naked curves have hypnotized him. His trousers suddenly feel tight, and Lando's hand presses on his cock as it stiffens.
His green eyes track how you stretch your sore muscles, giving him unlimited access to the contours of your body. You don't think twice about the door, too busy rushing into your driver's room to shower and change. All because of the same man watching you undress. You didn't want to leave Lando waiting for you too long.
Your bra comes next, the pressure points red on your skin from hours of use. You cradle your breasts in your hands, groaning at the premenstrual soreness that plagues you. You moan at the feeling, and Lando almost comes in his pants. There's a trickle of sweat spilling down his back.
Hearing commotion nearby, Lando looks both ways in the hall, seeing if anybody is around. When he looks back, you're walking away into the bathroom. Naked as the day you were born.
Lando's breathing is heavy, and he's lightheaded as he rushes back to his driver's room, locking the door to unbutton his trousers to palm his dick. He tries to resist. He really shouldn't. You're his teammate.
Lando is too far gone.
He sits on the sofa, leaning his head on the headrest, as he pulls down his pants enough to pump his length. He keeps replaying the way you looked over and over again. How he wishes to touch you himself.
You're a goddess, perfectly sculpted. He can't find a single flaw in his lustful haze. Your nipples perfectly pointed atop your heavy breasts, smooth stomach dipping down to neatly trimmed hair, hiding treasure, and your ass perfectly firm from too many workout classes. Fuck.
He loved seeing your tits jiggle as you stretched, the sight of them in your hands as you massaged them. He wanted it to be him who did it. He wanted the opportunity to lick your champagne skin.
Lando released a throaty moan as his fist moved faster, while the other held onto the cushion. He could cross the line. Lando can tell you how he feels. See where it would go.
He thought of all the times you pressed against him, hugging him. He needed to feel it again, but skin-to-skin.
In seconds, he tensed up as he squeezed a little tighter on his cock. White shooting from the tip in spurts, landing on his hand and clothes. Lando moaned, slowly pumping himself until he emptied his balls.
As the haze lifted, he felt the guilt. He shouldn't have watched you. He should've walked away or knocked on your door. He's so fucked not only for watching you but for wanking off to you.
Lando can't put both of your careers in jeopardy.
It happened once. That should've been enough. Except, it happens again and again. Your lock remains unfixed for the following three races, and for each one, Lando peeks in the gap of your door, watching your post-race ritual. The systematic way you take off your gear, rolling your tense joints.
Bending at the waist to slide off the race suit, unknowingly, perfectly in his direction. He nearly misses the way your hand dips between your legs after one race, teasing your clit and softly moaning before you bite your lip to quiet it. He nearly whines as you retreat into the bathroom, but he stays long enough to hear more of your moans, hand tucked into his pants, rubbing himself once more.
You give him enough to keep him dreaming about you, waking up from wet dreams. Lando keeps acting as normal as possible, as if he hasn't been a total peeping tom, obsessing over the one woman he can't have. Yet he holds you tighter, hugs longer, hands threatening to slide down to grope you.
One night, after a social event you were both forced to attend to make Zac and the team look good, you knock on Lando's door. He answers still in his white button-up and black trousers, his shoes kicked off at the door.
"Hey Lan," you bat your eyelashes.
"Hey, is everything okay?" He questions, as he had bid you goodnight and walked you to your door not ten minutes ago.
"Can I come in? I have something to ask you," you sheepishly say, looking away.
Lando gulps and nods, hoping it's not what he thinks. He's been caught, hasn't he? Fuck, he hopes you don't report him. He deserves it, though.
The guilt is slowly eating him alive. So much so, you've noticed the way he pulls you closer just to push away later.
"Lan?"
"Oh yeah," he clears his throat, "Come in, you want water, coffee? I still have the mini bar shooters," he mindlessly rants, feeling on edge.
"Oh no. I just-"you shakily say, "I can't seem to get out of this dress. I need your help with the zipper. The stylist helped me in and forgot to give me a way out."
Lando tries his hardest not to start shaking. It's like a fever dream. You're asking him to undress you. He hasn't agreed, and he already feels heat stirring in his lower abdomen.
Lando nods quickly, "Yes, yeah, mhm, I can help you," he stutters, making fists in his hands to hide the shaking.
You give him a bright smile, "Thank you so much, Lan. I would've dreaded having to sleep in the dress. It's way too tight and scratchy." You ramble, turning around and pulling your hair over your shoulder to expose the zipper in the back.
He curses under his breath as he lifts his shaking hands. His cock has a mind of its own as it hardens. This is like all of his dreams but better. He lightly touches your back in search of the zip, and you shift slightly under his warm touch.
He pinches the zipper and, oh so slowly, pulls it down, revealing that you have no bra underneath. Lando licks his lips, his fingers touching your spine unconsciously. The zipper catches towards the end. "Uh, I think it's stuck."
"Oh," you softly say, swallowing thickly, "I'm sure I can wiggle out of it back in my room unless…"
"Unless?" Lando repeats in question, eyebrows knitting together.
You turn to face him. A smirk plastered on your lips, "Unless you want to take it off from me and finish the job."
"W-What?"
"You don't think I haven't noticed you, have you, Lando?" You giggle at his shocked face, placing your hands on his chest, "It's quite the compliment to have you creeping on me," you say, pushing up to whisper in his ear. Your fingers tangle on the hair at the back of his head,
"But the team," he sighs. He's not declining, and you know you have him wrapped around your pinky finger.
He's been far from discreet. There's a reason you haven't gotten the lock fixed. The tension between you kept growing from the moment you met, but McLaren's control stalled it for a while. Now, it's grown out of proportion.
You're not sure how long it's been going on. Still, you caught sight of him in one of your mirrors weeks ago, and then he kept showing up, hypnotized by your little shows that became more intentional with each passing day. Lando was far too distracted to notice the smile tugging on the corner of your lips.
"I didn't realize you were such a good boy. They don't have to know we broke their silly rule. I want you, Lando, and by the looks of it, you want me too."
Your finger hooks onto the waistband of his dress pants, playfully tugging at them. At that moment, something shifts in Lando. His eyes darken, and his jaw clenches as he roughly pulls you flush against him. Lando crashes his lips against yours. There are teeth and tongue in it all as his hands splay on your back, blunt nails scratching at the soft skin.
You moan into the kiss, feeling his hardness on your front. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. Lando gropes your ass, making you moan into his mouth, your tongues sliding against each other.
Accepting your challenge, he grabs the two edges of the dress and pulls them apart, breaking the part of the zipper that was stuck. You gasp, pulling away from him.
"You're such a fucking tease," he groans, kissing your neck.
You laugh as your hands pull him closer, making you stumble and sway. "It's your own fault. Very pervy of you to be watching me like that."
"Says the one putting on shows for me. You're just as desperate." Lando's voice is thick and gravelly from overwhelming lust.
You bite your lip and nod at his words, making him groan. You let the dress fall to the floor, showing Lando you had absolutely nothing underneath.
"Fucking beautiful, I can't get enough of you," Lando cups your face, kissing your swollen lips and guiding you to the bed. The hands on your hips are pushing you down.
You lean back on your elbows, watching Lando unbutton his shirt and undo his belt. Mesmerized, you stretch out your leg to tease him over his pants with your pointed foot. "How many times did you wank off to me?"
You were enjoying it all a little too much. Seeing Lando so uncontrolled gave your confidence a good boost it didn't need. You were always confident in yourself and your abilities. You had to be in a male-dominated field. Having a man like Lando act in such a way would make any girl feel confident. It only made you dangerous.
Lando slows down, watching the rise and fall of your chest. His hand wraps the belt around it as he takes it off. He looked like a god standing above you like that. It made you wet.
The team's rule made you incredibly sexually frustrated. You wanted Lando, needed Lando. You would've been happy to spend only one night with him, even though you knew your chemistry went beyond that. The team made you suppress your feelings, forcing you into one-night stands or lonely nights with the toys in your luggage.
"Who said I did?" Lando cocks his head, popping open the button of his trousers. He reaches down to your teasing foot, fingers expertly working the clasp of your heels.
"So you're telling me all those times you were flushed were because you were working out?" You softly giggle, tilting your head to imitate him, "Gotta own up to it, Lando, and maybe I'll let you fuck me."
You were being a total menace, high in adrenaline and confidence. Lando debates his answer. He got caught watching you, and you're currently naked in his bed; admitting he masturbated to you is nothing.
"Too many to count," he responds, kissing the inside of your ankle where he has a perfect view of your cunt.
"Good boy," you say, offering him your other foot so he can take off the high heel. Your gaze is fixed on the shape under his underwear. Hard and prominent. "That's all you had to say."
Lando reaches for your legs, pulling you to the edge of the bed as he drops to his knees. He lets you rest your legs on his wide shoulders, pushing your thighs apart as he takes in the only part he hasn't been able to see entirely.
"Is it all you imagined?" You hum. Lando traces a finger from your stomach down to part your slit. The wetness gathers on his finger, and he spreads you open with it, exposing your most delicate center. His mouth fucking waters at the most perfect pussy.
"It's even better," he admits, kissing the inside of your thigh before he dips down and licks it up. You moan, falling flat on the bed. Lando closes his eyes, tasting your sweet cunt. He sucks on your clit as his strong arms hold your thighs open.
Your fingers knot in his hair, feeling the wax holding the strands in place. "Yes, Lando," you cry out, feeling his fingers slide inside you. There's relief in your chest. Finally, after all this time, you have him, and he has you.
"How many times did you fuck your pussy thinking of me?" He repeats your question, knowing full well he wasn't the only horny person in this equation.
"I don't know," you shrug, "How can I remember when I've been picturing you for a year?"
Lando curves his fingers, loving your fucked out face. "No wonder you let yourself be seen like that. It's a cry for help."
"We're not perfect," you stutter as you feel your orgasm coming. Lando stops making you whine and pout at him.
He finishes undressing with you watching him closely. Your fingers find your clit, and you moan. "It's not fair, you've seen so much of me and I've never been able to see you."
You don't have to wait long as Lando takes off his trousers and boxers, his cock leaking from all your teasing and his fantasy coming to life. With a bite to your lip, you stand from the bed and kneel in front of him.
You don't touch him right away; instead, you look up at him and then back down to his cock. "You have a pretty cock, Lando." Only then do you take it into your hand, pumping it, and giving the tip a small kiss.
"Happy it's to your standards, princess," Lando responds with a grunt. Veiny hands, finding your hair.
You suck him into your mouth, looking up at him. One hand massaging his balls. Your eyes meet briefly before you take him deeper. Lando hangs his head back, moaning your name.
Suddenly, you stop and stand back up. You grab Lando by the back of his neck and kiss him, pressing your naked body against his. You don't even realize you're checking all his boxes; it's a miracle Lando hasn't come yet.
You break the kiss by biting his bottom lip lightly. "Fuck me, I need you." The way you say it is a perfect mix of sultry and needy. With one more look, you take a step back, finding a place in the bed and spreading your legs open for him in invitation.
You're getting antsy. Lando complies, pulling you to the very edge as your legs hang around his waist. Lando lines his cock on your slit, getting it wet with a mix of saliva and slick arousal.
You suck in a breath, "Yes, please, please, please," you say as Lando sinks into you slowly, inch after painstaking inch. Lando bottoms out, thumbing your clit to have you clench around him.
"You like my cock, princess?" He asks, transfixed by the way you feel so warm and snug around him.
"Mhm," you say, watery eyes fixating on him, begging Lando to move.
Lando sets the perfect rhythm, your body bouncing against him pleasingly. He holds onto your thighs, watching how his cock disappears inside of you and how your cum coats it as it accumulates at its base.
You hold your tits, playing with your stiff nipples. You sing his name like a praise. Lando feels in a haze; he still can't believe this is happening. The tension between the two of you has been very real, but the rules stopped both of you in your tracks.
He thought you were going to report him for being a creep, but you're just as fucked as he is. He can't help it when the most gorgeous, funny, and borderline mean girl is his teammate. He might be in love.
He must be dreaming. His dreams often start like this. Lando drank too much whiskey at the party, and now he's having yet another wet dream.
"You feel so good, Lando," you gasp, feeling like you might come at any given moment. Lando rubs your clit, feeling how your words jumble together.
"Don't come inside of me," you gasp when that familiar tightness envelops you. "Oh my god." Your voice is high-pitched as your cunt tightens and weeps around Lando.
"Where do you want it?" Lando asks right on the verge. He has sweat dripping down his forehead, holding on for dear life.
"Mouth," you say shakily, whining when he pulls away. His hand takes over, pumping his length in quick strokes.
Lando helps you sit up, and you quickly take him into your mouth, moaning at the taste of both of you mixed together. You look up to find him fixed on you, his hand knotted in your hair. When your eyes meet, his hips inadvertently jerk, almost making you gag. With one last thrust, you notice the first spurt of his orgasm.
You slow down, allowing him to empty inside your mouth before you swallow. "Fuck," he groans at the sight. You lick him clean until he's forced to softly push you away due to sensitivity.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, Lando waits for you in bed. He lifts the blanket for you to cuddle up to him. You rest your head on his chest while he plays with your hair, taking out some of the pins that didn't fall out. Scratching your head when he accidentally pulls your hair.
"You really shouldn't creep on girls like that," you joke lightly, tapping him on the stomach, "Next time you want a strip tease, just let me know."
"I promise. This is the first time it happens," he says, kissing the top of your head. Lando grabs your hand to lace your fingers together.
Hesitantly, you lift your head to look at him, only to find his eyes on yours already. "Lando…I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I have feelings for you."
"I have feelings for you, too, princess. I want to see where it goes," Lando grins at you, cupping your face to kiss you. This time it's unhurried and steady. It's careful as a promise is made. "What are we going to do with McLaren?"
"They don't have to know," you whisper, caressing his jaw with your thumb, "At least, not for now."
"We need to get that locked fixed," Lando hums, making you laugh. He pulls you close, savoring the intimacy before it's ripped away from him.
hope this was good? it's been so long since i last wrote smut. im rusty af.
heyyy so would you be open to write consensual noncons?? Yk like fucking partners in sleep or giving them head????
Yeah, I’d be open. I’d make it clear that it’s something they’ve consented to before as a couple and all that, you know? But otherwise, I’d have no problem.
someone send me fic requests. i’m bored and have writers block 😮💨 im happy if i even wrote a drabble but i desperately need the ideas. whichever driver (or team principal [toto wolff im looking at you]). whichever team. whichever prompt. smut. fluff. angst. go crazy.
Summary... Vogue asks Y/N to film her skincare and makeup routine.
A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this little blurb. Let me know what you guys wanna see next. Request are open.
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The video opens with the click of a camera turning on, followed by a small laugh.
“Hi, Vogue,” Y/N greets warmly, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her skin is fresh, makeup-free, her voice still a bit husky from sleep. “I’m Y/N Verstappen and I’ve been asked to share my daily beauty routine… which honestly feels like a joke considering I’ve been up since 5 a.m. because my daughter thinks that’s an acceptable wake-up time.”
She shrugs playfully, leaning on the white marble bathroom counter. Behind her, viewers get a glimpse of their Amsterdam apartment, clean lines, cozy lighting, a plant in every corner.
“So let’s get into it,” she smiles. “I already cleansed off-camera because, well, my toddler smeared porridge on my face earlier and that wasn’t very Vogue.”
She lifts a bottle toward the camera. “This is what I used, super gentle, because hormones after breastfeeding are no joke. I used this religiously when Isa was still newborn and I felt like a walking zombie with acne.”
Just then, there’s a tiny knock on the bathroom door. Y/N pauses.
“Mama?” A small voice calls.
She bites back a smile. “Come in, schatje.”
Isa waddles into the room in her little bunny-print pajamas, hair a curly mess, one sock missing, holding her plush lion by the tail. Her eyes are wide with sleepy curiosity as she pads in and immediately reaches her arms up.
Y/N lifts her easily, balancing the toddler on one hip.
“This is Isa,” she chuckles. “My shadow. She doesn’t believe in personal space. Or sleep-ins.”
Isa rests her head against Y/N’s shoulder and waves lazily at the camera, mumbling, “Hi Vogue.”
“I’m gonna keep going while she hangs out,” Y/N explains. “Mom life doesn’t pause for skincare, right?”
She manages to tone with one hand, dotting serum on her cheeks while Isa fiddles with the collar of her robe.
And then, “Lieverd?” Max’s voice comes from somewhere off-camera. “Have you seen her other sock? She left it in the pantry again, I think.”
Y/N rolls her eyes fondly. “Check under the cereal boxes.”
There’s a pause.
“Got it.”
Max enters a moment later, barefoot in sweatpants and one of Y/N’s oversized hoodies, holding the missing sock like it’s a trophy.
“Victory,” he smirks, and steps into view to slide it onto Isa’s tiny foot as she babbles softly.
“Oh, and if I didn’t mention it... I’m married to that guy,” Y/N gestures at him, “who sometimes borrows my hoodies and always makes me tea while I do this.”
As if on cue, Max returns moments later with a steaming mug and a kiss to her temple. He doesn’t say anything else, just gives her a little smile and nods toward the camera like you’ve got this before disappearing again.
Y/N smiles after him.
“Okay, so next, I use this moisturizer. I keep it in the fridge because Max likes our house at ‘race car garage’ levels of cold and my skin can’t cope.”
She taps product on her face gently, still bouncing Isa in her arms.
“Lip balm,” she adds, reaching across the counter. “I don’t go anywhere without it. This one smells like mango. Isa always tries to eat it.”
“Mine,” Isa declares sleepily, snatching it from Y/N’s hand.
Y/N laughs. “Told you.”
There’s another interruption, this time the sound of a crash followed by Max’s startled “Alles goed?!” from the other room.
Y/N blinks at the camera, totally unbothered. “That’s our cat knocking over Max’s trophies again. She has a personal vendetta against the Monaco one.”
She finishes her makeup: light concealer, brow gel, tinted lip balm, all with Isa still perched on her hip.
“Oh, and when I do go to races, I do a bit more. Blush, mascara, maybe eyeliner if Isa hasn’t decided my makeup brush is her new toy.”
From the mirror, you can see Max re-entering, now carrying their cat under one arm and waving a toy toothbrush in the other.
“Does this belong to the tiny dictator?”
Isa perks up. “MINE!”
Max hands it over solemnly. “I thought so.”
He leans against the counter again, watching as Y/N wraps up her routine.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs under his breath.
Y/N smiles at the compliment but turns it into a tease. “Even without the mascara?”
Max grins. “Always.”
The camera catches Isa reaching over to swipe her fingers in the blush compact and smear it across Y/N’s cheek. Y/N gasps in mock horror while Max bursts into a quiet laugh.
“Raw and unfiltered,” Y/N tells the camera, dabbing at her cheek. “Exactly what Vogue asked for, right?”
She sets Isa down gently, and the little girl waddles over to Max, nestling herself into his arms like a koala.
“I don’t get a lot of ‘me’ time,” Y/N admits, tucking her hair behind her ears. “But I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. It’s messy. Loud. Exhausting. But also, really, really full of love.”
Max leans into the frame for a moment, his voice soft. “That’s because you’re the heart of it.”
Y/N blushes, swats him away gently, and turns back to the camera.
“Thank you for watching this chaos. And Vogue? If you ever want a dad edition of this, Max has a killer 7-step beard care routine he refuses to admit to.”
Max, now offscreen, calls out, “That’s classified information.”
Y/N grins. “Bye, Vogue.”
She reaches to turn off the camera just as Isa squeals from the other room: “DAAAADDY! Cat stole my toast!”
Summary: they call you “Charles Leclerc’s little sister,” “the deaf girl,” and “Ferrari’s newest junior engineer” … but Max just calls you the person he decided to learn a whole new language for (he’s totally chill and normal like that), because your silence has a lot to say and it deserves to be heard
The sun is high over Melbourne, heat shimmering off the asphalt like it’s trying to make the circuit dance. You step through the paddock gates, your pass clipped to your red Ferrari polo, heart pounding like it’s racing before the cars even start.
You’ve imagined this moment for years. Every lecture, every late-night study session with race footage playing in the background. Every time your brothers told you to be realistic, every time they hugged you tight and said they were proud , but still kept you wrapped in bubble wrap. Every second of wanting to be more than someone’s little sister.
You’re here now. Not as Charles Leclerc’s sister. Not as Arthur or Lorenzo’s baby sister either.
You’re here as you. Junior engineer. Ferrari. Official.
And you are not going to mess this up.
The paddock is buzzing. People shouting into radios, lugging gear, sprinting in and out of garages. Everyone looks like they know exactly where they’re going. You don’t — not quite yet — but you walk with purpose, tablet in hand, eyes flicking across the names on the motorhomes and hospitality units.
You’re so focused on the screen that you barely register the sudden blur of navy blue until it slams into you.
Hard.
Your tablet goes flying. You stumble backward, your shoulder banging into a column. And then a hand — strong, steady — grabs your elbow.
“Shit, are you okay?” The guy says.
You blink up.
He’s taller than you expect. Messy hair. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes narrowed in concern. It takes a second to register the Red Bull logo on his shirt, the sunglasses hooked into the collar, and the slightly scuffed trainers. The second after that, your brain catches up.
Max Verstappen just ran into you.
You don’t answer him. Not out of rudeness, but because you didn’t hear what he said. The world is a closed, silent room to you. It always has been. And he’s talking, voice moving in a world you don’t live in.
You sign quickly, I’m fine. It’s okay.
Then you kneel to pick up your tablet and turn on your heel, pulse still hammering. You need to find the engineering bay, check in with your supervisor, and double-check the tire compound setup for the weekend. No time for awkward apologies or flustered conversations. Definitely no time to explain your entire existence to Max Verstappen.
Behind you, Max is frozen in place.
He watches you disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed.
“What the hell just happened?” He mutters.
Carlos Sainz appears beside him, eyebrows raised. He has a protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other.
