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F1 Texts
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for keeps
Dean Di Laurentis x Kennedy!Reader
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has always been the kind of man who plays to win. You just never realized the game had already started … or that you were the prize. He calls it love. He’s not wrong. He’s just not telling you everything
Warnings: 18+ themes, baby trapping, dubious consent
Dean does not do quiet nights in. Or at least, he didn’t.
For the first two years of his time at Briar University, Dean was an absolute legend. He is the charming, impossibly good-looking hockey star whose bed rarely sees the same woman twice and, sometimes, sees two at once. He’s the guy who buys the entire bar a round of shots and still remembers the bouncer’s kid’s name. With two high-powered, fiercely loving attorneys for parents and a maternal family drowning in luxury hotel money, Dean has always had the world on a silver platter. He never had to try too hard at anything. Hockey, women, school — it all just came easily to him.
But that was before you.
Now, Dean pushes open the front door of the house he shares with his teammates, ignores the lingering scent of stale beer from last weekend’s party, and makes a beeline straight for the sunroom.
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watches you.
You are sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls that have definitely seen better days. Your hair is piled into a messy bun, held together by a single pencil, and there is a streak of cerulean blue swiped right across your cheekbone. You are completely engrossed in the canvas propped up on the easel in front of you.
“Did you even go to practice, Di Laurentis, or did you just stand by the glass winking at puck bunnies?” You ask, not even bothering to look up from your palette.
Dean grins, pushing off the doorframe. “I resent that. I winked at exactly zero bunnies today. I am a retired man, remember?”
“Retired from what? Being a menace to the female population of Massachusetts?”
“Exactly.” Dean drops onto the battered floral sofa behind you, sprawling his long legs out. “Besides, Coach ran us through skating drills for an hour. I’m too exhausted to be a menace to anyone but you.”
You finally turn your head, giving him a flat look. “You don’t look exhausted. You look exactly like you always do. Smug.”
“It’s not smugness, babe. It’s natural charisma.” He reaches out, tugging gently on the frayed hem of your overalls. “Come here. Tell me about your day.”
You sigh, setting your paintbrush down and wiping your hands on a rag before crawling over the drop cloth. You settle between his knees, resting your back against the sofa as his hands immediately find your shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tight muscles at the base of your neck.
“It was fine,” you say, closing your eyes as his hands work their magic. “I spent four hours in the studio trying to get the lighting right on this piece, and then I had to go argue with the financial aid office about my scholarship disbursement for next semester.”
Dean’s hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? Argue with them. I could just-”
“Dean,” you warn, your tone carrying a familiar edge.
“I’m just saying! One phone call. My dad would have a check overnighted, and you wouldn’t have to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit.”
“And we’ve talked about this,” you reply gently, tipping your head back to look up at him upside down. “I am doing this on my own. No Kennedy money, and no Di Laurentis money either.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes softening. It still blows his mind sometimes, the sheer grit you possess. You are a Kennedy heiress. You grew up in the exact same upper-crust, east-coast circles he did. He still remembers being twelve years old at some stuffy Hamptons gala, watching you in a perfectly pressed pastel dress, looking absolutely miserable while your parents paraded you around.
But the moment you told your fiercely political, legacy-obsessed family that you were majoring in fine arts instead of pre-law, they cut the cord. Shut off the trust fund, canceled the credit cards, the whole nine yards. Most people from your world would have caved. You just packed a bag, took out loans, fought for a merit scholarship, and showed up at Briar University in a pair of scuffed sneakers.
Dean recognized you immediately freshman year. At first, he just wanted to make sure you were okay — a protective instinct taking over. He made sure you knew where the dining halls were, bullied his teammates into helping you move a terrible thrift-store couch into your dorm, and threatened any guy who looked at you sideways. He thought he was just taking you under his wing. He didn’t realize he was falling completely, hopelessly in love with you until it was already far too late.
“I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a strong, independent artist who doesn’t need my money. But you’re still letting me buy you dinner, right? Because I’m starving, and if I have to eat another one of Logan’s weird protein-powder concoctions, I’m going to hurl.”
You laugh, a bright, clear sound that makes his chest tight. “Pizza? Half pepperoni, half whatever disgusting combination you want?”
“It’s called a supreme pizza, you uncultured heathen, and yes.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his lips brushing softly against yours. “Go wash the paint off your face. I’ll order.”
***
An hour later, the two of you are sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the open pizza box sitting between you. Outside, the Massachusetts wind is howling, rattling the old windows of the hockey house, but inside, wrapped in Dean’s oversized gray hoodie, you are perfectly warm.
“So, next year is looking good,” Dean says around a mouthful of pizza. “But honestly, after Harvard, I don’t even know. My mom is already sending me listings for apartments in Cambridge.”
“She’s excited,” you say, stealing a pepperoni off his side of the box. “Her son, the legacy, heading to Harvard Law. It’s a big deal, Dean. You should be proud.”
“I am,” he says, leaning back against his bedframe. And he is. He’s worked his ass off to keep his grades up alongside hockey, proving to everyone that he’s more than just a rich party boy with a good slap shot. “But it’s going to be weird. No more Briar. No more living with the guys. Just actual adulthood.”
“Terrifying,” you agree, wiping grease from your fingers.
“Hey, it’s not like you aren’t right there with me,” he points out, bumping his knee against yours. “We’re both graduating. We’re both moving on. Which reminds me — have you checked your email today?”
You freeze, your hand hovering over the pizza box. “No.”
“You haven’t?” Dean sits up a little straighter. “Babe, they said the end of the week. Today is Friday. You need to check.”
“I don’t want to look,” you admit, pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s a rejection, I want to live in denial for just a few more hours. Let me have my pizza in peace.”
“Nope. Absolutely not.” Dean reaches over, grabbing your laptop off the desk and setting it squarely on your lap. “Open it. If it’s a rejection, I will personally drive to the admissions office and key their cars. But it won’t be. Because you’re brilliant.”
You let out a shaky breath, flipping the laptop open. The screen casts a blue glow over your face as you pull up your email. Dean watches you, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs. He knows how much this means to you. Your art is your entire world. It’s the reason you gave up your family and your fortune.
“Okay,” you whisper. “There’s an email.”
“Read it,” Dean says, leaning over your shoulder. He can smell your shampoo — something fruity and sweet — mixed with the faint, metallic scent of oil paint.
Your eyes dart across the screen, reading the first few lines. And then, you gasp. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth, your eyes widening impossibly far.
“What?” Dean asks, his voice urgent. “What does it say?”
“Dean,” you breathe out, turning to look at him. There are tears welling in your eyes, but your smile is blinding. “Dean, I got in. They accepted me.”
“Holy shit!” Dean barks out a laugh, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his lap. He buries his face in your neck, hugging you so tightly you squeak. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! You’re a genius!”
You are laughing and crying at the same time, throwing your arms around his neck. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Full ride, Dean. They’re covering the tuition and giving me a stipend. I don’t have to take out more loans.”
“Because you’re incredible,” he says fiercely, pulling back to frame your face with his large hands. “I am so proud of you. Do you hear me? So damn proud.”
He kisses you, deep and passionate, pouring every ounce of his pride and love for you into it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers
tangling in his dark blond hair. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. You did it. Against all odds, without your family’s safety net, you achieved your dream.
“We have to celebrate,” Dean says, pulling back slightly, his eyes shining. “I’m calling the guys. I’m buying kegs. Hell, I’m renting out the entire bar downtown.”
“Dean, no, we don’t need to do all that,” you laugh, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.
“Yes, we do! My girl is getting her Master of Fine Arts. From Stanford!”
He says the word with so much enthusiasm, so much triumph. But as soon as the syllables leave his mouth, the sound hangs in the air between you.
Stanford.
Dean’s smile falters, just a fraction of an inch.
Stanford. Palo Alto. California.
He suddenly feels like he’s just taken a slapshot bare-chested. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, silent rush. All the adrenaline, all the excitement that was humming through his veins just a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, icy drop in his stomach.
“Stanford,” he repeats, and this time, his voice doesn’t have the same booming volume. It’s quieter.
You seem to catch the shift in his tone. The massive smile on your face dims slightly, your brows knitting together in concern. “Yeah. Stanford. The MFA program.”
“Right. Right, yeah. West Coast.” Dean forces his mouth back into a smile, though it feels a little stiff. “That’s … that’s amazing, babe.”
“Dean?” You shift in his lap, looking at him closely. “Are you okay?”
“Are you kidding? I’m fantastic,” he lies smoothly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I just … realized how far California is. Going to be a bitch of a flight.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, your eyes searching his face. “It’s … it’s really far.”
“But it’s the best program in the country,” Dean jumps in, his voice slightly louder, desperate to fill the sudden quiet in the room. “And you deserve the best. It’s incredible.”
“We’ll figure it out,” you say, resting your hand against his cheek. Your thumb brushes against his jaw. “Right? I mean, you’ll be in Cambridge, and I’ll be in California, but people do long distance all the time.”
“Exactly,” Dean says immediately. “Long distance. Easy. We’ve got FaceTime. We’ll rack up frequent flyer miles. It’s nothing.”
You study him for a long moment, and Dean actively works to keep his expression open and supportive. He cannot ruin this for you. He will not be the guy who makes your greatest triumph about his own selfish panic. He loves you too much for that.
“Okay,” you finally whisper, leaning your forehead against his. “We’ll figure it out.”
“We will,” Dean promises, pulling you tight against his chest.
***
It is 3 AM.
The house is dead silent, save for the hum of the radiator and the steady, rhythmic sound of your breathing.
You are fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown across Dean’s bare chest. Your head is tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck, exactly where you belong.
Dean is wide awake.
He is staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering a dull, heavy beat against his ribs. The darkness of the bedroom feels suffocating.
Three thousand miles.
The thought loops in his head on a relentless, torturous cycle. Three thousand miles. A six-hour flight. A three-hour time difference.
He turns his head slightly, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo. He closes his eyes, trying to force down the rising tide of panic that has been clawing at his throat for the last six hours.
When he told you they’d figure it out, he meant it. He wants to figure it out. But in the quiet, terrifying solitude of the middle of the night, the reality of the situation is crushing him.
He is going to Harvard Law. The curriculum is famously brutal. He’s going to be drowning in case studies and legal briefs, pulling all-nighters in the library. You are going to a highly competitive, intense MFA program on the other side of the continent. You’ll be spending all your time in the studio, surrounded by new people, new artists, a whole new life.
How does this work? How do they survive this?
Dean has never been an insecure guy. He knows what he brings to the table. But the idea of you being thousands of miles away, living a life that he isn’t a part of every single day … it terrifies him.
What if the distance is too much? What if the time zones make it impossible to talk? What if you meet someone in a coffee shop in Palo Alto who understands your art in a way Dean never could? Someone who doesn’t have a meathead hockey past. Someone who is there.
He tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You murmur softly in your sleep, shifting closer to his heat, your hand curling against his chest.
He loves you. God, he loves you so much it physically aches. You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. You grounded him, you saw past the arrogant hockey star, and you loved him for exactly who he is.
And now, he has to let you go.
He has to smile and pack your boxes and put you on a plane to California, because holding you back would be a betrayal of everything he loves about you.
Dean stares into the dark, his jaw clenched tight, a profound, agonizing fear settling deep into his bones. He is going to lose you. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when, but as he lies awake holding you in the dark, he is absolutely terrified that this is the beginning of the end.
***
It has been exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-two minutes since you got the acceptance email from Stanford.
Dean knows the exact timeline because that is exactly how long it has been since he last took a full, deep breath.
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the hockey house is relatively quiet. Most of the guys are either in class or at the gym. Dean is sprawled on the battered living room couch, his long legs hanging over the armrest, staring blankly at his phone. He’s supposed to be reading a chapter on contract law for his seminar tomorrow, but the textbook is lying face-down on the floor, abandoned.
Instead, he’s doom-scrolling.
His thumb flicks upward. A hockey highlight. Flick. A girl dancing. Flick. A dog falling off a couch. Flick.
The algorithm, sensing his stagnant, depressive mood, throws something different onto his screen. It’s a girl sitting in a bedroom that looks like a library, excitedly tapping a thick paperback book against her chin.
“Okay, BookTok, hear me out,” the girl on the screen says, her voice breathless and enthusiastic. “I just finished the most unhinged dark romance of my entire life, and I am obsessed. The male main character? A total walking red flag, but we love to see it.”
Dean’s thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn’t care about romance books. He’s about to swipe when she says the next sentence.
“He knows she’s going to leave him for her dream job in Scotland,” the girl continues, her eyes wide. “So what does our morally gray king do? He baby traps her. He literally takes a needle to his stash of condoms and microwaves her birth control pills. And the craziest part? It works. She stays. They get married. He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.”
Dean freezes.
He stares at the girl on the screen. The video loops, starting over from the beginning.
He baby traps her. Dean scoffs out loud, a harsh, jagged sound in the empty room. He locks his phone and tosses it onto his chest. That is insane. That is genuinely psychotic. He is a good guy. He was raised by a mother who would literally skin him alive if he ever disrespected a woman. He understands consent. He believes in bodily autonomy. The idea of doing something so manipulative, so violating, makes his stomach turn.
But as he lies there staring at the water-stained ceiling, a tiny, insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind. But she stayed.
Dean clenches his jaw. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble there. He hasn’t shaved in three days. He’s losing his mind. You haven’t even left yet, and he’s already grieving you like you’re dead.
If you love something, set it free.
He has always hated that saying. Whoever came up with that bullshit clearly never loved anyone the way he loves you. If you love something, you fight for it. You hold onto it. You don’t just open the door and watch it walk out of your life.
“You look like you’re planning a murder.”
Dean snaps his head up. Logan is standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding a massive protein shake in a shaker bottle. He’s in his sweatpants, a towel draped over his broad shoulders.
“Just thinking,” Dean mutters, sitting up and letting his phone slide onto the cushions.
Logan walks over and drops into the armchair across from him. “About what? You haven’t spoken a full sentence to anyone in the house since Friday night.”
“I’ve spoken.”
“Grunting when someone asks you to pass the salt doesn’t count, man,” Logan says, unscrewing the cap of his bottle. He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “Talk to me. You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re wearing the same hoodie you wore to practice yesterday. You smell like despair and cheap body wash.” Logan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “This is about Stanford, isn’t it?”
Dean glares at him. “Don’t say the word.”
“Stanford? Palo Alto? California? West Coast?”
“Shut up, Logan.”
“Look,” Logan sighs, his tone softening slightly. “I get it. It sucks. But guys do long distance all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It’s three thousand miles,” Dean snaps, his voice rising despite his effort to keep it steady. “Do you know what the success rate is for long-distance relationships in grad school? It’s abysmal. Especially when one person is doing law and the other is doing an intensive art program.”
“So you’re just giving up?”
“No! I’m not giving up!” Dean drags both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I want her to go. I want her to have everything she wants. She deserves this. She fought so hard for it, and her family treated her like garbage. I am so proud of her, I could burst.”
“But?”
“But I can’t breathe when I think about her leaving,” Dean admits, the truth tearing out of him. His chest heaves. “I don’t know how to do this, Logan. I don’t know how to wake up and not have her right there. I don’t know how to go days without seeing her. What if she realizes she doesn’t need me? What if she builds this whole new life out there, and there’s no room for me in it?”
Logan watches him for a long moment. “Dean, she loves you. You’re acting like she’s looking for an excuse to leave.”
“Distance changes people,” Dean says darkly.
“So what are you going to do?” Logan asks, arching an eyebrow. “Beg her to stay?”
“No. I’d never ask her to give up Stanford for me. That would make me a piece of shit.”
“Then you support her. You help her pack. You buy a webcam. And you trust her.” Logan stands up, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he walks past. “Get your head out of your ass, Di Laurentis. Don’t ruin her moment because you’re terrified.”
Logan leaves the room, and Dean is alone again.
He grabs his phone off the couch. The screen lights up, still paused on the BookTok video.
He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.
Dean swallows hard, his throat dry. He swipes out of the app entirely, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. He is not a villain. He is a good guy.
But as he grabs his keys to drive over to your dorm, his hands are shaking.
***
“Look at this one, Dean,” you say, turning your laptop screen toward him.
You are sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed, your glasses pushed up on your head, holding a mug of green tea. Dean is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back against the wall, trying his hardest to look engaged.
“It’s a converted garage in Redwood City,” you explain, pointing at the screen. “It’s about a twenty-minute commute to campus, but the rent is actually manageable with my stipend.”
Dean looks at the photos. The place is tiny. It has exposed pipes, concrete floors, and a kitchenette that consists of a mini-fridge and a hot plate.
“A garage?” Dean says, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Babe, you can’t live in a garage.”
“I’m an artist, Dean. And I’m on a strict budget,” you say, pulling the laptop back to look at the photos again. “Besides, look at the natural light from that skylight. It’s incredible for painting.”
“It doesn’t have a real kitchen,” he points out, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I survive off coffee, dining hall food, and whatever you force-feed me anyway,” you reply with a laugh.
“Yeah, but when I come visit, where am I supposed to cook for you?” Dean asks. “I can’t make you my famous chicken parm on a hot plate.”
You soften instantly, your eyes lifting to meet his. You set the laptop aside and crawl over the duvet, settling onto his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.
“You’re going to cook for me?” You murmur against his neck.
“Someone has to keep you alive while you’re out there playing starving artist,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tight against him. He presses a kiss into your hair.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper, and Dean can hear the slight tremble in your voice.
The sound of it hits him like a physical blow. His grip on you tightens until it’s almost painful.
“You don’t have to miss me,” he says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I’ll visit all the time. I’ll fly out every weekend.”
You pull back slightly, resting your hands on his chest. You look at him with a sad, gentle smile. “Dean, you’re going to be at Harvard Law. You’re not going to have time to fly out every weekend. You’re going to be swamped.”
“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “I’ll study on the plane.”
“It’s a six-hour flight,” you remind him softly. “And it’s expensive.”
“I have money.”
“But you don’t have infinite time,” you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “We have to be realistic about this. It’s going to be hard.”
“I don’t want to be realistic,” Dean mutters, leaning into your touch. “I want you to stay.”
The room goes dead silent.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean wishes he could snatch them back out of the air. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. He promised he wouldn’t guilt you.
Your hand falls from his face. You look down at your lap, your expression unreadable. “Dean …”
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I want you to go. I’m just … I’m just having a hard time today.”
You look back up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do you think this is easy for me? Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
“Then don’t,” the dark voice in his head whispers.
He shoves the thought away, physically shaking his head. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish. Show me the garage again. Let’s look at the skylight.”
You study him for a long moment, clearly torn between addressing his outburst and letting it go. Eventually, you sigh, reaching for the laptop again. “Okay. Look, the bathroom actually has a decent-sized tub.”
Dean forces himself to look at the screen. He nods, making agreeable noises, pointing out things he likes about the tiny, pathetic apartment. But he isn’t really seeing it. He is looking at the screen, but all he can see is the ticking clock counting down the days until he loses you.
“Hey, I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says suddenly, gently lifting you off his lap and standing up. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” you say, your eyes already back on the Zillow listing. “Don’t take too long, I want your opinion on this complex in Mountain View.”
Dean walks out of the bedroom and heads down the short hallway to the shared dorm bathroom. He flips the light switch, closes the door, and locks it.
He leans heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He can’t do this. He can’t sit there and help you pick out the apartment where you’re going to learn how to live without him.
He opens his eyes and walks over to the sink, turning on the cold water. He splashes some on his face, shivering at the sudden chill. He grabs a hand towel off the rack and presses it to his face.
When he lowers the towel, his eyes catch on something resting on the edge of the sink counter, right next to your toothbrush cup.
It’s a small, rectangular object. A plastic compact.
Dean stares at it. He knows exactly what it is.
He slowly reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly, and picks it up. He flips the compact open. Inside is a blister pack of birth control pills. They are small, pink, and perfectly circular. You take one every night before bed. He watches you do it. Half the time, he’s the one who reminds you when you get too distracted by your painting.
He stares down at the little pink pills.
The video from earlier flashes behind his eyes, vivid and loud.
He literally microwaves her birth control pills.
Dean’s breathing turns shallow. The bathroom feels entirely too small, the air too thin.
He is a good guy. He is Dean Di Laurentis. He respects women. He would never take away your choice. He would never violate your body. He would never trap you.
But she stayed. He loved her enough to be the villain.
If you got pregnant.
The thought crashes into his brain like a freight train, loud and violent and impossible to ignore.
If you got pregnant, you couldn’t go to Stanford. You wouldn’t be able to move across the country, live in a tiny garage, and spend eighteen hours a day in a studio surrounded by toxic paint fumes. You would have to stay in Massachusetts. With him.
He has money. He has family support. He has a massive trust fund. He could buy you both a beautiful house in Cambridge. He could set up a state-of-the-art studio for you in the spare bedroom. You could still paint. You could still be an artist. You just wouldn’t be doing it three thousand miles away from him.
He would take care of you. He would give you everything you ever wanted. He would worship the ground you walk on. You would be safe. You would be loved.
And, most importantly, you would be his.
Forever.
Dean’s thumb moves over the smooth foil of the blister pack. It would be so easy. It takes thirty seconds to pop them in the microwave. The heat destroys the active hormones. They look exactly the same, but they become completely useless. You would take them every night, thinking you were protected, and within a month or two …
His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hands are sweating.
He imagines you standing in this very bathroom, holding a positive test. He imagines the look of shock on your face. He imagines pulling you into his arms, telling you it’s going to be okay, promising you that he will fix everything. He imagines your belly swelling with his child. He imagines you walking down the aisle toward him.
He imagines a life where he never has to watch you pack a suitcase and leave him behind.
“Dean?”
Your voice comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled. “Everything okay in there? You’ve been in there a while.”
Dean flinches, nearly dropping the compact into the sink. He snaps it shut, his breathing ragged.
He stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a stranger. He looks like a monster.
“Yeah!” His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, babe, I’m fine. Just washing up.”
“Okay! I think I found a two-bedroom we could actually afford if I got a roommate. Come look!”
The words twist like a knife in his gut. A roommate. Some stranger. Maybe some pretentious art bro who understands color theory and drinks matcha and gets to see you every single day while Dean is stuck in a torts lecture freezing his ass off in Boston.
Dean looks down at his hand. His knuckles are white from how tightly he is gripping the compact.
The line between love and obsession is so incredibly thin, and Dean suddenly realizes he doesn’t know which side he’s standing on anymore. He has always been a guy who plays by the rules. But when the stakes are this high, when the only woman he has ever truly loved is slipping through his fingers … the rules don’t seem to matter as much.
He slowly opens the compact again.