“You alright?” Carlos asks casually, eyeing the scene.
Max blinks. “I just ran into someone. Red shirt. Ferrari. She didn’t say anything. Just … did something with her hands and walked away.”
Carlos follows his gaze. His expression softens. “Ah,” he says, voice lowering. “That’s Y/N.”
“Y/N?”
“Leclerc. Charles’ sister.”
Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “That was her? I didn’t even know he had a sister.”
Carlos shrugs, unwrapping his protein bar. “Yeah. She keeps a low profile. Just graduated with an engineering degree. She’s starting as a junior on the team.”
Max squints after you, baffled. “She didn’t say anything. Just kind of-” he waves his hand vaguely, mimicking the motion you made. “Was that sign language?”
Carlos nods. “She’s deaf.”
Max stares at him, then back at where you disappeared.
“She’s what?”
“Deaf. Profoundly, I think. Has been her whole life. Charles is super protective. Don’t take it personally — she probably didn’t hear you. Or didn’t feel like explaining.”
Max doesn’t respond right away.
He’s not sure what he expected, but that explanation hits like an unexpected downshift. His brain races to keep up. Deaf? He’s never met a deaf engineer in the paddock. Never met a deaf person his age, actually. The way you signed — fluid, fast — he had no idea what you were saying. And yet you moved like it was second nature. You looked at him like you were already done with the conversation before he’d even said a word.
It shouldn’t bug him.
But it does.
“You said she’s Charles’ sister?” He asks again.
Carlos nods, taking a bite of his bar. “Yep. Youngest.”
“And she works here now? Like … full time?”
“Junior engineer. Started this weekend. First race.”
Max nods slowly. Then blinks, brows drawing together.
“I think she hates me.”
Carlos laughs. “You collided with her at thirty kilometers per hour in the hospitality zone. Maybe give it a minute.”
Max watches the crowds flow past, still mildly stunned. It wasn’t the way you walked off — not exactly — but something else. The way you didn’t flinch. The way you didn’t wait for his response. The way you carried yourself, like your silence wasn’t something missing, but something deliberate. Controlled.
He’s used to people reacting to him. Good or bad, they usually say something.
You didn’t.
You just signed and left.
Carlos nudges him. “You’re still thinking about it.”
“No, I’m not,” Max says automatically.
“You are.”
“I just didn’t expect-” he gestures vaguely again. “You know. That.”
Carlos eyes him for a beat. “Yeah. Most people don’t.”
Max exhales sharply through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like-”
“I know,” Carlos says. “Look. She’s good. Smart. Tough. But she doesn’t like being treated like she’s fragile. Just talk to her like a normal person. Or-” he grins, “-you know, learn some sign language.”
Max snorts. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just add that to my to-do list.”
Carlos shrugs. “You asked.”
Max watches the crowd one more time, but you’re gone.
You, meanwhile, are at the edge of the Ferrari garage, face still burning from the collision. You’re not embarrassed exactly, but you can still feel the jolt in your bones, and the moment plays on loop in your head like a replay gone wrong.
You’re also annoyed.
Not at him. Not really. But at how fast it happened. At how you didn’t get a chance to explain. At how quickly you had to slip back into the habit of brushing things off before they became complicated.
You scroll through your tablet, grounding yourself in data. Suspension settings. Weather patterns. Tire allocations. There’s comfort in numbers. They don’t expect small talk. They don’t look at you funny when you don’t respond.
Charles appears beside you ten minutes later, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hair windswept and face already faintly sunburnt.
“You okay?” He asks, mouthing the words clearly.
You nod.
He tilts his head. “I heard you ran into Max Verstappen.”
You roll your eyes. He wasn’t watching where he was going.
Charles grins. “He never does.”
You arch an eyebrow. He looked at me like I had three heads.
Charles shrugs, suddenly less amused. “People are idiots.”
You sigh and give a small shrug. It’s fine.
But something about the look Max gave you — surprised, confused, not unkind, just clueless — lingers longer than you’d like.
Charles squeezes your shoulder and gestures toward the engineering bay. “Come on. Practice starts in an hour. Time to show everyone what you can do.”
You follow him, head held high.
You don’t look back toward the Red Bull side of the paddock.
And Max, two motorhomes over, doesn’t stop thinking about the way you signed without waiting for permission.
He doesn’t know what you said. But for some reason, he wants to.
***
The suite smells like garlic and olive oil and something faintly burnt — probably Arthur’s doing. The balcony doors are wide open, letting in the sound of a Melbourne Friday night. Laughter from somewhere below. A street performer’s faint guitar. The deep thrum of traffic.
You slip your shoes off by the door and pad into the open-plan kitchen, still in your red Ferrari jacket, hair up in a messy bun. Your tablet’s in one hand. You haven’t stopped reading telemetry since you left the garage. You’re buzzing — wired from the day, exhausted and electric all at once. Practice went better than anyone expected. And your code — the custom data-cleaning script you finished at 2 a.m. last night — ran flawlessly.
You’re still mentally reviewing downforce numbers when Arthur barrels into the suite like a cannonball.
“Tu rigoles! You’re here before me?” He shouts, arms flailing as he tosses his keys on the table.
You barely glance up before signing, Barely. I beat you by five minutes.
“Still counts,” he huffs, kicking off his sneakers.
Lorenzo arrives next, a plastic bag of wine bottles looped around his fingers. He smells like his cologne and long-haul flights. “Do you ever stop working?” He says, watching as you flick through another screen on your tablet.
You flash him a tight smile, then sign without looking. Telemetry doesn’t analyze itself.
“I brought Pinot,” he says instead. “Don’t say I never support your dreams.”
“You don’t,” Arthur mutters. “You’re just pretending to like wine now to seem sophisticated.”
Lorenzo rolls his eyes.
The front door opens again, and you freeze before you even see him.
Charles steps into the room, hair damp from a shower, still wearing his Ferrari polo, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s grease smudged faintly on his wrist. His eyes land on you immediately.
He says nothing for a beat. “You’re still in uniform.”
You sign, So are you.
He sighs, drops his bag on a chair, then walks over and pulls you into a tight hug without warning.
You’re not expecting it.
For a second, you just stand there, his arms around you. Then your tablet lowers, and you press your cheek to his chest.
His hand finds the back of your head, fingers gentle.
You think he’s proud.
But when he pulls back, his expression is complicated.
Dinner takes shape fast — pasta boiling, Arthur chopping vegetables badly, Lorenzo opening wine, Charles strangely quiet. You hover near the kitchen island, half-listening to your brothers argue over whether the sauce needs more salt.
But your eyes flick to Charles. Again and again.
Finally, you sign, Say it.
He looks up from his glass of water. “Say what?”
You narrow your eyes. Whatever you’re thinking.
He hesitates. Then sets the glass down and leans on his elbows. “It’s not a small job.”
I know.
“It’s not a forgiving job.”
You nod. I know.
Charles exhales, rubs his hand over his face. “You’re twenty-two.”
You smile faintly. And you were twenty-one when you started at Ferrari.
“That’s different.”
Why?
His jaw flexes. “Because I wasn’t-”
Arthur throws a handful of basil into the sauce and cuts in. “Because you weren’t deaf?”
Charles doesn’t answer.
Lorenzo steps in smoothly, voice even. “It’s not about that. He’s just worried.”
Arthur scowls. “She’s not fragile.”
“No one said she was,” Lorenzo counters.
“You’re all thinking it.”
You cut in, fingers flying. Stop talking like I’m not here.
They all fall silent.
You press your palms to the countertop. I got this job on my own. I earned it. I’ve spent years watching you live your dreams while pretending I didn’t want the same thing. I’m done pretending.
Arthur’s the first to speak, voice soft. “We never wanted you to pretend. We just-” he breaks off, frowning. “We know what this world is like.”
Charles is staring at the wine bottle label like it holds the answers to the universe. “It’s brutal.”
And I’m ready for that, you sign. You don’t think I haven’t seen it? From the inside? I grew up in garages. I watched you kart before I even had baby teeth.
“You think I don’t remember Le Castellet?” Charles says suddenly, his voice low. “When you were six and someone on my karting team said you’d never survive a race track because you couldn’t hear the engines? You didn’t sleep for a week.”
You feel the memory hit like a punch to the ribs.
Arthur mutters, “I wanted to fight that kid.”
“You did fight that kid,” Lorenzo says dryly.
Charles’s voice goes quieter. “We’ve seen what this world does. We just wanted to protect you from it.”
You don’t get to protect me from my own future.
He flinches.
Lorenzo clears his throat and holds up a wine glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.
Arthur grabs a glass and clinks it with his. “To terrifying little sisters who are smarter than all of us.”
You raise your glass, but Charles doesn’t move at first.
Then, finally, he lifts his and meets your gaze.
“To you.”
You smile.
It’s soft. But real.
***
Meanwhile, two hotels away, Max Verstappen lies on his bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling through YouTube.
A video’s paused on the screen. The thumbnail shows a smiling woman with short hair and bright eyes. The title reads Learn 20 Basic ASL Signs for Beginners!
Lando, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips, looks over. “What are you watching?”
Max doesn’t even glance up. “Sign language.”
Lando snorts. “Since when are you learning that?”
“Since today.”
“… Because of Charles’ sister?”
Max finally looks up. “She ran into me.”
“Actually,” Lando says, mouth full, “you ran into her.”
Max groans. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because it’s true?” Lando throws a chip at him. “So? What? She blew you off and now you’re in love?”
Max narrows his eyes. “I’m not in love.”
Lando grins. “You downloaded Duolingo for sign language.”
“No, I didn’t,” Max says. “Duolingo doesn’t have sign language.”
Lando blinks. “How do you know that?”
“I checked.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Lando howls with laughter.
Max scowls and throws a pillow at him. “It’s not funny.”
“It is,” Lando gasps. “You’ve never even looked twice at anyone in the paddock and now you’re watching videos about finger spelling.”
Max shifts, face heating. “She’s just … different.”
Lando raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“She didn’t react to me,” Max says. “Not like people usually do.”
“She didn’t hear you.”
“No, but-” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t just that. She didn’t try to be nice. Or awkward. Or pretend she didn’t care who I was. She just signed something and walked away.”
“She probably thinks you’re a dick.”
Max sighs. “Maybe I am.”
“You’re not,” Lando says, surprising him. “You’re just not used to people not treating you like Max Verstappen.”
Max is quiet.
Then he reopens the YouTube app and hits play.
The woman on the screen smiles. “Let’s start with the alphabet!”
***
Back in the Leclerc family suite, you’re doing the dishes.
Charles stands beside you, towel in hand, drying each plate you hand over. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Arthur is on the couch, yelling at the TV. Lorenzo’s on the phone in the bedroom.
Charles breaks the silence.
“Do you like it?” He asks.
You glance over.
The job?
He nods.
I love it.
He nods again, slower this time.
Then he signs, You’re amazing.
Your breath catches. You smile — small, warm.
Thank you.
And for the first time that night, everything feels exactly right.
***
The morning is cool and bright when you step into the paddock, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tablet tucked beneath your arm. The air smells like fuel and fresh asphalt. The kind of smell that most people wrinkle their nose at, but to you, it smells like home.
Ferrari’s garage is already alive, buzzing with the usual symphony of controlled chaos. People moving fast, voices raised, tire blankets being peeled back. The pit wall team is calibrating headsets, and engineers are tapping away at laptops like they’re defusing bombs. But when you walk in, the air shifts just slightly.
One of the senior engineers, Sergio, gives you a nod of acknowledgment as you pass.
Another, Isa, offers you her usual crooked half-smile.
It wasn’t always like this — not even one day ago. But something changed after practice. The moment they saw your data lines. The way you isolated the inconsistent vibration through lap telemetry and flagged it before anyone else noticed. You didn’t say a word in the debrief, but the numbers did.
They’re starting to see you.
Not as someone’s sister. Not as a girl who needs shielding. Just as you.
You're mid-scroll through tire wear stats when someone taps your shoulder. Gently, like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they push too hard.
You turn.
It’s him.
Max Verstappen, in full Red Bull uniform, cap pulled low, jaw clenched like he’s about to launch into a high-speed corner.
You raise an eyebrow.
His lips press into a tight line. Then he lifts both hands, takes a deep breath, and starts finger-spelling something. Slowly. Carefully. Like every letter might explode.
H … E … L … L … O.
Then he hesitates. His brow furrows. His mouth moves slightly, mouthing the letters along with his hands. His finger flicks toward his chest.
You stare at him.
It takes a second before you realize what he’s trying to do.
And then it hits you.
He’s signing in ASL.
Your nose wrinkles. Not in annoyance, just surprise. Because you don’t use American Sign Language. You never have. You were born in Monaco. Raised in French. Your whole life has been in Langue des Signes Française.
And whatever Max just spelled?
It looked like a painfully slow attempt at ordering coffee in a different country.
You blink.
He looks so serious. Like this is a press conference. Like this is his world championship.
You burst out laughing.
Full-bodied. Loud. A rare kind of laugh that you don’t usually give out in public. It slips out of you before you can stop it.
Max’s face goes completely blank. Mortified. Like he’s just gotten out of the car and realized his fly’s down during a podium.
You hold up a hand, trying to breathe.
Then, still smiling, you reach behind you and grab a napkin off the coffee cart near the hospitality entrance. You scribble something with the pen clipped to your tablet.
You fold the napkin once, then hold it out to him.
He takes it, cautiously.
10/10 effort. 2/10 accuracy.
Wrong language, Verstappen.
Max reads it. Then blinks.
Then groans, tipping his head back toward the sky. “You’re kidding me.”
You shake your head, still grinning.
He rubs his hand over his face. “So what do you use?”
You sign, slow and clear. LSF.
“Is that … French?”
You nod. Then point to yourself, then your badge. Ferrari. Monaco. Surprise.
Max exhales, the tips of his ears pink. “Great. So I’ve been learning the wrong damn language all night.”
You shrug, amused. It’s cute.
He stares at you. “You think that was cute?”
You gesture toward the napkin. The effort. Not the execution.
Max looks at the napkin again, then folds it and stuffs it into his pocket like it’s a race strategy worth saving.
Then, after a beat, “Okay. New plan. I learn French sign language.”
You don’t have to.
“I want to.”
You blink. He says it with such ease. No hesitation. No bravado. Just … honest.
That’s new.
You cock your head. Why?
He shrugs. “Because if I run into you again, I want to say more than ‘hello’ and get laughed at in three seconds.”
You grin. Four seconds. Give yourself some credit.
He actually laughs. It’s short, but genuine.
Then he glances at the garage behind you. “You’re … uh, busy?”
You nod. Always.
He hesitates. Then holds out his hand. “I’ll get out of your way. Just … if I learn it. Will you help me practice?”
You eye his outstretched hand. Then, after a moment, you shake it.
Only if you promise not to run into me again.
He nods solemnly. “Deal.”
***
Later, in the garage, you’re reviewing a line graph on your monitor when Charles slides in behind you like a shadow.
He taps your shoulder.
You turn.
He signs hurriedly. You okay?
You nod. Then sign back, Why?
He tilts his head. “Because I saw Verstappen trying to mime at you and then you laughed so hard I thought you were having a breakdown.”
You roll your eyes. He tried to sign in ASL.
Charles frowns. “Isn’t that … the wrong one?”
You grin. Exactly.
He shakes his head. “This guy.”
He tried. It was sweet.
Charles narrows his eyes. “Max Verstappen is not sweet.”
He spelled hello and then looked like he wanted to cry.
Charles pauses. Then sighs. “Okay. That’s a little sweet.”
You give him a look.
His mouth flattens into a line. “Just … be careful.”
You raise both brows. Of what?
He gestures vaguely. “People like him.”
Confident men?
“Cocky men.”
You mean men like you?
He groans. “That’s not fair.”
You tap your fingers to your temple, smiling. Life isn’t fair.
Behind you, Sergio waves you over. You hold up a finger to Charles, then jog toward the data table.
He watches you go.
Isa sidles up next to him.
“She’s good,” she says.
Charles glances sideways. “She always has been.”
“No, I mean really good,” Isa says. “The sensor override fix she implemented this morning? Saved us thirty minutes in practice. Cleanest code I’ve seen from a junior in years.”
Charles stares at you across the garage.
You’re deep in conversation with two of the engineers. Laughing silently, eyes bright. You’re signing quickly, clearly. They’re following. One even signs back, haltingly, but with visible effort.
You’re not just holding your own.
You’re leading.
Charles lets out a slow breath.
Isa nudges him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
He mutters, “That’s not how big brothers work.”
She shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time you learn.”
***
That night, Max sits cross-legged on the hotel bed, hair damp from the shower, eyes locked on his phone. His laptop is open beside him, playing a YouTube video titled Les bases de la langue des signes française – PARTIE 1.
The woman onscreen moves her hands with elegant fluidity. He mimics the signs, stumbling through them, pausing every five seconds to rewind.
Lando walks in, a PlayStation controller in each hand, then stops in the doorway.
“… Mate.”
Max doesn’t look up. “Don’t say it.”
“You switched languages.”
“Yes.”
“You really like her, huh?”
Max’s fingers pause mid-sign. He exhales through his nose.
“I don’t know,” he says. “She’s just … not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
Lando nods, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. I get that.”
Max clicks pause. The screen freezes on a still of the sign for “bonjour.”
He stares at it for a long time.
Then goes back to the beginning.
Again.
***
The rooftop bar is too loud. Too bright. Too many conversations colliding like spinning tires in a wet turn. Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls, neon reflections pooling in half-empty glasses. Somewhere across the rooftop, someone is already dancing on a bench with a Ferrari flag wrapped around their shoulders like a cape.
You stand off to the side, pressed against the railing, fingers curled around a glass of lemonade you haven’t touched. Your tablet is in your bag, and without it, your hands feel oddly empty.
The Ferrari team is celebrating — P3 for Charles, P5 for Lewis — and no one expected that after the struggles in FP2. There’s champagne being passed around like water, and someone has started taking shots off a tire-themed tray.
You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re not uncomfortable, exactly. Just … aware. There’s always this moment, at these things, when the conversation starts slipping just beyond your reach.
Not because people are cruel. Not intentionally.
But because laughter doesn’t translate. Lip-reading fails in strobing lights. And the group talk always fractures into side chats you can’t follow unless someone remembers to turn toward you. Remember to include you. Remember that you’re still here.
You’re used to it. You’ve perfected the art of pretending you’re not watching the room, calculating how long before you can politely leave.
And then-
“Hey.”
You turn.
He’s there.
Max. Hands shoved in the pockets of a black jacket, slightly rumpled hair, looking vaguely like he walked into the bar by accident.
Your brow lifts. Coincidence?
He pulls out his phone and types something. Turns the screen toward you.
Total coincidence. I just happened to crash the Ferrari party for no reason at all.
You laugh. Just once, but it’s real.
He grins.
You sign, simple and slow. You came to see me.
He shrugs. Maybe.
You tilt your head. How many signs do you know now?
He pulls a folded napkin from his jacket pocket. On it, scribbled in surprisingly neat handwriting:
Bonjour
Comment ça va?
Travail
Voiture
Toi / Moi / Merci / S’il te plaît / Fatigué / Intéressant
You raise an eyebrow. Then sign, Impressive.
Max looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
You grin. Then grab a pen from your bag, pull a coaster off the bar, and write.
10/10 effort. 6/10 accuracy. Upgraded from last week.
He reads it and chuckles. Then scribbles underneath.
Still failing, though?
You scribble back. Barely passing.
Then, before you can overthink it, you add. You’re getting better.
He pauses. His fingers hover over the edge of the coaster, tracing your handwriting once, then twice. His smile softens.
Max gestures toward the quiet seating in the corner. You nod, and the two of you move over, away from the noise, to a pair of stools by the edge of the railing, facing the skyline. The Shanghai towers blink like circuit lights in the distance.
He pulls out his phone again and types:
Can I ask you something?
You nod.
What exactly is your job? I mean not like, in vague PR terms. But actually.
Your brows rise.
Most people ask about Charles. Or about how hard it is. Or how you “cope.”
Not many ask what you do.
You grab a clean napkin and start writing. It takes a few minutes. He waits.
I write code that analyzes car data in real-time. I help identify irregularities before they become problems. Everything from tire temp curves to ERS discharge rates. Yesterday I found a minor brake imbalance in Lewis’ car before FP3. Probably saved a lock-up.
You pass the napkin over.
Max reads it, lips moving silently as he follows the words. Then, after a beat, he signs — carefully, but clearly — Smart.
You grin. Correct.
He types. So you’re the reason Lewis didn’t spin into Turn 11 today?
You nod. Probably.
He whistles under his breath. Do they treat you like part of the team?
That one takes you off-guard. You blink.
Then pick up the pen and write. Sometimes. Depends on the day. It’s better now. I had to earn it. Twice.
He doesn’t ask what you mean.
But you keep writing anyway. Once as a rookie. Again as the deaf girl.
He reads it. And instead of offering pity — or worse, fake admiration — he just writes. They’re idiots if they can’t see what you bring.
You stare at the napkin.
He taps the pen between his fingers and looks sideways at you. “I’m not always good at saying the right thing,” he says, voice low. “But I mean that.”
You nod. Something tugs in your chest. A thread, long and old and quiet.
People don’t usually talk to you.
They talk over you. Around you. At you.
They smile politely while looking to your brothers for your answers. They ask if you “mind” being here. If it’s “okay” that you have to “struggle” so much.
No one asks about your code.
No one waits to read your words slowly. Pauses between questions. Watches your hands. Listens with their eyes.
Except him.
You sign, slow and clear. Why do you care?
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I mean, I do. You’re interesting.” He hesitates. “You don’t pretend. You don’t do that thing where you act impressed or unimpressed. You’re just … you.”
You snort. Then write. You’re used to people trying too hard around you.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Or pretending I’m not human at all.”
You nod. I get that.
You both fall quiet for a moment, watching the lights. Somewhere behind you, the Ferrari crew is howling over a game of darts using pitboard numbers as targets.
Max leans forward, resting his arms on the railing. “I looked up how sound works in your car,” he says suddenly.
You turn to him.
“The sensor translation system. It’s cool. I didn’t realize how much it’s tied into the telemetry.”
You blink. You researched it?
He nods. “Yeah. I wanted to know how you experience the car.”
You don’t reply.
Mostly because you don’t know how.
It’s the kind of question no one ever asks. People assume you miss something. Like hearing is the baseline, and everything else is lesser.
But he doesn’t ask what’s missing.
He asks how it feels.
You take the napkin again. Then, carefully, you write. It’s not quiet. Just … different. I read vibration, motion, tone. I can feel a problem in my chest before I see it on a screen.
You hesitate.
When I work in the car, I feel like I’m part of it.
You push it across.
He reads it twice. His jaw flexes like he’s trying not to say something too fast.
Then he leans back and signs. That’s incredible.
Your throat tightens.
You sign back. You don’t think it’s weird?
He shakes his head. “I think it’s probably what makes you better.”
You don’t say anything.
But your smile says enough.
***
It’s well past midnight when the party starts winding down. Someone’s already asleep under the bar, and Charles’ race engineer is trying to organize a very serious group karaoke plan for the following Sunday night.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at Max.
He types something on his phone, then holds it up.
Want to walk back to the hotel? It’s five minutes.
You hesitate. Then nod.
The Shanghai night is soft and humid, the skyline glowing above you like a ceiling of stars. You walk in silence, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind that feels like a warm hand resting on your shoulder.
When you reach the hotel entrance, you pause.
Max stops beside you.
You pull out a pen one last time and write.
10/10 effort tonight.
He grins. Then signs, 8/10 accuracy?
You shake your head, smile wide.
9/10, at least.
And this time, you’re the one who walks away first.
But not before you look back.
***
The sun dips low behind the Miami skyline, throwing sharp shadows across the paddock as the race trucks rumble to life. The air still hums with the echo of roaring engines, adrenaline not yet burned off. Debriefs wrap, interviews trail off, and slowly the paddock starts to exhale.
You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.
Ferrari finished decently well — Lewis P7, Charles P3 — but the mood in the garage is brittle. The race was messy. Tire strategy misfired. The late safety car scrambled everything.
Still, your data team caught the overheating rear brake sensor just in time. You flagged it at Lap 34, just before it could snowball into a full failure. Sergio clapped your shoulder when the drivers debriefed.
But you haven’t been able to enjoy any of it. Because you’ve felt Charles watching you.
All weekend.
And not in the proud big-brother way.
In the circling hawk way.
You’re mid-step toward the hospitality suite when he corners you. Right outside the motorhome, arms crossed, face unreadable. The same expression he wore at age seventeen when he found you trying to sneak into a karting track at midnight with Arthur.
You sigh.
Charles speaks first. “We need to talk.”
You frown. Now?
He nods. “Now.”
You glance around. The hallway’s mostly empty, save for a Red Bull junior engineer pacing on the phone.
You fold your arms.
Charles rubs the back of his neck. “This thing with Max …”
Your stomach drops.
What thing?
“You’ve been spending time with him.”
So?
“I just-” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t like it.”
You blink. Then laugh. It’s small and sharp.
That’s not your choice.
Charles flinches like the signs hit harder than your voice ever could.
“I’m just saying, he’s … Max,” he says, exasperated. “He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do people. He’s intense and impulsive and he plays mind games-”
He’s not like that with me.
“How do you know that?”
Because I pay attention.
Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand how he is when the pressure builds. He changes. I’ve seen it.”
You sign faster now, sharper.
What, and you think I can’t handle it?
“That’s not-”
You’ve never trusted me. Not really. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re just controlling me.
His jaw tightens.
You shake your head. I’ve earned my place here. And you still treat me like I’m twelve years old.
“That’s not fair-”
No, you sign furiously. What’s not fair is being watched like I’m a problem waiting to happen. What’s not fair is having my choices questioned just because they make you uncomfortable.
Silence stretches between you.
Your fingers are trembling.
Charles’ shoulders sag. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
You stare at him.
Then, quietly, you sign, That’s not your call.
And you walk away before he can answer.
***
The gravel crunches under your sneakers as you find your way behind the paddock, to the far edge where the energy dies off. A line of cargo containers sits in shadow, quiet and cold, forgotten.
You sit on the edge of one, tucking your knees to your chest. The South Florida wind is somehow colder here. Your breaths come sharp and uneven, not from crying, but from holding everything in.
You hate that your hands shook.
You hate that your voice always has to be your fingers.
You hate that people still don’t listen.
You lean your head back against the metal container and close your eyes.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up. You don’t need to.
The voice is quiet. Familiar.
Max.
You turn your head slowly.
He stops a few feet away, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket. No Red Bull entourage. No camera crew. Just him. Looking at you like he already knows you don’t want to be seen but came anyway.
He doesn’t say anything else.
He sits beside you. Careful not to crowd.
For a while, there’s just wind. The low hum of trucks packing down. The distant laughter from a hospitality tent.
Max pulls out his phone. Then sets it on the ground between you, screen facing up.
Are you okay?
You stare at it.
Then shake your head. Once.
He nods.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns his body toward you and lifts his hands.
You. Matter.
Your chest pulls tight.
He signs again, a little slower this time.
You. Matter. To me.
You bite the inside of your cheek. Then reach for his phone. I didn’t know how badly I needed someone to just say that.
He doesn’t smile. Just nods.
Then signs, I mean it.
You reach for your notebook, flipping to a clean page. Your hand shakes as you write.
Charles thinks I’m making a mistake. With you.
He swallows. His jaw ticks.
He thinks I can’t see who you are. But I do.
Max looks at you carefully. Like he’s afraid of breaking something already cracked.
You keep writing.
You’re stubborn. Competitive. Sometimes kind of an ass.
He barks a laugh. Muted and surprised.
You add, But you see me. You listen. You try. And you don’t make me feel like I have to fight to be heard.
He stares at the words. Then at you.
When he signs again, it’s slower than before, but steadier.
I want to learn how to do this better.
You nod.
Then sign back, softer now. So do I.
He looks at your hand for a moment. Then, carefully, threads his fingers through yours.
Your breath catches. The wind shifts.
You don’t need words right now.
You just sit with him in the quiet.
And for the first time in weeks, you feel understood.
***
Later, as the paddock lights flicker off one by one, someone watches from a distance.
Charles, leaning against the back wall of the hospitality suite.
He sees the way Max sits beside you.
Sees the stillness. The peace.
And something in his expression finally starts to change.
***
You’re not a morning person. Never have been. But the email came in at 6:13 a.m. from Ferrari PR, with the red URGENT tag glowing like a warning light on your screen.
Meeting at 8:00. Hospitality office.
No context.
By 7:45, you’re seated in the back of the Ferrari motorhome, legs crossed at the ankle, hair pulled up in a tight knot, tablet in your lap like a shield. You tap your pen once, twice, against the corner, heart drumming a half-beat too fast.
Silvia from PR sits across from you, all sharp lines and tight lips. Beside her is someone you don’t recognize — early forties, pale blue shirt, hair too neat for anyone who’s ever stepped foot on a pit wall.
To her left sits the interpreter.
You nod politely to him. His name is Luc. You’ve worked with him before. He’s kind. Precise. A rare comfort in a setting that so often feels too fast, too loud, too assuming.
Luc signs, They wanted me here to ensure full clarity on what’s being discussed.
You nod once, eyes already narrowing.
Silvia leans forward, elbows on the desk.
“There’s been chatter,” she says in Italian, her words slow but firm.
Luc mirrors them in LSF.
You frown. What kind of chatter?
The man in the pale blue shirt — Vincenzo, you learn — scrolls through his phone and swivels it toward you. It’s a tweet. And then another. And another.
Ferrari’s new engineer sleeping with the enemy?
Guess Verstappen isn’t just fast on track.
Charles Leclerc’s sister caught cozying up to rival.
Pick a struggle: nepotism or pillow talk strategy leaks?
Your stomach turns. Not from the words themselves. But from the way Silvia won’t meet your eye.
Vincenzo speaks again. Luc signs.
We’re not accusing you of anything. But this is … unfortunate. Distracting. The timing is poor. It’s the middle of a championship season.
You stare at them. So your solution is to what? Tell me who I can and can’t speak to?
“No,” Silvia says, gently. “But we need you to be aware. The optics aren’t ideal. You’re Charles’ sister. You work for the team. And you’re visibly spending time with someone from a rival camp.”
You exhale sharply. Then start signing quickly, hands snapping the air like a whip.
I’ve worked my ass off. I’ve earned this job. My deafness already made me a question mark to half of this paddock. Now I finally get taken seriously, and suddenly I’m a liability? Because I sat with someone at a bar?
Luc softens the delivery, but the heat still lands.
Silvia clears her throat. “That’s not what we’re saying.”
But it’s exactly what you’re implying.
Vincenzo’s tone turns clipped. “We are asking you to consider how your actions reflect on the team.”
You write a single word on your tablet screen, bold and in capital letters, then turn it toward them.
UNFAIR.
They don’t have a response.
***
You don’t cry.
Not until you’re in the back hallway near the logistics trailers, hidden behind a stack of wheel carts. Then you slide down the cold concrete, bury your face in your arms, and let the frustration roll over you in one silent, aching wave.
You’ve survived harder things.
But this … this feels personal. Because it erases everything. All the hours. The data streams. The quiet respect you’ve built in the garage.
Gone with a headline.
Reduced to someone’s sister. Someone’s rumored girlfriend. Not an engineer. Not a mind.
Just gossip.
***
The press conference is livestreamed.
You watch it from the back hallway of the paddock, standing just out of sight. The words blur together until you read your name cross someone’s lips.
A reporter from a sensationalist racing tabloid starts to ask, “Max, there’s been some speculation about your relationship with a Ferrari engineer — Charles Leclerc’s sister, to be specific. Any comment on the photos and what it could mean-”
Max cuts in. Instantly.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do have a comment.”
The room stills.
Max leans into the mic, eyes sharp.
“I think it’s pathetic.”
A murmur ripples through the journalists.
He continues. “She’s a brilliant engineer. She caught a mechanical failure in China that probably saved a race. She works harder than most people in this paddock, and instead of talking about that, you’re writing clickbait about her sitting next to someone?”
The reporter tries to interrupt. Max doesn’t let him.
“If this is the level of journalism you’re going to bring to this sport, I won’t be answering questions from your outlet anymore. Period.”
He sits back. Calm. Dead serious.
The moderator tries to steer the conversation back to tire strategy.
Max answers without looking away from the camera.
And just like that, it’s over.
You watch the video again. And again.
You don’t know what to feel.
Until your phone buzzes.
MAX
You free after debrief?
You reply, Yes. Why?
He replies with a location pin. A quiet hill above the paddock.
And nothing else.
***
You’re sitting on a bench beneath the cypress trees when he arrives.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds out a small brown paper bag.
You open it.
Snowdrops.
Not roses. Not some generic red bouquet.
Snowdrops — your favorite. Soft, white, delicate, and defiant. The first flower to push through winter soil. The symbol of beginnings. Of resilience.
Your throat closes.
You sign, slow. How did you know?
He shrugs, awkward. “I asked Arthur.”
That makes you laugh. Wet, shaky, but real.
You touch the petals gently. Then look up.
Why did you do that? At the press conference?
His jaw tightens. “Because they made it sound like you’re some pawn. Like you’re here because of me. Or Charles. Not because you earned it.”
You stare at him.
He breathes out. “And because I hate when people talk about you like you’re not you.”
You stand up. Walk closer. Just enough for him to see your face clearly.
They made me feel small today, you sign. Like all I’ve done didn’t matter. Like I’m just a headline.
“You’re not,” he says.
Then what am I?
He doesn’t answer right away. “You’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. You see things no one else sees. You care more than people deserve. And you still let them in anyway.”
You don’t move.
“You make me want to be better,” he says.
You’re shaking again. Not with anger this time.
With something warmer. Something more terrifying.
Max steps closer. Carefully. Always carefully.
Then signs, as well as he can, one word at a time.
You. Are. Not. Small.
And finally.
You. Matter. To. Me.
You reach for him before you can think.
He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you don’t let go.
Not for a long time.
***
The rain doesn’t fall at Spa. It assaults.
The skies opened just past lunch, and now thunder rolls low across the Ardennes like some ancient god is clearing its throat. The paddock buzzes in disjointed chaos: engineers reworking strategies in damp garages, drivers pacing, fans huddled under ponchos. Visibility on track is nonexistent. Qualifying’s already been delayed twice.
And still, the rain doesn’t stop.
You watch the chaos from inside the Red Bull motorhome, seated awkwardly on the edge of a modular couch in Max’s driver’s room. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and fabric softener. The low hum of the television murmurs in the background, some archive footage of past Spa races looping while the commentators stall for time.
Max is pacing near the window, watching water stream down the glass like it’s personal. You’ve learned he’s always restless before quali, but this is a different kind of tension. One that builds when plans are disrupted and control slips through fingers.
You tap your tablet once to get his attention.
It’s not looking good, you sign, eyes flicking toward the forecast scrolling on the screen.
He huffs. “They’ll probably cancel the whole session. Call it based on FP times.”
Which would leave you starting fourth.
He makes a face. “Behind both Ferraris? That’s tragic.”
You grin. I might be okay with it.
“I’m not.”
You let the silence settle. The storm outside is louder now, wind rattling the motorhome's metal panels. The TV drones on, the voices muffled even to Max. You glance at him. He’s not watching anymore.
Without a word, he picks up the remote and shuts it off.
He turns to face you fully.
Then walks over and sits, close. Closer than usual. His shoulder nearly brushes yours, his thigh just shy of touching.
You glance at him. Okay?
He nods.
Then he takes a breath.
And lifts his hands.
Tu n’es pas du bruit de fond.
You stare.
The signs are slow, a little shaky, but precise. Thought-out. He even pauses between words like you taught him to let the sentence mean something.
You blink hard. Then again.
You are not background noise.
Your throat tightens.
You open your hands, unsure where to begin.
You practiced that?
He nods. “All night.”
Why?
“Because I needed to say it right.”
You look down at your hands, folded in your lap. Then back at him.
People have always talked over me, you sign. Or around me. Or about me.
He nods, not breaking eye contact.
But not you.
“I never want to be that person.”
You exhale, a breath that leaves your chest softer.
It’s terrifying.
“What is?”
Letting someone see me. Like really see me.
He nods, slow. “Yeah. I … I think I’ve been terrified since Melbourne.”
You blink. Why?
“Because I’ve never wanted someone to look at me the way you do. And I’ve never cared this much about getting it right.”
Your chest feels like it’s caving in and expanding at the same time.
The thunder cracks outside again, closer now. The lights flicker just briefly.
You don’t look away from him.
And he doesn’t look away from you.
When he leans in, it’s not a dramatic sweep. It’s tentative. Slow. Like he’s giving you space to move. Space to say no.
You don’t.
His lips brush yours — just barely. A question, not an answer.
Your fingers curl instinctively in the fabric of his shirt.
You kiss him back.
Soft, deliberate, electric in the quiet way storms can be — no flash, no fury. Just the hum of something inevitable finally breaking the surface.
When you part, neither of you speak for a long time.
You touch his cheek once, then sign. You didn’t mess it up.
He grins, forehead resting against yours. “Good.”
Outside, the storm rages on.
Inside, it finally feels like something’s just begun.
***
The sun has barely dipped behind the trees in Monza when Charles finds Max.
The paddock is emptying out, crew members packing up gear with the dull exhaustion of another long race weekend, but Ferrari’s hospitality terrace still buzzes faintly — bottles of prosecco half-empty, leftover canapés untouched.
Max is sitting near the back corner of his own team’s hospitality, talking quietly with one of Red Bull’s engineers, face sun-flushed from the race, eyes sharp and clear despite the heat.
Charles approaches with purpose.
Max sees him and straightens a little, nodding at the engineer, who takes the hint and melts away without a word.
For a beat, it’s just them.
Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t challenge. He waits.
Charles folds his arms. His jaw works once before he speaks.
“What are you doing?” He asks. Not angry. Just tired. Guarded.
Max tilts his head. “Right now?”
“You know what I mean.”
Max breathes in slowly. “If you’re here to threaten me, I’ve already heard it from Arthur. And Lorenzo. Twice.”
“This isn’t about them.”
“Then what’s it about, Charles?”
Charles glares. “It’s about Y/N.”
Max meets his eyes, unblinking.
Charles huffs. “She’s not like the rest of us. She doesn’t live for this circus. This pressure. This madness. She’s not-”
“-a driver?” Max finishes. “That’s funny. Because she knows more about these cars than everyone in the grid.”
Charles scowls. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
Max stands, finally. Slowly. Not confrontational. Just level.
“You still see her as the girl who needed you to walk her across busy streets and translate for her at the store,” he says, voice quiet. “You still think she needs your protection.”
“I know what she’s been through.”
“Then maybe you should stop acting like she’s fragile because of it.” Max’s tone is sharper now. “She’s not a child, Charles. She’s a professional. A brilliant one.”
Charles’s fists curl slightly. “I don’t care how brilliant she is. You’re reckless. You’ve got a temper. You shut people out-”
“You think I’d ever take her lightly?”
“You hurt people without meaning to. I’ve seen it.”
Max’s expression doesn’t shift. But something behind his eyes flickers.
“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But I see her.”
Charles doesn’t respond.
“I see someone who moves through the world in silence, and still manages to command every room she walks into.” Max’s voice lowers, almost reverent. “You see a little sister. I see someone who redefines the space around her. Who doesn’t ask to be heard, but is impossible to ignore.”
He steps forward, not aggressively, but close enough that Charles has to listen.
“I care about her. I respect her. And if she wants me in her life, that’s not your decision to make.”
Silence hangs thick between them.
“You don’t get to decide who’s enough for her,” Max finishes. “She decides that herself.”
***
While that storm brews outside, you’re walking into the lion’s den.
The Ferrari senior management team is mid-way through their end-of-weekend debrief. The air is thick with numbers, data, and the faint aroma of burnt espresso. You’ve been invited — not formally, but pointedly. You know what it’s about.
The rumors.
The tension.
The whispers in the garage.
You walk in calmly, dressed in your team gear, hair pulled back, tablet in hand but unused.
Luc sits beside you.
Fred barely looks up.
“Let’s make this quick.”
Luc signs the words, but you already know the tone.
You speak with your hands, composed and clear.
Let’s.
“I think we’ve given you a lot of freedom,” Fred starts, “more than most first-year engineers would get.”
You’ve given me a contract. I earned the rest.
Someone shifts in their seat. Not a challenge, not yet, just discomfort.
“You’re good,” he says. “But optics matter. And lately-”
Optics?
He hesitates. “There’s a perception that your relationship with Verstappen is … unprofessional.”
You don’t flinch.
Would it be unprofessional if I was not Charles’ sister?
He says nothing.
If I were a man?
Still nothing.
You tap your pen once against your tablet, then lean forward.
Let’s talk about what actually matters. My performance. The improvements I helped Lewis make in sector two. The aero feedback I corrected that gave Charles a 0.2 advantage in Q3. The fact that the simulations I ran this morning predicted the tire degradation curve to within 0.3% accuracy. That’s what I do.
A beat.
I don’t trade secrets. I don’t let anyone near my work. I’ve never once compromised this team. Not for Max. Not for anyone.
Your hands are steady. Your voice, through Luc, carries like steel.
If you have concerns, say them. But don’t mask discomfort with sexism or ableism and call it team management.
It’s quiet.
Very quiet.
Finally, Fred leans back.
“Noted,” he says.
That’s it.
But you know it’s more than enough.
You stand, nod once, and walk out.
Luc catches your eye as you reach the hallway. He signs, You okay?
You smile, just a little. Now I am.
***
Charles doesn’t speak to you that night.
You notice his silence at dinner. Notice the way he watches you — carefully, cautiously, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t know how to say. Lorenzo speaks softly about the season. Arthur cracks jokes. But Charles says nothing.
Until later.
You’re walking back toward your room when you notice him behind you.
“Wait.”
You turn.
He’s standing alone in the corridor, hands in his pockets, hair still damp from a post-race shower. His eyes are tired.
You sign, What is it?
“I spoke to Max.”
Your brows lift. Okay?
“I thought he’d be defensive. Or angry.”
You tilt your head. He can be both. But not when it matters.
Charles exhales. “I didn’t expect him to fight for you.”
He didn’t. He stood beside me.
Charles’s eyes soften. “You always say things like that. That make me feel stupid.”
You’re not stupid. Just used to seeing me as someone who needed protecting.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I remember when you got your first hearing aid. You hated it.”
It hurt. And it made everything too loud.
“And you ripped it off in the middle of school and flushed it down the toilet.”
You smile. That was a proud day.
He chuckles softly. Then his expression shifts.
“I’m not proud of how I’ve treated you. Or how I treated him.”
You pause.
Why did you?
He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Because he reminded me of me. And I didn’t want that for you.”
You take a step closer.
But I’m not you.
He nods.
And Max …
“He’s not who I thought he was,” Charles says quietly. “He’s better.”
That hits harder than you expect.
You smile. Just a little.
So you’re okay with this?
Charles laughs under his breath. “I’m still your brother. I’ll never be okay with any of it. But I trust you.”
You nod. Slowly. That’s all I wanted.
He opens his arms, tentative.
You walk into them.
And for the first time in a long time, your hug is that of equals.
***
Later, as the paddock winds down and the stars emerge over Monza, you find Max leaning against the fence near the parking lot, headphones around his neck, head tilted back toward the sky.
You tap his shoulder.
He turns, and before he can say anything, you sign:
He trusts me now.