He stares at the foil backing.
He loves you. He loves you so much it’s making him sick. He loves you enough to do anything to keep you.
Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes his choice.
***
The next sixty days are the most agonizing, excruciating two months of Dean’s entire life.
It is a completely different kind of torture, a quiet, invisible agony that eats at the lining of his stomach every single second of the day. Every time he looks at you, his heart performs a violent, jagged leap into his throat. He watches you pack cardboard boxes. He watches you buy bubble wrap. He listens to you excitedly chatter over FaceTime to a potential roommate in California. And every time, the same terrified, frantic questions loop in his mind until he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.
What if it didn’t take? What if the microwave trick was just some stupid internet myth? What if the hormones were still active? What if it’s all for nothing?
The uncertainty is driving him insane. He has always been a man of action. If he wants something on the ice, he skates hard and takes the shot. If he wants a grade, he studies. But this? This is entirely out of his hands. He has set the wheels in motion, and now all he can do is sit back, play the supportive boyfriend, and wait to see if his gamble pays off.
And the guilt. God, the guilt. It hits him at the most random times. When you look at him with those wide, trusting eyes and thank him for helping you tape up a box of canvases. When you fall asleep on his chest, exhausted from finals, murmuring about how much you love him. He feels like a monster. He is a fraud, a liar, a manipulator playing God with your life. But then he pictures you getting on that plane at Logan International Airport, walking out of his life and taking three thousand miles of distance between you, and the guilt instantly evaporates, replaced by a fierce, possessive resolve.
He cannot lose you. He will not lose you.
Four weeks in, you miss your period.
Dean knows exactly what day it’s supposed to start because he has been tracking it in his head like a madman. But when the day comes and goes, you don’t even blink.
“I’m just stressed,” you tell him one afternoon, waving off his carefully casual question while you aggressively highlight a textbook. “My cycle is always wonky when I’m stressed. Between finals, graduation, and the move, my body is probably just freaking out. It’ll come.”
Dean nods, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm indifference, while inside, a tiny spark of hope ignites.
But as week five turns into week six, and week six bleeds into week seven, the spark turns into a roaring fire.
Because Dean starts noticing the signs. Even before you do.
It starts with the coffee. You are a notorious caffeine addict. You practically bleed espresso. But one morning in the kitchen of the hockey house, Dean sets a fresh, steaming mug of your favorite dark roast on the counter next to you. You reach for it, bring it to your lips, and suddenly pale.
“Ugh,” you grimace, pushing the mug away. “Did you burn this?”
Dean blinks, looking at the coffee pot. “No? I made it the exact same way I always do.”
“It smells like burnt plastic,” you say, pressing a hand to your stomach and stepping back from the island. “Actually, could you just pour it down the sink? The smell is making me nauseous.”
Dean slowly picks up the mug, his eyes fixed on your pale face. He pours it down the drain, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud in his chest. Nausea. Aversion to smells.
Then comes the fatigue.
You have always been a night owl, staying up until two in the morning to finish a painting or study. But right around the eight-week mark, Dean finds you dead asleep at seven-thirty in the evening. You fall asleep on his bed, on the couch, once even sitting straight up at your desk with a paintbrush still in your hand.
“I’m just so tired, Dean,” you murmur one evening, burying your face in his chest as you lie on the couch. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. My bones feel heavy.”
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he soothes, stroking your hair. “Just rest, baby. I’ve got you.”
And then, there are the physical changes. Dean knows your body better than he knows his own playbook. He notices the subtle softening of your
stomach, the slight rounding of your hips. He notices that your breasts are fuller, and that you flinch slightly when he brushes against them.
“They’re sore,” you complain one night as you change into one of his oversized t-shirts. “I think my period is finally coming. PMS is hitting me like a truck this month.”
Dean just smiles softly from the bed, his blood humming with a dark, triumphant thrill. He knows it isn’t PMS. He knows exactly what it is.
It’s working. He did it. You are pregnant. You are carrying his child, and you don’t even know it yet.
But Dean also knows he can’t push it. If he suggests you take a test out of nowhere, you might get suspicious. He has to wait for you to come to the realization on your own. He has to let it be your idea.
The breaking point finally arrives on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
Your apartment is almost entirely packed. There are only two weeks left until your flight to California. The reality of the move has been a dark cloud hanging over Dean’s head, but today, that cloud is about to break.
You are standing in the middle of your living room, taping up a box of books, when you suddenly freeze. The roll of packing tape slips from your fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
“Babe?” Dean asks from where he’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, sorting through some of your records. “You good?”
You don’t answer. Your face drains of all color, turning a terrifying, translucent shade of gray. You clap a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide and panicked.
And then, you sprint for the bathroom.
Dean is on his feet instantly, tossing the records aside and chasing after you. He reaches the bathroom just in time to see you drop to your knees in front of the toilet. You retch violently, your shoulders heaving as you empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl.
“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Dean says immediately, dropping to his knees beside you. He gathers your hair in one hand, holding it back from your face, and uses his other hand to rub soothing circles onto your back. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”
You gag again, a miserable, choking sound, before finally collapsing back on your heels. You are trembling violently, tears streaming down your cheeks. Dean reaches up and flushes the toilet, then grabs a damp washcloth from the sink and gently wipes your mouth.
“Food poisoning?” Dean asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “What did we eat for lunch?”
“I don’t …” You shake your head, taking a ragged breath. You lean back against the bathtub, pulling your knees to your chest. You look completely terrified. “Dean.”
“What is it?” He asks softly, sitting cross-legged in front of you.
“Dean, what’s today’s date?”
“May sixteenth,” he answers smoothly.
You let out a quiet, strangled gasp. Your hands fly up into your hair, gripping the roots. “Oh my god.”
“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me.” Dean leans forward, placing his hands on your knees, projecting nothing but steady, loving concern.
“I’m late,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain lashing against the bathroom window. “Dean, I’m so late. I missed my period in April. And now May is halfway through. I haven’t … I haven’t had a period in almost two months.”
Dean allows his eyes to widen in perfectly calculated shock. “Two months?”
“I thought it was stress!” You cry out, your voice cracking. A fresh wave of tears spills over your eyelashes. “I thought it was just the graduation stress, and the move, and … oh my god. The coffee. The exhaustion. I’ve been throwing up all morning.”
“Okay. Hey, look at me.” Dean moves closer, framing your face with his large hands. He wipes your tears with his thumbs. “Look at me. Don’t panic. There are a million reasons you could be late. You said it yourself, the stress is insane right now. Nausea could be a stomach bug.”
“Dean, I need to know,” you sob, grabbing his wrists. “I can’t … I can’t just sit here and wonder. I need to take a test.”
“Okay,” Dean says, his voice a soothing, deep rumble. “Okay. I’ll go to the pharmacy right now. You stay here. Get into bed, drink some water. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I promise.”
“Hurry,” you beg, your eyes wild with fear.
“I will.” Dean kisses your forehead, lingering for a second, before standing up and rushing out of the apartment.
The moment he is alone in his truck, the mask drops.
Dean grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, and lets out a massive, shuddering breath. A wild, manic energy surges through his veins. He drives to the nearest CVS, ignoring the speed limit entirely. He buys three different brands of pregnancy tests — Clearblue, First Response, the generic CVS brand — and a pack of prenatal vitamins to keep for later.
When he returns to your apartment, you are sitting on the edge of your bare mattress, staring blankly at the wall. You look incredibly small, swallowed up in one of his Harvard Law sweatshirts.
Dean walks in and gently sets the plastic bag on the bed next to you.
You stare at the bag like there is a live bomb inside it.
“I got a few different kinds,” Dean says quietly, sitting down beside you. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here.”
You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly. “What if it’s positive, Dean?”
“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” he lies effortlessly. He crossed that bridge two months ago. “Go. Take the test.”
You grab the bag with shaking hands and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.
Dean stands in the hallway outside the bathroom. The wait is excruciating. The box said three minutes. It feels like three agonizing lifetimes. He leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of plastic rustling from the other side of the thin wooden door.
He knows the result. He engineered the result. But the anticipation is still burning him alive from the inside out.
Five minutes pass.
The bathroom is dead silent.
“Babe?” Dean calls out softly, rapping his knuckles gently against the door. “Are you okay in there?”
Silence.
And then, a sound that sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine. It’s a sob. A raw, devastating, heartbroken sob that tears from your chest and echoes in the small hallway.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns the handle and pushes the door open.
You are sitting on the tile floor, your back pressed against the vanity cabinets. Your face is buried in your hands, and your shoulders are shaking violently. Three plastic sticks are scattered on the floor in front of you.
Dean drops to his knees. He glances down.
Two pink lines. A bold, undeniable plus sign. And the word Pregnant glowing on the digital screen.
All three. Positive.
Dean’s heart explodes in his chest. A fierce, predatory surge of possessiveness, of ultimate triumph, washes over him so intensely he almost dizzy. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.
You’re his. You’re staying. It worked.
But outwardly, Dean is the picture of a devastated, supportive boyfriend. He shoves the tests aside and scrambles forward, pulling you into his arms.
You collapse against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing hysterically into his shirt. “It’s positive,” you cry, your voice muffled against his collarbone. “Dean, they’re all positive. I’m pregnant. Oh my god, I’m pregnant.”
“Shh, I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He buries his face in your hair, holding you as close as humanly possible. “It’s okay. Breathe, baby, breathe. I’ve got you.”
“My life is over,” you sob, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “Stanford. The MFA program. I can’t go to California. I can’t move across the country. I don’t have the money for a baby. My parents cut me off. Dean, what am I going to do?”
“Hey, listen to me.” Dean pulls back just enough to force you to look at him. Your eyes are bloodshot, tears streaming endlessly down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Your life is not over. Do you hear me? You are not in this alone. I am right here.”
“But Stanford-”
“Stanford can wait,” Dean says firmly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. “Art can wait. But whatever happens, whatever you want to do, I am with you. One hundred percent.”
You sniffle, looking up at him with desperate, seeking eyes. “What do you mean?”
Dean takes a deep breath, preparing to deliver the most manipulative performance of his entire life. He knows you. He knows your heart. He knows exactly which buttons to press to get the outcome he wants.
“I mean, the choice is entirely yours,” Dean says softly, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You are the one who has to carry this burden. It’s your body. It’s your future. If you are not ready for this … if you want to go to Stanford and live your dream …”
Dean pauses, swallowing hard to make it look like the words are physically paining him to say.
“If you don’t want to keep it,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “I will support you. Completely. No judgment. No guilt. I will stand up right now, I will walk you out to my truck, and I will drive you to Planned Parenthood myself. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, and I’ll pay for everything. And we will never speak of it again, and you can get on that plane in two weeks.”
You stare at him, the tears freezing on your cheeks.
Dean holds his breath. It is the ultimate gamble. He is giving you the out. He is offering you the exact thing that would ruin all his plans. But he knows that if he tries to force you, if he acts too possessive or tries to trap you openly, you will run. You have to believe it is your choice.
You look down at the three tests scattered on the floor.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Dean’s heart is hammering so loudly he is terrified you can hear it.
“No,” you whisper.
Dean exhales, a slow, silent breath out of his nose. “No?”
You shake your head, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. You reach out, your trembling fingers brushing over the digital test that spells out the word Pregnant.
“No,” you say again, your voice shaking but finding a sliver of resolve. You look back up at him, your eyes searching his face. “Dean … this baby is half me. But it’s half you, too.”
“I know, baby,” he whispers, reaching down to take your hand.
“I love you,” you cry, squeezing his hand tightly. “I love you so much. And … and we created this. Together. I can’t … I can’t just end it. I could never do that. Not to a piece of you.”
Dean feels a genuine lump form in his throat, overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating purity of your love for him. You are so good. You are so incredibly, beautifully good, and you are sacrificing your dream because you love him too much to let his child go.
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, his voice thick with fake hesitation. “You don’t have to do this for me, Y/N. I told you, I support whatever you need.”
“I’m sure,” you sob, throwing yourself back into his arms. “I’m sure. I want to keep it. I want our baby. But I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t have a family to help me.”
“You have me,” Dean says fiercely, wrapping his arms around you like a vice. He pulls you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You have me. I am your family now. I will take care of you. I’ll take care of both of you.”
“What about Harvard?” You cry against his collarbone. “What about my scholarship? Where are we going to live?”
“I’ll handle it,” Dean promises, his voice low and vibrating against your skin. “I’ll handle everything. I’ll call a realtor tomorrow. I’ll buy us a house in Cambridge. A beautiful house, with a room for a nursery and a room with huge windows for your art studio. You can defer Stanford. You can paint at home. I’ll work, I’ll go to school, and I will provide for you. You will never have to worry about a single thing ever again.”
You cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he is a lifeline in the middle of a raging ocean. “Promise me, Dean. Promise me you won’t leave me.”
“I am never, ever leaving you,” Dean vows, his grip on you tightening. “You’re mine. Forever.”
“I love you,” you weep into his chest, completely surrendering to him, completely trusting him.
“I love you too, baby,” Dean murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “So much.”
He holds you there on the bathroom floor as you cry out the last of your fear and grief for the future you just lost. He rubs your back, he murmurs sweet, comforting words into your ear, and he plays the role of the perfect, supportive partner flawlessly.
But as you press your face against his chest, completely blind to his expression, Dean slowly lifts his head.
He stares at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
His eyes are dark, burning with a terrifying, absolute victory. The panic, the agonizing anxiety of the last two months is completely gone, replaced by a cold, settling sense of permanent ownership.
Dean pulls you just a fraction of an inch closer, his hand resting protectively over your flat stomach.
And as you continue to cry into his chest, entirely unaware of the cage that has just locked firmly into place around you, Dean smiles.
***
The smell of stale beer, fried food, and cheap cologne at Malone’s usually brings a sense of comfortable familiarity. Tonight, it just makes you want to gag.
You slide into the worn vinyl booth, wedging yourself into the corner next to Dean. The leather of his jacket squeaks against the seat as he crowds in beside you, his thigh heavily against yours. Across the table, Garrett Graham is already deep into a heated argument with Logan about the Bruins’ defensive woes, while Tucker and Beau are trying to flag down a waitress over the din of the Friday night crowd.
“I’m telling you, it’s a weak blue line,” Garrett says, slapping his hand on the sticky table for emphasis. “If they don’t trade for a solid two-way defenseman, they’re getting swept in the first round. Tell him, Dean.”
“Leave me out of it,” Dean replies, his arm casually slung over the back of the booth behind your shoulders. His fingers idly play with the ends of your hair. “I’m off the clock.”
A waitress finally weaves through the crowd, slamming a tray of water glasses onto the table. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two pitchers of the IPA,” Garrett orders without hesitation. “And a round of tequila shots. We’re celebrating. I passed my sports management final.”
“Barely,” Logan mutters.
“A pass is a pass, John. Don’t be a hater.” Garrett looks over at you and Dean. “You guys in for the shots?”
“No shots for us,” Dean says smoothly, his hand dropping from the back of the booth to rest firmly on your thigh under the table. His thumb strokes a soothing circle against your denim-clad leg. “Just a Coke for me, and an iced tea with lemon for her.”
The entire table goes dead silent.
Garrett slowly lowers his menu. Logan squints at Dean. Tucker, who was mid-sip of water, slowly sets his glass down. Even Beau leans forward, looking between the two of you like you just announced you’re joining a cult.
“A Coke,” Garrett repeats, the words slow and dripping with suspicion. “For Dean Di Laurentis. On a Friday night. At Malone’s.”
“You sick, man?” Beau asks, his brow furrowing.
“And you’re not drinking either?” Logan asks, turning his sharp gaze on you. “You literally just graduated. You should be funneling champagne right now.”
You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You look up at Dean. He looks perfectly calm. In fact, he looks incredibly smug, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze before he meets the stares of his closest friends.
“We’re not drinking,” Dean says, his voice steady and clear over the background noise of the bar, “because we have some news.”
“Oh my god,” Tucker breathes out, his eyes widening dramatically. He points a finger at you. “Are you guys getting married? Did you elope?”
“No,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Not married. At least, not yet.” He turns his head to look down at you, his green eyes softening in that specific, devastating way they only ever do for you. “Ready?”
You take a deep breath, your stomach doing a nervous flip, and nod.
Dean turns back to the table. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He just drops the bomb with a grin that could rival the sun.
“Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”
For three agonizing seconds, no one breathes. The silence at the table is so profound you can hear the ice clinking in Garrett’s water glass.
Then, absolute chaos erupts.
“Holy shit!” Garrett bellows, lunging across the table to grab Dean by the collar of his jacket and shake him. “Holy shit, Di Laurentis!”
Logan is laughing, a booming, genuine sound as he runs a hand over his face. “I don’t believe it. I actually do not believe it. You? A dad?”
“Congratulations, man!” Beau shouts over the noise, reaching over to slap Dean hard on the shoulder.
Tucker looks like he might actually cry. “Oh my god. There’s going to be a little Di Laurentis running around.”
“Hey, easy on the jacket, Graham,” Dean laughs, shoving Garrett off him, but he’s beaming. He looks so incredibly proud, his chest puffed out, absorbing the shock and excitement of his brothers.
“Wait, wait,” Logan says, holding up a hand to quiet the table. He looks at you, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. “How are you doing? Are you okay? You’re moving to California in like, a week.”
The question hangs in the air. You feel a familiar, heavy ache in your chest at the mention of California, but before you can even open your mouth, Dean steps in.
“She’s not going,” Dean says, his voice taking on a firm, protective edge. “We’re staying here. I’m going to Harvard in the fall, and we’re looking for a place in Cambridge together.”
Garrett leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. He looks at you closely. “Giving up Stanford? That’s huge. You sure you’re okay with that?”
“I am,” you say, and to your surprise, your voice doesn’t waver. And it’s true. The initial devastation has faded, replaced by a quiet, fierce dedication to the tiny life growing inside you. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but … this is our family. Stanford will still be there someday. Right now, I need to be here.”
“Damn right you do,” Tucker says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “We’ve got your back. All of us. You need anything — groceries, midnight ice cream runs, someone to put together a crib — you call us. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” Logan agrees, raising his water glass. “To the newest Briar mascot. God help us all.”
The guys clink their glasses together, the tension fully dissipating into a warm, chaotic celebration. You lean into Dean’s side, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over you. They aren’t judging you. They aren’t questioning the timeline. They are just happy.
You look up at Dean. He is watching you, that same dark, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. He leans down and presses a hard kiss to your temple.
“Told you they’d be thrilled,” he murmurs against your skin.
***
Two weeks later, the hunt for a house begins.
“It’s just … it’s a lot of money, Dean,” you say quietly, standing on the sidewalk of a quiet, tree-lined street in Cambridge.
In front of you sits a massive, stunning three-story brownstone. It has creeping ivy climbing up the brick exterior, a set of heavy, double oak doors, and huge bay windows that look out over the cobblestone street. It is beautiful. It is perfect. And it is completely, obscenely out of your budget.
“I told you not to look at the price tag,” Dean says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking at the house with you. “My trust fund is built for stuff like this. It’s an investment.”
“It’s an estate,” you correct him. “Dean, it has five bedrooms. There are three of us. Well, two and a half.”
“We need a master bedroom, a nursery, a guest room for my parents or the guys, an office for me to study for law school, and a room for you,” he lists off easily, kissing your cheek. “That’s five. It’s perfectly practical.”
“Practical,” you scoff, though a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.
The real estate agent, a sharp-looking woman named Sylvia, pushes the front door open and gestures for you both to follow.
The inside is even more breathtaking. Original hardwood floors, crown molding, a massive kitchen with a marble island, and a working fireplace in the living room. It smells like lemon polish and old money.
Dean walks through the rooms with a critical eye, checking water pressure, knocking on walls, and asking Sylvia questions about the roof and the HVAC system. You follow slightly behind, feeling completely out of your depth. A month ago, you were prepared to live in a converted garage with a hot plate. Now, you are touring a multi-million-dollar property in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.
“And finally, the top floor,” Sylvia says, leading you up a narrow, winding wooden staircase. “The previous owners used it as a storage space, but it has phenomenal potential.”
You reach the top of the stairs and step into the attic.
You gasp.
It spans the entire length of the house. The ceiling is vaulted, with exposed wooden beams, but the true masterpiece is the lighting. There are four massive skylights built into the pitched roof, and the far wall is entirely comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. The afternoon sun pours into the room, bathing the dust motes in a warm, golden glow.
It is the most spectacular natural lighting you have ever seen in your life.
“Oh,” you whisper, walking slowly toward the windows. You run your hand along the sill. “Wow.”
“You like it?” Dean asks. He is standing by the stairs, watching you intently. He hasn’t looked at the room at all. He is only looking at you.
“It’s incredible,” you breathe out, turning around to face him. “The light in here … you could paint for hours without needing a single lamp. It’s perfect.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, blinding smile, and walks over to you. He wraps his hands around your waist. “It’s yours. We’ll rip up this old carpet, put down some hardwood that you don’t mind getting paint on. We’ll install a huge utility sink over there in the corner for your brushes. Whatever you want.”
“Dean, you don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “This is going to be your studio. Just because you aren’t going to Stanford doesn’t mean you stop painting. You are an artist. You need a space.”
You feel tears prick the backs of your eyes, a hormonal surge of emotion hitting you out of nowhere. You rest your forehead against his chest. “You are too good to me.”
“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to rest flat against your stomach. “Or my girl and my boy. Whichever.”
He pulls back slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. He looks into your eyes, his brow furrowing just a fraction. It’s a perfectly rehearsed look of supportive concern.
“You know,” Dean starts, his voice gentle. “We are in Boston. There are amazing programs here. BU, MassArt, even Tufts. We could look into applications for the spring semester. You could still do your MFA locally. We can hire a nanny for when we’re both in class.”
He offers the words smoothly, laying the trap with expert precision. He knows exactly how you will react, but he needs to say it. He needs to play the role of the partner who is willing to move mountains to keep your dream alive, so you never, ever suspect that he is the one who killed it.
You sigh, leaning back from him slightly to look out the window.
“I appreciate it, Dean. I really do. But … no.”
“No?” He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” you explain, rubbing your arms. “I’m due in January. Right in the middle of the winter semester. Even if I got in somewhere, I’d have to drop out immediately to have the baby. And I don’t want a nanny raising our newborn while I’m locked in a studio across town. I want to be here. I want to raise our kid.”
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, stepping closer and cupping your cheek. “I don’t want you to resent me. Or the baby. I don’t want you to feel like you gave everything up.”
“I’m sure,” you say softly, turning your face to kiss his palm. “I have this beautiful house. I have you. I’m going to have a baby, and a studio right upstairs. I have everything I need right here.”
Dean pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck so you can’t see his face.
He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, and a massive, shuddering wave of relief and victory washes over him.
You’re done fighting, he thinks, his grip on you tightening possessively. You’re staying. You’re his.
“Okay,” Dean whispers against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, hidden triumph. “Okay, baby. We’ll buy the house.”
***
The true test comes three days later.
Lori Heyward and Peter Di Laurentis are flying into Boston for a legal conference, and Dean has made a dinner reservation for the four of you at Ostra, one of the most exclusive seafood restaurants in the Back Bay.
You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in your dorm room, staring at your reflection, feeling like you are about to throw up.
“I look huge,” you whisper, pulling at the fabric of your black dress.
“You are eight weeks pregnant, you do not look huge,” Dean says from the bed. He is already dressed in a charcoal suit that makes him look devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly grown-up. He walks over to you, swatting your hands away and smoothing the fabric of the dress down your hips. “You look gorgeous. Stop stressing.”
“I can’t stop stressing, Dean,” you say, your voice rising in panic. You turn to face him, your chest heaving. “Your parents are high-powered attorneys. They deal with sharks for a living. They are going to see right through me.”
Dean frowns, his hands resting on your waist. “See through what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I am a broke art student who just got pregnant by their son!” You cry out, burying your face in your hands. “They are going to think I trapped you. They’re going to think I poked holes in the condoms. They’re going to think I’m a gold-digger who locked down the Di Laurentis fortune. They are going to hate me.”
Dean flinches.
The words hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The bitter, sickening irony of your fear threatens to choke him. You are terrified of being accused of the exact monstrous thing that he actually did to you.
“Hey,” Dean says sharply, grabbing your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me.”
You blink up at him, tears swimming in your eyes.
“My parents love you,” Dean says, and for the first time in weeks, he is telling the absolute, unvarnished truth. “My mom has been obsessed with you since the day I brought you home for Thanksgiving sophomore year. My dad thinks you’re the only person who can keep me in line. They know who you are. They know you didn’t do this on purpose.”
Because I did, he adds silently in his head.
“But the timing-”
“The timing is a surprise,” Dean interrupts smoothly. “But it’s a happy surprise. Trust me. You are going to be fine. Let me handle the talking.”
He kisses you hard, pouring all of his protective energy into the contact.
An hour later, you are sitting in a plush leather booth at Ostra. The lighting is dim, the clinking of crystal glasses fills the air, and you are vibrating with anxiety.
Lori Heyward is a force of nature. She has sharp, striking features, perfectly blown-out blonde hair, and is wearing a white blazer that probably costs more than your entire college tuition. Peter is a massive, intimidating man with a booming laugh and Dean’s green eyes.
“So, Y/N,” Lori says, elegantly slicing into her sea bass. “Dean tells us the Stanford move is off. I have to admit, I was shocked when he told me. That MFA program is incredibly difficult to get into.”
You freeze, your fork hovering over your plate. You shoot a panicked look at Dean.
Dean reaches under the table, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing firmly. He clears his throat, setting his own fork down.
“Actually, Mom, Dad … there’s a reason she isn’t going,” Dean says. His voice is calm, authoritative, and totally in control. “We wanted to tell you both in person.”
Peter pauses, taking a sip of his wine. He looks between the two of you, his thick eyebrows raising. “Well? Out with it. Did you fail a class, Dean? Because if Harvard rescinds that acceptance …”
“Harvard is fine, Dad,” Dean says, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks at you, gives your hand another squeeze, and looks back at his parents. “Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”
The reaction is instantaneous.
Lori drops her fork. It clatters loudly against the fine china plate, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her mouth falls open, her perfectly manicured hands flying up to cover her lips.
Peter chokes on his wine, coughing loudly into his napkin before staring at Dean with wide, shocked eyes.
You brace yourself. You wait for the narrowed eyes. You wait for the accusations. You wait for Lori to ask for a paternity test or a prenuptial agreement.
Instead, Lori’s eyes well up with tears.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice cracking completely. “A baby?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “A baby. Due in late January.”
Lori practically scrambles out of the booth. She completely abandons decorum, rushing around the table and pulling you right out of your seat. She wraps her arms around you in a crushing, fiercely tight hug. She smells like expensive perfume and genuine, overwhelming joy.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Lori cries, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, this is the best news. This is wonderful! I’m going to be a grandmother!”
You stand there, stunned, your arms hovering awkwardly before you slowly wrap them around Lori’s back. “You … you aren’t mad?”
“Mad?” Peter booms, standing up from his side of the booth and walking over. He wraps his massive arms around both you and Lori, pulling you into a group hug. “Why the hell would we be mad? You’re giving us a grandchild!”
“But … the timing,” you stammer, looking between them as they finally pull back. “We’re so young. And Dean is just starting law school. I thought … I was worried you would think I …”
“Y/N,” Lori says softly, reaching out to cup your face in her warm hands. Her sharp eyes soften completely. “We know exactly who you are. We know you come from that awful, stiff-necked Kennedy family, and we know you walked away from millions of dollars just to paint. You don’t care about our money. You care about our son.”
She looks over at Dean, who is watching the exchange with a soft, satisfied expression.
“We love you,” Lori continues, wiping a stray tear from under her eye. “You are already family to us. The fact that you’re having Dean’s child? It’s a blessing. A complete blessing.”
You finally break. The anxiety that has been coiling in your chest for weeks snaps, and you burst into tears. You cover your face with your hands, sobbing in the middle of the fancy restaurant.
“Oh, honey, the hormones,” Lori coos sympathetically, pulling you back into her arms and rubbing your back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We are going to spoil this baby rotten. We are going to buy out the entire baby section at Neiman Marcus tomorrow.”
“We’re buying a house,” Dean announces proudly from the table, clearly riding the high of his parents’ reaction. “A brownstone in Cambridge. Closing next week.”
“I’ll have my interior designer call you on Monday,” Lori says immediately, not missing a beat. She pulls back and looks at you warmly. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We are here for you.”
You look over Lori’s shoulder at Dean.
He is leaning back against the leather booth, looking like a king sitting on a throne. He has his parents’ money, he has his Harvard acceptance, he has the house in Cambridge, and, most importantly, he has you. Completely, irreversibly, forever.
He catches your eye and winks, a slow, dark, possessive smirk playing on his lips.
You smile back through your tears, feeling so incredibly lucky to have a man who loves you this much. A man who protects you, provides for you, and stands by you no matter what.
You have absolutely no idea that you are thanking the wolf for guarding the sheep.
***
September in Cambridge brings a crisp chill to the air, turning the leaves on the ancient oak trees into brilliant shades of copper and gold.
It also brings the brutal, unrelenting reality of Harvard Law School.
The transition is jarring. One week, Dean is spending lazy mornings in bed with you, painting the nursery a soft sage green and arguing over crib designs. The next, he is plunged headfirst into a shark tank of hyper-competitive, sleep-deprived geniuses. His schedule is instantly swallowed by torts, contracts, civil procedure, and endless stacks of reading that weigh as much as a small car.
But if anyone expects Dean to crumble under the pressure, they are sorely mistaken. He attacks law school with the exact same ruthless, arrogant confidence he used on the ice. He does the reading, he dominates the Socratic method, and he never, ever lets them see him sweat.
But the biggest change isn’t Dean’s schedule. It’s you.
You are nineteen weeks pregnant, and the nesting instinct has hit you like a freight train.
At first, you spent all your time in the spectacular third-floor studio Dean built for you. You painted for hours, losing yourself in the canvas. But as the weeks drag on and the reality of the brownstone’s quiet emptiness settles in while Dean is at class, a restless, anxious energy begins to vibrate under your skin.
You don’t like the quiet. You don’t like the empty house. Most of all, you don’t like being away from Dean.
So, you find a new project.
“You don’t have to do this, baby,” Dean says, leaning against the marble kitchen island.
He is wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a pair of tailored gray trousers, and a tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looks like a devastatingly handsome young lawyer, but his eyes are entirely focused on you.
You are standing at the stove, wearing a pair of soft black leggings that stretch over the undeniable, perfect little bump at your midsection, and one of Dean’s old Briar Hockey t-shirts. You are carefully placing a homemade, artisanal turkey and brie sandwich into a sleek glass Tupperware container.
“I want to,” you say, snapping the lid shut and tucking it into a brown paper bag along with a container of mixed fruit and a slice of banana bread. “You told me the cafeteria food in the law building tastes like salted cardboard. I am not letting the father of my child survive on salted cardboard.”
“I could just grab something at a café off-campus,” Dean points out, though the massive, self-satisfied smirk on his face completely betrays his words.
“You don’t have time between your civil procedure lecture and your study group,” you counter, grabbing a sharpie from the junk drawer. You quickly draw a small heart on the brown paper bag and hand it to him. “There. Now you have a balanced meal. Eat the fruit, Dean. Don’t just give it to that guy in your study group.”
“Ben is iron-deficient,” Dean jokes, taking the bag from your hands. He sets it on the counter, grabs you by the waist, and pulls you flush against his chest.
His large hands spread out over your lower back, his thumbs resting just above the curve of your hips. He looks down at you, his green eyes dark and warm.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “But seriously. You’re supposed to be resting. Or painting. Not playing 1950s housewife for me.”
“I like doing it,” you admit softly, resting your hands flat against his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. “The house gets so quiet when you leave. It makes me anxious. Taking care of you gives me something to focus on.”
Dean’s chest swells. A dark, possessive thrill shoots straight down his spine.
He loves this. God, he loves this so much it makes his teeth ache. He loves that you are seeking him out. He loves that your entire world has shrunk down to this beautiful house, your art, and him. The fact that the silence of the house makes you anxious — that you literally crave his presence to feel grounded — is the greatest victory he could have ever engineered.
“If you get lonely, you call me,” Dean orders softly, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a lecture. You call, and I’ll walk right out.”
“You will absolutely not walk out of a Harvard Law lecture just because I’m feeling a little clingy,” you laugh, swatting his chest.
“Watch me,” he challenges, entirely serious. He kisses you then, deep and lingering, tasting like mint toothpaste and coffee. “I have to go. Contracts wait for no man.”
“Knock ‘em dead, counselor,” you smile, fixing the collar of his shirt.
He grabs his leather messenger bag, his lunch, and heads out the front door.
But by 12:30 PM, the silence of the brownstone becomes suffocating again. You put your brushes down, wipe the cerulean paint off your hands, and look at the clock.
Dean has a break at 1:00.
You make a split-second decision. You go downstairs, pack a fresh container of pasta salad you made yesterday, grab two bottles of sparkling water, and throw on a long, cozy cardigan over your leggings.
***
The courtyard outside Austin Hall is swarming with law students. The air is thick with tension, the smell of burnt coffee, and the frantic sound of people debating case law.
Dean is sitting at a wrought-iron patio table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He is surrounded by three other first-year students. They all look like they are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he’s waiting for a bus. Cool, relaxed, entirely unbothered.
“But if you apply the ruling from Hawkins v. McGee,” a highly strung girl named Katelyn says rapidly, aggressively highlighting a massive textbook, “the expectation damages have to be calculated based on the difference between the promised state and the actual state.”
“Katelyn, breathe,” Dean says lazily, leaning back in his chair. “You’re overthinking it. The professor doesn’t want you to just regurgitate the formula. He wants you to argue why the formula is flawed in this specific application. Pivot to the ambiguity of the contract.”
“Easy for you to say,” grumbles Ben, a pale guy with thick glasses. “You got cold-called today and practically gave a TED talk.”
Dean just smirks, reaching for his water bottle.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice says.
Dean’s head snaps up.
You are standing at the edge of the patio table, holding a canvas tote bag. Your hair is pulled back into a loose braid, and the soft beige cardigan clings perfectly to the distinct, rounded curve of your belly.
The transformation in Dean is instantaneous.
The arrogant, laid-back law student vanishes. He is on his feet before you can even take another step, closing the distance between you and wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders.
“Hey,” Dean says, his voice entirely different — softer, warmer, dripping with devotion. He pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple in front of everyone. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?”
“We’re fine,” you laugh softly, leaning into his side. “I just … I finished painting early. And I realized you were probably going to be hungry again after that sandwich, so I brought the pasta salad.”
Dean looks down at you like you just handed him the winning lottery numbers. He doesn’t care about the pasta salad. He cares that you couldn’t stay away from him. He cares that you walked right onto his campus, into his territory, for everyone to see.
“You are incredible,” he murmurs, kissing you again, lingering a little longer this time.
He turns back to the table, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his side so your bump is proudly on display.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his chest puffed out. “My girl.”
The three law students stare at you in varying states of shock.
“Hi,” you say politely, offering a small wave.
“Oh,” Katelyn says, blinking rapidly. She looks from Dean to your stomach, and then back up to Dean. “Wow. Hi. I’m Katelyn. We didn’t … Dean didn’t mention he was …”
“Expecting?” Ben finishes, adjusting his glasses. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls out the chair he was just sitting in and gently guides you into it. “Sit. You shouldn’t be standing too long.”
You roll your eyes, but you sit down, digging into your tote bag to pull out the Tupperware containers and the forks.
Over the next few weeks, this becomes your routine.
Whenever you feel that creeping, lonely anxiety in the big empty house, you pack a bag and take the short walk to campus. You become a fixture in the courtyard. The terrifyingly intense law students quickly realize that the only way to get Dean Di Laurentis to help them with their outlines is to be extremely nice to his pregnant girlfriend.
They bring you decaf coffee. They offer you their chairs. They ask about the baby.
And Dean? Dean thrives on it.
He loves sitting at a table with his arm draped over the back of your chair, his hand absentmindedly resting on your stomach while he debates property law with his peers. He loves the jealous looks he gets from other guys when you show up looking effortlessly beautiful, carrying his lunch. He loves that everyone on campus knows exactly who you belong to.
It happens on a crisp Tuesday afternoon in October.
You are sitting next to Dean on a stone bench just outside the law library. He is eating a slice of quiche you brought him, and you are resting your head on his shoulder, soaking in the autumn sun.
“Di Laurentis,” a stern voice calls out.
Dean pauses, swallowing his bite of quiche. He looks up as Professor Richards, an intimidating, gray-haired man who teaches constitutional law, stops in front of your bench.
“Professor,” Dean greets easily.
“Excellent brief on the Marbury application today,” Richards says, adjusting his briefcase. “Your argument regarding judicial review limitations was surprisingly concise.”
“Appreciate it,” Dean says, offering a polite nod.
Richards’s sharp eyes shift down to you. You sit up slightly, offering a polite, nervous smile.
“And this must be the famous lunch-delivery service I’ve been hearing about,” Richards says dryly, though there is a hint of amusement in his eyes. He looks at your bump. “Congratulations to you both.”
“Thank you,” you say.
“I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” Richards says, extending a hand. “Robert Richards.”
You reach out and shake his hand. “Y/N Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you.”
Richards’s hand freezes. He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately. His gray eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, his expression shifting from polite indifference to sharp, sudden intrigue.
“Kennedy?” Richards repeats, the word hanging heavily in the air.
He looks at your face closely, studying your bone structure, your eyes, the tilt of your chin. In elite East Coast circles, that name is royalty. It’s power. It’s money.
“Any relation to Senator Joseph Kennedy?” Richards asks, his tone entirely different now.
You feel your stomach drop. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twists in your gut. You hate this question. You hate the association. Since your family cut you off, hearing their names just feels like a raw wound being poked.
“He’s my uncle,” you say quietly, pulling your hand back from his grip. “But I’m not really … involved in politics. Or with the family, right now.”
Richards looks stunned. He looks at Dean, and then back at you. “A Kennedy. Here, in the courtyard. Well. That certainly explains the poise. Your father must be devastated you didn’t choose the law yourself.”
You swallow hard, looking down at your lap. “Something like that.”
Dean feels the exact moment your body tenses. He feels the anxiety radiating off you.
A dark, protective rage flares in his chest, instantly mingling with that deep-seated, possessive pride. He knows exactly what Richards is thinking. Richards is looking at you like you are a prized show pony, an elite piece of political capital. He is looking at you like you belong to the Kennedys.
Dean stands up.
He doesn’t do it aggressively, but the sheer size of him, the broadness of his shoulders, instantly forces Richards to take a half-step back.
Dean steps directly into Richards’s line of sight, blocking his view of you. He reaches down, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers tightly through yours. He pulls your hand up, resting it firmly against the center of his chest.
“She’s an artist,” Dean says. His voice is perfectly polite, but the underlying steel in his tone is unmistakable. It is a warning.
“An artist,” Richards repeats, clearly recovering his composure. “Well. A Kennedy venturing into the fine arts. How … modern.”
Dean smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his voice ringing out clearly in the quiet courtyard. He looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, before locking his piercing gaze back onto the professor.
“She won’t be a Kennedy for long,” Dean states, his words slow and deliberate.
Richards blinks. “Excuse me?”
Dean’s grip on your hand tightens. He looks at the professor with absolute, unyielding dominance.
“I said, she won’t be a Kennedy for long. She’ll be a Di Laurentis soon.”
The courtyard seems to go completely silent.
Richards stares at Dean for a long, calculating moment. He is a man who understands power dynamics, and he clearly recognizes that he has just stepped directly onto Dean Di Laurentis’s fiercely guarded territory.
“I see,” Richards finally says, clearing his throat. He offers a tight, formal nod. “Well. Best of luck with the wedding. And the baby. Good day, Mr. Di Laurentis. Ms. Kennedy.”
Richards turns and walks briskly away toward the faculty building.
As soon as he is out of earshot, you let out a massive, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your shoulders slump, and you cover your face with your free hand.
“I hate that,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I hate when people do that. The sudden shift in how they look at me. Like I’m just a walking bank account or a political connection.”
Dean immediately sits back down next to you. He wraps both of his massive arms around you, pulling you onto his lap right there in the middle of the courtyard. He doesn’t care who is watching.
“Hey,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Look at me.”
You drop your hand, looking up into his intense green eyes.
“You are not a walking bank account,” Dean says, his voice low and fierce. “You are the most talented, brilliant, beautiful woman I have ever met. You are going to be an incredible mother. And you don’t need them. You hear me? You don’t need their name, and you don’t need their money.”
“I know,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just … it caught me off guard.”
“They’re cut off,” Dean says darkly, his hand resting securely over your baby bump. “They don’t get to claim you. Not anymore. You’re mine now. This is your family. Me and this baby.”
“I know,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Dean replies, kissing you back, hard and deep.
He holds you there on the bench, completely ignoring the stares of the passing students. He rubs soothing circles into your back until your breathing evens out and the tension finally leaves your body.
He plays the role of the ultimate protector flawlessly. He makes you feel safe, cherished, and completely shielded from the world that rejected you.
But as you rest your head against his chest, finding comfort in his steady heartbeat, Dean stares out across the campus lawn, his mind racing.
He didn’t just say it to put the professor in his place. He said it because it’s the next logical step.
The baby trap was phase one. It anchored you to him. It kept you in Boston. It forced you to rely on him for housing, for support, for everything.
But Dean knows how fragile that is. You are still technically a free agent. You aren’t married. The baby binds you together, but it isn’t a legal lock.
He needs the lock.
He needs a ring on your finger. He needs your name changed. He needs to legally, permanently bind you to him in a way that you can never, ever escape, no matter what you eventually find out.
Dean’s hand slides from your back to rest gently over the swell of your stomach. He feels a tiny, fluttering kick against his palm. His child. His fail-safe.
He looks down at your peaceful face, blissfully unaware of the cage he is meticulously building around you.
Tomorrow.
He will skip his afternoon seminar tomorrow. He will drive into downtown Boston, he will walk into the most exclusive jeweler in the city, and he will buy the biggest, most undeniable diamond they have in the vault.
Because Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t just play to win. He plays for absolute, total possession. And he is almost at the finish line.
***
December in Massachusetts is a bitter, bone-chilling kind of cold, but inside the grand ballroom of the Harvard Club of Boston, the air is suffocatingly warm.
The annual winter alumni networking gala is in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, glittering light over hundreds of Boston’s most elite legal minds, politicians, and high-powered executives. Waiters in crisp white jackets weave through the crowd carrying silver trays of champagne flutes and miniature crab cakes. The dull roar of classical string music and pretentious conversation echoes off the mahogany-paneled walls.
You are standing near a massive, roaring fireplace, holding a crystal glass of sparkling cider and trying very, very hard not to let your exhaustion show.
At thirty-four weeks pregnant, you look like you are about to pop at any second. Your belly is a heavy, undeniable presence beneath the dark emerald velvet of your maternity gown. Your feet, squeezed into a pair of sensible but elegant black flats, are throbbing. You feel massive, clumsy, and entirely out of place among the sleek, tailored crowd.
But you are here for Dean.
Dean is in his element. He is standing about ten feet away, locked in a conversation with a senior partner from a top-tier corporate law firm. He is wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that fits his broad, athletic frame to absolute perfection. His dark blond hair is pushed back, his jaw sharp, his green eyes completely focused as he charms the absolute hell out of the partner.
He looks like a king holding court. He looks like he was born to inhabit these rooms, to shake these hands, to command this kind of power.
But even as he laughs at a joke the senior partner makes, Dean’s eyes flick over to you. It’s a constant, rhythmic check-in. Every two minutes, his gaze finds you across the room. He catches your eye, his lips curving into a soft, private smile that is meant only for you, before he seamlessly turns back to his conversation.
You smile back, taking a sip of your cider. You feel a familiar rush of warmth in your chest. He is so incredibly good to you. Even in a room full of people who could make or break his future career, you are still his absolute center of gravity.
“I think I need to sit down,” you murmur to yourself, feeling a sharp ache in your lower back.
You turn slightly, intending to find an empty chair near the edge of the ballroom.
But as you turn, the crowd parts slightly, and the breath is punched completely out of your lungs.
Standing less than five feet away, holding a glass of scotch and looking exactly as terrifyingly composed as you remember, are George and Marie Kennedy.
Your parents.
You freeze. Your feet weld themselves to the plush carpet. Your heart performs a violent, painful leap into your throat, the glass of cider trembling in your suddenly cold hands.
You haven’t seen them in over a year. Not since the day you stood in their sprawling foyer and told them you were going to art school, and your father coldly informed you that you were no longer welcome under his roof.
They haven’t changed at all. Your father looks sharp and imposing in his tuxedo, his graying hair perfectly styled. Your mother is draped in an ice-blue silk gown, a massive diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. They look wealthy. They look powerful. They look completely devoid of warmth.
Marie’s eyes sweep over the crowd and land directly on you.