Max raises a brow. “Took him long enough.”
You laugh, and he smiles — really smiles. The kind that lights up everything inside you.
He pulls you close.
And under the cooling night, you realize something else.
You didn’t need anyone to fight for your place in this world. But damn, it’s nice having someone who wants to.
***
One Year Later
It rains, as it always does in Belgium.
Not the full-force storm Spa is famous for, but a light, steady drizzle that makes the tarmac slick and the grass smell alive. The clouds hang low and moody over the forested circuit, and the energy is electric in that uniquely race day kind of way — tension, adrenaline, caffeine, too many radios crackling at once.
You walk through the paddock with Max.
You’re both in team gear — Ferrari red for you, Red Bull navy for him — but his jacket sleeve brushes yours every few steps. There’s nothing secretive about it anymore. You’re a fixture. A year in. Public. Steady. Still occasionally shocking to people who never expected Max Verstappen to show up for anyone like this.
But you know the truth.
He doesn’t just show up.
He stays.
You sign, You have a hair sticking up.
He glances at you, amused. “Just one?”
You reach up and flatten it with a smirk. He lets you.
You’re halfway to the Red Bull motorhome when it happens.
A small, insistent tug at the leg of Max’s jeans.
He stops.
Looks down.
And there, standing in the slight drizzle with wide brown eyes and a worn little Red Bull cap, is a boy — no more than six or seven — reaching toward him like he’s trying to touch something he’s only ever seen on screen.
Max immediately crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet to meet the boy’s eye level.
But before he can say anything, a woman rushes over, umbrella in one hand, backpack slipping off her shoulder.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She blurts in French-accented English. “He just ran off. He saw you and — he doesn’t mean to bother, he just — he won’t understand, he’s deaf, so it’s okay, really, you don’t have to-”
Max holds up a hand, gently.
And then switches languages.
Does he use LSF?
The mother freezes. Yes … yes, he uses LSF.
You feel it before you see it — the shift in Max’s posture. The quiet focus. The ease in his shoulders.
Then he signs.
Clear, confident.
Hi, what’s your name?
The boy blinks. And then grins. Wide, startled, toothy.
He signs back, My name is Michel.
Max laughs — genuine, delighted — and nods. He points to himself. Mine is Max.
The mother covers her mouth.
You watch, heart thudding hard, as Max and the boy fall into an easy rhythm. Michel signs fast, little fingers moving with the eagerness of someone who doesn’t often get the chance. Max keeps up, asking questions, repeating signs when Michel stumbles, nodding along like they’ve known each other for years.
Do you like cars?
I love them!
Who is your favorite driver?
The boy points at Max’s chest. You! And I also like Ferrari. Because she’s cool too.
Max glances at you, eyes sparkling. “He says you’re cool.”
You blink rapidly. Try to keep your face still.
The mother is crying now — softly, silently. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears. You know that kind. You’ve seen them before. You’ve cried them before.
You step closer to her, gently touching her arm.
He never gets to talk to anyone, she signs shakily. People always say it’s too hard. That it’s not worth it. She laughs through the tears. But he’s talking to Max Verstappen.
You smile and sign, Of course he is.
Max is laughing at something now — something Michel just signed. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a sharpie. Without hesitation, he takes Michel’s cap, flips the brim, and writes something carefully.
He hands it back with a wink.
Michel clutches it like treasure.
Max signs, Thank you for talking to me. Have a good race?
Michel nods enthusiastically.
Then, with one last beaming look, he runs back to his mother, holding the cap like it’s made of gold.
The mother mouths “thank you” to Max. Then to you. Then wraps her arms around her son and disappears into the crowd.
The paddock noise returns. Radios. Heels on concrete. Someone calling Max’s name from the motorhome entrance.
But the quiet between you two lingers.
He turns to you slowly, suddenly self-conscious. “Was that okay?”
You don’t answer.
Not at first.
You step closer. Press your hand gently to his cheek.
Then sign, I fell in love with you all over again just now.
Max swallows hard. “Yeah?”
You nod.
That was more than okay.
He exhales, eyes soft, posture loose in a way you know means he’s trying not to let it show too much. But you see it. The way his fingers twitch, like he wants to say more.
You give him a moment.
He takes it.
Then signs, a little slower, You once told me silence doesn’t mean nothing. That it has its own shape. Its own voice.
You nod, breath caught in your throat.
Max smiles. Small. Tender.
That’s what I want to be. Someone who knows the shape of your silence.
You don’t kiss him.
Not there, in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by team staff and cameras and noise.
But you do reach out, take his hand, and pull it to your heart.
And when you sign, you already are, he doesn’t look away for a second.
damn okay this was so good! totally wholesome and unique and i love having different representation, starting with using LSF instead of ASL. that last bit with the little boy had me almost crying!
princess of cannes, please come home ; george russell.
George's girlfriend is going viral because of her immaculate princess aura at Cannes Festival.
🏁: george russell x actress! girlfriend reader. (fc: elle fanning)
🏁: SMAU + written. reader uses she/her pronouns. use of Y/N. Intense making out session on the kitchen counter (nothing crazy, just them being chaotically sexy? idk if that's a real concept).
🪻: HI I'M BACK. I'm trying to use any free time I have from college and work to write down some ideas because doing this really relaxes me lol. elle's cannes pics started it all, what a woman. short and sweet because i really wanted to post something for george hehe. Hope you enjoy it 💙.
liked by georgerussell63, yourusername, alexandrasaintmleux and 34586 others.
vogue The Cannes enchantress: Actress Y/N Y/L/N stuns in a custom Armani Privé gown at the premiere of “Mon Amour”. Effortless. Elegant. Ethereal.
view all comments...
lovelyyn: she floated not walked omg
georgerussell63: 🤩🫠
yngeorgelovechild: couldn’t believe my eyes when i saw this for the first time earlier today
user18: george must be suffering in silence I fear
liked by imrebbecad, georgerussell63, dakotafanning, and 57294 others.
filmfestsource Y/N Y/L/N has officially entered her PRINCESS ERA at Cannes. Let’s talk about how she looks like she stepped out of a fairytale book.
view all comments...
georgerussellgirly: she’s not real
cannesupdates: even the paparazzi clapped??
justyn63: george is pacing the floor somewhere I just know it
George Russell's Instagram story.
- story's replies:
↪️ alex_albon: just text her mate
georgerussell63: shut up, I'm being dramatic on purpose
↪️ yourusername: damn gorgeous boy, I'm on my way 😩
georgerussell63: thank you ma'am 🫡
↪️ lando: get a room
georgerussell63: planning on it, thank you very much
lando: i hate you
The front door clicked softly, and he didn’t even have to turn around to know it was her.
He was leaning against the kitchen island in sweatpants and a hoodie, pretending to scroll on his phone but really listening like a hawk. The minute her heels clicked against the wood floor, he glanced up—
—and forgot how to breathe.
She still hadn’t changed. That divine Armani Privé gown was still hugging her in all the ways that made him go feral. The soft shimmer of the fabric, the open back, her hair still swept up like she’d just stepped off the red carpet and into his flat.
She smiled at him. Tired. Radiant. Dangerous.
“Hi, baby.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Princess.”
“Oh god,” she laughed, stepping closer. “You saw the internet.”
“I am the internet right now.” He tossed his phone onto the counter. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? Those slow-mo videos all over Twitter?, Pictures of you laughing in the middle of the carpet"
She batted her lashes playfully. “You liked it?”
He stepped closer. “Liked it? I almost flew to Cannes mid-race weekend.”
She grinned, leaning her palms on the edge of the counter. “Jealous, Mr. Russell?”
George placed both hands beside hers, caging her in.
“Just a little. You were out there looking like royalty and I was stuck here imagining some French director trying to flirt with my girlfriend while I ate sad leftover pasta.”
“Well,” she said, voice low, “you don’t have to imagine anymore. I’m home.”
Silence pulsed. His gaze flicked down her face to her lips, then to the plunging neckline of her gown. Her breath hitched when his fingers brushed her waist.
“And you’re still in that dress,” he murmured.
“I didn’t have time to change.”
“I’m glad,” he whispered, before pulling her in by the waist and kissing her like the world had stopped spinning.
She gasped against his mouth, hands tangling in his hair, his grip tightening on her hips as he lifted her onto the kitchen counter without breaking the kiss. The gown pooled around her, glittering under the warm kitchen lights.
Her heels dug into the small of his back as his hands roamed up her thighs, over the fabric, under it. Their kisses turned hot, desperate—weeks of separation unraveling between lips and teeth and soft moans.
Somewhere between breathless giggles and wandering hands, she muttered, “We’re gonna wrinkle the dress—”
George pulled back just enough to smirk. “Let it wrinkle. Let the world know exactly why.”
And then he was kissing her again, and the counter creaked beneath them, and the internet had no idea what they’d unleashed.
“Okay wait—wait—George, this zipper is aggressive,” she wheezed mid-kiss as he fumbled with the back of her dress.
He was still half laughing, pressing kisses down her neck, voice muffled. “Why do dresses need engineering degrees to open?!”
“Because it’s Armani Privé, not H&M,” she snorted, clutching his jaw and pulling him back in for another kiss, even as he kept battling the invisible fortress that was her gown.
“I swear this zipper is judging me. It just judged me.”
She cackled, head thrown back, nearly tipping off the counter—he caught her just in time, one arm around her waist, the other still blindly fighting the zipper like it owed him money. “Don’t fall, Your Highness,” he teased, breath hot against her shoulder.
“Then hurry up, peasant,” she teased back.
He gasped. “Peasant?! You wound me.”
She shrugged innocently, then yelped when he bit gently at the skin just below her collarbone. “GEORGE!”
“That’s what you get for calling me a peasant,” he mumbled, finally managing to unzip the back with an exaggerated grunt of triumph.
The dress slithered down her chest and pooled around her waist like melted champagne.
George just stopped. Stared. “Jesus Christ.”
She wiggled her brows. “Do I pass inspection?”
He leaned in, voice low and unsteady. “You’re being arrested. Right now.”
“For what?”
“Being criminally hot in my kitchen.”
She dissolved into laughter, legs wrapping around his hips to pull him in again. “That’s not legally binding, Russell.”
“Oh, we’re gonna bind something, alright,” he whispered, palming the backs of her thighs and dragging her to the edge of the counter until she squeaked. “And it’s not legal. Or safe for the granite.”
“George,” she giggled, breathless as he kissed a trail down her sternum, “we are so getting noise complaints.”
“We’ll leave a slice of apology cake in front of their door later,” he mumbled against her skin.
“And what flavor is apology cake?”
“Whatever flavor I taste on you—”
She shrieked with laughter, thwacking his shoulder. “GEORGE!”
“You walked into that one, darling.”
Then his mouth was on hers again—deeper this time, slower, and she forgot about zippers and gowns and Cannes entirely.
Outside, the world still thought she was royalty.
But in George’s kitchen, barefoot on the counter, flushed and half-undressed, she was just his.
i have a little request for a max fic. he has been soft launching his gf for a while but no one has ever seen her and doubts she actually exists so they all the grid, horner,GP,fans continuously tease him for it. but in Silverstone he tells pr team his gf coming. n its literally Princess of Wales
the crown - MV1
Masterlist
summary: Max Verstappen has been soft-launching his girlfriend for months, but no one believes she’s real. Until Silverstone, when he tells the Red Bull PR team she’ll be joining him — and the entire world loses its mind when the Princess of Wales steps out of his car.
warnings: royal!reader, fictional monarchy, fame x fame, soft launch chaos, teasing, media frenzy, Red Bull garage madness, fluff, possessive Max, protective PR team, public debut, implied smut at the end, Christian Horner losing his mind
The jokes start in Bahrain.
You’d been mentioned once in an offhand comment during Max’s media duties.
“Max, what do you do on your days off?”
He blinked, shrugged. “Mostly spend time with my girlfriend.”
The world froze. The journalists leaned in. The transcript went viral.
Girlfriend???
No one had ever seen her. No names. No paparazzi photos. No tagged pictures. No hints. No scandals. No connections.
He didn’t even elaborate. Just smiled to himself like some smug bastard who’d found peace and wasn’t about to let the world ruin it.
The grid loses its mind.
Charles is the first to tease him, “Is she imaginary?”
“Shut up.”
George joins in. “Come on, mate. Is she AI?”
“No.”
Lando laughs for ten minutes straight. “You’re catfishing us.”
“I’m not.”
By Australia, the jokes are constant.
Christian Horner pulls Max aside at the Red Bull motorhome.
“Listen. If your imaginary girlfriend wants to come to a race, we’d love to meet her.”
“She’s not imaginary.”
“Of course not,” Christian grins. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
**
Fans catch on fast.
Memes flood social media.
‘Max Verstappen’s invisible girlfriend era’
‘Has anyone seen her and Batman in the same room?’
‘At this point I think it’s a goldfish’
**
The thing is, you’re real. Very real. And very private.
Because you’re not just his girlfriend. You’re Her Royal Highness, Princess of Wales.
The King’s niece. The late Princess Charlotte’s daughter. Media-trained since birth. Trilingual. Harvard-educated. Former Olympic equestrian. Full-time constitutional headache.
And Max has been obsessed with you since the first moment he saw you at a diplomatic charity gala two years ago.
You were wearing navy. He couldn’t speak for five full seconds.
You kissed him the second time you met.
He was yours after that.
**
Silverstone is chaos.
Max informs the Red Bull PR team four days before the race that you’ll be attending.
“Wait. She’s coming?” says GP, nearly dropping his iPad.
“Yes.”
“Like. Actually coming.”
“Yes.”
“Does she need security?”
“She is security.”
The morning of the race, Max arrives with tinted windows. The cameras swarm. So do the fans. Everyone’s screaming. Then the passenger door opens. And you step out.
Chanel cream coat. Diamond brooch. Sunglasses. Bare legs. Royal wave. Untouchable aura. Two royal guards behind you.
Silence.
The crowd goes feral.
MAX VERSTAPPEN ARRIVES AT SILVERSTONE WITH THE PRINCESS OF WALES
“MAX’S GIRLFRIEND IS LITERALLY ROYALTY”
“MAX DIDN’T SOFT LAUNCH A GF HE LAUNCHED A FUCKING MONARCHY”
**
The Red Bull garage is speechless.
Christian Horner stands slack-jawed as you greet him with a firm handshake and a calm, “Lovely to meet you. Max speaks highly of you.”
Lando stares. George turns purple.
Charles whispers, “Oh my god she’s real.”
You kiss Max on the cheek. He grabs your waist like it’s instinct. Everyone watches. No one blinks.
An hour later, during pre-race debrief, GP mutters into the headset: “Hey Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Your Majesty looks good in Red Bull colours.”
Max smirks. “Don’t I know it.”
That night, after the win, after the podium, after the champagne, after the dinner, you finally crash in the suite Max keeps for emergencies.
He slides between your legs like it’s home. Still buzzing. Still stunned.
“You sure you’re okay being seen?” he murmurs, kissing your collarbone.
You hum. “The world was going to find out eventually.”
+summary: The couple was once thought to be the modern-day Romeo and Juliet (minus the unaliving part). Where you saw her, Max was not too far behind and vice versa. And despite his father's insistence to stay from her, he simply couldn't. He was enthralled by her and her persistence on the track. Together, they rose through the ranks and found themselves to be teammates in Formula one. But their story turns sour when Max betrays her in the worst way possible.
+pairing: Max Verstappen x F1!driver
+warnings: cheating, mentions the p*quets, curse words, hate comments, poorly edited. If i missed something, let me know.
face claim: Florence Pugh
I do not give my permission to have my work reposted. I do not give my permission to have my work translated. If I'm notified that you've stolen my work or claim it as your own, you'll be asked to take it down before I'll report you. End of discussion.
Her phone constantly vibrated against the glass coffee table of Max and Her's home. People were mentioning her in a tweet made from one of those wag accounts saying that Max was spotted with another woman that wasn't her and that he could be cheating. 'Max wouldn't cheat on me, right?' she thought to herself. Although, she remembered he had been acting rather weird lately. But him acting weird could mean anything.
The sound of the front door opening and closing and keys hitting the ceramic bowl alerted her that Max was home. Her eyes went straight to the bright orange bag in his hand. The same bright orange bag from the picture in the tweet.
"What's going on in that head of yours, Schatz?" Max hugged her, kissing the top of her head. He smelled like her.
"Thinking about what to make for dinner. Anything in particular?"
"I was thinking we could get takeout."
"Sounds good." She watched as Max turned towards their bedroom and tucked neatly into the collar of his shirt, which was a redbull shirt no shock there, was a semi dark hickey. A hickey she knew she didn't put there. Maybe that one tweet was right.
Dinner that night was a silent affair. The question of rather or not he was actually cheating weighed heavily on her mind. One half of her was being completely ignorant and believing Max would never do such a thing. The other half, the rational half, are putting the pieces together and ringing the alarm bells and are practically shouting from the rooftops that he is most definitely cheating. It was getting to be too much for her.
"Are you cheating on me?"
Max began choking on the water in his mouth. "What? Are you crazy? Where are you even getting this from?"
"It's just- I kept getting tagged in that one tweet-"
"And you believe it? You know those kinds of accounts make stuff up."
"Never said I did, Max," she said. "But explain the orange shopping bag, or how you got that hickey on your neck, or how you smell like none of the perfumes I have."
"I don't have to deal with this." Max stood up from the table and y/n followed after him.
"So, they're true?"
"Y/n, I don't want to talk about this right now."
"Well, that's just too damn bad. We're talking about this now because If we don't it won't get talked about at all."
Max faced her, his body shaking with anger. "Fine! Yes, I did cheat on you. Is that what you wanted to hear? How you weren't good enough and will never be good enough for me? How you'll never be good enough for anyone? How sometimes I can't fucking stand you to be around you? You. are. insufferable."
Her eyes started to fill with tears. In all the years she's known Max, he's never not once gotten this mad nor has he ever been this hateful. As if he realized what he's said, he began to apologize profusely.
"I'm so, so sorry, Schatz." Max tried to come closer to comfort her, but she stepped away.
"Thanks for letting me know how you really feel about me, Max. I'll uh get out of your hair."
"Y/n, please-"
"No amount of apologizing will ever make me forget what you said. You were the love of my life, the man that I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with and have kids with."
"But we can still have that!"
"It's rather funny you're trying to save a relationship you destroyed," she chuckled loudly at Max's audacity. "Tell me, how long have you been cheating? And be honest, I deserve that much."
With his head hung low in shame, he mumbled, "Nearly a year."
"Unbelievable."
Before heading off to their bedroom to pack some clothes, she looked at the man she once loved. "You know, I've dealt with a lot in my life. I've traveled the world seeing it in a whole new light while doing what I loved, been in a crash or two that was painful, seen and experienced things I didn't think I'd be able to experience, but this... this hurts the most."
Once she left the house, she got in her car and tapped on her lawyer's number, texting him.
I don't care how you do it, but just get me out my redbull contract.
DON'T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS.
yourinstagram(left) and maxverstappen1(right) . 2hrs ago
yourinstagram
liked by taylorswift, lilymhe, pierregasly and 932,312 others.
yourinstagram: Mama Tay once said don't get sad, get even 💅🏻💋#newsponsor #newthingsarecoming
view all comments
taylorswift I taught you well young grasshopper.
liked by yourinstagram
lilymhe where are you going dressed like that? cause damn.
⤷ yourinstagram sponsorship meeting with a new sponsor.
user1 you want to explain that second picture?
user2 looking respectfully.
user3 new things coming? what's that supposed to mean?
⤷ user4 she did say she got a new sponsor and I assume it's with Chanel.
⤷ user5 I can't help but think the whole new things coming means something else.
pierregasly 👀👀
⤷ yourinstagram just taking lessons from you.
francisca.cgomes are you single?
⤷ yourinstagram why yes, I am. you asking me out on a date?
⤷ francisca.cgomes of course!
⤷ pierregasly I'm right here you know.
⤷ yourinstagram I'll make sure to have her home before midnight 😉
user6 not y/n flirting with pierre's girlfriend 🤣
For half an hour, she sat on the couch listening to Lando, Logan, Charles and Pierre answer questions about their summer break, their hopes for the second half of the season and what they want for their teams/cars. Not one question came her way, and she was happy about that. She hated doing media with a passion. She could understand they had bills to pay, families to support, but if she could get away with not doing any kind of media without being fined for it, she'd happily do it.
Just when she thought she'd have an easy day, a reporter she was familiar with, one she has had problems with since her debut in 2021, raised her hand.
"Mackenzie Smith, Espn. I have a question for you, y/n," she smiled. "Over the summer break there was a rumor going around saying you were leaving redbull at the end of the season. Is that true? Can you maybe give some insight on that?"
It's an innocent question to ask, but knowing Mackenzie, she'll somehow go off topic and ask questions she has no business asking about.
"Accounts like that always make up some of the most ridiculous things for clicks. Unfortunately, people believe it and until me, or my agent confirms it, then it's just that. A rumor."
Mackenzie huffed, clearly not satisfied with that answer. But if there's something about Mackenzie everyone should know, is she has a habit of asking rather intrusive questions she has no business asking. "Your relationship with fellow driver, Max Verstappen, ended over the summer break as well."
"My relationship, or lack thereof, is not yours or anyone's business. End of discussion."
"But he-"
"Yeah, and I said end of discussion. What part of that did you not understand?" she paused. "Now, does anyone have any other questions? No? Okay."
She sat the microphone down beside her and walked out the room. Was she going to get lectured by her PR manager? Yeah. Was she going to be fined for walking out? Probably. But she didn't care and if there was one thing she knew she didn't have to sit there and be questioned about her personal life.
porscheformula1team
liked by yourinstagram, mickschumacher, and 1,253,549 others.
porscheformula1team: Come meet our drivers! Mick, who is returning to the f1 grid after missing out on the 2023 season and Y/n, who finished 2nd in the drivers' standings. The future for Porsche looks bright!
view all comments
yourinstagram Thank you for this amazing opportunity, Porsche.