She stops. Her gaze drops instantly from your face, scanning down the emerald velvet of your dress, and lands squarely on the massive, undeniable swell of your stomach.
Her eyes widen slightly, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock crossing her perfectly Botoxed features. She grabs your father’s arm, her sharp manicured nails digging into his tuxedo sleeve. She whispers something urgently to him, nodding in your direction.
George Kennedy turns. His cold, calculating eyes lock onto you. He takes in your face, the simple elegance of your dress, and the baby bump that you are suddenly, desperately wishing you could hide.
Your instinct is to run. To turn around, push through the crowd, and hide in the bathroom until Dean can take you home. But your legs refuse to move.
Your parents begin to walk toward you.
They move with a slow, predatory grace, parting the crowd without even trying. Every step they take feels like a hammer striking your chest. You instinctively wrap your free hand around your stomach, a protective gesture for the baby that is currently kicking against your ribs.
“Well,” Marie says as they stop in front of you. Her voice is like cracked ice. Smooth, cold, and incredibly sharp. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Y/N. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”
You swallow hard, your throat feeling like it’s lined with sandpaper. “Mother. Father.”
“Don’t call us that,” George says, his voice low and devoid of any affection. “You lost that privilege the day you decided to embarrass this family.”
The words sting, a fresh lash against an old wound, but you force your chin up. “What are you doing here?”
“We are alumni,” Marie says, taking a sip of her champagne. Her eyes rake over your stomach again, her lips curling into a sneer of pure disgust. “The real question is what you are doing here. And … in this condition. Though, I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
“Excuse me?” You say, your voice trembling slightly.
“Oh, please, Y/N,” your mother sighs, looking at you with complete, humiliating pity. “We all knew that ridiculous little art school fantasy wouldn’t last. Did the money dry up that quickly? Did the reality of living like a peasant finally set in?”
“This has nothing to do with money,” you say, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m here with my boyfriend. He’s a law student.”
“A law student,” George repeats, a harsh, humorless chuckle escaping his chest. “Let me guess. A rich one? Someone with a trust fund?”
“His name is Dean Di Laurentis,” you say, your voice growing firmer, a defensive heat rising in your chest. “And you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Marie leans in slightly, the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume making your nausea spike. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You realized you had no skills, no family name to fall back on, and no money. So you found a boy with a fat wallet and you did the only thing left to do to secure the bag. You got yourself knocked up.”
The words hang in the air between you, vile and suffocating.
“You trapped him,” George adds, his voice dropping to a harsh, vicious whisper. “You spread your legs and trapped some poor, unsuspecting heir because you were too lazy to work and too stubborn to apologize to us. You are a disgrace. You’re little better than a high-priced-”
“Finish that sentence, and I will shatter your jaw into so many pieces the surgeons won’t be able to put it back together.”
The voice is a low, lethal snarl that cuts through the classical music and the chatter of the ballroom like a blade.
You gasp, turning your head.
Dean is standing right behind you.
The charming, relaxed future lawyer is completely gone. In his place is the Briar University enforcer, the hockey player who used to drop his gloves and beat grown men bloody on the ice. His green eyes are black with fury. His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle is jumping erratically in his cheek. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands balled into massive, white-knuckled fists at his sides.
He looks like he is about to commit a murder in the middle of the Harvard Club.
He steps around you, putting his body entirely between you and your parents. He is significantly taller and broader than your father, and the physical threat radiating off him is so intense that both George and Marie instinctively take a step back.
“Dean,” you whisper, terrified.
Dean doesn’t look at you. His murderous gaze is locked on George Kennedy.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Dean demands, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.
“I am speaking to my daughter,” George says, though his voice wavers slightly under the sheer, terrifying intensity of Dean’s stare. “And who are you? The boy she trapped?”
Dean lunges forward.
It’s an involuntary, deeply ingrained reflex. The hockey player in him wants violence. He wants to feel bone crunch under his knuckles. He wants to destroy the man who just made the love of his life look so small and terrified. He raises his right fist, his body coiling like a spring.
“Dean, no!”
You drop your glass. It shatters on the carpet, soaking the floor with cider. You lunge forward, grabbing his raised arm with both hands.
“Don’t,” you beg, your voice cracking. “Dean, please. He’s not worth it. Don’t ruin your career over him. Please.”
Dean freezes.
The desperate, trembling sound of your voice cuts through the red haze of his rage. He looks down at your hands, gripping his tuxedo sleeve, and then at your face. You look terrified, pale, and on the verge of tears.
He takes a harsh, ragged breath. The violent tension doesn’t leave his body, but he slowly lowers his fist. He covers your hands with his, squeezing tightly to reassure you, before turning his attention back to your parents.
He chooses a different weapon.
“My name is Dean Di Laurentis,” Dean says, his voice no longer a snarl, but something much colder. Something smooth, calculated, and infinitely more dangerous. He speaks with the absolute authority of a man who knows exactly how much power he wields. “My father is Peter Di Laurentis. My mother is Lori Heyward. I’m sure you know the names.”
George Kennedy pales. The arrogant sneer drops off his face instantly.
Of course he knows the names. The Di Laurentis family is legal royalty in New England. They own half of the corporate real estate in Boston, and their law firm has the power to destroy entire political campaigns with a single phone call.
“I … I am familiar,” George says tightly.
“Good,” Dean says, a dark, cruel smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then you know that I am not some poor, unsuspecting heir. And you know that I am the last person in this room you want to piss off.”
Marie crosses her arms, though her hands are trembling slightly. “Mr. Di Laurentis, we were simply trying to warn you. You are young. You have a bright future. Y/N is manipulative. She knew what she was doing when she let this happen. She wanted your money.”
Dean actually laughs. It is a harsh, mocking sound that makes a few people at the neighboring tables turn their heads.
The bitter, twisted irony of the accusation almost makes him want to scream. They think you trapped him. They think you are the master manipulator. They have absolutely no idea that you cried for hours over losing your dream, while Dean smiled into your hair because his sick, desperate plan worked perfectly.
“Let me make something incredibly clear to both of you,” Dean says, stepping slightly closer to them, forcing them to look up at him. “Y/N didn’t trap me. She didn’t want my money. In fact, she fought me tooth and nail when I tried to pay for her groceries.”
He pauses, letting the words sink in, his eyes burning into theirs.
“I chased her,” Dean states, his voice ringing with absolute, possessive pride. “I begged her to give me a chance. I am the one who fell on my knees thanking God when I found out she was carrying my child. Because she is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and she is entirely too good for the likes of you.”
You let out a soft, choked sob, pressing your face against Dean’s bicep.
“She is a Kennedy,” George snaps, his pride rearing its ugly head one last time. “We gave her everything.”
“You gave her nothing,” Dean fires back, his voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. “You gave her conditions. You gave her a bank account attached to a leash. When she decided she wanted to be her own person, you threw her out like garbage. You threw away the most brilliant, talented, loving woman in this entire city because she didn’t want to go to law school.”
Dean leans in, his face inches from George’s, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.
“You lost your greatest asset, George. And I won.”
George’s jaw tightens, his face flushing a dark, humiliated shade of red.
“Now,” Dean says, his tone shifting into the smooth, ruthless cadence of a future courtroom shark. “This is how this is going to work. You are going to turn around, and you are going to walk out of this ballroom. If I ever see you near her again, if you ever so much as speak her name in public, I will have my father’s firm audit every single one of your offshore accounts.”
Marie gasps, her hand flying to her chest.
“I will bury your political ambitions so deep you won’t be able to run for dog catcher,” Dean continues ruthlessly. “I will make sure every partner in this room knows exactly how the Kennedys treat their pregnant daughters. I will ruin you. Do you understand me?”
George and Marie stare at him. They are completely, utterly defeated. They know he isn’t bluffing. They know he has the resources, the power, and the viciousness to do exactly what he promised.
George grabs Marie’s arm. “We’re leaving.”
Without another word, your parents turn and quickly disappear into the crowd, rushing toward the exit like they are being chased by dogs.
The moment they are out of sight, all the terrifying, cold energy drains out of Dean.
He turns to you immediately. He wraps both of his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, right in the middle of the ballroom. He doesn’t care who is watching. He doesn’t care about networking. He buries his face in your hair, his hands running frantically over your back, your shoulders, the curve of your belly.
“Are you okay?” He asks urgently, his voice rough and breathless. “Did they hurt you? Are you having contractions? Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” you sob, clinging to the lapels of his tuxedo. The adrenaline is fading, leaving you shaky and exhausted, but the overwhelming surge of love for him is making your chest ache. “I’m okay, Dean. I’m fine.”
“I should have broken his jaw,” Dean mutters darkly against your neck. “I should have put him in the hospital.”
“No,” you say, pulling back slightly to look up into his fierce, beautiful face. You reach up, resting your hands flat against his cheeks. “No. You handled it perfectly. You protected me. You always protect me.”
Dean closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. A heavy, complicated sigh escapes his lips.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you with such intense, staggering devotion that it takes your breath away. “I love you. You are my family. Just you and this baby. They don’t matter. They will never hurt you again. I won’t let them.”
“I know,” you whisper, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. “I know you won’t. I love you, Dean.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Dean says, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “Let’s go home. You need to rest.”
“Okay,” you agree, letting him tuck you securely under his arm.
As Dean guides you through the ballroom, leaving the glittering lights and the staring alumni behind, you rest your hand on your massive stomach. You feel completely safe. You feel entirely loved. You look up at the handsome, powerful man walking beside you, thanking every lucky star that you found someone who would fight so fiercely to keep you.
And Dean?
Dean holds you close, his jaw set in a hard, victorious line. He feels the warmth of your body against his, the weight of his ring sitting in a velvet box in his tuxedo pocket, waiting for the perfect moment.
They accused you of trapping him.
Dean almost laughs at the twisted perfection of it all. He didn’t just trap you with a baby. He trapped you with love. He trapped you with protection. He built a cage out of devotion, and you just handed him the final key.
You will never leave him. Not ever.
And as he helps you into the back of his black SUV, wrapping his coat around your shivering shoulders, Dean Di Laurentis knows that he has won the most important game of his life.
***
“I am going to kill you! I swear to God, Dean, I am going to murder you with my bare hands!”
Your scream tears through the sterile, brightly lit delivery room at Massachusetts General Hospital, echoing off the pale blue walls and completely drowning out the rhythmic, agonizing beeping of the fetal heart monitor.
“I know, baby, I know,” Dean says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute devotion. “You can kill me. As soon as he’s out, you can do whatever you want to me.”
“Don’t patronize me!” You sob, your head thrashing back against the sweat-soaked hospital pillow. Your face is flushed, your hair plastered to your forehead in damp, tangled strands.
You grip his left hand with the strength of a dying gladiator. You are squeezing so hard that Dean is genuinely, medically certain you are fracturing the small bones in his knuckles. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch. He just leans closer, using his free hand to wipe a cool, damp washcloth across your burning forehead.
It is 3:26 AM on a freezing Thursday in late January. Outside the hospital windows, a massive nor’easter is dumping two feet of snow onto the streets of Boston. But inside this room, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and blinding, primal exhaustion.
You have been in labor for nineteen hours.
“Okay, Y/N, you’re doing beautifully,” Dr. Williams says calmly from the foot of the bed. “The contraction is peaking. I need you to take a deep breath, tuck your chin to your chest, and push. Give me everything you have.”
“I can’t!” You cry out, shaking your head wildly. “I can’t do it anymore, Dean. I have nothing left. It hurts too much.”
“Look at me,” Dean commands, his voice firming up, cutting through the haze of your panic. He drops the washcloth and frames your face with his right hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. His green eyes are fierce, burning with an intensity that physically anchors you to the bed. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You look up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.
“You can do this,” he says, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You are the strongest person I have ever met. You are going to push, and you are going to meet our son. Do you hear me? We are so close, baby. You are doing so incredibly well.”
Another wave of unimaginable agony rolls through your abdomen. You bear down, squeezing your eyes shut, and let out a guttural, primal scream. You pull on Dean’s hand so violently his shoulder pops, your fingernails digging crescent-moon shapes into his skin.
As you pull, the fluorescent hospital lights catch the massive, flawless piece of jewelry sitting on your left ring finger.
It’s a three-carat oval diamond set on a delicate, crushed-ice platinum band. Dean had dropped to one knee in front of the roaring fireplace in the living room of your new brownstone on Christmas Eve, holding the velvet box. You had cried so hard you could barely choke out the word ‘yes.’
“Ten seconds,” the labor nurse counts down, keeping her hand flat against your stomach. “Eight … nine … ten. Okay, slowly release the breath. Good. Good.”
You collapse back against the pillows, your chest heaving violently. You are panting, staring up at the ceiling with wide, exhausted eyes.
“I am never doing this again,” you gasp out, your voice rough and raw. You turn your head to glare at Dean, your eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Do you hear me, Di Laurentis? I am never having sex with you again. Ever. We are sleeping in separate rooms for the rest of our lives.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs easily, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.
“I mean it!” You threaten, pointing a shaking finger at him. “If you come within ten feet of me with … with those intentions … I will castrate you.”
“I hear you,” Dean says smoothly, brushing the hair out of your eyes.
But internally? Dean is trying very, very hard not to smile.
Good luck with that, he thinks, his eyes tracing the beautiful, flushed lines of your face.
Separate bedrooms? Not a chance in hell. He hasn’t slept a single night without you tangled in his arms in nine months, and he has no intention of starting now. And as for never doing this again? Dean has already mapped out the timeline. He wants a big family. He wants the massive five-bedroom brownstone in Cambridge filled with noise, toys, and chaos. He wants at least three more babies with you. He is already looking forward to getting you pregnant again.
But he is smart enough to keep that entirely to himself while you are actively trying to push an eight-pound human out of your body.
“Okay, mom and dad, he’s crowning,” Dr. Williams announces, her tone suddenly shifting into high gear. “Y/N, I need you to stay focused. This next push is the big one. We’re going to bring this baby out.”
The panic returns, seizing your chest. “Dean, I’m scared.”
“I’ve got you. I’m right here,” Dean says, climbing halfway onto the side of the hospital bed to brace your back with his arm. He pulls you up slightly, his broad chest supporting your weight. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“Okay, the contraction is starting,” the nurse says, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Deep breath … and push!”
You scream, bearing down with every single ounce of strength you have left in your battered body. You squeeze Dean’s hand so hard you literally feel something give way in his knuckles, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just holds you, whispering a constant, steady stream of encouragement into your ear.
“That’s it, that’s it, keep going!” the doctor urges. “I have the head! Y/N, give me one more big push! Don’t stop!”
“Dean!” You cry out, your voice breaking into a sob.
“Push, baby, push! He’s right here!” Dean practically shouts, his own voice cracking with emotion. His eyes are wide, locked on the doctor.
You let out one final, agonizing, earth-shattering scream, forcing your body past every known limit.
And then, suddenly, the unbearable, crushing pressure is gone.
It is replaced by a wet, slippery sound, and then, a second later, the most beautiful, piercing wail Dean has ever heard in his entire life echoes through the delivery room.
“He’s here!” Dr. Williams laughs, pulling her mask down. “Time of birth, 3:31 AM. You did it, Y/N!”
You collapse back against Dean’s chest, completely boneless, gasping for air. You are sobbing openly, the tears running into your ears, your entire body trembling with shock and exhaustion.
Dean is frozen.
He is staring at the tiny, screaming, purple, blood-covered creature the doctor has just lifted into the air.
His son.
The breath leaves Dean’s lungs in a staggering, silent rush. Tears, hot and fast, spill over his eyelashes, tracking down his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to wipe them away. He is completely, utterly overcome.
The doctor quickly wipes the baby down with a towel and immediately places him directly onto your bare chest.
“Oh my god,” you sob, bringing your shaking hands up to cup the baby’s tiny, slippery back. “Oh my god. Dean. Look at him.”
Dean leans over you, his large hands trembling as he reaches out. He doesn’t even know where to touch. The baby is so small, so impossibly fragile. Dean gently rests two fingers against the back of the baby’s head, feeling the soft, dark fuzz of hair there.
“I see him,” Dean chokes out, a wet laugh tearing from his throat. He presses his face to yours, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips, tasting salt and sweat. “You did so good. You did so fucking good, baby. He’s perfect.”
“He looks just like you,” you cry, looking down at the baby’s face.
And he does. Even scrunched up and screaming, the baby is the perfect mix of the two of you. He has Dean’s strong jawline and thick, dark blond hair, but he has your delicate nose and the exact shape of your eyes. He is a Di Laurentis through and through, but he belongs entirely to you.
“Dad, you want to cut the cord?” The nurse asks, holding out a pair of sterile scissors.
Dean nods, unable to speak. He takes the scissors, his hands shaking slightly, and snips the physical connection between you and the baby.
As the blades snap shut, something profound happens inside Dean’s chest.
For the last nine months, a tiny, deeply buried knot of anxiety has been living at the base of Dean’s spine. It was the fear of discovery. The fear of failure. The fear that somehow, someway, you would pack a bag, figure out the truth about his monstrous deception, and leave him. The fear that the ghost of Stanford and the life you were supposed to have would eventually tear you away from him.
But as Dean looks at his son lying on your chest, as he watches you weep with pure, unadulterated love for the child he gave you, that knot entirely unravels.
It is done.
The trap is sealed. Not just in a lease, not just in an engagement ring, but in blood. In bone. In life.
You are a mother now. You are the mother of his child. You will never walk away from this. You will never walk away from him. The cage isn’t just locked; the key has been completely destroyed.
An intoxicating wave of relief and victory washes over Dean, relaxing muscles in his back and shoulders that he didn’t even realize were wound tight. He feels light. He feels powerful. He feels like a god.
“I love you,” Dean whispers fervently, resting his forehead against yours as the nurses bustle around the room, checking vitals and weighing the baby. “I love you so much, Y/N. Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me.”
“I love you too,” you murmur, your eyes heavy, completely exhausted but radiantly happy. “We have a son, Dean.”
“We have a son,” he repeats, the words tasting like victory on his tongue.
***
Two hours later, the chaos of the delivery room has completely subsided.
You have been moved to a private, luxury postpartum suite that Dean paid to upgrade. The lights are dimmed to a soft, warm amber. Outside the window, the blizzard is still raging, painting the city of Boston in a blanket of silent, isolating white.
But inside the room, it is perfectly quiet and incredibly warm.
Dean is sitting in a leather armchair pulled directly up to the side of your hospital bed. He has finally washed the sweat and blood off his hands, though his left hand is heavily bruised and wrapped in an ice pack. Logan, Garrett, Beau, and Tucker had blown up his phone with thirty different texts from the waiting room downstairs, but Dean had ordered them to go home and sleep.
He didn’t want to share you yet. He wanted this quiet, sacred time to be just the three of you.
You are propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a fresh, soft hospital gown. Your eyes are half-closed, the heavy toll of labor visible in the dark circles under your eyes, but you look so peaceful.
“He’s awake,” you whisper, looking down at the bundle resting in the crook of your arm.
Noah Di Laurentis.
Dean leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He watches as Noah roots around, turning his tiny, fuzzy head against your chest, his mouth opening and closing in small, frustrated movements.
“I think he’s hungry,” Dean says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.
“Yeah. The nurse said I should try to get him to latch as soon as he showed signs.” You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as you shift your weight. “Can you help me?”
“Of course,” Dean says immediately.
He stands up, tossing the ice pack onto a side table, and leans over the bed. With incredibly gentle, careful hands, he helps you unbutton the top of the hospital gown, pulling the fabric aside to expose your breast.
Dean’s breath hitches.
He has seen your body a million times. He has worshipped it, explored it, memorized every single inch of it. But seeing you like this — soft, maternal, your skin flushed and full — sends a completely different kind of shockwave straight to his groin.
You adjust Noah in your arms, guiding his tiny head forward. It takes a few clumsy seconds, but suddenly, the baby latches on perfectly.
You let out a soft, sharp gasp of surprise at the sensation, your eyes widening slightly before fluttering shut in relief. “Okay. Okay, he got it.”
Dean slowly sits back down in the armchair. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.
He sits there in the dim light, completely mesmerized, watching you breastfeed his baby for the very first time.
The sight does incredibly complex, dangerous things to Dean’s mind.
It is the most beautiful, pure thing he has ever witnessed. You look like a Renaissance painting, bathed in the soft amber light, your head tipped back against the pillows, your hand gently stroking the soft curve of Noah’s back. The rhythmic, quiet sound of the baby swallowing is the only noise in the room.
But beneath the awe, beneath the profound, overwhelming love he feels for you, is that dark, feral, possessive core that drives every single thing Dean does.
He watches the baby feed from your body, and the visual confirmation of what he has achieved is intoxicating. His seed. His child. Sustained by your blood, grown in your womb, and now feeding from your body. You are physically nourishing the anchor he used to keep you.
You look down at Noah, a soft, exhausted smile playing on your lips. Then, you lift your eyes and look at Dean.
You catch the intense, dark, heated look on his face. Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.
“What?” You whisper self-consciously, pulling the edge of the blanket up slightly to cover yourself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Dean asks, his voice thick and husky.
“Like … like you want to eat me,” you say, letting out a breathy, tired laugh.
Dean smiles, a slow, predatory smirk that makes his green eyes flash dangerously in the low light. He reaches out, trailing his knuckles gently down the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point hammering wildly at your collarbone.
“Because I do,” Dean murmurs, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours. He inhales the scent of you — sweat, hospital soap, and that warm, sweet, milky scent of a new mother. It is a potent, addictive drug. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”
“Dean, I just gave birth,” you laugh softly, though you lean into his touch. “I look like a train wreck. I’m covered in sweat, and I’m pretty sure my hair is matted to my head.”
“You look like a goddess,” he corrects fiercely. He drops his hand to rest lightly over yours where it cradles the baby’s back. “You gave me everything. You gave me a family.”
“We did it together,” you say softly, your eyes softening with that deep, absolute trust that Dean relies on to survive. “I didn’t think … when we first met, I never thought my life would look like this. I thought I’d be alone in a studio in California right now.”
Dean’s hand stills. The mention of California is a ghost from the past, a fleeting phantom that used to terrify him, but now, it holds absolutely no power.
“Are you sad?” Dean asks, his voice perfectly smooth, perfectly supportive. “That you aren’t in California?”
You look down at Noah. You watch his tiny chest rise and fall as he feeds. You look at the massive diamond ring sparkling on your finger. And then, you look back at Dean, the man who has protected you, provided for you, and loved you fiercely when your own family threw you away.
“No,” you whisper, and the absolute honesty in your voice makes Dean’s heart soar. “No, Dean. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Dean leans in and kisses you. It is a deep, branding kiss. He pours all of his dark, twisted, possessive love into it, claiming your mouth the same way he has claimed your life.
When he pulls back, he is breathless, his eyes burning with absolute triumph.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he looks at his beautiful fiancé and his perfect son. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
***
The Cambridge brownstone is exactly as Dean promised it would be ten years ago.
It is massive, stunning, and entirely filled with absolute, deafening chaos.
“Noah! If you do not put your dress shoes on in the next thirty seconds, I am leaving you here to guard the house!” You shout, standing at the bottom of the grand wooden staircase.
“I can’t find the left one!” A nine-year-old boy yells back from somewhere on the second floor. He sounds exactly like his father, complete with the dramatic, exasperated groan.
“Check under the sofa in the den!” You call back, resting a hand on your hip. You turn around, narrowly avoiding stepping on a rogue Lego brick. “Naomi! Nicole! Please stop trying to put lipstick on the dog! The Doberman does not need to look pretty for the reunion!”
“But she’s a girl, Mommy!” Six-year-old Naomi argues from the living room rug, holding a tube of your expensive Chanel lipstick while her identical twin sister, Nicole, tries to hold the extremely tolerant dog still.
“No makeup on the dog!” You command, swooping in to pluck the lipstick out of Naomi’s hand.
You let out a long, exhausted breath, pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. You are wearing a breathtaking, form-fitting crimson silk dress that pools around your ankles, your hair styled in soft, cascading waves. You look like a movie star, but you feel like a frantic zookeeper.
“You know, when I pictured my gorgeous wife in that dress, I didn’t picture her wrestling a tube of lipstick away from a canine.”
You spin around.
Dean is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding two-year-old Jamie perfectly balanced on his hip.
Ten years have done absolutely nothing to diminish Dean Di Laurentis. If anything, time has only made him more devastating. He has traded the hockey jerseys for custom-tailored suits. The boyish charm has sharpened into the lethal, commanding presence of one of Boston’s most feared and successful corporate litigators. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his jaw covered in a faint shadow of stubble, and his broad chest fills out the crisp white dress shirt he’s wearing under his black suit jacket.
He walks toward you, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep over your body that makes your stomach do the exact same flip it did when you were nineteen.
“Well, your gorgeous wife is currently managing a circus,” you sigh, reaching out to fix Jamie’s tiny bow tie. The toddler giggles, grabbing your finger with his chubby hand. “Is the diaper bag packed?”
“Diaper bag is packed, bottles are in the cooler, and Noah’s shoe was in the pantry, for some reason,” Dean says smoothly. “He’s putting it on now. We are ready to go.”
Dean steps into your space, entirely ignoring the chaotic noise of the twins arguing over a toy behind you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
“You look unbelievable,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, husky register that is reserved exclusively for you. “I’m half-tempted to cancel the babysitter, skip the reunion, and take you upstairs.”
“Dean,” you warn, though a breathless laugh escapes your lips as you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck. “We can’t. Tonight is a big deal. The gallery showing first, then Briar.”
“I know, I know,” he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear before pulling back. He looks into your eyes, his green gaze bursting with absolute, overwhelming pride. “Tonight is about you. My brilliant, famous wife.”
You blush, looking down at his crisp lapels. “It’s just a local gallery, Dean. I’m not famous.”
“You sold out your last three collections,” Dean corrects fiercely, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You have a waitlist of private buyers six months long. You are incredible, and tonight, I am going to show you off to every single person in Massachusetts.”
You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. Even after a decade, four kids, and a marriage that has weathered the exhausting storms of his law career and your art shows, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.
“Okay,” you whisper, kissing him softly. “Let’s go show off.”
***
The art gallery in downtown Boston is buzzing with quiet, sophisticated energy. Soft acoustic music plays through hidden speakers, and waiters carry trays of sparkling water and champagne.
The walls are lined with your work — massive, vibrant, emotionally charged oil paintings that explore the beautiful, chaotic reality of motherhood, love, and time. You have spent the last two years pouring your soul into this collection, painting in the sun-drenched attic studio Dean built for you when you were pregnant with Noah.
“Excuse me, Y/N?”
You turn away from a couple admiring a piece near the window. The gallery owner, an elegant woman named Beatrice, is practically vibrating with excitement.
“Yes, Beatrice? Is everything okay?”
“Okay? It’s phenomenal,” Beatrice breathes out, leaning in close. “I just got word from the front desk. Five more pieces just sold. To a private, anonymous buyer.”
Your jaw drops. “Five? At once?”
“Yes! They just wired the full asking price. Y/N, the entire collection is sold out. Every single canvas.” Beatrice grabs your hands, squeezing them tightly. “This is unprecedented for a first-night showing. You are a star.”
You are in absolute shock. You excuse yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs, and scan the crowded room.
You find Dean standing in the corner, holding Jamie, while Noah explains the plot of a Marvel movie to him with wild hand gestures. Dean is nodding along, pretending to be deeply invested in the cinematic universe, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.
You walk over, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor.
“Dean,” you say, stopping in front of him. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you do it?”
Dean blinks, his expression a mask of perfect, innocent confusion. “Did I do what, baby?”
“Did you buy five of my paintings through an anonymous proxy just now?”
“Me?” Dean gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am deeply hurt by this accusation. I am an officer of the court. I uphold the law. I don’t use anonymous proxies.”
“Dean.”
“Okay, it was my dad’s firm acting as the proxy,” Dean smirks, entirely unrepentant. He shifts Jamie to his other hip and reaches out to pull you close. “But I used my money.”
“Dean, you can’t just buy out my gallery!” You laugh, hitting his shoulder. “That’s cheating! You already own half my portfolio. Our house looks like a museum dedicated to me.”
“It’s an investment,” Dean says smoothly, quoting the exact same excuse he used ten years ago when he bought the brownstone. “And I don’t want anyone else owning them. I saw that guy in the turtleneck staring at the self-portrait of you at the beach. He looked like he wanted to buy it. I wasn’t going to let some hipster hang my wife in his living room.”
You roll your eyes, burying your face in his chest to hide your massive, ridiculous smile. He is so possessive, so fiercely protective of everything you create.
“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his suit jacket.
“I’m your biggest fan,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head. “Now, come on. The babysitter is meeting us at the car to take these monsters home. We have a ten-year reunion to crash.”
***
The Briar University campus looks exactly the same. The brick buildings, the sprawling green quads, the crisp, freezing winter air — it’s like stepping into a time machine.
The alumni gala is being held in the main event hall, a massive space decorated in Briar’s signature black and red. The music is loud, the open bar is packed, and the room is overflowing with the Class of 2016.
You walk through the double doors with your hand tightly wrapped in Dean’s. Without the kids pulling you in four different directions, the two of you look like a terrifying power couple. Dean looks immaculate, sharp, and intimidating. You look stunning, glowing with the confidence of a successful woman completely secure in her life.
“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”
You hear the booming voice before you see him.
Garrett pushes his way through the crowd, a massive grin on his face. He is holding a beer in one hand, looking exactly like the cocky, legendary hockey captain he used to be. Right behind him are Logan and Tucker.
“Graham,” Dean grins, dropping your hand to catch Garrett in a rough, back-slapping hug. “You look old, man. The NHL is aging you.”
“Shut up, Di Laurentis,” Garrett laughs, shoving him back. “Some of us actually work for a living instead of sitting behind a mahogany desk.”
“Hey, Y/N,” Logan says, pulling you into a warm hug. “How was the gallery?”
“Sold out,” Dean answers for you, his voice ringing with absolute, obnoxious pride. “Every single piece. She’s a certified genius.”
“Congratulations!” Tucker beams, giving you a hug as well. “That’s incredible. How are the kids? Did you guys bring the whole circus?”
“Babysitter has them,” you say, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “If I brought Jamie in here, he would dismantle the ice sculpture in five minutes.”
“Smart,” Garrett nods, taking a sip of his beer. He looks at Dean, shaking his head in disbelief. “I still can’t get over it. Ten years ago, you were getting kicked out of Malone’s for doing body shots off a bartender. Now you’re a partner at a law firm with four kids and a minivan.”
“It’s an SUV,” Dean corrects smoothly, completely unbothered. “And it has heated leather seats. Don’t be jealous just because your life is boring.”
As the guys fall into their familiar, effortless banter, you look around the room.
It is incredibly surreal. You recognize faces from your freshman art history seminars, girls from your dorm, guys who used to throw massive, destructive parties at the hockey house.
And they are absolutely staring at you.
Or, more accurately, they are staring at Dean.
“Oh my god. Is that Dean Di Laurentis?”
You glance over to see a group of women standing by the bar. You recognize two of them instantly. They were notorious puck bunnies, the kind of girls who used to hang around the ice rink practically begging for Dean’s attention.
One of them is staring at Dean with her mouth literally hanging open. She whispers something to her friend, her eyes darting from Dean to you, and then down to the massive, blinding diamond ring on your left hand.
Dean notices the stares. He notices everything.
He smoothly extracts himself from his conversation with Garrett, steps behind you, and wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls your back flush against his chest, crossing his arms over your stomach. It is a completely territorial, undeniable claim.
He looks directly at the group of whispering women, his green eyes cold and sharp, before he deliberately leans down and presses an open-mouthed, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.
You gasp softly, your hands flying up to grip his forearms. “Dean, we are in public.”
“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Let them look. Let them see exactly whose wife you are.”
“You’re impossible,” you laugh, leaning back against him anyway.
Suddenly, a guy in a slightly ill-fitting gray suit approaches your group. He looks nervous, clutching a plastic cup of beer.
“Dean? Dean Di Laurentis?” The guy asks.
Dean slowly pulls his face away from your neck, though he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He looks at the guy. “Yeah. Evan, right? From constitutional law seminar?”
Evan nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah! Wow, man. It’s crazy to see you. I follow your firm’s cases. That corporate merger you blocked last month? Phenomenal legal maneuvering. Absolute shark stuff.”
“Appreciate it,” Dean says smoothly.
“And I heard …” Evan hesitates, looking between Dean and you with total bewilderment. “I heard you have kids now? Like, a lot of them?”
“Four,” Dean says, the word completely devoid of any embarrassment. He says it like it’s a badge of honor, like he just won the Stanley Cup. “Two boys, two girls.”
Evan actually chokes on his beer. He coughs, his eyes watering. “Four? You? Dean Di Laurentis has four children? With the same woman?”
“I do,” Dean smirks.
“Man, that’s wild,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I just … I remember you in freshman year. You were an absolute machine. I thought you’d be a bachelor forever, living in a penthouse and terrorizing the dating pool.”
“I found something better,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so completely sincere, that the entire circle goes quiet.
He looks down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and your heart physically aches with how much you love him.
“I met my wife,” Dean says, his green eyes locking onto yours, making you feel like you are the only two people in the crowded, noisy room. “And I realized I didn’t want anything else. Just her. And as many kids as she’d let me give her.”
Evan awkwardly clears his throat, clearly realizing he has interrupted a deeply intimate moment. “Right. Well. Congratulations, man. Good to see you.”
He scurries away, and the guys chuckle.
“You really enjoy terrifying the general public, don’t you?” Logan asks, clinking his glass against Dean’s.
“It’s my favorite hobby,” Dean agrees, finally letting go of your waist to take your hand again. “Come on, sweetheart. They’re playing our song. Let’s go terrorize the dance floor.”
“They are playing an EDM remix of a Taylor Swift song, Dean,” you point out, laughing as he drags you toward the center of the room. “This is not our song.”
“It is now,” he declares.
He spins you into his arms, completely ignoring the fast-paced beat of the music, and pulls you into a slow, swaying dance. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your hands in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
You are surrounded by hundreds of people. You are surrounded by the ghosts of your college years, the memories of the broke, terrified, fiercely independent nineteen-year-old girl you used to be.
But as you look at Dean, you realize you don’t miss that girl at all.
You look at the man who saved you. The man who gave you a home, a beautiful family, the freedom to paint, and a love so intense it feels like it could swallow you whole.
“You’re staring,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to rest intimately on your lower back.
“I’m just thinking,” you reply softly, stepping closer so your bodies are perfectly aligned. “About how lucky I am.”
Dean’s breath catches.
His grip on you tightens convulsively. He looks into your eyes, seeing the absolute, unwavering trust and devotion shining there.
Ten years.
It has been ten years since he stood in a tiny, cramped dorm bathroom, staring at a blister pack of birth control pills. Ten years since he made the darkest, most selfish, most terrifying decision of his entire life.
He put them in the microwave. He destroyed the hormones. He trapped you, systematically dismantling your chance to leave him, closing every door until the only path forward was exactly where he wanted you.
And you never knew.
You never suspected a thing. You thought the universe had simply handed you a surprise, and you had embraced it, turning that surprise into a beautiful, thriving family. You think he is your savior. You think he is the good guy who stepped up when your family abandoned you.
Dean stares down at you, his heart pounding a heavy, victorious rhythm against his ribs.
Does he feel guilty?
He searches the darkest, most honest corners of his soul.
No.
He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt. He would do it again, a thousand times over. He would burn the entire world to the ground if it meant keeping you in his arms. He built this life with a lie, but the love is real. The house is real. The four beautiful children sleeping in their beds in Cambridge are real.
He is a monster, maybe. But he is a monster who gets to sleep next to a goddess every single night.
“I’m the lucky one,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with a raw, primal emotion. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “You gave me everything, Y/N. You are my entire world.”
“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.
Dean turns his head, capturing your lips in a slow, deep, devastating kiss. He kisses you until your knees go weak, until you forget about the reunion, the music, and the people staring at you. He kisses you until you are completely, utterly his.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, a familiar, predatory heat burning in his green gaze. He drops his hands from your back, letting them slide slowly, deliberately over the curve of your hips, resting them flat against your stomach.
“You know,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, seductive rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “The house has five bedrooms.”
You blink, confused for a second, still dazed from the kiss. “Yes?”
Dean smirks. It is the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and knows exactly how to get it.
“Noah has his room. The twins share. Jamie has the nursery. And we have the master,” Dean lists off, his thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles over the silk of your dress. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Which means we have some extra square-footage.”
Your eyes widen. You pull back slightly, staring at him in absolute shock. “Dean Di Laurentis. Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m just saying,” Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound of pure joy. “We have the space. And you look entirely too good tonight. It’s making me reckless.”
“We have four kids!” You whisper-shout, hitting his chest, though you are smiling uncontrollably. “Four! I am not having a fifth! I told you in the delivery room with Noah, I was going to castrate you!”
“You’ve been threatening to castrate me for a decade, sweetheart, and yet, here we are,” Dean points out smugly, pulling you right back into his chest. “Come on. Just one more. I want another little girl who looks exactly like you.”
“You are insane,” you laugh, burying your face in his neck.
“I’m in love,” he corrects fiercely.
He wraps his arms around you, swaying you to the music, holding his entire world perfectly secure in his grasp.
Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t believe in setting things free. He believes in holding on. He believes in fighting, claiming, and keeping.
He looks out over the crowded ballroom of his past, his chin resting softly on top of your head. He has the brilliant career, the massive fortune, the perfect children, and the only woman who ever made his heart stop.
He trapped you.
And as he holds you close, listening to your bright, beautiful laughter, Dean smiles into the dark.
It was the best damn thing he ever did.
May Wrapped - 2025
Books:
The Broken Ring (Vol 1): 3.5/5
The Broken Ring (Vol 2): 4/5
The Broken Ring (Vol 3): 3.5/5
A Nordic King: 2.5/5
Shows:
Sahipsizler: watching
Eşref Rüya: watching
The King Eternal Monarch: watching
Heirs of the Night: watching
Overcompensating: watching
Movies:
Mafia’s Tender Torture: 5/10
Tied to My Dangerous Mafia Husband: 3/10
Boardroom Attraction: dnf-ed
All I Want (for Valentine) Is You: 4/10
Twin Matchmakers: 4/10
The Getaway Heiress Returns: 2/10
A Second Chance for Luna: 6/10
Summer of 69: 7/10
Perfect Landing into Your Arms: 5/10
How to Train Your CEO Good Boy: 3/10
The Blue Lagoon (The Awakening): 5/10
The Cursed Alpha’s Mate: 4/10
Boss Please Behave: 4/10
Playing Pretend: 5/10
Royalteen: 5/10
so yeah, still working on the thesis! i managed to squeeze in a couple of eps and a few reads here and there throughout the month while binge watching trash vertical reel movies.
here’s hoping next month’s update has more reads!
"Do you ever shout at the drivers?" 😂
[Ponies, glitters, and tears - Always a Modern Aerion] Warning: Self-harm, $uicide attempt, and untreated BPD:
Aerion was diagnosed with BPD when he was 13. That didn't suddenly make him crazy or stupid – so, why does his family keep trying to gaslight him into thinking that he'd been transported into some type of fucked-up fairy tale world that he used to scare Rhae and Daella with?
There was something wrong with the prince.
Not to be confused, there's always something wrong with Aerion, but there’s a different type of oddness to him now.
The maester told the royal family that it had something to do with the fever, a sickness that made Prince Aerion bedridden for nearly a moon before his fifteenth nameday.
Servants would flock to him then, coming in and out of his chamber carrying basins of water to soothe the heat of his skin. The rumours said that the intensity of the heat was so dire that the prince’s skin smoked like a boiling pot.
No one thought he’d survived it, and no one hoped that he would.
Prince Maekar called for the best maester that the seven kingdoms have from the Reach to the Riverlands, even going as far as sending a missive to his mother’s kin in Dorne, asking for any healer that could aid his son.
None gave him the answer he wanted, for they all said one thing to the prince, told in different words but similar in meaning when they inspected Aerion’s state.
The fever cannot be fought, and only time may tell if the prince wakes at all.
Which he did, but with more theatrical screamings and begging.
The prince’s fever had addled his mind, the maesters said. Why else would the prince cry out for a pony the moment he woke? It must have been the illness and the milk of the poppy given right before.
It only took a week for Aerion to fully escape the fever’s clutches.
…
“Where’s my phone, mum.”
His words were still confusing; a mix of gibbering and informal idioms.
“Darling?” Dyanna pursed her lips, hands gently grazing at her son’s sweaty forehead. “There is no pony. It’s a dream, see? Open your eyes, sweet boy, there is no animal here.”
…
The prince had taken an odd liking to riding. Right when he could finally stand on his own two feet, he, of course, had been frequently riding on fields with his horse beforehand, but going since dawn and only appearing at night was more extensive than what was considered normal of the boy.
At some point, his father had organised a search party when a terrible storm broke and his son had not returned with his horse. The mare’s whines drew every eye as she galloped through the gate, with no silver-haired prince saddled on her back.
…
“What were you thinking, boy!”
“Maekar, please.”
“No, Dyanna! He was nearing the stranger’s grasp and this is what he does next? He could have died! He could have drowned!”
He thought he had; as he discovered him floating on the lake like a soulless body. Maekar could not have run any faster than he did, his heart hammering in his chest even now.
“He didn't! He’s here, our boy is safe!”
The boy looked dead on his feet, pale and quiet still.
…
He would disappear at peculiar times, forgoing his studies and training at swords. He would often be found, if he was able to be found at all, in dark rooms, more often in the cellar and the deepest corner of the library.
…
“Where’s your brother?”
Aemon looked up from his book, “I saw him walking in the garden.”
Maekar took a deep breath. “And when was this?”
“An hour, or so ago,” his son replied dutifully.
“Lorren.”
The knight nodded, and left the room with steady strides.
…
Loren searched for half a day.
They found him under his bed, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.
…
His mother, the lady Dyanna, was beginning to fret, stating to her husband how Aerion barely eats; he has grown thinner because of it and more fragile. She said he also didn't speak to her anymore; he never talked, not even when his father was screaming right at his face for a single word to be spoken.
There was none, for the only reply that Prince Maekar received was another length of silence.
She cried when he remained so still and unbothered—the way he peered at her in his most lucid; a foe would stare with more warmth than how he looked at her.
…
They said he acted more like a stranger, as if his memories with his family had been taken by the fever itself when it went away with the prince’s usual spite and fire.
…
Aegon bumped on him on his way to meet his tutor, flinching and waiting for the coming hit when Aerion merely glanced at him and walked the other direction.
He’s like a ghost, Aegon thought with a curious grimace.
“Do you think he’s finally gone and snapped?” He asked Daeron that evening.
“I think I would prefer that he did, it’s been far too quiet as of late, has it not?”
It has.
…
Nearly the whole of Summerhall took a breath of relief when the news spread of the prince’s unusual behaviour. Some said that the prince’s usual temper would return in due time; that a simple fever could never truly snuff out a dragon’s flames.
But there were no more wrathful displays from the prince, no servants tormented in his presence, until three moons had passed, and Aerion's famed temper and vicious nature did not rear its ugly head again, and everyone assumed at that point that the prince's old habits had finally vanished.
…
"Aerion." Dyanna called her son’s name softly, a deep frown marring her features. "You haven't touched your meal."
The boy’s hands remained idle beside his plate, his gaze fixed downward. For a moment, she thought he would ignore her again. Instead, he opened his mouth, finally breaking a week of his undisputed silence.
“I’m not hungry.” His voice was rasped, dry and unused.
Dyanna nearly flinched from the sound.
“That’s alright, darling. I’m sure we can request for more of your favorites—”
“I’m not hungry.”
It’s a good thing then that she barred Maekar from attending, for she knew that he would have undoubtedly thrown a fit at the disrespect of his son leaving without another word or glance.
…
Maekar gripped his son’s face, his own expression a mask of fury that barely concealed his panic. He shoved the food toward Aerion’s lips, as if he could command the boy to live.
The maesters were blunt: he was fading. Without sustenance, he would die. Dyanna moved to stop him, but the sight of her son’s wasting frame broke her—she collapsed into tears, her voice a ragged plea for Maekar to be gentle.
The plate was still halfway full when Daeron, half drunk, finally pushed their father away with a grimace. He swayed on his feet, nearly toppling, and ignored Maekar’s indignant words of frustration—that particular version of worry wrapped in rage. Whether it was aimed at Aerion or himself, Daeron could not have told, for his attention was fixed solely on his brother’s reddened, tearful eyes and trembling lips.
He had never seen Aerion cry—not once in all the years since the boy was eight.
…
“Where’s my phone, mum.”
Dyanna stilled at her stitching, and gazed at her son’s place in his chosen corner, head hiding behind his arms as he sat on the floor. “Have you looked in the garden?”
When his episodes hit, they learned it best to indulge him with reassurance. It calmed him, and most of the time he’d stop speaking in riddles.
There were whispers of madness, of Rhaegal’s affliction spreading through her boy, but those were quickly suppressed by her husband.
Their son is not mad.
Aerion is simply confused.