⤷porscheformula1team: No, thank you for taking the risk and signing with us.
mickschumacher It's good to be back in formula one.
user7 while I am excited for Mick to be back, I just think y/n is a backstabber for leaving a team that pretty built her entire career.
⤷user6 did you honestly think y/n would stick around after Max cheated on her?
user8 this is the best thing to wake up to!
user9 redbull was holding y/n back, so it's a good thing she left.
user10 future wdc winners?
liked by mickschumacher, yourinstagram,porscheformula1team
user11 best driver's pairing in f1
liked by porscheformula1team
user12 signing these two was the biggest mistake Porsche ever made.
⤷porscheformula1team we beg to differ.
⤷user13 Porsche defending mick and y/n 🥰🤗
Max
Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?
When did you even sign with porsche?
Y/N
Didn't know I was obligated to tell you I was leaving.
I signed back in August after I got that Chanel sponsor.
Max
YOU SIGNED BACK IN AUGUST?! WTF
Y/N
I move fast just like you.
Max
What's that supposed to mean?
Y/N
It means you're okay with getting into a relationship with Kelly 2 weeks after we broke up.
Max
You're being childish, y/n.
Y/N
Did you really think I'd stay after you cheated?
In 2024, you better get used to being behind me because that WDC is mine.
Don't let this flop. I worked real hard on it.
ALL PICTURES ARE FROM PINTEREST AND CREDIT TO THE OWNERS.
im here doing a dancy dance cause i live for this type of drama! the angst the betrayal the revenge!!! i think deep down im evil for liking these stuff 🤣
seriously i love when there’s a character i love ie. Max and they cheat and it’s this whole whirlwind. i like getting hurt 🙆🏻♀️
prompt: finally pregnant and well on your second trimester you take a job for f1 so you can continue being on the road with max. the secret continues being well kept, or is it?
pairing: max verstappen x driver!reader
word count: 10.8k
warnings: 18+, smut, cursing, p in v sex, riding, hand job, making out, mentions of masturbation, grinding, mentions of pregnancy loss, suggestive language
a/n: hello again! let me start off by apologizing 'cause this took ridiculously long. all i'm missing is the culmination to this fic which i might finish soon since i'm inspired. quite honestly max's look after the british grand prix with the messy hair is to blame for the inspiration.
i do hope this is to your liking, i've added a couple more social media posts than the first part. i never expected this fic to have gathered such a good reaction so thank you!
it is quite fluffy and a bit spicy and lovey dovey, please sit back and enjoy, id love to hear your thoughts at the end
thank you <3
part one
Monaco | February 2025
Max returning home from training made you stir in your sleep. You hear the bedroom door opening, Max’s shuffling steps, and the shower running. Your eyes remain closed, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere and the domesticity of it all.
Considering you and Max’s professions, your life is far from domestic. It’s spent traveling around the world for most of the year, except for Winter and Summer break. Even then, you and Max take little escapades to relax and enjoy your free time.
Now, temporarily retired from racing, you’ve been skipping the hard training that comes with it. You go to the gym a couple of times a week to stay in shape, but nothing compares to the intense training Max and the others go through. You’d say you miss it, but it would be a lie.
The edge of the bed dips as Max sits. He softly touches your cheek with the back of his hand to get you to open your eyes. He figured you’d be awake.
“Morning, my love,” you quietly say, opening your eyes, letting them adjust to the soft light filtering through the blinds.
The sight that greets you is one straight out of your dreams. Max sits on the bed with only a towel around his waist. The tip of his hair is slightly curled with beads of water threatening to fall on his skin.
Max smiles, rubbing your arm soothingly. He likes to touch you in any way he can. It helps him feel close to you. “Good morning, schatje,” he says, his hand touching your tummy. “Good morning, baby. How did you sleep?”
You sit up, brushing your hair back and stretching your tight muscles. “Pretty good, but the bed got cold,” you pout, referring to him waking up early to train. You instantly missed his lazy arm around your waist and the warmth on your back.
“I’m sorry, but some of us still have to train. Especially, with the season around the corner,” he points out, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek.
It’s impossible to tire of the man sitting next to you, especially in his state of undress. You’ll admit the hormones are playing a big part in the indecent thoughts running through your head.
“It’s okay as long as you make it up to me,” you say coyly, trailing your fingers up and down Max’s arm. You press a kiss on his shoulder as your fingers inch towards the edge of the towel.
He finds you staring at him with wide, ‘innocent’ eyes. The corners of your lips lightly lift against his skin as you try to contain yourself.
Ultimately, you fail.
Max releases a laugh of disbelief, shaking his head as he leans back to allow you further access. You undo the towel skillfully with eager fingers grasping at his length. He stifles a groan.
All he had to do was let you touch him; you weren’t asking for much. You got off in giving him all the attention in return for watching him become undone. A sliver of control is what you ask for. Eventually, he’ll take what’s his, but for this moment, he lets you thrive as you watch him clench his eyes closed and bite his lip.
You kiss his neck, hearing his throaty groan when you stroke him, his cock thickening in your grasp. It grows warm as the seconds pass, throbbing with need.
He moans your name, reaching for your face to kiss you. Max finds you, dipping his head to allow his tongue to slide into your warm mouth.
The break kisses when pleasured, breathy moans fall from his lips. You lean against him as your hand strokes his length. There’s a bead of precum forming on his tip, which you gladly swipe with your thumb and lick it off.
“You fucking tease,” he hisses, watching you smile wickedly.
“I don’t have to be,” you purr, pulling him further into the bed until his back rests against the headboard.
Max reaches for you, pulling at the old t-shirt you slept in. You wear nothing underneath, preferring to sleep without underwear for the comfort it provides.
It took a while for Max to wrap his head around that. It was hard sleeping next to you at the beginning, knowing it would be so easy to touch you. There were many times he could not control himself. Not that you minded.
“How is not wearing underwear to bed not being a tease?” He replies smartly. A calloused hand comes down from your neck to your chest, where it squeezes one of your sensitive breasts.
Max recalls all the times your sleeping arrangements have resulted in morning sex. Too many to count.
“That’s a you problem, Maxie. It’s purely for comfort,” you pant, straddling him and dipping your head to press your lips against his. “Makes this easier, too.” You align his tip against your slick entrance, sinking along his cock in one smooth motion.
You moan out his name, feeling his thick cock parting your walls and filling you up. The familiar sensation of being filled, overtaking your senses, and clouding your mind.
There’s a blissful smile across your face as you bounce on him, forgetting about the world around you. There’s only Max and his fiery touch.
Max only lets you enjoy yourself for a minute before he wraps his arms around your body like a vice, forcing you down and still— flush against him.
“Maxie, please,” you plead, trying to lift yourself to slam back down, but he’s like an anchor. Unmoving. Unyielding.
“Let me enjoy this,” he says, looking into your eyes, “You’re so fucking tight.”
Your walls clamp around him as a result of the way he’s speaking and taking charge. He kisses your jaw, trailing down till he feels your pulse point, thrumming against his lips.
Your body begs to go fast, to chase release, but for once in his life, Max decides to take it slow, savoring the moment before he’s swept away by responsibilities.
Max has memorized the feel of your arms around his shoulders, holding on tightly onto him a thousand times over. As well as the way your soft thighs encase his hips, or how your nails scrape his scalp as you pull on his hair. Yet, every moment he’s with you, he takes the time to memorize it once more to catch the little details like the smell of your new shampoo or the way the thin chain of your necklace feels on his wandering lips.
The necklace he gave you for your second anniversary. Wearing his initials around your neck would be difficult if the relationship were to remain a secret. So instead, he got you a dainty golden necklace with a small pendant with a sapphire—Max’s birthstone. In the back of the stone, where a layer of gold encased the stone, were his initials.
You haven’t taken it off since he gave it to you. The feel of the chain on his lips or his fingertips has become familiar and welcoming.
As Max plays with the chain, following it with his lips until he reaches the hollow of your throat, you grind on his lap, back and forth with the slight movement he allows. Your clit rubs against him, causing the skin between the two of you to become wet and slick.
“You’re so impatient,” Max scoffs, hands gripping your hips, guiding you up and down his cock in a slow and deep rhythm. He makes sure you don’t rush, causing shivers to go down your spine as you try to contain yourself.
You bite your lip and your fingers tangle in his damp hair as you tilt his face up to kiss him, desperate to release some of the pent-up sensations.
“Just like that. You’re doing so good,” Max says against your lips, increasing the pace. A hand squeezing your ass and landing a playful spank.
“And you say I’m the tease,” you whine.
“Two can play at that game,” he says in your ear, biting at your earlobe.
“Maxie,” you moan, nearing your orgasm. Knowing you well, Max pushes deeper and harder into you, reaching all the delicious spots inside of you and driving you to cum around him.
Your teeth nibble at his lip, biting down on it right before you cum. You share with Max soft moans and whimpers, your forehead bumping against his. It’s typical of you to go quieter when you cum, and he adores it as he’s the only one that gets to hear you that way.
Max follows right after you. The sensation of your pussy fluttering around him is addictive and intoxicating. It’s what got her pregnant in the first place.
There’s a stillness in the air as you compose yourselves. Your thighs shake and your tummy’s tight as you ride out your orgasm. Max’s forehead is against yours as you breathe the same air. Almost as if the other was the life source required to live.
You cup his jaw, feeling the stubble on your palms. It’s comforting both for you and Max. You kiss his cheeks tenderly. Max’s palms are planted on your skin, rubbing up and down your clammy back.
“Are you okay?” He finds himself asking. The ‘you’ in question includes you and the baby. Despite having an all-clear from the doctors, he can’t help but worry.
“Never better,” you reassure him. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”
His worry is both unreasonable and reasonable at the same time, but you can’t blame him. So much has happened that he’s used to expecting the unexpected. It’s hard to shake it off.
Melbourne, Australia | March 2025
Max's head is pressed against your shoulder as he sleeps. His soft breaths fanning your skin, it's a comfort you don't take for granted.
The clock on the nightstand tells you it's only ten minutes until you definitely have to get up. Extending your hand to turn off the alarm before it goes off, you decide to wake up Max in a gentler way. Your hand scratches at the light scruff of his beard, easing him awake from his deep sleep.
His circadian rhythm has been thrown for a loop. He got used to a new routine while being on break. You and Max spent it in Monaco, preparing for the arrival of your baby.
Now, in Australia for the first Grand Prix of the season, he's found himself in a deep sleep cycle when he's supposed to be almost awake.
Max sighs against your skin, the arm thrown around you holding you tighter as he stirs.
"It's time, Maxie," you quietly say into the dark room, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing. It's the first day of the new season, FP1 starts today in Melbourne, Australia.
Max groans, kissing your naked skin, nuzzling his nose into it, trying to shake the heaviness weighing his body.
"Morning, schatje."
He complains as you sit up, holding the sheets to you. He has no other choice but to follow your lead and sit up as well, rubbing his eyes.
"Are you ready for today?" Max questions you, his voice rough and deep.
While you clearly won't be racing, you've taken a job with F1 as an interviewer and occasional commentator. Staying at home alone while Max travels makes you nervous. You didn't want to stay at home doing nothing and waiting for things to happen. You needed an outlet.
It was the most reasonable and least suspicious option to take this job, so you could be with Max and distract yourself from the impending doom that keeps you up at night sometimes.
"I am so excited," you nod, stealing a kiss to his cheek before getting up and heading towards the bathroom. "And if you are too, you can join me in the shower."
Max takes a look at your naked, retreating body. All soft, smooth curves, including the baby bump that makes itself apparent with each passing day. There's no question, he follows you into the bathroom where the shower is running with warm water.
The paddock feels like home. It's uncanny to be here without the day-to-day stress of racing.
You and Max arrive in separate cars to avoid arousing any suspicion. There's paparazzi and reporters everywhere, taking pictures of the racers' outfits and asking questions.
You answer a couple of questions, pleasing them before further walking into the paddock and away from them. Max waits for you in the Red Bull Hospitality, wanting to tell you something before you're off doing who knows what.
"Be careful, please. If you get tired, you can come back here and rest. If your feet hurt, get them to get you a chair and remember to eat."
"I know, Maxie. Don't worry, we've been over this so many times," you say, rolling your eyes playfully.
He shoots you a pointed look before grabbing your waist and pulling you to him. "Promise me." Max points at you.
You nod and smile, "I promise I'll take care of myself and the baby. Now you promise you'll be careful out there."
"I promise," he agrees, dipping his head to steal a kiss.
And so, your work begins. They set you up in one of the tents outside where the drivers linger before FP1. Seeing as it's the first race of the season, all you gotta do is make small talk and ask them about their goals this year.
Interviewing is easy when you've been on the other side. It helps you ask better questions, as you know what to look for and ask, having been a racer yourself.
"Hi Carlos, it's nice to see you!" You say into the mic as Carlos Sainz stands next to you.
"Hey, congratulations," he says, referring to the baby bump that's starting to show.
"Why, thank you! Congratulations to you, too. I was thrilled when I heard the news that you would be taking my seat this year. I couldn't have thought of anyone better."
"Ah, thank you," Carlos smiles as a blush overtakes his cheeks, "It's an honor that they thought about me and they think I'll do a good enough job to take over while you're away."
"You'll be fantastic. How does the car feel this year? I know they made tons of changes," you continue in the interview.
The drivers come and go from your station as they switch with other interviewers and promo they have to film. Some interviews are shorter than others, and there are some that you know the fans will love. Max is one of the last to come through, taking the mic from Lando, with whom you had been giggling incessantly.
"Hello Max, Four Time World Champion, how was your winter break?"
"Wow, you brought out the whole title," Max gives a breathy laugh, raising his eyebrows at you.
"Now that I'm not competing, I can say it without problem," you cheekily respond, looking down at your cue cards before continuing with the interview. "So, how are you? Did you have any fun during break?"
Going back into work mode, Max holds the microphone nodding along, "Yeah, I'm doing good, had a calm Winter Break to recharge. Looking forward to the start of the season, the team has worked hard to make the appropriate adjustments to the car."
"Towards the end of last season, the McLarens showed that they are becoming more competitive and are in the run to take both championships home. Do you think Red Bull is prepared?"
"Nothing can be predicted in this sport. I have faith that my team will work their hardest so we can take the championship home."
"Wise words, Max," you smile, having finished with the questions written for you. They are stupid half of the time, but it's your job now to be the annoying reporter. "Anything else you'd like to say?"
"Um, well, just that I'm bummed you're not racing. You're always fun to race against." Max smiles at you cheekily.
"Aw, Max." Placing your hand on your chest, you act touched, "I'll be back eventually, so you can hand me that trophy properly."
Max rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to bite back when Charles claps his back and holds his shoulders, "Max, stop hogging her." He takes the mic from him so he can be interviewed, "It's my turn."
f1 posted a youtube video: The Princess interviews the Grid
thumbnail 📸: Cut out of you laughing with a mic in hand with a cutout of a blocked out driver.
user1: did i plan on watching this season without her? no. am i watching now that i know she’s doing all this? absolutely ✅
user2: look at the baby bump omg! i’m so happy for her, she’s glowing
-> user15: her husband got her good, that’s definitely a baby🤰
user3: can we acknowledge lewis looking after her and asking for a chair so she could sit 😮💨 sexy man right there
-> user4: 💪they might not be on the same team anymore but that bond will never be broken
user4: not charles interrupting her and max and taking over the interview
-> user5: typical charles cutting a cute moment short. he’s so jealous of his work wife talking to his boyfriend 🤭
user6: what about yuki looking shocked at the baby bump. did no one tell him?
-> user7: ikr, does he not use social media or watch the news? it’s everywhere
user8: max was looking at her with hearts in his eyes, he was so gentle when he hugged her
-> user9: stop shipping them together omg. they are not together. she is married. look at that bling. 💍💎
-> user10: leave them alone, if they want to ship let them be. it’s not hurting anybody.
-> user11: neither her nor max have said anything about the shipping if anything they laugh about it.
-> user17: that might as well be his child (wishful thinking)
user12: not max saying that he’s upset she’s not racing 😭😭
-> user13: okay but serious talk, did she lowkey tell him she wants him to win again so she can beat him once she’s back
-> user14: i was thinking the same thing! and she winked at him!
user22: let’s all appreciate how supportive she is of carlos
-> user25: that’s the thing about her she’s always been on carlos side when it comes to ferrari, rumors say she was the one to recommend him when they were picking reserve drivers
user81: not liam acting all shy around her. he's so got a crush on her 😂
-> user15: i swear i saw max glaring at him from afar. i will die on this hill
-> user57: oh come on, it's not like liam was flirting, he was just being a fanboy
->user81: tell max, not me 💀
Shanghai, China | March 2025
"Hello, everybody! We're here in Shanghai for the Chinese Grand Prix, and today I'll be searching for the drivers to play a little game of Never Have I Ever," you say into the camera. Your expression is more than enough to let the viewers know you aren't up to any good.
Typically, Formula One had different people handling various interviews and games with the drivers. By adding you to the mix, they gave you some freedom to participate in interviews, games, and other activities, as the fans love and want to see you interact with the others.
The fact that you know so much about the drivers personally helps them promote the season, as more and more people subscribe and follow their social media.
Today, they decided to try something new and play a game live.
You don't have to go far until you find your old teammate Lewis Hamilton. "Hey Lewis, up for a game of Never Have I Ever?"
Lewis looks like a deer caught in headlights. He looks at you first and then at the recording camera behind you. There's nothing he wants less. He knows you can be ruthless with your games when you put your mind to it. It makes him wonder if one of these days. "Oh, sure."
The cameraman gives you the thumbs up, and you hand Lewis the double-sided paddle. "Ready, Lewis?"
"Not really," he shakes his head with a poor excuse of a smile.
"Never Have I Ever, pressed on the gas instead of the brakes," you say with a glint in your eyes.
"Oh my god, you menace," he sighs, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
As you walk around the paddock, you talk with the viewers and greet all sorts of people visiting for the Grand Prix. You stop for a water break and grab the phone the company provided to read the live comments.
"A lot of people are asking for Max, Charles, and Carlos. I'll try to find them, their hospitality is in the back, so it's probably why we haven't stumbled upon them."
"Do I miss racing? Yes and no. Racing is part of my life, and I absolutely miss it, but I don't miss the intense training."
"Who is your husband? All I can tell you is that he's really hot and sexy." You look at the camera and tuck your hair behind your ear, giving them a mischievous glance before continuing your questions.
"Will you return to Ferrari after maternity leave? Who says I'm coming back to racing so soon?"
"Look behind me?" You turn to look behind you and find Max walking towards you. "Hello Max Verstappen. I'm on live playing Never Have I Ever, care to join us?" You pat the chair next to you, extending your hand so that the microphone is right in front of his face. You mostly did the dramatic entrance to let him know you're filming.
"Yeah, I was watching and felt left out," he says, sitting back with a Red Bull in hand. "Want a snack?"
In Max's hands are your favorite crackers and your current craving. He had no intentions of participating; he just wanted to make sure you were getting a snack. Sneaky.
"Is this bribery so I don't ask you anything embarrassing?" You ask, but grab the crackers to munch on.
"I have nothing to hide," Max leans back cockily, making you raise an eyebrow. This is not the behavior you need right now. The world can't see you hot and bothered.
"Very well," you sniff, handing him the paddle. Starting off tame, you ask him some of the questions you asked the others. Nothing crazy.
Max participates in answering and giving short explanations. Eventually, you're both in a fit of giggles as both recreate the weird sounds Daniel used to make.
"Okay, okay, never have I ever peed while on the car," you ask, raising an eyebrow in question while pursing your lips. You've had some of the others admit to it.
On your lap is the phone where thousands of comments are being submitted. The fans are living for this interaction.
"Only once or twice. It was during practice, and I was on a good run. I wanted to test the tyres myself and see the limits I could take before I had to change them. Getting out of the car meant the tyres would cool, so it was out of the question…" Max shrugs exaggeratedly at the end, implying where the story finishes.
You scrunch up your face in fake disgust, "Ew, that's nasty. I can't believe the gall of some drivers for doing that."
"You've done it too, haven't you?" He asks, holding back his laugh.
"Oh, yeah. Happened once," you say deadpan before both burst out laughing.
"I fucking knew it," Max cackles.
You try speaking through the tears in your eyes, and your stomach hurts from laughing so much. "I really, really had to go. It was during one of my first F1 races, and they told me it was going to be really hot, so I needed to hydrate, so I drank a lot of water."
Max almost dies in laughter, leaning forward, he nearly falls from the chair. "I never expected that from you-"
"I was supposed to take that secret to the grave," you calm down, cleaning your tears and looking to see if you ruined your mascara.
"I'm gonna go now and look for the Ferraris," you sigh, not looking at Max, knowing you'll laugh again. "You're terrible, Max."
The cameraman follows you out of the shade where you were lounging. Out of habit, Max says something you hope the microphone didn't catch. "See you later, schatje."
f1fanedits has posted a new tiktok:
The eyes, Chico, they never lie...
description: video of max taken from one of your interviews. you're interviewing alex albon about scoring points and he's in the back staring longingly and absolutely in love. the video is zoomed in as the song margaret by lana del rey ft the bleachers play.
comments:
user67: i swear he didn't let her out of his sight. if she was in direct eyesight he was looking, and if she wasn't he'd actively look for her
-> user56: don't be delusional he was probably just waiting for his turn to interview
-> user109: yeah cause he loves her @/user56 🙄😜
user505: fan girls are so fucking annoying. they are ruining the sport 🤬
-> user444: i’d say kindly fuck off but no just piss off! no one’s forcing you to watch 🖕🏼
->user476: i bet this is the type of guy who hates that the princess is an excellent driver
->user3: how are we ruining the sport? by making it more appealing and fun? 💁♀️
user456: she caught him staring once and the man BLUSHED and looked away! i promise you he wrote an entry in his diary 🫠
-> user098: charles will also be writing about betrayal
user81: her husband better know how to fight 🤺
user1: alex felt max's presence behind him, poor boy forgot they are not in cars and panicked
-> user55: he'll need therapy
-> user876: lily will never stop hearing about this
user98: do you think they just stage this sometimes knowing fans will go crazy with edits? 🤔
->user123: other artists? probably, but max? he would never subject himself to publicity stunts like that, especially if she's married to someone else
user67: umm, did anyone notice it's been weeks since she's worn her wedding ring?