“Did you hide it then?” He raised his head to face her, revealing too much vulnerability usually masked away with spite and ferocity.
He was begging her, and Dyanna’s eyes watered from how much.
She could never truly perceive what he’s truly begging for.
“No, my love.”
“Then where is it?”
“I wish I had the answer.”
Forgive me, I don’t know.
…
Daeron held the leash, at the end of which stood a brown pony marked by two white spots on each ear.
Dyanna held her breath while her husband stood watch beside her, his gaze narrowed at the small animal.
Since Aegon, Aemon, and the girls were occupied with their lessons, only the four of them remained in the garden, joined by a few guards and servants who had stopped to stare at the creature in Daeron’s grip.
Aerion paused for a long period of time, and then he laughed.
He laughed until his eyes were filled with tears, and he still laughed when Maekar asked him—red faced and more thwarted by the second— what he found humorous.
It was a senseless sound that confirmed most of the whispers in court: the prince had lost his mind.
…
The water in his bath would have drowned him had the servants not arrived in time to notice the bloody state of the water.
…
⊹ ˚⟡‧Starlight‧⟡ ˚⊹
When the quiet grace of a Lady of House Dayne meets the jagged temper of Prince Maekar 'The Anvil' Targaryen, she is caught between his cold silence and her growing fire. Finding a way to grab hold of the man behind the armor may seem harder than ever imagined. (one-shot)
pairings: Maekar Targaryen x (Dayne) Reader
warnings: Maekar is an asshole; age-gap ( • ᴗ - ); filthy smut (dragons are all dead but imma make sure ure gonna ride one alright);
words: 7k
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
You pulled your horse to a gallop as you reached Summerhall once more. The brown mare breathed out in protest but followed your lead as you trotted back to the palace you called home. The guards and servants of the house were all mingling about, half forgetting of your existence as your stable boy took Chestnut away.
The Redgrass Field was filled with the mangled corpses of the rebels and the Targaryens had won.
In the months following the master of the house’s leave, you could finally breathe the scent of freedom you longed for. The servants and maesters could finally rest easy knowing they will not be under the scrutiny of their lord, but under your careful guidance and grace for you were a Dayne, of the mighty Starfall. Many words and deeds were attributed to your house, many greater than the last, you were a people who believed in the righteousness of the soul, in the spirit of valor and the quiet power of words. You, as a Lady of the House, enjoyed the very same freedoms your brothers received, being trained by your father’s knights and taught the words of the common tongue as well as any poet or counselor.
The smell of vinegar hit your nose like a blow as you walked inside the main hall of the house, the servants had started preparing for tonight’s arrival, scrubbing every inch of happiness off the marble floor and from the walls. Your heart felt heavy. Gone will be the days you could bestow upon each of them the power of peace.
Even if today should be a celebration, you felt as defeated as Daemon Blackfyre.
Nymella, a Dornish woman, who was born not far from your own home was your personal apothecary. Her black eyes and copper skin reminded you of summer, and truth be told, you regarded her as more friend than employee. She smiled as you walked into her room. Your light lavender riding shirt and white leather pants half covered in the dust dancing from the air at the border of the Dornish mountains heavy on your clothes.
“Hello, Star.” She was pressing some sort of yellow herbs together. The air smelled of amber and sweet vanilla as you took a seat in one of the chairs she had in the middle of the room. You laid your head back on the pillow behind your head. Wondering. Thinking. What shall you say to him? Would he be changed?
“You look weary, is it because of the ride or the husband?” She took a seat next to your own, mortar and pestle on her lap covered in her dornish wear.
You sighed. Truly you wished this all would’ve been easier for you. Your sister Dyanna, should’ve been in your place, she was made of tougher steel. She could’ve handled this much better than you. She could’ve handled him much better than you. She always knew what to do. You shook your head.
Nymella could read you like an open book, for she had known far more people than you. You looked into her eyes and searched for words.
“Is it cruel and terrible of me to wish he wouldn’t have returned so soon?”
“Perhaps. But there isn’t anything we can do about it.”
You nodded and Nymella laughed.
“Gods above, Star, you look like you’re heading to war yourself, not in the arms of your Prince.” She giggled all the way through her speech.
“I am heading to war, Nymella. That's all he knows. Every time. He acts as if I am some sort of soldier he must command, not his wife. He treats these beautiful grounds like his own battlement he must order around.”
“Still, your husband is returning and he brings with him a fire in his belly, doesn’t that sound pleasant to your ears? It should.” Her eyes were mischievous, probably imagining herself in your situation, albeit with a more pleasant knight.
“No. I… I would rather not think of that.” Your ears felt ablaze with the usual shyness a girl of your experience showed. Memories of the night you became a woman flashed in your mind, your husband's body over your own and the pain between your legs. He left shortly after, the call of war greater than your marriage bed.
“You shouldn’t let him dominate you like he does some piss poor farmer on the road here. You are his wife.” Nymella rose once more, bringing forward a vial of crimson liquid that smelled like the sweetest flowers in your garden. “Maekar is a man, as all men are men. No blood of his will change that.”
You took the vial from her and held it in your hand as she took her seat again next to you. “That’s easy for you to say, you’ve known a lot more men than me.”
“Yes I have, so you must listen to the words I say. ” She didn’t understand you. Surely she didn’t see the way your husband filled any room he walked into, how he spread his legs like a Lyseni whore when he sat down, leaving all the etiquette of a Targaryen Prince out the door. How he spit on the ground like he was owed an apology. How he took you that night, and the following nights after, before he had to leave. His much larger hands moving you how he wanted, having you as much as he wanted, before turning his back and snoring like dying Balerion until the morrow. He would stare at you, and you would think to shrink as small as an ant before his gaze, your ancestors are probably turning over ten times in the crypt.
“I can see this brings a lot of thought in your mind,” She reached over, holding your hand in her own. She squeezed, once, for you to listen and twice, for good measure. "I’ve seen enough men and believe me, nothing unmans one faster than a wife who stops trembling and starts reaching. I’ve watched great generals shake like squires and heard of lords tripping over their own shadows just for a taste.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper “And that husband of yours? He’s just a man with a bigger name and a heavier hammer. He’ll melt, girl. I’ll wager my life on it."
“And what do you suppose I do?” Your voice adopted the same tone as her own.
“I want you to go to him. Don’t let him take you, have him first and then you can tell me if he frightens you so.”
You already imagined yourself on your knees before him as he sulked in front of the fireplace of your great chamber. His body a mountain before your own. The night in Summerhall allowed a cool breeze to drift through, and your husband preferred the breeze for his mighty blood ran hotter than the fires on Dragonstone. You quickly pushed that image out of your mind, for you had no idea where to even put your hands.
Would he even let you touch him where his attention would be physical without him making the first move?
“Besides,” Nymella started once more, seeing your sour disposition and wanting to see your eyes brighten up again “one look at that silver hair of his and you understand why some claim his kind are closer to Gods than to men. You should feel your belly as restless as his is, it’s not everyday a woman gets to ride a dragon.”
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
The day passed uneventfully afterwards.
You bathed then changed into the milk white dress your servants prepared, the soft silk easy on your clean skin. They braided your hair in the custom of your house and then you were left waiting.
Any sound outside would have the staff snap their heads to the grand oak doors and your heart beat a restless drum in your chest. The sun was leaving the sky to his sister as he painted the world outside in shades of bright orange which reflected off the terracotta hued marble from inside the house and created soft paintings over the walls of your home. You waited. They offered you dinner, but you could barely swallow your own emotions, let alone the roasted lamb your husband preferred.
Outside, in the private gardens, your mourning doves had begun their low, rhythmic lament. Usually, the sound brought you peace, but this evening their crying felt like an omen. Still, you waited.
Nymella offered you some tea, a steaming cup of liquid gold, smelling of sun drenched fields and the deep, floral bite of saffron for “warming your womb” and calm your restlessness. You toyed with your silver bracelet. Truly, you wished he would just arrive already.
Leave it to him to make you wait and be miserable for hours. Mayhaps, something happened on the road. Bandits, or worse, mercenaries. But who would kill a fourth son? Your husband was so far from the line of succession, the only thing the crown needed him for was to break heads and hands. For he dearly enjoyed doing so.
When you looked up at the sky near one of the sandstone columns outside, you decided you had enough.
He won’t arrive tonight.
You walked to the grand library you had in your ancient home. Happy you could get to reading a book as you sprawled once more in your colossal bed without a man to ruin your peace. You picked a tome of green and gold, it was the story of a knight who was righteous and understanding, who fell in love with a Lady and wanted to marry her, despite what her destiny might claim. You held the book to your chest as you returned.
A servant passed you, running.
Then another one, a young boy, carrying a heavy towel.
Your heart pounded in your chest as the commotion from inside the house reached your ears.
So he did arrive home after all.
He had no want for royal protocol, nor for stupid announcers of his presence. You thought for a second you might slip away into the night, get on Chestnut and ride hard and fast past the Red Mountain and the eternal Torrentine to go home.
You rounded the corner and passed the heavy mahogany doors to see the servants, some having burned hands and fingers, pouring down buckets of boiling water in your copper bathtub to the edge of the room. He smelled of iron and burned leather. Simply overpowering any other scent you sprayed into your grand chambers, perfectly made to allow as much breeze into the room as possible.
Maekar had his back to you.
Dressed in the black leather and red fur of his house. He knew your light steps better than you.
“Our chamber smells like a Tyrosh brothel.” His voice traveled right to your ears in a clear, powerful tone. The same voice made for commanding armies, not for whispering sweet nothings into a woman’s ears.
He finally turned and you could finally see the face of your Prince once more. His hair, white as a bone, was swept back and he had a beard now. But it was still, unmistakably, Maekar. “The Anvil” they call him. And you could see no reason why they might call him anything else, for he definitely tried to shape you like iron on him during the last night you had together. His face, scarred from when he was ill with the pox, made his scowl even more terrifying.
Not that many would be brave, or stupid enough to look him in the eyes.
“Welcome home, my Lord.” You bowed your head in the custom you were taught a Lady should perform as she greets her husband. He moved to the great basin, and started removing his clothes. First he untangled the silk cord holding his tunic in place, dropping it to the floor so the servants would be reminded of their place. The two young boys you saw running approached him, reaching to help with his heavy boots, but he snarled at them and it was as if they were attending to a pointed sword.
"Fuck off.” he snapped "All of you. Out." They nearly tripped over themselves to flee and you had half the mind to turn around yourself and run to a dark corner he wouldn’t find you in.
Then he removed his tunic, then his undershirt and you, unfortunately so, looked away, even if it was for only a moment when you felt as if a stone was thrown towards your belly. The water was hot enough to blister human skin, yet he didn't even hesitate in swinging a strong leg over the tub.
“The road was long, I imagine.” Your voice sounded small against the splash of water as he lowered his body down with a groan, the sound traveled to your ears, then down between your legs but you didn’t wish to think of that.
“Was the weather kind to you, my Lord?”
“It rained for three days near Blackwater,” his voice was akin to grinding stones, “The mud was up to the horses' hocks and smelled like a dead man's shit.”
You winced at the crudeness, but tried to maintain the grace your mother had taught you as you tried to not cower before him. "Regardless, I am glad you are home. We have missed your presence at Summerhall."
He looked at you like you said the dumbest jest he had ever heard: “No you haven’t.”
No you didn’t, therefore you didn’t argue.
The chamber was thick with the scent of scalded copper and the sweet perfume that Maekar clearly loathed. His head was tilted back against the rim, his throat exposed with a thick, powerful cord of muscle that looked as though it could weather the strike of a longsword. His eyes remained closed, his face a mask of exhaustion. You thought to say something, anything-
“Well? You’ve had a tongue for the servants and yet with me you are as quiet as a fucking squire.” Of course he knew of your gentle behaviour towards the smallfolk tending to you in the months he was gone, this was, after all, his house. “What has been happening in this nest of silk and song while I was cutting necks for the crown?”
You swallowed hard, the humidity making your white dress cling to your back. All careful words seemed to evade you, any lesson your family had ever taught you useless: “It has been… quiet, my lord. We followed the instructions you left. The harvest was brought in, and the accounts for the winter stores are nearly complete.” Your voice was more mumble than words.
“Speak up!” He snapped, and you, caught completely unaware and used to the grace of the staff, flinched as if he hit you. “I’ve spent almost a year with nothing but the roar of the catapults and the screams of dying men in my ears. I can’t hear your soft, palace whispers.”
“I said the accounts for winter are finished!” you said, forcing your voice to go louder, though it felt brittle and strange in your own ears.
“Good,” he grunted, his jaw tightening as if he were biting back a curse. A long silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the drip of water from his beard to the bath. Then, without moving a single muscle, he asked another question “And who did you have in my bed while I was gone?”
You didn't answer immediately. You couldn’t. The sheer crudeness of the accusation felt like a physical blow and you were left to stare at him as he fixed you with his scrutinous gaze.
Maekar’s eyes moved over your features like a commander inspecting a breached wall. He looked for a blush of guilt, a downward cast of the eyes, anything he could crush.
“No,” you stammered, the word catching in your throat. “Never. I would… I would never think to do such a thing. My lord, I have been here, waiting. Only waiting.”
His expression was unreadable and grim. He let out a long, ragged breath and closed his eyes again, sinking deeper into the boiling water.
“Good.” he muttered.
He didn't move for a long time, looking almost like a statue of some ancient, vengeful king. Just as you thought he might have fallen into a trance, his lips moved one last time, the words falling like the blade of an axe.
“I’ll have you dead if I find anything of the sort. I don't give a shit for the songs they sing about your house. If you stain my name, I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”
You were once again left speechless. Mayhaps he had been hardened by the rebellion in ways, his mind already looking for traitors at every moment. But you were, under all and every aspect, a good woman, you hadn’t lain with any man, besides the one now washing himself in front of you.
You didn’t hate him, but you surely didn’t love him either.
You moved to your vanity and placed your book there, promising yourself that you will finish it one of these days. You turned around as you heard the water splash once more and was greeted with the sight of your naked husband, your eyes traveled immediately between his thighs like an arrow and you averted your gaze to your massive ebony bed in the middle of the room, decorated with dragons and made out of the strongest wood in the Seven Kingdoms. He moved to dry his skin and commanded “Take your dress off and get on the bed, on your back.” like you were one of his soldiers.
You thought for a second about what Nymella said, your arms shaking as you untied your dress, about having him on his back and you on him, holding him there and reminding him that in these bedchambers, in this room and on this bed, you- not him, would be in charge.
You forgot about all of that and more as he grabbed you by your arm, placed you on the bed, raised your dress to your waist and your knees by your chest as he pressed himself between your thighs. You closed your eyes, cheeks aflame and heart in your ears as you grabbed the hand he had on your left outer tight. You much preferred when he took you in the night, where you could barely see him and his colossal shadow was the only thing to remind you that your husband was there.
The fire from behind him allowed for too much light and too many details. You gasped as he pressed himself in you, the feeling unfamiliar in the long months he was away. Maekar gasped too, albeit quieter as he positioned himself better, his breath quickened and his hands shook, pushing down your gown by your chest until he could see your breasts and grab at them like some boy with the apples in his mother’s garden while he dragged his manhood inside your body. You would remain quiet, not sure if he would like the noises you wanted to make. You didn’t know if that fact annoyed him, but he would drag himself out and push as much as he could inside until you would grab at his shoulders and push him away, moaning from the pain and the pleasure you would feel in your belly. He had you like that for what felt like an eternity and you were sure his guards outside could very much hear.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
The fire in the hearth had burned down to a dull, glowing orange and the room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Maekar’s breathing. He had fallen into a deep, unshakable sleep almost the moment he was finished, his back turned to you like a wall of stone. Your body felt heavy and distant, still humming with the ghost of his weight and the rough way he had you.
The scent of the "Tyrosh brothel" was gone, replaced by the smell of salt, lye, and the faint, metallic tang of the "Anvil" himself. You stared out at the moon hanging over the Dornish mountains, feeling the ache between your legs.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
The days after you tried to make sense of your husband’s presence in the palace. His will was iron and it seemed like even the air bent to it here. He had you every night, and once in his study, when he received a letter from Kings Landing that sent his anger sweeping through the house and finally finding you in the form of a young squire that trembled as he told you your Lord husband is expecting you.
Nymella remained the same. With the same advice.
Yet every night, when he bedded you, you could hardly bring yourself to make any action towards him, any sort of conscious thought left you while holding your eyes closed through the whole ordeal.
One blistering day, a messenger arrived from House Caron, the Lord and Lady wanted to join the Prince and Princess of the Iron Throne for dinner and you, a dear friend of Lady Jeyne Caron, accepted. The Carons were marcher lords from Nightsong and were famous for their singing and their history as the first line of defense against Dorne.
The lamb was well roasted, the vegetables freshly plucked from the garden and the bread was warm as they arrived. Hand in hand, bowing low before you and your stoic husband as the lord steward announced their presence. You hugged Jeyne before you sat and Lord Allun Caron began regalling you with stories. Maekar was drinking the dark crimsoned wine of Dorne. You thought you were above such indulgences, but as you saw the way the two interacted, joking and looking at each other like the other might disappear, you started drinking as well. The wine burned all the way down, but in that moment, you wished for something stronger.
Maekar was chewing his lamb and swirling the wine in his chalice with a bored look on his face as you maintained the discussion with the Lady and Lord of House Caron.
Allun interrupted Maekar’s thoughts as he tried to make conversation with the man of many years and experience above his own: “I heard the mud in the Redgrass field was so thick with blood the horses couldn't find their footing. My cousin said the stench of the dead was enough to make a man pray for a head wound just to lose his sense of smell. Must’ve been a hell of a thing to watch the Blackfyre’s line break under that mace of yours, no, Prince? I bet the sound of that iron hitting plate was sweeter than any harp.”
Maekar didn’t look away from the wall with the fireplace casting warm shadows on his face “It sounded like bone breaking,” he says flatly. “There’s nothing sweet to it.”
You watch Lady Jeyne’s hand tighten on Lord Allun’s arm, not in fear, but in support, as if she’s helping him weather the Prince’s attitude. You wonder if you’ll ever have the courage to even touch Maekar’s sleeve when he’s like this, you moved your eyes away from the awkward exchange and stared ahead as Lady Jeyne’s voice cut through the silence and you made eye contact with her.
“The songs don’t do your bride justice, my Lord. They say the Daynes have the stars in their blood and justice in their eyes and your beautiful wife is the clear embodiment of that. Why, you must be the luckiest man in all the Kingdoms.” Jeyne smiled and for whatever reason you felt tears prick at your eyes. You thanked her as Maekar fixed you with a long glance and nodded to Lady Jeyne. You tried to mask your emotion by eating some food while the pair tried to make conversation with the brooding Prince you called husband.
Was it the wine? Mayhaps. But in that moment you felt like reaching over and slapping him so hard he would’ve seen the stars standing mighty over your ancestral seat. How dare he? He couldn’t even agree with her, he couldn’t even say that ‘yes, she is beautiful’ or pretty or comely or whatever else he found in that thick head of his.
You brushed another tear that fell and before you knew it you chin wobbled.
You really shouldn’t have drank.
The chair scraped over the marble floor as you stood, excusing yourself as your voice broke. You must send a raven to Lady Jeyne, apologizing, tomorrow. But for now, you had to get away. Your feet echoed into the vastness of the great hall, as you rounded the corner and sobs rocked you into two. You cried like you’ve never cried before and you were sure in that moment that you hated him.
You hated him and his silences and his crass way. You hated that he was more mercenary in expensive leather than Prince of the Blood. You entered your chamber and undressed, laying in your bed and holding your pillow to your face as you felt your sobs rocking you to sleep.
You heard the grand balcony doors, facing the Red Mountains, open. And yet, you couldn’t be bothered to look at him.
You hated him, no, you despised him.
He was undressing. Maekar took the grey fur from the bed you two shared and threw it on the ground as he laid next to you. The bed creaked and the sound of hooves were heard in the distance as your husband sighed.
He laughed.
Maekar Targaryen laughed, no, breathed out a noise that was akin to laughter through his nose and you wondered what was it that brought him to this point. You wished to turn and see what the great fuss was about-
“I know you’re awake.”
You let a moment pass. The moon cast a white light in the room from the window and you turned, opening your eyes as if his rough voice awoke you, not your thoughts. Your eyes were bloodshot and your throat was scraped from all the crying.
You hated him and you hated your silence and careful words of respect towards him. Maekar Targaryen didn’t deserve them.
“Why must you be so cold?” you felt a fresh rush of tears to your eyes, and you let them fall, not caring he saw them, “You’re cold and uncaring, has anyone ever told you that?”
His back was to the ebony headboard he was usually repeatedly slamming to the wall by this time of night. Maekar blinked once, like he was trying to make sense of your words and your boldness.
You didn’t care what he thought of you anymore “When I was a little girl, I hoped that the Gods would bring me a man like Lord Caron, for he is sweet and caring. But they brought me you- and you are as crass as a mercenary and as unbecoming of a Prince as any soldier is.” You spit out the nearest insult you could find. Words tumbling out as fast as rain with the help of that sweet summer wine you drank. Your head was beginning to hurt, a pounding pain that settled in your skull. “You can barely see me as your wife so why, I ask you-” you hiccuped “-why have you made me so, if you would be uncaring with my soul and my body?”
Emboldened by the fire burning in your belly at finally speaking your feelings towards the stone wall you called husband you continued “Why do I, out of all the women in the Seven Kingdoms get to be with someone like you, while others can get to laugh and kiss their Lords when they please, how often they please- there are others who hold their wives, did you know? They don’t have to take them like some whore on the road.” Hot tears streamed down your face and you hiccuped all the way through your speech.
“Is that what you want me to do? To hold you? And kiss you?” His white hair and beard caught the light from outside and he looked every bit like the Valyrian lords of old he was descended from.
“Nay, my lord, you can keep your embraces to others, I clearly don’t wish for them.” You turned your back to him, still crying. He wouldn’t change for all the might of Valyria or the Iron Throne.
You could feel his presence beside you. He didn’t say anything else afterwards. Your sobs were the only thing heard in the colossal room.
You thought sleep might claim you again as you heard his voice.
“I don’t know how to act towards you so you may not be frightened of me.” Your belly hurt from all the sobs you put her through. Still, you listened. “I find it hard to find words to say to you, or to hold you- Gods know I haven’t been held in my life as you wish to be.” He scoffed at the last part and you realized you didn’t know much of his past. You took a deep breath, scared that any words might frighten him into solemn silence.
“If you wish to be kissed, you can act upon it yourself.” At that, you turned.
You raised your bum to sit upright, back to the headboard as well.