->user00: are you saying what i think you're saying?
->user67: divorce babe divorce
->user33: i swear i love the princess and only want the best for her but why did that actually make me excited 🤐
->user77: maybe we're not that delusional...
Saudi Arabia | April 2025
His hair is soft between your fingers, but his tongue is even softer. Max slides his tongue against yours, his hips pinning you to the bed as he hikes your leg to wrap around him.
He's grinding down on your center, prompting moans and groans to erupt from your throat. This was meant to be a kiss goodbye, a see you later if you will. Except, you were looking so beautiful sitting in bed, legs tucked under you as you stretched up to ask for a kiss.
Once his lips pressed on yours, he found himself unable to stop. Despite your initial hesitancy because you had to get ready for work, you ended up caving in.
Max is delicious. He tastes good, smells fantastic, his body is toned from hours of hard training, and he is warm and inviting. You are addicted to his very being, to pull away from him would be like undergoing withdrawal.
Neither of you should let this escalate, or else you'll be late to the paddock. Yet you couldn't resist pulling him closer, tugging on his blonde hair, and squeezing his back and arms to feel the firm muscle covering his pale skin.
His touch leaves a blazing fire on your skin as he slides his hand under your shirt, raking up the sides with his nails just enough to earn a reaction.
You whine against his lips and arch your back. Not that it matters, as he continues to chase after another kiss. Wet lips finding your cheeks and neck.
"I could do this forever." His groan is near orgasmic. Max's pace slows, allowing you to breathe and find clarity for a millisecond.
Max is not exaggerating. Making out with you is one of his favorite things ever. He recalls all those moments in hotel rooms and hidden corners in the paddock where he's had you pressed against him, flushed and begging for more, knowing it's not possible.
It's the way you melt into his touch, not necessarily submitting to him but giving Max your all.
"I have to go to work," you breathe heavily, too aware of his sneaky hand nearing your chest or how he presses his hips harder on you. The material of his jeans scratches your bare thighs.
"Quit, I'll provide for us."
You don't have the bandwidth to figure out if he's joking or not because, quite frankly, there's not a drop of humor in his voice.
A giggle erupts from your lips when his fingers tickle your sides. Now that the intensity of your make-out session has lessened, you're more sensitive to tickling. "It's not about providing, it's about boredom."
That certainly caught Max's attention. "So you're bored of me, is that what it is?"
Laughing at his incredulous expression, you grab his face in your hands and kiss all over it. "I'll never be bored of you, my love. We do have to go, you can't provide without a job."
"I can't leave like this, schatje," Max says, taking your hand and guiding it to his cock that strains against the stiff fabric. The tightness of his jeans doesn't help the situation, keeping him on edge.
"You need help?" You ask softly, fiddling with the button of his jeans. Hooking a finger on the band, you tug on it playfully.
Max nods as he is short of air, watching you bite your swollen lip. Your cheeks flushed with arousal, and your hair messy. He loves this view of you, disheveled and under him. He doesn't realize he's mirroring you. Messy hair, swollen lips, flushed complexion.
You lift your head from the bed until your lips brush against his, "Win today's race. Get P1 and I'll help you all night long, Maxie."
With one last chaste kiss, you pull away. You flutter your eyelashes at Max and softly push him away until he drops himself on the bed next to you. "You're the worst."
"I have to get dressed. You have to go, I'm sure they're waiting for you to debrief."
Max groans and sighs, squeezing himself through his jeans to calm his situation. You catch the action and gasp, almost losing your bearings.
He closes his eyes to think about anything else. Not your beautiful face. Not your naked body tangled with his. Not the way your cunt tastes. Not the way you moan his name.
You're a fucking tease. He could rub one out and come quickly while you're in the bathroom. It's tempting, but he's intrigued by your offer. It'll give him an edge on the race. Enough to overtake Oscar in the McLaren.
When you walk out of the bedroom, dressed and ready to go, Max is gone. You sit on the bed to put on your shoes when a notification comes through.
f1_news: Lewis Hamilton signs with Ferrari for the 2026 season.
"What the fuck?" You say out loud as you read through the article.
Ferrari, your supposed team, didn't fucking think to let you know they'd be dropping you next season. Yes, your situation is uncertain, but it doesn't take away from the fact that they didn't tell you. Lewis, your former teammate, who you are close to, didn't tell you.
You don't question Charles' stance within the team; he's the predestined one. Ferrari won't give up that brand.
What about Carlos? He was performing at the same level as Charles, maybe better.
For a moment, you're glad you're not part of the grid. No one can force you to answer questions about this apparent betrayal.
Grabbing your pass, you head down to the lobby where your driver waits for you.
They shouldn't have dropped the news today. There was a special segment today, and they've ruined it for you.
The reporters swarm around you when you arrive. They shoot question after question, buzzing to be the ones to get a reaction out of you.
You don't speak, but a picture says a million words. You're furious and upset. The only reason you're not crying is because your hormones have decided anger is the way to go.
Your phone buzzes, and the contact 'Lovie' lights up the screen. It's just Max messaging you to ask if you saw the news. Your response is short and to the point. You'll talk to him later.
In the dressing room assigned to you, your Ferrari uniform hangs, prepped and steamed for today's set of interviews. Not only would you be conducting your regular interviews, but you'll also be interviewing the men who have been F1 drivers in the past, sort of like a homage to reminisce on the old days.
It was supposed to be fun to dress up in your uniform. Other past Formula 1 drivers who work in the paddock would be doing the same. Now it's a sick joke, you'll have to suck it up.
Your skin crawls as you wear your fireproofs and step into the overalls. You keep the zipper open since your showing belly doesn't allow you to close it without being uncomfortable.
Walking out to the area designated for the media, you avoid anything and everyone, especially Ferrari. They owe you explanations you don't want to listen to at the moment.
The cameraman has set up and is ready to film. He hands you the microphones with the F1 logo as the first person scheduled steps in.
You try to act normal. Keyword: try. Everyone knows, though, it's in the set of your eyebrows or how you don't try to laugh when something's not really funny. It's the way your smile doesn't reach your eyes.
"Hey," Carlos says, approaching you when you take your break. You're sitting in the corner, Coke Zero in hand and two packets of cookies on the table. You would've chosen regular Coke, but you had to watch your sugar intake. "Can we talk?"
"Sure," you mutter, leaning back on the chair. "Want to start with the fact we both got fired?"
Carlos groans and falls on one of the chairs. He leans his head back and rakes his fingers through his hair. He's dressed in Ferrari gear, the same as you. "Technically, you did."
You laugh half heartedly because it's true. Carlos was always meant to be a placeholder for you. He's the reserve driver. "Did you know?"
"No, I had no idea," he shakes his head, stealing a cookie from you. "Fred told me this morning when I got to the paddock. I'm sorry this happened."
"It's not your fault, Carlos. I don't blame anyone. This is how Formula 1 is. What I'm upset about is how neither Vasser nor Lewis had the decency to tell me about the change. I had to learn from a news outlet. It's humiliating." Angry tears burn your eyes, but you hold them back.
Carlos shuffles closer and hugs you, rubbing your back comfortingly. "Everyone knows they're the ones who will look bad about firing you."
Ferrari just fired one of their best drivers while she's on maternity leave. Not a good look for the brand.
"Will you still be the reserve driver next year?" You ask him, pulling away from the hug.
"He wants me to stay as the reserve driver, but if another team is willing to sign me…" If another team signs him, he'll leave Ferrari. Being a reserve driver isn't exactly fun or exciting. You're just a backup.
"To think I almost won them the Championship last year," you sigh, crumpling the wrapper of your cookies. Crumbs left on the table.
"I don't think it would've made much of a difference," Carlos responds honestly.
You're not Lewis Hamilton. You're you. You've won podiums but not any Championships. You're a fantastic driver, but not a legend quite yet.
"Let's go to dinner tonight. My treat since you'll be unemployed next year," Carlos jokes with a grin to cheer you up.
"Be ready to splurge," you say, wiggling your eyebrows. "Lucky I can't drink or I would've ordered the most expensive wine bottle."
"Last time we did that, it tasted like dirt."
Halfway through the day, you walk around the paddock to pass the time. Max is approaching from the opposite direction and does a double-take. He had no idea about the uniform.
He catches himself as his mouth parts in genuine surprise and awe. As a racer, he's always loved being able to see you in proper F1 attire. Out of the whole grid, you wore it best, and this time around, it is no exception.
The top part of the overalls is around your waist. You got warm during your interviews; it was the natural way to go. The fireproofs taught around your round belly almost made him go feral.
You topped it all off with two plaits hanging over your chest. His eyes naturally trail down to stare at the roundness of your boobs.
"Sorry, man," Max apologizes when he shoulders a team member walking close to him. He's completely distracted by the smile you shoot him.
Standing in front of you, he looks around for any reporters, finding none. He then says, "You look fucking hot."
"Why thank you, handsome," you shrug, batting your eyelashes at him.
"If we weren't in public, I'd be bending you over and…"
"Mate, she's already pregnant, give her a break!" Lando pats him on the shoulder humorously. Max glares at him before rolling his eyes and shrugging his hand off his shoulder.
"Why do you always have to interrupt?"
"It's my job to keep you guys a secret," Lando smiles proudly, wrapping each arm around your shoulders. "You sure you're supposed to be wearing that, Princess? I heard you got fired."
You're about to punch Lando on the side when you scrunch up your face and stop all movements. Lando braces for impact and closes his eyes when he doesn't feel anything. He peeks an eye open to find you smiling. "Why are you smiling?"
"The baby kicked," you beam at the two men, placing your hand where you felt the kick.
The baby has been doing that a lot recently; it's reassuring. It helps ease the worries that keep you up at night. You've caught Max with his hand on your belly at night, feeling the baby move while you sleep. He's not as vocal about his fear of losing another baby, you have enough of that.
"He what?" Lando blanches, taking a step back as if you're diseased.
"Here feel!" You grab Lando's hand and force it where the baby has been kicking.
"What the actual fuck?" Lando widens his eyes comically. "That thing is moving inside you."
Max rolls his eyes and offers his hand to you. He's being discreet about touching you in public. "Wow, Lando, you have a way with words?"
"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" Lando asks, entertained by the baby growing inside of you.
"Not yet, it'll be a surprise," you shake your head.
Max agreed that keeping it a surprise until the baby was born was a better idea. He doesn't have a preference for the baby's gender. As long as it's born healthy, he's happy.
"The media is going to have a field day with us here," Lando says as he waves at the cameras with a big, open-mouthed smile.
instagram: racer_princess has posted a picture
racer_princess dinner with my favorite ferrari boy ❤️ here's to being unemployed and shitty wine (as per carlos)
comments:
@/carlossainz55: dinner with you is always fun, looking forward to next time! racer_princess has liked this post
user55: have we been bamboozled?
-> user007: should we have been worried about carlos this whole time?
->user66: i mean...it kind of tracks?
user77: love this so much!! 😭
user98: have we been fools? all this time max was a simple decoy?! 😵💫
->user99: nah, i still thinks its just max and this is a simple friendship forged through hardship
->user1: talk about poetic
user81: okay hold up, she is going through a divorce and dating carlos? i disappeared for a couple weeks and now i'm lost 😅
-> user44: haha no, there's rumors that she's getting a divorce cause she's not using her ring. and this i'm guessing is a friendly dinner to bitch about ferrari being sucky to them
user65: you know what? hell yeah, let him raise the child as his own! ✊
->user43: facts. princess is a catch pregnant or not racer_princess has liked this post
->user43: wait, is this confirmation?
->user81: don't leave princess!!! 🛑tell us!!!
@/lando: an invite would've been nice 🙂
->@/racer_princess: we were trauma dumping leave us alone
user25: honestly they should be teammates next season
->user00: yeah carlos needs to be appreciated more than ferrari does
->user22: they'd be a menace
->user11: their team could be called microsoft menaces
->@/racer_princess: Princess Chili Micro Menaces TM, i like it
-> userABC: charles must be gagged with this
user777: ferrari fumbled the both of you, they will live to regret it. mark my words ✍️
Monaco | May 2025
You sit on the balcony, sipping tea early in the morning. You're back home for a couple of weeks for the Monaco race. You haven't been around the paddock much, taking the time to reorganize the nursery since you already had most of the things you needed.
It felt surreal to walk back into the room. Some of the furniture and decorations are still in the bags they were purchased in long ago. Neither you or Max went into the room much, it used to bring so much pain, but slowly it's been filled with hope and joy.
Max slides the glass door open, and the wind is quick to ruffle his hair. He's been letting it grow longer, and you're not complaining. It's the way it stands in all directions when he's finished racing that has you going feral. You could jump his bones right where he stands.
Max sits next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and kissing your temple. You cuddle up against him, watching the sunrise and feeling his steady breathing.
"I got something for you," Max says, catching your attention.
You pick up your head from his chest and look down at his hand, where a black velvet box is clutched in his fingers. "Oh?"
"I know you stopped wearing your wedding and engagement ring because your hands are swelling, so I got you another one."
Max opens the box to reveal a gorgeous ring with a gold band and a big marquise diamond. It's a simple design but stunning nonetheless. There's a second band with sapphires encrusted in the gold. Max's birthstone, to match the necklace.
"Hope it fits," you nervously mention as Max takes the rings out of the box and slips them onto your finger. The pale band around your finger has been fading since you can't wear your old jewelry. You sigh in relief when the ring fits. Max brings up your hand to kiss the back of it, smiling because of how happy his gift made you.
"Be honest…did you get me a new one because people were shipping me with Carlos?"
"Please, the fans have shipped you with the whole grid already. Just yesterday, there were edits of you and Nico floating around," Max tells you, kissing your cheek. He hovers over your ear and whispers, "I do, however, don't like the fact people are speculating you've gotten divorced."
"I'm never getting rid of you," you tell him, gripping his chin, "Not only am I pregnant with your child, but I love you too much to let you go."
"As it should be."
instagram: racer_princess has posted a picture
racer_princess yes, i am in fact, married still... 👰♀️ and i'd marry him again
comments:
@/lilymhe: let's go on a double date again!
-> @/racer_princess: i will free up my agenda for you lily! we can go on our own, leave the men to fend for themselves! 💃
-> @/lilymhe: see you soon, lovely! 🤍
-> user333: i can see how instagram can be considered social now...where can i get friends like her and lily ?
-> user626: so what you're saying is everyone in the paddock knows who he is...and no one has slipped? 🤔💭
-> userTM: i sincerely believe some people must've been paid off. there's no possible way none of them haven't babbled to the wrong person.
-> @/racer_princess: whoever babbles has to pay for the NDA 💗
user121: my god that ring is huge! 👀 is he compensating for something else?
->user77: it's bigger than her older one, where can i get a man like that?
->user5: maybe it's a push present?
@/yukitsunoda0511: wait you're getting married again?
->user89: how is he always confused when it comes to social media lol? 🤣
-> @/racer_princess: no baby, just got a new ring because the old one was too tight
@/charles_leclerc: is your hand heavy?
->user44: why do i have a feeling you'd know?
->user00: don't act all nonchalant charles, we know it's you 😄
->user098: can't be him...he wouldn't have let them replace her in ferrari. if he was my husband i'd divorce him
->userAB: it's not like he owns the team, maybe the ring is his apology 🤷
-> PrincessChili: that's something someone who wants to hold your hand would say
userM.A.X: max has been awfully quiet, no?
f1edits has posted a new tiktok:
she could have them all if she wanted. Everyone bow down to the princess 👸
description: a compilation of pictures of you and the drivers (including toto wolff) from the grid while ‘i like him by princess nokia plays.’
comments:
1user: oh to be her in the grid constantly surrounded by hot sexy men 🤤 she’s living the dream
-> usersos: i wouldn’t get any work done, it’s why im not there
-> user101: it only works for her cause she’s so confident and sure of herself. she’s worked hard to be there ain’t no man taking her down
userpt: i love how delusional we are. we truly can ship her with anyone
-> user1: anyone except her husband which we know nothing about
-> user2: we know he’s loaded…her wedding rings are huge and real and expensive and he either spoils her to keep her happy or truly loves her
->lalauser: *nods* uhum uhum probably both. i dont think she’d stay if he didn’t treat her right
user<3: how many of them do you think she’s kissed in celebratory nights?
-> userusa: my theory is at least three of them: max, charles, lewis
-> useruk: is it insane of me to say max, charles and toto?
-> userusa: yes but i respect the level of crazy
Barcelona, Spain | June 2025
The air chills your skin as you wander around the paddock. You're waiting for Max to be done so you can return to the hotel room for the night and order room service.
You could have gone back hours ago, but you decided to stay and work on interview material and socialize with the teams.
Fred Vasser finally had a conversation with you about his decision to bring Lewis into Ferrari to give him a shot at winning another Championship. You didn't have much to say; what's done is done.
It's not like you haven't been the closest racer in years to give Ferrari a Championship. This is more than just having Lewis on board, it's the uncertainty of your return.
Lewis apologized as well. He failed to realize they would announce it immediately; otherwise, he would have told you during the negotiations.
A windy breeze has you tugging your jacket close. You bring both edges together to zip it up, but you're unsuccessful. Your pregnant belly doesn't let you see properly, and the hook keeps getting stuck.
After a minute of intense attempts, you give up, still cold and out of breath from seemingly nothing. The first two trimesters were good to you, the third not so much.
You can't seem to get comfortable to sleep, your feet are dramatically swollen, you're out of breath, and you're constantly having to pee.
Not to mention, Max has to help you put on your shoes. It’s lowkey embarrassing. He likes doing it, and he's willing to help you in whichever way you need. It's the least he can do. It’s his fault you’re this way.
It's annoying, but you'd rather go through all the discomfort to have the experience of carrying a child and giving birth.
Giving up, you continue to roam, taking pictures with a few fans that still linger, hoping to catch sight of the drivers or famous guests. You're on your phone, walking without seeing where you're going, when you bump into someone. Looking up, Max holds your shoulders to keep you steady.
"Hey," you smile at him.
"Hey," Max responds similarly, holding back the urge to kiss your cheek. After years of being in a secret relationship, he's not used to these recurring urges, catching himself in the act before he goes for it.
You shiver when another breeze ruffles your hair. Max looks disapprovingly at you but gets closer to hold both ends of your jacket to line the zipper and pull it up. He brushes invisible lint from your shoulders and pats your head.
That's as much affection he's willing to show in public. He hates that he can't show the world how much he loves you, but at the same time, he loves being able to show you every day and every moment you two are alone.
It makes every touch, every kiss, every hug so much more special. He never takes it for granted.
"My hero," you say, rocking on your heels.
"Ready to go home, schatje?"
He's done with media, cars, and strategy. Max wants to go to the hotel and just be with you. Order food and eat in bed even if you lowkey hate it. Listen to you rant about 'New Girl' and how Jess should've ended up with the British guy you never remember the name of.
"There's a steak I've been eying on the menu," you say as you walk side by side to the private parking lot.
"Whatever you want…" Max says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and kissing your temple.
He's not always successful. Especially not when you're acting cute and cuddly with him.
F1_news tweeted: enemies, friends, lovers, rivals? we don't know, what we do know is that red bull's driver Max Verstappen was seen leaving the paddock with the paddock's Princess last night.
comments:
101user: oh, wow, a coworker giving a ride to the opposite sex coworker, riveting 🙄
user45: idk guys, it's one thing for us fans to speculate but f1? 🧐suspicious
-> user98: how suspicious of max to give his pregnant friend a ride. come on guys, this is nothing. he's being a decent guy 🤷♀️
->user007: or we've been right this whole time and they are together 🤩
->user66: or it's all a publicity stunt
f1fanatic: has somebody investigated if they always stay in the same hotel?
secretf1: my editing program is loading
mclarenbabe: i’ll be waiting. i’m subscribed and sat 🤓
redbullprincess: now kith
Quebec, Canada | June 2025
It’s race day, and you’re tired, grumpy, and warm. The hand fan does nothing to cool you down or tone down your irritation.
With free time on your hands, you head down to the Red Bull hospitality to catch Max before the race starts. You knock on his door before entering and find him getting dressed. Max is only in his underwear, and you wish you were in the same state of undress.
“Hey baby,” you say, approaching him and getting on your tippy toes to kiss him.
Max grabs your waist, pulling you to him. It’s a brief kiss, but it doesn’t fail to make the butterflies in your stomach flutter like crazy.
He rubs your tummy as he kisses all over your face, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m tired and the heat doesn’t help,” you sigh, plopping down on the couch while he finishes getting dressed.
First his socks, then the fireproofs, then the overalls, which he leaves hanging on his hips. Max sits next to you, and you take the opportunity to brush his hair with your fingers.
He hasn’t cut it since you told him you liked that he was growing it out. The pictures after the races do not disappoint. You smile and scratch at his stubble.
Max sighs and leans into your touch, pressing his lips to your palm. “Go back to the hotel. It’s supposed to rain. I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll power through it and come back here if it rains.”
Max sighs, not wanting to say what he has to say. You’ll get upset, and he knows it. “You should get back to the hotel. Please. It’s not good to tire yourself out.”
You scoff lightly to diffuse the mood, “I’m okay, Max. Don’t worry, I’m not a doll that needs to be behind a glass case,”
“You’re not a doll. You’re pregnant and you’ve been overworking yourself. Go to the hotel, order food, get a massage, and rest. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” You stay quiet. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m scared,” you hesitantly admit.
“Of what?”
“I-I don’t know. I start to overthink and get overwhelmed. We’ve come this far, and I’m afraid if I stand too still, it’ll all go away,” you refer to two years ago, when you took a break from racing and stayed too long at the house. Hoping. Grieving.
Max hugs you tight, and you hold just as tightly, smelling the detergent on his uniform.
“You know what happened was out of your control. Whether you had been resting or working hard, it would’ve happened; this is different. You’re nearly there and you’ll need the rest for when the time comes, right?” He asks just as the baby kicks. “They agree,”
“If you really don’t want to go to the hotel, then stay here. There’s food and snacks, and you can watch on the TV. Put your feet up, take a nap if you want.”
“You’re the best, Maxie.”
“I’m my best because I get to love you,” he says, cupping your cheek.
You sniff and nod, lightly pushing, “Go get them, tiger, I’ll be rooting for you.”
When Max finishes the race and heads to his driver's room, you’re gone, having left a note that you’re back at the hotel.
When he enters the room, you’re dead asleep. Large t-shirt and messy hair included. The sheen covering your skin proves that you took him up on the massage option.
Max changes, having showered in the paddock, and gets into bed with you. You’re facing him, soft breaths coming from your lips. He kisses your cheek and feels the baby kick.
“You’re almost here, just a couple more weeks. Be good to your mom, yeah?”
“Be good to your wife and cuddle me,” you murmur, shuffling closer, knowing well you’ll push him away at night cause you’re hot.
Monaco | July 2025
The time finally came for you to stay at home with no travel as your third trimester draws to an end. With that also comes the time for a baby shower!
Max helped you plan a lovely celebration on a rooftop with a view of the sea. Initially, you wanted it to be on a yacht, where it's more private, but recently you've been getting progressively seasick — and car sick.
It's been kept a secret from all forms of media, and the guests know better than to utter a word about your baby shower.
In your Monaco home, you get ready for the day, showering, applying body oils, doing your own hair and makeup. It's meant to be a family celebration, not an A-list event.
Max stands by the door watching you with adoring eyes. For once, he's not wearing any Red Bull gear, just a nice pair of trousers and a loose button-up to fit the beach vibe you were going for.
The satin robe that threatens to fall down your left arm catches his attention. He approaches you, leaning down to where you sit to kiss your naked shoulder before he fixes the robe. "You look beautiful."
You smile and shake your head, continuing to curl your hair, half of which is pinned up to set the curls. "I'm almost done here, but I'll need your help to zip up the dress and-"
"-put on your shoes, I know schatje," he says, burying his head in your neck, being careful of the pins in your hair. He takes in the smell of your perfume as addictive as the first time he smelled it.
"If I could do it myself without it being so hard, I would," you say with a pout, reaching over to him to scratch his jaw. He loves when you do that.
"Never think it's a burden on me," Max levels with you, his blue eyes finding yours in the mirror. "I want to help you in every way I can. If you want me to tuck you in at night and sing you a lullaby, I will."
"Okay," you whisper, biting your lip.
Max kisses your cheek, disappearing into another room, probably to spend time with the cats while you finish with your hair, because if he keeps staring, you'll be late to the baby shower.
Later, you call for Max, standing from the vanity to grab your dress from where it hangs. It's a pretty pink nude dress that keeps the color palette soft and neutral. Max grabs it from your hands, unzipping the back, and then kneels on the floor to get it over your legs. You hold onto his shoulders for support.
You put your arms through the sleeves and hold them to your chest as Max comes behind you to zip it. He does it easily, but not before leaving wet kisses along your spine that make you shiver. "Max," you warn him.
"Sorry, sorry," he laughs breathily in your ear.
"We know you're really not," you huff with a disapproving smile.
"I'm not." He smoothly hugs you from behind, cupping his hands under your belly to help you with the weight. You let out a shaky sigh of relief. Your lower back has been killing you for the last two weeks.
"Thank you."
He saw it online while searching for ways to support you throughout your pregnancy. Somehow, he always knows when you need it most. To him, it's obvious, it's in the way you tensely walk and think twice before picking something up that isn't within arm's reach. You're too stubborn to ask for help, so he's resorted to watching every move you make.
"Alright, let's get this party started," you exclaim two minutes later. Excited to celebrate the arrival of your baby.
Max drives you to the baby shower in one of the few expensive SUVs he owns, prioritizing your comfort and the possibility of you giving birth at any given moment.
There are multiple baby bags across the house and in the cars.
The rooftop is beautifully decorated with neutral colors, including browns, soft pinks, and baby blues. The theme is beachy, featuring surfboards, palm trees, and sand. The photographer you hired is ready to take couples and solo pictures as guests start trickling in.
The whole grid has been invited along with their families. Most are able to make it to the special occasion. Max's family and yours also traveled to be there.
Other team members from Red Bull, Mercedes, and Ferrari have been invited. You spend so much time with them while working that they inevitably become family.
Toto and Susie Wolff come with armfuls of gifts, ready to spoil you. Toto always supported your choice of joining Ferrari because even if they haven't won a Championship in a while, they are a legacy team. To say you've driven for Ferrari is an honor, and he still had Lewis at the time.
Games are played, food is eaten, drinks are served, and a good time is spent. Lando, above all, parties till he drops. Unsurprisingly, because Daniel enables him. No one will forget that George is the fastest to drink from the baby bottle, Lance is the one who has your exact measurement, and Lily is the one who comes closest to getting the exact number of mini rubber ducks in the glass jar.
Towards the later part of the celebration, you sit on Max's lap, shoes off and curls nonexistent. His hand is rubbing your thigh as he laughs with Daniel, a bottle of Alcohol Free Heineken in hand. He chose not to drink during your pregnancy.
When the song 'Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!' by ABBA starts playing, and you quite literally jump from Max's lap.
"Is there a man out there? Someone to hear my prayer?" You sing, pulling on Max's hand to get him to stand and follow you to the dance floor.
You dance with Max, his hands on your hips as you sway and jump to the music. Your hands gripping his shoulders as you sing to the catchy rhythm. Max twirls you and sways with you to the whole ABBA set that the DJ plays as per your request.
As the night comes to an end, the songs slow down. You sway in Max's arms to 'I Have A Dream', the Amanda Seyfried version you love so much. String lights cast a warm glow over you.
Max swears there are stars in your eyes. Your lips softly singing to the tune he's memorized ten times over. There's a smile on your face, your fingertips playing with the ends of his hair.
The fact is, the stars that reflect in your eyes are his as well. Everyone around the couple can see how in love they are. Max has never felt this way; his heart is swollen with so much emotion that it might burst. Your pregnant belly pressing against him brings him unimaginable joy.
He rests his head on top of yours, giving it a kiss. He closes his eyes to memorize everything about this moment. The bugs chirping in the background, the hum of the speakers, one of your hands on his back, the hair scratching his cheek, your voice singing to him.
leaky_f1 tweeted:
BREAKING: Max Verstappen and the Paddock Princess are secretly MARRIED—and expecting a baby! 💍🍼
Photos from a private baby shower held two days ago have been leaked 👀📸 A close source commented: “Everyone in the paddock knew… they just weren’t saying anything.”
description: one picture of you and max in front of the balloon arch, max's holding you from behind. a decorated sign propped up on an easel besides you 'Sea You Soon, Baby Verstappen' another picture after dinner of you cuddling on max's lap, the third a video of you and max slow dancing
comments:
@/Princess_Verstappen: 😤 a lot of people owe me apologies for making me think i was crazy
@/fast_furious: i TOLD ya but nooo he didn't call her a pet name you just heard wrong ✋
@/user2: this isn't right, its all fun to ship them together but i never wanted them to get leaked like this 😰😓
-> @/user1: it even feels wrong to read the article and look at the pictures, this is such an invasion of privacy
-> @/paddyp: i hope she's okay, this stress can't be good
@/4alliknow: lol he got her knocked up so he could win last years championship 😂
-> @/princessdefender: you're such a vile person, max is ruthless on track, not outside of it. he'd never do that
-> @/f1fu: reporting this comment cause wtf
@/princess-predestinado: congrats to max and princess *proceeds to have a meltdown because part of her personality has been trashed by reality* 🙃
@/recordscratch: i know knews like this are bad but props to them for keeping it secret for so long. yes, we had theories but for me it was always just fun and not serious 🙂↕️
-> @user4: yeah, haha, same here, all for fun 👀😅
@/sucks2bu: i bet he's the only reason she got this far 👎
tweet has been deleted
user has been suspended
Part 3 Coming Soon
The world now knows of your involvement with Max and the fact you've kept it secret for five years. Now, you must face the public but not before theories start to arise and Max gets hate. Your baby is coming but where is Max? Perhaps a podcast will be the perfect way to explain everything?
summary: after lando surprises your son for his birthday, you decide to surprise him by dressing up for silverstone, only this time, it's not spider-man: milo dresses up like lando himself.
wc: 7.6 k
warnings: none!
authors note: okay so the love 'the costume' has received has been wild?? y'all are fantastic
➤ MASTERLIST - part one
You wish orange were a more common colour for clothes. After all, it could be bright and colourful or muted and rusty, a nice warm tone to add to your everyday wardrobe.
It totally didn't have anything to do with the fact that you and Milo had nothing to wear to Lando's race next week.
Not remotely.
"You could dress like a car?" Milo says, running his hands along a display of dress pants, much to the disdain of the shopping attendant.
"We want to wear Lando's team colours, silly." Despite all the time you had spent with the driver, you had yet to have a real piece of McLaren merch, or Lando's, or anything even remotely F1 related. If Lando were currently in England, you fantasize about the idea that you could call him up and ask him to borrow something of his, a daydream of wearing something that he'd worn before.
It's the kind of thought that makes you blush in the middle of the store, the ridiculousness of it all getting to you. It's a childish thing, the sort of act a teen would blush over, but you couldn't help it. Lando had returned you to a youthful, bubbly sort of romance that you had thought you'd never get the chance to experience again. Well, you hope it's a romance, at least, and not just another doomed infatuation.
After all, it was hard to call something a romance when you hadn't seen the man in two weeks.
Lando hadn't been back to England since the birthday party, which was expected of someone like an F1 driver. A race in Austria, a movie premiere in New York. You, on the other hand, were a single mom halfway across the world. You had kissed him, sure, but that wasn't anything concrete. You knew how whirlwind romances could end, what those quick kisses could turn into.
The evidence of it was currently trying to sneak his way into a rack of coats. "Milo, I don't think we're finding anything in there." You hold out your hand, and he happily runs to grab it. "How about we try another store?"
"Won't Mr. Norris have things for us at the race?" He asks as you lead him out of the store, and it's a fair question. Lando certainly could surprise you with merch, but seeing as you have a week until the race, and that he's off travelling the world with far more important people, getting McLaren hats and shirts for you and Milo wouldn't be top of his list.
Well, perhaps not for you. After all, despite the connection you hoped to grow with the racer, it was obvious he already loved Milo. He'd come dressed as Spider-Man, got Milo gifts, babysat when he could, hell, he was paying for you to go to Silverstone!
Really, the fact that he kissed you almost takes a back burner to just how involved he is in Milo's life. So, who's to say he wouldn't be thoughtful enough to remember merch?
Then, just as soon as the thought arises, it leaves a strange feeling in your stomach. Lando was an unfathomably wealthy person, compared to your situation. How could you possibly want more?
Oh, you don't have something orange to wear to support him, so you need whatever ridiculously expensive merch he has?
You don't want him for his money, and more than anything, you don't want him to think you're ungrateful. Milo tugs at your hand, breaking you out of your thoughts, and he grins so wide that for a moment, you forget what you were thinking of entirely. "Mum, look!" He says, pointing to a charity shop. "A race suit!"
And, because maybe miracles do happen, or some parent was cleaning out their kids' clothes, there's an old Lightning-McQueen race suit costume slung over the back of a chair in the shop's display, with a five-pound note sticker attached to it.
All you need now, you think, is some black dye, some orange paint, and some white paint markers.
-
Lando makes it exactly three weeks before he cracks. Well, that's not exactly true. He sends you an Instagram reel on Wednesday night, questions about hotel preferences on Saturday morning, train times the following Tuesday.
However, he hadn't talked about the party, or the aftermath, or the fact that he kissed you at all, and it was sort of driving him mad. He was given a glimpse of the domestic life, of what his days could look like off the road and off the track, and it was eating him away inside.
How do you not fall in love like that?
Well, love might be a strong word, but Lando was feeling things for you he'd never felt this fully before, and he had no way of knowing if that was a pity kiss, or a kiss with no strings attached, or if maybe, just maybe, you did like him back, and Lando had to consider a lot of things about his future if you did.
However, none of that mattered right now, because Lando was slightly tipsy, and he just really, really wanted to see your face. FaceTime rings twice before you pick up, looking at him rather confused. "Lando? Everything alright?"
"M' perfect." He says, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, loosening the tie around his neck. "You?"
"I'm doing alright," You say with a laugh, and as Lando squints down at his phone, he realizes you have a streak of orange paint near your chin. "Busy getting ready for the race this weekend."
"Is that Mr. Norris?" Lando hears faintly, and he perks up instantly.
"Milo! Can I say hi?" You pause, glancing down to where he imagines Milo stands by you, and something stutters in his chest. Did he do something wrong?
Do you not want him to see Milo?
He fully well could've overstepped some boundaries, tucking you both in like that, reading, invading your personal space. It had felt right for Lando to have been part of that equation, but it didn't mean-"You can, but you're not allowed to say anything. It's a surprise."
"A surprise? For me?" With a slowly easing heart, you pass off the phone, and Lando laughs so hard he has to fall back on the bed.
Milo is just covered in orange paint. It's on his hands, smudged on his face, splattered on an old t-shirt he's wearing. It was very obviously a surprise for the race, probably a sign, he thinks, and he takes screenshots as he stares at Milo grinning at him. "Hello, Mr. Norris!"
"Hey, you muppet. Did you get into some paint?" Milo nods, turning to show him something, and your hand covers the camera. "Aw, come on!"
"It's a surprise, sweetheart." Lando knows you're talking to Milo, not him, but god, does the name do things to his insides. "You can't show him yet."
"Oh," Milo says, as his face returns to the camera. "Mum says you can't see."
"I'll just have to wait. You excited for the race?" Milo nods excitedly, once again trying to show the camera something, but your hand covers it once more as you laugh, an unexpected sound.
"Milo, what did I just say?"
"I was just going to show how excited I am! Here." Milo steps back from the camera, and he spreads his arms super wide. Rather than focusing on the cute moment, however, Lando's gaze drifts to the background of Milo's bedroom. His McLaren Lego car box is proudly on display, however, all the Spider-Man decor is not. Or, at least some things were missing from when he tucked Milo and you in. Not that he memorized the room, or anything, but simply that he'd been replaying that memory in his head so often, it felt like he knew what the decorations should be.
"Wow, that's pretty exciting." He says, tuning back into the conversation. When you flip the camera around to show yourself, you immediately catch the furrow in Lando's brow.
He's sure it's just from you being attentive to your own child's needs, but something is telling in the way that, just from looking at him, you know what he's thinking. "Everything alright?"
"Where's all the Spider-Man stuff?" It couldn't have been long enough that Milo had changed interests. Sure, kids go through different interests, but Lando had got Milo web shooters, he had posters on his walls, comic books on the shelves. Now, it was oddly bare, and Lando's immediate first thought, his first fear, is that you could be moving, and he refuses to allow it to take root in his brain.
You would have a nice and simple and not scary explanation. You had to. "He's going through a bit of a phase, right now." You explain, turning the camera back to Milo, who is still grinning up at you, gap-toothed and all. "Milo, who's your favourite hero?"
And there, Milo says the one sentence that makes Lando wonder if he should abandon everything to fly home early just for you, and more importantly, just for Milo: "Mr. Norris!"
"Me?" Lando squawks out, words caught in his throat. "But I'm not a hero."
"Well, you are in this house." You'd just shot him in the heart, he thinks. He can't imagine an appropriate response, just staring at Milo, who keeps grinning. In this house, which means Milo and you. Lando was his favourite hero now, for reasons even Lando didn't quite understand. Sure, he was a F1 star, a celebrity, but he wasn't anything important. He wasn't a hero, by any means, but with Milo staring at him like that? He just might believe it. "He wants to do another birthday party Lando-themed."
"Can Milo hear me right now?" You shake your head, and Lando dramatically throws an arm over his face, trying to cover his growing blush and crack a joke, because if he doesn't, he might cry. "So I dressed up for nothing?"
"Lando!" You're laughing in unison now, and he wishes, above anything, that it wasn't just over the phone. Seeing you in person might ease the ache in his heart or the anxiety growing in his head. Honestly, it could just make it all ten times worse, but all Lando can think is that you had to like him back. Even if there were concerns of how Milo might fit into the equation, or his racing career, or your own past, you had to.
He was a hero in your household, anyway.
Which meant he might be a hero to you, and really, Lando would give anything to be that knight in shining armour, whisking you away to experience the finer things in life, to give you and Milo the happiness you deserve.
He just sort of has to get off of Facetime and into your life to make it happen.
-
"Mum," Milo whispers up to you, "Why are they taking our picture?"
The cameras flash around you as you enter the Silverstone track, however, even as your heart rate picks up, and the fear sets in of what Lando's world means, you know exactly why the cameras are flashing: because a little Lando Norris just walked in, decked out in a little McLaren racesuit, made as accurately as you could. "Because they love your costume, sweetheart."
"I made it myself." Milo then says up to one of the photographers as you pass. "Mum helped."
"I'm sure mum helped a lot!" The woman says with a laugh, and you offer her a warm smile. You're sure, if people knew you were here at Lando's request, after he dressed up as Spider-Man for Milo's birthday, they'd be acting much differently.
But, for now, you're fairly invisible, able to walk through the paddock with Milo and enjoy the morning for what it is. Lando had told you to message him when you arrived, but had so far been MIA. It was qualifying today, so he was probably just swamped with media, or training, or getting ready to race, or more important people.
Milo, however, very obviously notices Lando's disappearance. "Where's Mr. Norris?"
"I'm sure he's getting ready," You say, stopping under the shade of an umbrella. It was a ridiculously hot time for England, and coming in an all-black outfit wasn't the best decision, but it was the nicest thing you owned for this kind of event. "We'll see him later, sweetheart."
"I want to show him my suit." Milo says, tugging at your hand toward the bright orange McLaren hospitality. You were a guest of McLaren, technically, so if you were to be anywhere, you think this might be it. Milo, marching his way toward the building, draws the attention of even more cameras, and even more people. In your eyes, Milo truly was adorable, and deserved to be the centre of attention, but even this was a bit much.
"Look, it's a mini you." Someone says, and to your surprise, you look up to see the other McLaren racer standing by the doors.
"Oh, wow." Oscar says, offering a little wave to Milo, who, for some reason, immediately hides behind your leg. You squat down to his height, gently carding your hand through his curls, as you try to figure out how he'd become so shy so fast.
"Look who it is!" You say, as Oscar approaches with even more flashing cameras, and Milo stares up at him, wide-eyed. "Can you say hi to Mr. Piastri?"
Oscar crouches to also be Milo's height, which helps somewhat, but the boy is obviously wary. "Hello," Milo says shyly. "Mr. Pias-tri."
"Hi there," Oscar says, holding out a hand for a high five. Much to your horror, Milo leaves him hanging. "I like your race suit."
"It's for Mr. Norris." Milo says, pulling at the front of it. "We made it at home."
"You must be Milo," Oscar says, and for a moment, your heart stops. Lando spoke about Milo. And, probably not just Milo, but you, and you're not sure what to do with that information. "Lando told me you were coming today. Are you having fun?"
Milo nods, turning to look at you with a strange sort of look in his eye, and you still can't figure out why. Sure, it's not Lando, but Oscar is just as impressive! "It's okay, sweetheart. Mr. Piastri is also a pretty cool car driver."
"Lando and I are teammates," Oscar says, and Milo shoots him an unimpressed look. After all, considering the little racing fan Milo was turning out to be, he seemed to believe Oscar was underestimating him.
"I know." He says defensively, and Oscar cracks a smile. "I saw you on TV."
"Do you want a photo?" Someone says from above, and Oscar shifts to kneel beside Milo as you rise, giving the two of them space.
Milo finally seems to warm up to Oscar, offering a little smile, and without much thought to the action, Oscar takes off his hat and puts it on Milo's head. Milo gasps, grabbing the brim as he tries to look up at the hat, and ends up pulling it over his eyes. The small group laughs, including Oscar, who folds in on himself as he rises. "He's adorable," He says, reaching down to gently pat Milo's head. "I get why Lando loves him so much."
Loves.
I get why Lando loves him so much. "Oh, well, thank you," You manage to stutter out. "Milo, what do you say to Mr. Piastri?"
"Oscar," Oscar says, extending a hand. "You don't have to call me Mr. Piastri."
You shake his hand, and somewhere in the universe, you feel a change you can't describe, a cord unplugged from something too early. You turn to your right instinctively, where you find Lando a few steps away, out of breath and panting, staring you down, like a man who'd just spotted his lost love coming home from war.
At least, that's what you hope that expression means. "Mr. Norris!"
-
Lando's going to fucking die, and so far, there's at least like three potential reasons for it. He missed your text of your arrival, missed sending his attendant to gather you to bring you back to his drivers room and the paddock early, and then couldn't find you. He'd run around, probably looking a little mad, until he thought to stop by the McLaren hospitality, where he finally did find you.