“You don’t wish for a husband like Lord Allun, trust me when I say so.” His voice was a whisper and you realized you never heard this hushed tone from him. “He’s had about a hundred whores and has bastarded half his servants”
You gasped, “You lie!” your tone was a whisper as well. Memories of gossiping with your fellow Ladies came back, though this was surely different.
He shook his head, something akin to a smile forming on his face “It is truth what I speak.”
You thought to turn and sleep, for you dearly wished to rest, but that godsdammed Dornish wine overpowered you before you could remember your manners before your Lord.
“Have you ever fathered any bastards?”
A sound came out of him. A sound you never heard before from your man. You had half the mind to call Nymella and the Maester to find a cure. The sound was like that of…of laughter? He was laughing!
“No, I’ve not fathered any bastards. At least none that I know of.” You smiled with him, happy that you could see him happy. You half forgot what you were crying about.
The dark covered you both in its embrace and maybe that’s why you were so brave.
“You should sleep, before you bring me any more questions I may not know the answer to.” He laid down and sighed.
Yet, you were not done. No. What did Nymella say to you?
You rested your head once more on the warm pillow as he turned his back to you. You closed your eyes. Nay, maybe not tonight. Though, when else could it be if not tonight? Your heart thrummed in your chest as you lifted your hand.
Only for you to bring it down once more between you two.
You imagined him coming to your bedchambers, sitting down with a groan for his bones were weary, he was not as young as he used to be. You imagined yourself, sitting down on his lap of burned leather and expensive furs and kissing him. Not the closed mouth kissed you bestowed upon him once in a while, when he wanted you to, but open and hungry, like the ones Nymella’s books wrote about. You imagined him grabbing you with his strong hands and not rushing anywhere for once.
You rubbed your thighs together and for the first time since meeting him you wondered: What in the Seven Hells were you so frightened of?
You grabbed his shoulder and turned his much bigger body around with a definite pull to sit on his back.
You shuffled closer to him, closing your eyes as you often did when you were near him in such a situation. You opened them back up as you felt the smell of sandalwood and cedar and his broad shoulder land in the middle of your chest.
He opened his eyes and that’s when you were expecting a remark, a curse, anything. You braced. Nothing came. Only his eyes. And yet, you didn’t cower like a flower in winter.
You touched the left side of his face and grabbed hold of his beard, forcing him to come closer and respond to your kiss. His lips were soft and careful as your own grabbed his upper lip and held it. His mouth tasted of summer wine and you were sure yours did too. You turned your head to the side, see if he tasted sweeter from there and your lips made a sound as they broke apart and then collided again that traveled right to your stomach and between your thighs. Maekar was surely feeling your heart beating out of your chest but you didn’t care for that.
You moved your body to sit half on top of him as he grabbed your leg and put it across his thighs, legs moving on their own to find any friction between them that may ease the heat you felt. In a moment where you thought he would bring himself above you, as was his rightful place to be, he did the opposite.
Maekar grabbed your behind and pulled you on top.
With his strong hands, more used to a mace than the soft skin of your waist beneath your nightshift. He settled your heat on top of his growing one as you placed both hands near his head and kept kissing him with as much need as any girl might towards her lover. You found all the long weeks spent dreaming of this moment and longing for it to happen to come crashing down all at once. So it could happen to you too. This wasn’t just books and whispers by friends in court.
He rose up to meet your feverish kisses and you found him pressing his hot mouth to your neck as he held your hair back. The noises that left you were so unlike you that, on any other day, with much less wine drank, you would’ve bowed your head in shame. But it was he who must be shamed, for he had treated you so unkindly.
You touched his broad chest and looked down upon your dragon husband. He looked smaller this way, much less royalty and more man. He grabbed your soft nightshift, raising it, and you threw it over your head and away from the both of you. His gaze swept across your body, to your breasts and waist, towards your thighs and the place he wished with ardent desperation to be inside of.
You swung your leg off him and took his pants off. He needed the help, for his eyes never left your body. By the time he was in an almost-comfortable position you got on him again, feeling his heat on your own for the first time without rushing, and without closing your eyes so you may not die in shame.
Your folds parted slightly as you took him beneath you and rubbed down on him. Moaning and looking down at him as he looked away to the canopy above you, lips parted and groaning all the way under your affection. His hands rested on your hips, but he barely commanded you to move.
You smiled. Then you grimaced in pleasure, and then smiled again. For this is what you wanted, no, needed. He looked into your eyes as you stood on your knees and brought him before your already wet entrance. His brows were furrowed and you felt his heart beat fast beneath your palm on his chest. You lowered yourself down and his moan was like that of your own.
He brought his hands up to your breasts and closed his eyes as you tried to find a pace and a movement that might bring enough pleasure. At one point you stood too straight and a feeling like that of being impaled shot through your flower and towards your belly, you lowered down on him. Elbows on both sides of his head and kissing him like you did before as he rose up to meet your thrusts. The old bed croaked after each press of your body to his.
The one stoic Maekar was groaning like you’ve never heard him before whenever you would meet him halfway. The only sounds in the room were your wetness and the feeling of damp skin pressing against each other time and time again as you cried into your husband's mouth.
You rose again as he told you “Slower”, voice smaller than he ever used, but you couldn’t even begin to think about caring for any of his requests as you shoved yourself down on him time and time again. He didn’t seem to mind your pace either as he closed his eyes, and held your hips, grabbing you like you might disappear between his fingers.
Your most sensitive spot rubbed against his own body time and time again and you grabbed fistfulls of his undershirt as you came. Squeezing him time and time again as he pulled you down once more on him. You wet your throat as he grabbed the back of your head and held you there. He didn’t stop until his thighs were shaking from beneath you and you felt the familiar pulse of his manhood, pressed as deep as he could in you.
You remained laid with your head on his chest. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it beneath his hot and damp skin.
After a moment, you looked at him. His cheeks, even in the soft light of the moon, looked impossibly rosy, like a maiden on her wedding night. And his once careful swept back hair was because of your hands, restless and wanting something to cling to, tangled and unkept.
You kissed him again and he smelled of you.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
You couldn’t say things remained the same afterwards.
Meakar wanted you all the same, and yet you found yourself wanting him too. Nymella smiled whenever you came into her chambers with a knowing look.
“Your husband smells like a ‘Tyrosh brothel' from neck to feet, any wonder why that is?”
The changes were subtle at first, like the slow turning of a season. It wasn't that Maekar suddenly became a man of poetry and flowers, but rather, the sharp, jagged edges of his temper had been filed down. He still scowled, but now, when his eyes caught yours, there was a flicker of something that looked like a secret shared between the two of you. A secret that set your heart on fire and pooled low into your stomach and beneath your thighs as you would be the one to call him to bed when he spent too long in his study.
You knew that his attitude would never touch you again, nor would his words make a dent into your humors as you regarded him as soft as summer air when you two were alone. Gone was the man who towered over you and you shivered in his shadow. He still existed, though you liked to imagine him with those silver locks of his buried beneath your legs as you held him there.
You found that he loved the tartness of pomegranate juice one of your maids made and that he enjoyed the smell of jasmine. That he would much rather prefer staying in silence, each of you doing something of your own devices as you would often catch his gaze, though it wasn’t scrutinizing, you knew it was, in his own way- the only way he knew. His confession that he cared for you. He cared for you passionately as he extended your library and ordered Chestnut to be brought a wonderful saddle, made of fine leather from his own home, Dragonstone.
His booming voice regaled you with stories of old, stories from his own family and how cruel he found life in the Red Keep, overshadowed by his brothers. He was glad he would never have to return there.
He once told you, after you were both spent, with your back to him and his strong arm holding you, that he loved you, that he wished for you to love him back, if you could find it in you. You laughed. How dull could this man be?
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
You looked ahead into the horizon as you waited for the Carons to arrive, you had to make amends for the way you treated them last time they visited you, Maekar had no choice but to obey and scowl at the sun.
“Maekar” You turned your purple silk dress towards him “please try to be pleasant- smile, at least.”
“I am smiling.” His face hadn’t moved from a scowl.
“Look at me. Smile,” your face was brought to a grin while you pointed at it “like this, see?”
He looked at you and tried his hardest to replicate your face, yet he looked like a sneezing tiger more than Lord. You doubled over in laughter as he looked away- this time, with a real, genuine smile on his face that made him look a decade younger.
He could be funny when he wanted to be.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
Authors note: Yall I had to. I love a man who is emotionally constipated and I tried to bring him in this story as much as I could. UGH Maekar I've liked u since u had that fuck ass bob in the Snow White and the Huntsman. THANK YOU FOR READING this was longer than I intended at first but if you find it in you to write a message to me that u enjoyed this story- it will make my whole day. Have a great day loves <3 imagine how he's gonna act when u die in a few years after birthing 6 kids
Your brain loves to rewrite your past with the knowledge you have now. This is called hindsight bias. It makes things look clear that were not clear at all when you were in the situation.
Hindsight can make everything feel like it was obvious. Patterns feel clearer. Red flags look brighter. But you did not have that clarity when you were in it. You were acting with the knowledge, feelings, and instincts you had at the time.
Even if someone warned you, even if part of you suspected something was wrong, the way you felt then mattered. Hope mattered. Fear mattered. Attachment mattered.
You were trying. You were surviving. You were not foolish for wanting things to work.
Be kinder to the version of you who did not know what you know now.
Be kinder to the
version of you who did not
know what you know now.
Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.
Me thinking that I'm funny was probably the first problem
Terms & Conditions; still in love
Part III
Masterlist
Part I | Part II
F1 texts during their divorce era.
Pierre, Fernando, Lewis
Warnings: cursing | mentions of threats | sexual innuendos | Divorce | crack
Disclaimer:
The characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictional. While some names and settings may resemble real individuals or locations, this work is set in an alternate universe and does not reflect actual events or personal relationships. Any similarities to real-life situations are purely coincidental and used for creative storytelling purposes only.
PIERRE GASLY
FERNANDO ALONSO
LEWIS HAMILTON
Terms & Conditions; still in love
Part II
Masterlist
Part I | Part III
F1 texts during their divorce era.
Charles, Carlos, Daniel
Warnings: cursing | mentions of threats | sexual innuendos | Divorce | crack
Disclaimer:
The characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictional. While some names and settings may resemble real individuals or locations, this work is set in an alternate universe and does not reflect actual events or personal relationships. Any similarities to real-life situations are purely coincidental and used for creative storytelling purposes only.
CHARLES LECLERC
CARLOS SAINZ
DANIEL RICCIARDO
Terms & Conditions; still in love
Part I
Masterlist
Part II | Part III
F1 texts during their divorce era.
Max, George, Alex,
Warnings: cursing | mentions of threats | sexual innuendos | Divorce | crack
Disclaimer:
The characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictional. While some names and settings may resemble real individuals or locations, this work is set in an alternate universe and does not reflect actual events or personal relationships. Any similarities to real-life situations are purely coincidental and used for creative storytelling purposes only.
MAX VERSTAPPEN
GEORGE RUSSELL
ALEX ALBON
I'll be your daydream, I'll be your favorite things
"Deep in my bones, I can feel you / Take me back to a time only we knew, hideaway..."
Lance Stroll x Fem OC
This was a heavy one for me to write but the idea was good and it was like an itch to my brain that I need to scratch.
Ps. I'm tired of Lance being F1's punching bag
MASTERLIST
Word Count: 6, 717
Warnings: Self- harm | Mental health issues | Abuse | Haven't proofread to the point of perfection
Disclaimer:
The characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictional. While some names and settings may resemble real individuals or locations, this work is set in an alternate universe and does not reflect actual events or personal relationships. Any similarities to real-life situations are purely coincidental and used for creative storytelling purposes only.
Lance couldn’t be happier when a race weekend finally ended. The moment he wrapped up post-race duties, he was gone flying off to whichever country felt far enough. If it weren’t for his job, he’d throw his phone in the trash and disappear, never to return.He’d left everything behind. But he couldn’t, could he? Not until the world was done tearing him apart, bleeding him dry on the track, crucifying him for every mistake, for every privilege. As if he were the only one born into wealth. As if the others weren’t also handed golden keys behind closed doors.
Unwinding used to mean drowning his exhaustion in alcohol, hockey games, parties, or short trips with his sister or mum. Lately, though, he’d been doing it alone. And to his surprise, he realized backpacking was a hell of a lot better than lugging around everything he owned.
“Soo…where to this time?”
His face lit up when he saw her at the airport, backpack slung over her shoulder, dressed in travel clothes. Her hair was in a French braid, her face fresh and bare except for a hint of gloss on her lips, her skin glowing with a sun-kissed tan from their recent trip to Cancun.
“Anywhere we want,” Lance replied with a shrug.
She thought for a moment, tapping her chin playfully. “How about… Palau?”
Lance gestured to the check-in counter. “Then off to Palau we go.”
He lied, though. He wasn’t alone. He’d met Revia on his first solo trip, in Greece. No one knew, no one was snapping photos of him or twisting his expressions into scandal. A stranger, a backpacker, a burst of color in his grayscale life. He never planned on talking to anyone and it was through her that he learned how to travel alone. He had never loved flying economy more, booking ferries, buses… Hell, now he was even into motorcycles and bicycles. It felt… therapeutic. He couldn’t explain why these simple changes made him feel like he had his life figured out. But the bliss always fades the moment he returns to his real life. Race weekends loomed like an unavoidable storm.
But now, there is something to look forward to. Revia. Enthralling, fresh, like a breath of clean air. Lance knew he couldn’t go back to Canada without at least learning her name. She was the most mesmerizing person he’d ever met, gliding through the golden light of Santorini like some kind of goddess. He stood there, frozen, mouth agape, like a complete idiot. When he finally gathered the courage to approach her, she chuckled, clearly amused by how badly he’d made a fool of himself. But they clicked. And just like that, they were travel buddies. She had no idea what F1 was, and that was perfect. It was the last thing Lance wanted to think about on his days off. They exchanged contacts and agreed to meet at the airport when they travel. Lance didn’t ask much about her life, just her name: Revia Elira. No backstory, no details, just someone who loved to travel and, for some reason, had decided to tag along with him.
From Greece to Amsterdam—where she made him chase tulips under the spring sun. Then to Egypt, where he questioned his sanity climbing temples in 40-degree heat and for agreeing to go so far from his usual vacation spots, but it was exhilarating. Hong Kong, where he ditched Michelin stars for street food and swore he found heaven in a dumpling cart. Mind you, he never would have considered before. He felt like Anthony Bourdain, learning about culture firsthand. Then China, the northern part, was surprisingly cold. The Maldives. Cancun. He’d never taken so many videos, silly ones, fleeting moments. Photos that would last longer than the pain of being vilified online. He knew he couldn’t run forever but while he could, he’d live.
Palau is beautiful.
“This isn’t real,” Revia whispered, breathless. They were both standing there, stunned.
“This can’t be real,” Revia gasped, looking out at Palau’s sapphire waters. Both of them were stunned by the view.
“Oh my god, Lance, this is paradise!” she squealed, taking off her cover-up mid-run toward the shore.
He instinctively pulled out his phone, capturing the moment. Her joy. Her light.
“Hey! Don’t just stand there like a statue!” she yelled over her shoulder.
Lance snorted. “I’m not miserable! I’m documenting greatness.”
He set his phone down on a nearby recliner and ran after her, both of them wading into the water.
“I wish I could live here,” she whispered as they floated beside each other, the sun warming their faces.
“Me too,” he murmured, eyes closed. “I wish I never had to leave.”
Later, they lounged on recliners, sunbathing. Lance drifted off without realizing only to wake to the soft graze of fingers on his face. Revia’s face hovered over his, haloed by sunlight.
“Hey…” she said softly.
He blinked, disoriented for a moment. Her features were the first thing he saw. She didn’t look real. She looked like something he dreamt up.
“You’re so beautiful…” he whispered, more to himself than anything.
Revia chuckled, her eyes sparkling, her beauty radiant even in the fading light. Without thinking, he reached out, pulling her into his arms. She fell into his chest, his arms wrapped around her as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded. He forgot about everything else. He breathed her in, like she was oxygen.
“Can we just stay like this? Forever?”
She sighed, her body relaxing in his arms. “You’ve got a job to get back to.”
“I know,” he groaned. “But I just want to be with you.”
“Are you… falling in love with me?”
He smirked "What if I am?"
She smiled, a playful glint in her eyes. “Then we’ll have to jump off a waterfall. Together.”
He didn’t know what it meant. He didn’t need to. It sounded perfect.
“Only if you hold my hand.” He gently cupped the back of her neck and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
They both stood, but Lance couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Not when the golden hour draped her in light like some divine painting.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re even real,” he murmured, lost in the moment.
Revia cupped his cheek, pressing a soft kiss to his other cheek. “Define real.”
He didn’t have an answer. He just sighed, the words escaping before he could stop them. “Come with me to Silverstone. Watch me race.”
He wanted her to see him in his element, see the world he was from, the world that felt so far away from this paradise.
–
It was race weekend again. The paddock is buzzing. Mechanics rushing, engineers shouting across garages, and the ever-present whirr of engines in the background. But there was something different this time.
The usual pre-race tension seemed to have lifted, and it was noticeable. The team, the drivers, hell, even the crew members couldn’t ignore it. Lance was walking with a different kind of energy, one that had been missing for a while since F3. He was more present. More enthusiastic.
“Is it just me?” Esteban muttered as he walked past Fernando in the paddock, nodding towards Lance, who was chatting with Ollie. “or does Lance look… less haunted?.”
Fernando raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed. He’d always kept an eye on Lance, but now he couldn’t help but notice the subtle shifts. Fresh out of his debrief and actually laughed at something Ollie said.
“Definitely less brooding,” Fernando added. “The man even joined with everyone for coffee this morning.”
“Didn’t think that was possible,” George quipped, adjusting his cap. “Lance, smiling. What’s next, a therapy session?”
“Miracles do happen,” Fernando quipped, sipping his espresso like a Roman god observing mortals.
George leaned over. “You know what they say: heartbreak shows in posture, but so does a woman.” He grinned. “He’s glowing.”
Lando gave a thumbs up, overly dramatic. “He even asked about my weekend. I almost cried.”
They laughed, amused and genuinely relieved. Lance had always been cordial, but distant. Social, but guarded. He kept the world at arm’s length, rarely letting anyone in. But today, there was a glimmer of something returning,his old self, maybe.
Lance, who was standing just a few feet away, overheard their conversation and felt a small tug of warmth in his chest. He glanced up, catching the eye of Esteban, who gave him a knowing wink.
He adjusted his fireproof suit, his gaze drifting toward the corner of the paddock where he knew Revia had told him she’d be watching. He could already feel the anticipation building in his chest.
But race weekends were tricky. His focus had to stay sharp. The roar of the engines, the pressure of the crowd.
The race came and went, the cars tearing around the track in their blistering speed, a familiar rhythm that had once felt like a suffocating cage. Lance finished in a respectable position, his performance solid, though not spectacular. But it didn’t matter. He’d felt good out there. And when the checkered flag waved, it wasn’t the race that lingered in his mind. It was the thought of Revia, waiting for him. Because he had asked her to come.
And he believed she would. As he walked through parc fermé and finished his post race duties, his eyes searched the crowd, hospitality, paddock entrance, guest areas but no sign of her. He even checked the garage, then peeked at the grandstand from the corner of his eye. His phone was quiet. No messages.
She wasn’t there.
His heart sank for just a moment before he shrugged it off. Maybe something had come up. Maybe she’d been delayed. But he couldn’t deny that the thought of her being absent tugged at him more than he cared to admit. Disappointment wrapped around him like a cloak.
But when he entered the hotel lobby, something caught his eye. A silhouette in the corner, slightly hunched under the weight of a drenched jacket. The sound of rain pounded against the glass doors.
And there she was.
Revia. Soaked from the rain, than her usually perfect braid frizzed in the humidity.
Lance’s heart skipped a beat. He barely had time to process before his legs moved, carrying him across the marble floor toward her.
"Revia..." His voice was a mix of relief and excitement. Then Lance broke into the brightest grin anyone had seen on him in years.
She looked up, and the moment her eyes met his, her lips curved into a smile that made everything else blur out of focus.
“My flight got delayed, and then my cab broke down in the rain. I didn’t make it in time…”
“You’re here now,” Lance cut her off, wrapping his arms around her tightly, as if anchoring himself.
“You’re freezing,” she mumbled against his chest, but she didn’t pull away.
“So are you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her damp hair.
She looked up at him, eyes glassy from the cold. “Did I miss everything?”
And in that moment, Lance felt a surge of something more profound than just joy. It was the feeling of being understood, of finding someone who wasn’t just present but truly there with him. His whole life, he’d been surrounded by noise, by cameras, by expectations. But with Revia? She was just here. No pretenses. No facades.
He took her hand, warm and real and right here, and led her toward the elevator.
“No,” he said softly, brushing a wet strand from her cheek. “This this is the only part that matters.”
“Let’s get you warm.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, her tone light. “But I’m going to need a towel... and maybe some dry clothes. And you?” She raised an eyebrow, clearly teasing him.
Lance smiled, a real smile this time, one that reached his eyes. “I’m just happy you’re here.I don’t think I can do another race weekend without knowing you’re waiting on the other side.”
She smiled through the exhaustion and chill. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep showing up.”
–
After the madness and busy race weekend, Bali was the perfect place to escape.
The moment they touched down, the warm air hit Lance’s skin like a soft embrace. The hustle of the airport quickly faded as they found themselves winding down the long roads that snaked through the island’s lush landscape. The vibrant green rice terraces, the scent of frangipani flowers, and the distant sounds of waves crashing against the shore all made the chaotic world they left behind feel a million miles away.
Revia had been excited from the start, bubbling with energy as she always did when they traveled. But there was something else in her voice as she spoke about Bali. "You know," she said, tossing her bag into the back of their rented jeep, "Bali’s got a lot of spirit energy. The locals believe that the island is guarded by spirits, good spirits, of course. They can tell if you're a good person or not. And if you're not, you'll most likely get sick. It's like the spirits want to keep the bad ones away."
Lance raised an eyebrow. "You’re telling me Bali’s got spirit guardians?"
She nodded, grinning at his skepticism. "Exactly. And the ones who are good, who have good intentions... they get blessed. Their stay here is magical."
“Magical, huh?” Lance repeated, amused. “So if I get sick, you’ll know what’s up.”
Revia laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Exactly. So make sure to be extra nice, Mr. Race Driver.”
Lance smirked, but a part of him felt a strange comfort in her words. After all, how could he argue with someone who lived her life so fully, who embraced the belief in the unseen with such ease?