However, you were looking at Oscar and blushing and stuttering out something before shaking his hand, and his heart turned into something he could only describe as shrivelled. You were supposed to look at him like that, like when he stopped to help you bring groceries in, or fix your wifi router, or when he held the door. That hand you were shaking, even if it was just Oscar, wasn't right. Oscar shouldn't have been the first person to greet you, it should've been him. Lando should've been here, for you, and he wasn't, and how did that show he was dependable? That he cared?
However, all of that sort of went out of the window when he heard Milo call his name, and then his shrivelled heart exploded, because all the orange paint made sense now.
It wasn't for a sign, it was for an outfit. Milo was stood in a perfect little replica race suit, running at him full tilt with his arms spread out, and Lando wasted no time bending down to scoop the boy up, happily holding him in his arms as he babbled on about something, but Lando was sort of too far gone to hear it.
You had made Lando's race suit. You got all the details right, even the little sponsor names, the little British flag and the name Norris on his hip, and for a moment, Lando has the realization that if, one day, you took his last name, Milo would too. Milo Norris, he thinks, is a perfect name for a perfect kid.
Then, Milo pulls the hat off his head, and Lando gets a glimpse of the number on it. "What! 81?" He says, taking the hat and happily tossing it at Oscar, who catches it with a laugh. "That's betrayal! That's-that's enemy territory, Milo. What number should it be?"
"Four!" Milo says as Lando reaches up to take his own hat off his head and place it on Milo's.
"Exactly. 81's for ass-" Well, that's certainly not a word you would approve of him saying in front of Milo. "Uh, Australians."
"Nice catch." You tease, coming to stand beside him, and there really must be something wrong with him, there's got to be. Because with you at his side, adjusting Milo's hat, smiling at him like that? All he can picture is this one day being his, and he's only kissed you once. "Did you just come from a work out?"
A work out?
Oh, him being out of breath and sweating.
"Yeah, getting ready before qualifying." Totally not because he ran here.
Not at all. "Can mum have the hat?" Milo asks, and Lando blinks a couple times before realizing he's never given you any merch, and for a moment, he just sort of hears ringing in his ears.
Because how could he have never given you merch? Both McLaren or his own? How could he have never seen you in his shirts, wearing his number, god, maybe even just some of his own worn clothes? It's all he can picture, of you curled up beside him, repping him, and he has to think about rather terrible things to keep his body from reacting. "You know what? Let's take a trip to my store."
"Lando, you don't have to-" Lando holds up a hand, cutting you off, and he then beckons you to follow.
"I hope you brought a bag," He says. "Cause you're getting everything."
-
Lando gets it, now.
Why the guys like having their partners at races. It's sweet to have anyone come to watch, to celebrate, but coming off third, a not-so great result, coming back to his drivers room, and coming back to you?
Oh, it takes so much restraint not to just kiss you senseless, because you're in his jersey, grinning at him with Milo in your arms, the image of perfection. Who cares about third when you have this?
Lando gets it, now, as you wrap an arm around him in a hug, squeezing Milo between the two of you as you laugh.
He gets why guys put everything on the line to come home to something like this.
-
McLaren having a partnership with Hilton is, you think, maybe one of the best perks Lando comes with. Sure, there are the fancy cars and free t-shirts, but a two-room hotel suite for you and Milo? At no cost at all?
Well, that's the sort of thing you could see yourself getting used to, and as you wrap yourself in one of the comfy, complimentary robes, the thought doesn't bring about giddiness of the future, or of Lando, but a strange unease. This was a whole new world, where things were just handed to you on a silver platter when before, you had to fight tooth and nail for the same kind of respect. You got the free merch, the complimentary food and drink, the beautiful hotel suite, and it was all because of Lando.
Lando was out there wearing watches more expensive than your apartment, and Milo was in a charity shop jumpsuit that you hand-painted. It was a very new world to step into, and one you're not sure exactly how to adjust to. There's a soft, tentative knock on the door, and you press your face to the peephole to spot Lando with a plastic bag in hand.
"I hope I didn't wake Milo?" He says as you open the door, gesturing to the bag. "Just wanted to drop off something."
"I just put him down," You say softly, letting him in. "Poor guy fell asleep on the way home."
It was also a stupid thing to get caught up on when you and Lando had only kissed once. He probably had made out with countless women and let them go in a single night. Doesn't mean you didn't value his presence, or that you didn't miss the absence he filled. The empty side of the bed, the empty plate at dinner. Lando had played that role only once, and yet it had just felt so right. It was delusion, probably. Having fallen so quickly, after a single day, but you can't forget how right it felt, how much you wanted it, how long you'd seen him with Milo before it finally tipped over the edge.
"You're something else, you know that?" Lando says, sitting down on the edge of your bed with a grin. "For dressing him up like that. Think it might've stopped my heart."
You come to stand between his open legs, and somehow not quite getting the message, Lando extends the plastic bag. "It was all his idea," You say, taking the bag. "He wanted to dress up like his hero, after all."
"Oh, you can't say that!" Lando covers his face and leans back on the bed as you crack open the bag. "I'm not a hero, I'm just-" He props himself up on his elbows when he hears the crinkling of the bag. "Oh, that's for you."
In hand is a worn McLaren sweater you're pretty sure you've seen Lando wear at least ten times, which isn't a lot, but considering how little you saw him? It was a staple piece of his wardrobe. You must turn bright red, because Lando turns a matching shade as he quickly gets up, leaving little space between you.
"It's just-I thought it might be a better everyday colour than the...the green." He tries to take it from your hand, and you pull it away from him, much like a child refusing to share. "If you don't want-"
"Oh, you're never getting this back now." He gave you.
His sweater. "I thought it matched you more." Then, because saying you matched an old worn hoodie, more than you did brand new, expensive merch might not exactly be taken the best, you watch his face fall in real time. "Because you should be comfortable! And it's like, the most comfortable thing I own! I-"
"Lando." He immediately shuts his mouth, and sits back down on the bed, and you can't help but laugh, coming to sit beside him. So maybe you weren't alone, in how new this all was, the strange territory you toed the line on. "It's very sweet."
"You're laughing! I gave you my jumper and you're laughing." He lets out a low breath, but you can see the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting his own smile. "And to think I flew you out here."
"We took the train, actually." You correct, folding the sweater up and leaving it beside you. "Which I never got to thank you for. All this has been...so much." And as much as you hate to admit it, you need to start being honest at some point. "Maybe too much."
Lando pauses as he watches you, you fiddling with the tie of your robe as you wait for his response. Telling him this was too much, to his face, was probably an idiotic decision, but this was all so foreign. The glamour, the respect. People didn't just do these sorts of things for you, didn't do anything anywhere near as close.
But Lando? He came dressed as Spider-Man, and invited you to races, and for the first time in a long time, made you feel something in a heart normally reserved for Milo and Milo alone. "I couldn't tell you the last time I went on holiday." You finally say, just barely above a whisper. "Had someone pour me champagne, got more free, fancy things than I could ever name. And I'm so grateful for all of it. For you, Lando. I just..."
"It's a lot." Lando finishes for you, rubbing his hands together. "It's okay, if I'm too much too."
"You?" You turn to look at him, and Lando refuses to meet your eye, staring a hole into the carpet. "I don't think I could ever get enough of you, honestly."
"I just really want this to work, you know." Lando suddenly blurts, cheeks tinted pink from your comment. "And I don't know how to do that without just fucking going crazy. Like the Spider-Man suit, paying for you to come to a race? Who does that?" Lando Norris does, apparently. "I just...I want you, and I want that little guy at all of my races, in that little suit, cheering me on." It all sort of comes out in a tumble of a confession that just keeps going. "And not just at races. I want to come home to this, to the Spider-Man webs on the walls, reading him a bedtime story, and I want to come home to you. Wearing my jersey, or my jumper, being with me, kissing me over the backs of couches." Lando looms nearer, then, and in another life, you might grab his face and kiss him, if it weren't for that little, minuscule fear that held everything back. Your words, your future, your feelings. "I think I'm sort of going crazy about it, actually."
"Oh." You were supposed to be confessing your feelings of inadequacy to him, not him confessing actual feelings for you, but you truly don't mind the flip in conversation. However, he looks on the edge of something, a word that he just can't quite get out. "But?"
He drops his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his curls.
It's something he doesn't want to say, and it's something you've had to face for the past four years. "But having that is more than just races and little orange track suits." You fill in for him this time.
"It's a lot of travelling, and a lot of away days, but...other drivers do it?"
"With their own kids, Lando. That's a bit different." You break slowly, because it's the truth.
Lando adored Milo. It's one of the things that made the man so dear to you, but there was a difference between being good with kids and being good at raising kids, between being a babysitter and a potential father. "Milo's pretty much mine, if you want him to be." Lando admits quietly. "D'you see what number he was wearing? Whose name you put on that suit?"
There's a part of you that wants to yell at him to be realistic. His world is so far from yours, with so much more to offer. There must be models and actresses and others cut out for this, not you, not Milo. But when he says things like that? When he looks at you like that? It's a lot harder to make that argument believable. "Kids are a lot of responsibility, Lando. There's more than one heart at stake here. I need you to think about this seriously."
"Mum?" Both of you jolt at the sound of Milo's voice, somehow having gotten out of his room without either of you noticing. You have half a mind to put some distance between you and Lando, considering how close you're sitting, but Milo doesn't seem to care, scrambling up the other side of the bed to sit near you.
"Missing out?" Lando says, turning to sit cross legged on the bed, and letting Milo join the little huddle. It's an act that shouldn't be as heartstopping as it is, but it was Lando, and it was Milo.
It was the realization that you could have someone else to turn to on those sleepless nights, someone at your side who accepted Milo, not rejected him. It was someone in your corner, who wanted you, and it was the first time, in a long time, that anyone's made you feel so...whole. You'll cry about it later, you decide, when both your boys aren't present.
"You should be in bed, love." You whisper, gently pressing a kiss to Milo's forehead. "So should Mr. Norris."
"Sleepover?" Milo asks behind a yawn, and Lando laughs softly, shaking his head.
"We've got a big day tomorrow. We can't stay up." Lando pats the pillow at the head of the bed, and Milo crawls up to lie against it. "How's that?"
"I'm sure it's great, stealing my bed." You tease, coming to lie on one side of Milo, tickling his stomach as he cackles with laughter. Lando falls onto the bed on the other side of Milo and looks over at you with a grin.
As much as you would like to continue your conversation, some things in life are just more important. Seemingly tired of your presence, Milo rolls away from you, and plants his head on Lando's chest. Lando doesn't move, freezing immediately as the boy curls up into his side. "Picking favourites, are we?" You ask softly, and Milo yawns into Lando's ribs.
"I am a pretty good pillow." Lando says, shooting you a wink, and you move onto your side, your arm splayed over Milo and onto Lando's chest. Your palm flattens against him to feel his pounding heart, the movement quick enough to convince you that he'd just run a marathon, or maybe won a race, instead of lying next to you.
It would be a more intimate moment if Milo didn't wipe his drool on Lando's t-shirt, who luckily takes it in stride. "I should take him to races more often," You say absentmindedly, stuck between watching Milo and watching Lando. "He's pretty tuckered out."
"You can come to every race," Lando says softly, rolling his head to the side to look at you. "I'll pay for every one."
"Lando..." The thing is, when he said things like that, you knew he meant it. You knew that this could be your future, such an opportunity for both you and Milo, but it shouldn't be yours to take. At least, it shouldn't be yours to take, unless Lando considers all the little repercussions that come with dating you. "I just want you to think about this." You peek down at Milo, whose eyes are fluttering, still fighting sleep. You move your hand from Lando's chest to gently rub at his back, and in seconds, he's finally dozing. Only when you're sure he won't wake from your whispers do you continue. "You mean more to me than you know, so if we're doing this, I don't want...I just, I need you to know that I need all of you."
"You have all of me." Then, because he knows it's not a fair thing to say, "I'll think about it."
As gently as you can, you pull Milo back off Lando's chest and onto the bed. Lando's face falls at the loss, and you have to steel yourself to stop from confessing something catastrophic then and there. Despite all the doubts you have, the way Lando looks at Milo stirs something deep in your heart. "Don't worry about it at the race, either." You warn, knowing how he might stew over this long enough to hurt his performance tomorrow. "Just...when you know, tell me."
Lando leans over, and you expect him to say something, but instead, he presses a kiss to your cheek. "Trust me," He says, "You'll be the first to know. Goodnight." He then gently places his hand on Milo's head and whispers, "Goodnight, Mini-me."
-
So, maybe Lando's love confession didn't exactly go as planned last night. He had gotten the two-room suite for a reason: Milo goes to bed, you stay up, he confesses everything he's been dying to say, maybe you kiss him, it all works perfectly.
However, that sort of love confession wasn't realistic, and he'd ended up not beginning a relationship with you, but he did kiss you on the cheek, and got a reminder to think about the relationship, you, and Milo. Despite your warning, it's all he can think about the entire time he's in the car, which most certainly isn't helpful.
He wanted this.
He wanted you. And Milo.
And despite what those around him might think, it was realistic. It could be, anyway. He was young, he was well aware, but he had the energy to be a father. Other people had kids at his age! I mean, Milo wasn't exactly a teenage pregnancy, you were both in your twenties. You could handle this. He could handle this. Or, at least, he was pretty sure he could.
He had already cornered Max in the Red Bull Motorhome to annoy him with enough questions about being a step-dad that the man now refused to answer his texts. He had done the research. He'd seen Milo in that race suit. He knew how his own father raised him, the kind of kindness that he couldn't believe others never received.
That was enough. You were enough. And, as he overtakes Max, he hopes you know that. He hopes that you delaying this wasn't coming from your view of yourself, because he knew what the media could be like. You weren't what most people might expect from him, but that didn't make it wrong, didn't make you any less of a partner. Milo was a glorious part of this, not something for you to ever feel ashamed about.
He had meant it, when he said Milo was his. He might not know exactly how to be a dad, but he knows how to be himself, and everytime he is himself, around you, around Milo, it feels right. It feels like he belongs, like that kid was always supposed to be his, like you were always supposed to be his.
Mr and Mrs Norris, and Milo Norris.
As he pits, he wonders where you're watching from, if you'll get to the Parc Ferme in time, or get to the barrier. It's cocky to think of, halfway through a race, but he can't help it. It's his home race; he might die if he loses, especially now that you're here. His mind drifts, as he takes off, wondering if he'll get to kiss you.
Then, as Lando gets back out on the track, weaving his way back to first, he lets himself wonder, just once, if this is the right decision.
Because what if he did make a mistake? What if he screwed up? What if he messes up Milo? If he messes up what you have? He'd never forgive himself. A child is such a large commitment, and honestly, if he ignores Milo, a very hard task to do, you're a big commitment too. Lando's not sure what happened to you in the past, to leave you with Milo and no one else, but he couldn't fathom hurting you further, seeing you hurt at all.
God, if he fucked this up, he could never-
"Message for you, Lando." A voice cuts through his earphones as the worst of the thoughts spiral, giving him just enough of a branch to cling onto.
"Mr. Norris?" Milo says, "There's a-what is it? Oh, there's rain expected in ten minutes."
Lando has to suck in a breath to respond, his mind going blank. "Yeah?"
"If you win, will you give the trophy to mum?" And there, on the Silverstone track, Lando realizes he could never screw up.
Not with Milo or you on the line. Not with this. He might be young, and this might be new, but he knows he'd give everything up in a heartbeat to have this at every race.
To have someone to give his trophies to, to have someone to come home to, to have you, and Milo. To have a happily ever after that didn't depend on a race car, or winnings. One that simply depended on you saying yes in a white dress someday. And, long before that, of you meeting him at the barrier after this race. "Of course, you muppet."
-
When Lando wins, because of course Lando wins, Silverstone goes ballistic. It's the sort of celebration you'd never witnessed before, all the mechanics, all the orange staff, all the fans in the stands, they all erupt in cheers and hugs, a morphing, crushing mob that rushes towards Parc Ferme with a speed that forces you to pick up Milo to avoid him getting trampled.
"The trophy!" He says, smacking against your shoulders as you join the rush, jogging to keep up. "He promised you his trophy!"
"I think I'll keep it in the kitchen," You say with a soft laugh, taking off your earmuffs to let them hang around your neck, settling nicely against Lando's jumper. It might not be the prettiest of things to wear to an F1 race, but who else could say they were wearing Lando Norris's clothes when he won his home race? "We can serve pasta out of it."
"Or sweets!" Milo says, trying to get up out of your arms to see over the crowd as you approach. "Or apple juice!"
Lando stands on top of his car, and for a moment, you regret not keeping the earmuffs on, because the screams around you are deafening, your own included. It's the sweetest possible sound of victory, Lando jumping up on his car and shaking his fists in the air, a ball of energy that belonged there.
He makes his way around the crowd, throwing himself at mechanics and other staff, embracing family and friends, celebrating like he deserves to. As he takes off his helmet, you watch him pause, jumping up on the tips of his toes to try to scan over the crowd, and it's Milo who figures it out before you do.
"MR. NORRIS!" He screeches, startling the few people in front of you. They awkwardly shuffle to the sides to let you and Milo through, and Lando is instantly reaching for the boy, swinging him over the barrier and hoisting him on his shoulders.
It's the sort of view you don't think you could ever get tired of. In fact, it's the sort of memory you want burned into the back of your eyelids to see every time you blink, or sleep, or dream. It's Milo and Lando, matching suits and curls and grins, stretched from ear to ear. The crowd keeps chanting, hollering at the two of them, but all the noise sort of fades as you watch.
That, you think, is how you want Milo to look at a man, at someone who might be your partner. That's the kind of care you want your partner to have, holding Milo like his own, spinning around in circles as the cameras flash and the world applauds them. At least, you think, the world sees your boys as you do.
Absolutely perfect. Lando catches your stare as he ends his celebratory dance, stopping a few feet away as he watches you right back. And that smile, that ridiculous, contagious smile, only grows.
"I thought about it!" He has to shout, words barely heard as he approaches.
"What?" You ask, leaning against the railing to try and make out the meaning.
"I said," He repeats, ducking forward to hover just above you, "I thought about it."
His lips are on yours before you can even react. To some, it probably isn't the most pleasant kiss in the world, with the sweat and the heat and the crowd crushing in, but you find there's not a single thing you could ever complain about as your hands come up to cup his cheeks. It's Lando, in the clearest declaration you've ever seen, calling you his, in front of Silverstone, in front of everyone, in front of Milo, in front of you. It's not a soft thing over the back of the couch in a Spider-Man costume, but it's so much more real, heavy and yet somehow lightening all the weight on your shoulders, all the worries preying at the edge of your mind.
This is how it should feel when you kiss someone. This is how it feels when you know it'll last, when that love extends past you and into the boy resting on Lando's shoulders. It's how it feels when you know, and he knows, and there's nothing else to say about it. "You won!" You say against his lips with a smile, and he pulls back to practically cackle at you.
"I won!" Later, when you tell him there were tears in his eyes at this moment, he'll deny them, but you watch the way they shine, all that hard work and effort paid off. "I've got my good luck charms with me. Now you have to come to every race."
"Oh, we'll be there." Lando reaches over the railing to pull you somehow closer into him, bending his head to press a kiss to your cheek, and whisper something without the world to hear.
"Thank you," He says, almost choking on the words. "I'll make this work, I promise."
"I believe you, Lando." You say, and you'd say more, but the moment gets interrupted by a certain someone.
"Mr. Norris!" Milo says, pulling softly at Lando's hair. "You kissed my mum."
Lando freezes, realizing that, as much as you might be happy about this relationship, Milo might not be. "That okay?"
Milo thinks for a moment. "Can I get your trophy?"
"I'll give you all my trophies from now on," Lando says, letting the boy down and back into your arms. "Do we have a deal?"
"Deal." Lando laughs, a pure, bright thing, and heads back to do whatever it is he does after a race, and you let reality settle in. There are cameras, and people staring, and questions to be asked, but you find that they don't quite matter, because you can't stop grinning like an idiot.
This, you think, was how it should feel, being in love.
It's the way your heart calms, watching Lando get up on that podium, accept his award, knowing he deserves it all and more. It's you screaming until your lungs are raw in celebration, watching him spraying champagne, holding his trophy high, beaming down at you.
It's the Lego trophy that's in Milo's hands mere minutes after it's given to Lando, who, in his post-race celebration, hoists the boy back up on his shoulders, looking more proud of the boy above him than he was to win. They match, in their outfits, and their trophies, and their smiles, and their curls, and the way you're so utterly smitten for both of them.
It's the sort of joy you hope will never fade, and after it's all done, and the fans go home, and the energy wears off, you doubt it ever will, as you discover Milo and Lando passed out together in his little en-suite room. The man had insisted on coming over to read Milo a bedtime story, but it seems the two never got that far, the book still open in Lando's lap.
Without much thought to the action, you press a kiss to Lando's temple and Milo's forehead, close the book, and turn off the light.
It's this sort of love you hope to experience every day for the rest of your life.
a/n: i tried so hard to balance cute and realistic in this one, so i really hope i did them justice <3 (also i rewrote the ending eight times.)
Do it justice? You did much more than that like fuck it was so good! It was cheesy and romantic and wholesome and I want more! You never disappoint with the fics.
My favorite line:
"He might not know exactly how to be a dad, but he knows how to be himself, and everytime he is himself, around you, around Milo, it feels right."
We have two options...I can either post what i have as of now in Pt 2 and then write Pt. 3 as the final installation of this fic. Or we can wait a little longer and just post it all as Pt. 2
For reference Pt. 2 right now has about 7k words and I think I can easily reach 12k words or more if I have it all in this last Pt. 2. The choice is yours. Cause I was going over it and there's still much that I want to write and I am aware it's been like a solid 9 months since I posted Pt. 1.
Choice is yours. Should I write the rest of the fic in Pt. 2 or post what I have sometime this week and then do Pt. 3?
Pt. 2 and get it over with.
I'm cool with Pt. 3 the more the merrier!
I really don't know what you're talking about. Do what you think is best...