Their days in Bali became a whirlwind of adventure, far removed from the luxury hotel rooms and catered meals Lance had become used to. Revia insisted they eat in local warungs (small restaurants), where the food was as authentic as it got. They devoured nasi goreng with chili-spiced sambal, crispy duck, and sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves. Lance was still getting used to the street food vibe, but there was something deeply satisfying about eating meals prepared by local families rather than in the impersonal surroundings of a five-star hotel.
They rented motorcycles, a decision that made Lance both nervous and excited. He had never been one for motorcycles, but with Revia leading the way, he couldn’t help but follow.
The island’s roads were wild and narrow, twisting through jungles and villages, passing by temples decorated with intricate carvings and offerings of colorful flowers. Revia, fearless and carefree, weaved through traffic like it was second nature. Lance had to concentrate, gripping the handlebars with a mix of exhilaration and mild panic.
"Don’t go too fast, okay?" he called to her, his voice carrying in the wind.
Revia glanced over her shoulder, her face lit up with a grin. "Catch me if you can!" she yelled before speeding ahead, her laughter echoing down the road.
It felt like a different world. Wild, untamed, and carefree. After hours of exploring, they finally reached the base of a lush jungle, where they started their hike to the waterfall. The air was thick with humidity, and every step felt like a brush with nature itself. The jungle around them was dense, the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves almost musical, but it was the feeling of being completely in the moment that made it unforgettable.
They hiked up steep paths, weaving between moss-covered rocks, their shoes sinking into the earth with each step. Revia led the way, moving with a natural grace that made Lance feel like he was the one struggling to keep up. Sweat was dripping down his back, his muscles aching from the climb, but the promise of the waterfall spurred him on.
“Almost there!” Revia shouted back, clearly unaffected by the climb. Her face was flushed from the heat, but there was a sparkle in her eyes, this was her element, and Lance couldn’t help but admire how at ease she was, even in the midst of the challenge.
Finally, after what felt like hours, they reached the top. The waterfall roared in front of them, crashing against the rocks below in a beautiful, thunderous display. The mist from the falls sprayed their faces, the cool droplets refreshing against the sweltering heat.
Revia looked at him with an impish grin. "Ready to jump?"
Lance stared at the waterfall. The drop wasn’t far, but it was high enough to make his stomach churn with nerves. It was a moment that would test him, just like every other big decision in his life. The voice in his head, his racing mentality tried to argue against it, to stay grounded, to stay safe. But then he looked at Revia, standing there so confidently, her smile full of life, and something inside him broke free.
"Yeah," he said, his voice steady despite the rush of adrenaline. "Let’s do it."
They ran toward the edge together, their hands clasped tightly. As they jumped, the world around them seemed to stop just for a second. They were suspended in air, weightless, before plunging into the cool, welcoming water below. The impact was breathtaking, the coldness of the water shocking at first, but the moment they resurfaced, laughter bubbled up from both of them.
Lance floated in the water, his arms stretched out as he stared at the sky above, letting the current take him. Everything felt so surreal. The jump, the water, the feeling of being with someone who made the world seem just a little more magical than it had before.
“Now this is what I call a moment,” Lance said, his voice quiet but filled with contentment.
Revia swam beside him, her body moving through the water with grace. “This place does that to you,” she said softly, almost as if she were talking to herself. “Bali… It’s magic.”
Lance looked over at her, a smile tugging at his lips. Maybe it was the magic of Bali. Or maybe it was something about Revia, about their connection, about how her belief in the spirits of the island had somehow brought him here, to this moment, to this peace.
“I think I’m starting to believe,” he said, his eyes locking with hers.
Revia grinned, treading water beside him. “I knew you would.”
As they floated in the waterfall’s embrace, Lance realized something that had eluded him for years. This wasn’t just an escape. It was a reminder that life wasn’t meant to be lived in isolation or in the shadow of what others thought of him. It was about moments like these, spontaneous, raw, and real.
And with Revia by his side, he felt like he could live in this magic forever.
They lay side by side, just off the riverbank where the waterfall roared in the background—like nature’s own applause. The spray from the falls misted the air around them, cool against their sun-warmed skin. Their towels were spread across the rocks, the last of the sunlight casting soft gold over the water and trees.
Lance rested on his back, arm behind his head, eyes watching the sky turn orange. Revia lay beside him, tracing idle circles on her thigh, occasionally glancing at him but giving him space.
The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. Like they’d known each other in a hundred lifetimes before this one.
“Tell me about F1. I’m curious what you do.” She broke the silence.
He let out a deep sigh.
Then Lance spoke quietly, like he was speaking more to the trees than to her.
“You know, when I started racing… I used to get so excited I couldn’t sleep before a karting event. I loved the speed, the precision. Even the nerves. I couldn’t wait to get on track.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Then I got older. F3, F2... F1. And somewhere along the way, it started to change. It became... heavier. Less about the thrill and more about expectations. Eyes. Judgment. Backlash. And my father.”
He turned his head, looking at her. “Do you know what it’s like to love something so much, but feel like it’s draining your soul?”
Revia didn’t answer. She just nodded, eyes open, listening.
“I keep thinking I should be grateful….I am, but at the same time... every race feels like I’m on trial. ‘Daddy bought his seat.’ ‘He’s wasting space.’ ‘He’s not good enough.’ No matter how much work I put in. No matter how hard I try.”
His voice cracked slightly but didn’t waver.
“And I’ve gotten good at pretending it doesn’t affect me. That I don’t care what they say. But God, sometimes I wish I could scream. Just once. Let it all out. Because the truth is… I love racing, I do, but it’s starting to feel like I’m doing it for everyone but myself.”
He looked at his hands. Scarred knuckles, sun-bronzed skin, a few small bruises fading from his wrist.
“It used to feel like flying. Now it feels like falling.”
A long moment passed. Only the sound of the waterfall and distant birds in the trees.
Then Revia slowly sat up, legs crossed beneath her as she looked at him, her voice low but sure.
“You don’t have to keep carrying all of that alone, Lance. I think you’re letting everything else drown out the sound of your own heart,” she said softly, her gaze holding his. “You’ve been trying to live up to expectations that were never your own. Your dad’s. The fans’. The critics. It’s too much weight for anyone to carry, Lance. No one can breathe under all that.”
He met her eyes, guarded and vulnerable. He looked at her, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
“You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how heavy it’s gotten. Not even your dad. And you sure as hell don’t owe the world a version of yourself they’ll approve of. They don’t get to decide if you’re enough.”
She tilted her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, still damp from their swim.
“I don’t think you’ve fallen out of love with racing,” she said. “I think you’ve fallen out of love with how it’s been twisted, how much you’ve had to sacrifice for it. Who you’ve had to become just to survive it. Maybe it’s time to stop racing for everyone else. To stop pretending like it’s not hurting. What I’m saying is... you’ve been so focused on the outcome, the results, the pressure... that you’ve forgotten why you loved it in the first place. You loved it because it was you. It was your passion. Your drive. But somewhere along the way, it became about living up to someone else's version of success.”
Lance didn’t say anything. He was just… watching her. Eyes soft. Jaw unclenched. Her fingers closed around his
“Maybe it’s okay if the fire dims sometimes,” she added. “That doesn’t mean it’s gone forever. And maybe the drive doesn’t always look like adrenaline and glory. Sometimes it’s choosing to get back in the car, even when it hurts. Or knowing when to step away, breathe, and remind yourself why you started.”
Lance swallowed. His throat was tight.
“You’re not weak, Lance,” she said gently. “You’re just tired. And you’re allowed to be.”
Her hand was still holding his, and Lance squeezed it, letting the comfort of her touch remind him that maybe he didn’t have to carry it all by himself anymore. He could be honest with her. He could be vulnerable.
“I think I was just waiting for someone to say that,” he whispered.
She smiled, eyes kind. “Well, I just did.”
He looked at her for a long moment. The falls still crashed in the background, but all he could hear was the silence between her words, the kind that comforted without demanding anything back.
Then, with a small breath, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers.
“I don’t want to lose myself to all of it,” he murmured.
“Then don’t,” she replied. “You’re still here, Lance. You’re still you.”
And as the sky faded to twilight, and the first stars blinked awake above them, he let himself believe her.
If only for tonight.
“Come on, let’s have one last dip.”
The Stroll family’s mansion was eerily quiet, save for the occasional tapping of Lawrence’s fingers on his iPad screen, checking stocks. The sun had barely crept over the horizon, but Claire Ann and Chloe were already in the living room, tension thick in the air.
Chloe was pacing back and forth, her frustration mounting with every step. “It’s been three days, Mom, and he hasn’t left his room! He barely even answers the phone when I call him.” She stopped, turning to Claire Ann, her face drawn with worry. “He’s been like this for months now! Sometimes, he doesn’t even look like him anymore. I don’t know what’s going on, but we can’t just ignore it.”
Claire Anne’s face was tight, her concern barely concealed. She had noticed the same things: Lance had changed. His eyes, once full of fire, now seemed dull, the spark gone, as if life had drained from him. She watched him from afar, helpless and heartbroken. "I know, Chloe. But... I don’t know what to do. He’s always been so strong. He used to love racing, it was everything to him, but now…" Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the heaviness in the room.
She knew her son and his love for racing, she watched from f3, to f2, now f1. But her heart breaks every time she sees her boy losing his soul to the sport he once loved
Chloe threw her hands up in frustration. "What if this isn't just some phase, Mom? What if he needs help? He’s not eating properly, he’s barely sleeping, and I—" She choked, taking a breath. “I’m scared, okay? He’s falling apart and we’re sitting here doing nothing. He’s not okay.”
Lawrence’s voice cut through the tension, as calm and dismissive as ever. “Nonsense, Chloe. He’s throwing a tantrum. He’s just upset about that race. He should’ve gotten that P3, but he slipped and fell to P7. He could have done better, for Christ’s sake. If he drove like he actually cared, he wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Chloe’s fists clenched, her blood boiling. "A tantrum? You’re seriously blaming this on a race result, Dad?" She almost screamed, her voice cracking with frustration. “This isn’t about a goddamn race. This is about Lance. This is about my brother, who’s been slowly disappearing right in front of us, and you won’t even bat an eye!”
Lawrence didn’t even look up from his screen. “What’s there to see? He’s a driver. He’s been living in the shadow of his dad’s expectations. He had one bad race, big deal. He’s not crazy.”
Chloe’s breathing grew shallow, a mixture of panic and rage. “Oh my god, are you hearing yourself? You think this is just about a race? It’s been months, Dad! He hasn’t been himself since before that crash in Monaco. You know he used to smile after every race, even the bad ones. Now he barely talks to us. He’s empty. This isn’t normal.”
Claire Ann, her face drawn tight with worry, reached out and placed a hand on Chloe’s shoulder. “Maybe he needs... someone to talk to. A professional. I’ve been thinking about it, but... I don’t know if he’d be open to it.” Her voice cracked slightly at the end, a sign of how deeply worried she was for her son.
Chloe’s eyes were wide with desperation. “Mom, he needs therapy! He needs someone to help him with whatever this is. I can’t stand seeing him like this anymore!”
Lawrence snorted, rolling his eyes. “Therapy? For what? You’re acting like the kid’s crazy. He’s not crazy. He just needs to grow up and stop letting a few bad results get to him. This is all a phase, and it’ll pass. Let him sulk, let him sort himself out.”
But Chloe had heard enough. She couldn’t wait any longer, couldn’t just let her brother slip away in front of her eyes while their father buried his head in the sand.
Without another word, she turned sharply, heading towards the stairs. “I’m not going to stand here and pretend everything is fine,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Where are you going?” Lawrence called after her, but Chloe didn’t answer. She wasn’t going to waste any more time with him.
She reached Lance’s door and knocked softly, her heart hammering in her chest. “Lance? It’s me… I just want to talk. Please, open the door.”
Silence.
“Lance?” she tried again, louder this time, knocking more insistently. Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle, finding it locked. Her stomach dropped.
Her voice was more urgent now. “Lance, you’ve been in there for days. Just let me in. Please.”
But still, no answer. It felt wrong, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Chloe’s hand flew to the door handle, twisting it with force. “This isn’t normal!” she muttered under her breath. “I’m not letting this go.”
Without thinking, her body pushed against the door, forcing it open with a loud creak.
What she found inside made her blood run cold.
Lance was slumped in the bathtub, his body motionless, his eyes closed, his skin pale and ghostly. The water was still running too high, rising up around him, and she could hear the faint sound of water splashing against the edge of the tub.
Chloe’s breath caught in her throat. “Lance!” she screamed, her heart lurching in her chest as she rushed to his side. She shook him roughly, but he didn’t respond.
“No, no, no...” Her hands were shaking as she reached into the water, feeling for his pulse, praying, begging for it to be there. Her mind raced, but everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. “Lance, wake up!”
She yanked him from the water, her heart hammering as she pulled him into her arms, her vision blurry with tears. “Mom! Dad! Help!”
Claire Ann and Lawrence came rushing in at the sound of her frantic scream, their faces instantly drained of color when they saw Lance, lifeless in her arms.
Chloe was shaking, her voice a frantic rasp. “He’s not breathing! He’s not breathing, Mom, do something! Help him!”
Claire Ann dropped to her knees beside them, her hands trembling as she checked for a pulse. She shook her head, her breath hitching, her voice shaking. “Lance... Lance, please...”
Lawrence’s face twisted into panic as he moved to help, but it was clear he was just as lost as the rest of them. “What the hell happened?” His voice cracked.
Chloe was still holding Lance’s cold body, her own tears now falling freely. “I... I don’t know. I just found him here, I—I didn’t know what to do...”
Claire Ann’s voice was strained as she snapped into action, her maternal instinct kicking in. “Get the paramedics. Now!” She grabbed her phone, dialing quickly, her voice trembling with urgency.
In the chaotic blur of the moments that followed, Lance remained still, his body a lifeless weight in Chloe’s arms. The world had gone silent around her, the rush of adrenaline cutting through everything, until all that mattered was the terrifying thought that they might have already lost him.
---
The water was warm. The light is soft. Revia was smiling.
They were still in Bali. Still by the waterfall.
Lance could feel the slick rock beneath him, the sound of the rushing cascade, the glint of the sunset caught in her eyes.
He heard her voice, soft and soothing like always. Only this time… it sounded far away. Muffled.
His brows drew together.
She was right beside him… wasn’t she?
Then her hand brushed his cheek. “Lance.”
Her voice trembled, but her smile didn’t falter.
“You need to go back.”
He blinked. Confused. “Go where? I am here.”
But then he heard something else, screaming.
Not hers. Distant. Desperate.
“No,” he said, frowning deeper, suddenly cold despite the heat of the tropics. “We’re together. You’re right here.”
But Revia just touched his hand, gently pulling away.
“I can’t stay,” she whispered, her voice beginning to echo as if underwater. “Promise me you’ll remember the good parts. And forget the rest.”
“No. Don’t say that.”
“Lance—please,” she said. “Don’t forget me.”
He reached for her but her figure began to fade.
“Revia!”
And suddenly….
The waterfall was gone.
In its place: a flash of rage, his father’s voice slamming into him like an impact.
“How many more excuses do you need to fail, Lance?”
“Do you even care about this team?”
“Grow up and prove you deserve it.”
“Always choking when it matters!”
“Why do you even try?”
Then another voice. A thousand voices.
Online. On fire. Unforgiving.
“He’s a joke.”
“Daddy’s money strikes again.”
“He doesn’t even belong in F1.”
“He washed out again. Another rich kid who can’t drive.”
“LOL he should retire.”
“Mental breakdown incoming.”
Then the screech of tires. The scream of carbon. Metal crumpling.
Another crash. Another impact.
He was falling. Faster. Faster.
Then he drowned…he can't breath and keeps flailing his arms and feet so he can get up to the surface. But it wasn't the surface.
Darkness. Cold. Wet tile.
He blinked. Gasped.
His eyes fluttered open and he realized…
He was on the floor of his own bathroom, fully clothed, drenched and shaking.
The cold wasn’t from a waterfall. It was from the shower that had been running for God knows how long.
His mother was screaming his name.
Claire Anne's hands were on his cheeks, frantically trying to keep him conscious.
“Lance! Baby, look at me…….
Lance!”
His sister Chloe was kneeling nearby, sobbing uncontrollably. Mascara streaked down her face. She kept whispering, "Please, please, ….."
His father stood frozen in the doorway. Pale. Speechless. The rage is absent. Just a man too stunned to breathe.
Lance blinked, delirious. “Revia?” he rasped.
Claire flinched. Chloe gasped.
“Where is she?” he looked around, panic rising. “She was right here, we were just in Bali. I swear, we were just…..she said goodbye……she said she—”
His mother and sister looked at each other and about to lose it too.
He tried to push himself up, limbs weak and uncoordinated, slipping in the puddle of water on the tile. He stumbled toward the counter, yanking his phone from where it had fallen, fingers trembling as he tapped through the camera roll.
“Look……look, I have photos—”
He scrolled. Faster. Desperate.
Nothing.
No waterfalls. No beaches. No Revia.
Only blank spaces and empty thumbnails where his mind swore there were memories.
“No. No, no, no…….where is she?” His voice cracked into a broken whisper. “She’s real. She has to be.”
Claire sobbed, turning her face into Chloe’s shoulder. Chloe cried harder, holding her mother with one hand and her phone in the other, already on the line with emergency.
“Lance…” Claire said through broken tears. “Sweetheart. She’s not real.”
He stared at her like she’d spoken in a foreign language.
“She was real,” he snapped, shaking his head. “She knew things. She laughed. She held my hand. She told me—”
“She was a dream,” Chloe choked out. “You were sick, Lance. You haven’t been okay.”
Lance stood there, eyes wide, chest heaving. Reality was crashing down faster than any race car he'd ever driven.
And suddenly, he stopped speaking. Stopped moving. His knees gave out, and he slid down the wall, phone clattering from his hands onto the tile.
He let out a low, strangled sob.
“She was real…” he choked
And then he cried. For real this time. Not in silence, not in private but fully, helplessly in front of his family. As his mother wrapped her arms around him and his sister held onto his legs.
The paramedics rushed in moments later. Someone said his name. Another pulled out a syringe. Everything was moving too fast. Too loud. Too bright.
Before the needle pierced his skin, he had one last thought:
“Don’t forget me,” she said.
And then, darkness took him again.
---
Months Later
The city felt quieter now.
Not because it was but because he was.
Lance stepped out of the clinic, pulling his hoodie up against the late afternoon breeze. The familiar rhythm of the streets no longer overwhelmed him. The static in his chest had lessened. Things weren’t fixed, but they were manageable.
Therapy had been going well.
Today’s session was light, checking in, unpacking the last dream he had about racing. The one where he wasn’t crashing, or running, or drowning in online noise.
In this one, he was just driving.
No finish line. No audience. Just wind, road, and peace.
His therapist had smiled when he described it. “That sounds a lot better,” she’d said.
He didn’t answer at the time.
But now, as he walked toward the café down the street, hands in his pockets, he realized…
Maybe she was right, who knows?
---
He ordered his usual. Matcha latte, no sugar.
The café was quiet. Warm lighting. Soft jazz in the background. The kind of place that invited stillness.
Lance was scrolling through his phone absentmindedly when he heard it.
> “One oat milk latte for… Revia?”
His head snapped up.
He almost dropped his phone.
There she was, at the other end of the counter. Wearing a long, tailored coat and heels. Her hair neatly pinned back, subtle makeup highlighting the same features he remembered. But she looked different. Sharper. Composed.
More elegant than the barefoot and adventurous girl who once danced beneath a waterfall.
His heart punched against his ribs.
Was she real?
He stepped forward slowly, eyes glued to her as if she might vanish again.
The barista called again. “Lance?”
He blinked, taking his cup.
They were side by side now. She was rummaging through her wallet.
“Damn,” she muttered, cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m short.”
Lance, without thinking, slid his card across the counter. “I got it.”
She looked at him.
A pause.
“Thanks,” she said politely, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll pay you back—”
“No need,” he smiled. Then took a breath. “I’m Lance, by the way.”
Her brow furrowed slightly, her eyes flicking up to his.
Like something registered—but not quite.
“I’m… Revia.”
There it was again. Her voice. The same melody that once lulled him into dreams.
Lance nodded, carefully.
“That’s a beautiful name.”
She smiled politely, still puzzled, but not unfriendly. “Thanks. Nice to meet you…and yeah… free coffee. ”
He chuckled. “Maybe.”
They stood there in a strange little bubble while the rest of the café carried on behind them.
For Lance, it was like déjà vu or fate playing a trick on him.
He didn’t press. Didn’t say you were in my head while I broke apart or you saved me even if you were never real.
He just said, “You come here often?”
“First time, actually,” she said, sipping her drink. “I just moved nearby. Starting a new job next week.”
He smiled.
Something in him like a familiar ache, a quiet longing settled.
Maybe this was a second chance.
Or maybe she was just a stranger with the same name, the same face.
He didn’t need an answer. For now.
“Then welcome to the neighborhood,” he said.
--
Revia - Hints at “revive” or “reverie”; beautiful and reflective
Elira- to be free or spirit
English Love Affair
"It was kinda messy, more than just a hookup"
George Russell x Reader
George got me in to F1. Been listening to Taylor Swift but didn't deep dive too much to the lore of her songs. But the songs she composed dedicated to....ehem...Joe screams English, and English reminds me of George, Ollie, Lando, and Sir Lewis.
MASTERLIST
Warnings: Suggested | gender expression bias
Word Count: 4,876
Disclaimer:
The characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictional. While some names and settings may resemble real individuals or locations, this work is set in an alternate universe and does not reflect actual events or personal relationships. Any similarities to real-life situations are purely coincidental and used for creative storytelling purposes only.
You always assumed he was gay. Your best friend. He never said anything about his sexuality, but you just... decided. He never corrected you (or he did, you just didn't remember), and you figured that meant silent agreement. Besides, you were supportive, right? A good friend. If he didn’t want to come out, that was fine. You respected that.
He’s a clean freak. A diva. He knows the difference between taupe and beige and has very strong feelings about both. He comments on your makeup more than you do, calls your exes “unworthy,” and once reorganized your closet because it gave him “anxiety.” He practically radiated flamboyance.
Which is why your brain is short-circuiting, hungover and half-blind, as you wake up naked, sore, and in his bed while he lies next to you, equally naked and very much asleep.
What the actual fuck happened last night?
Your birthday. That’s all you remember. Flashes of drinks. Laughter. Dancing. More drinks. Then… black.
Panic surges through you.
You bolt upright, clutching the sheets to your chest. Clothes are everywhere. Scattered like forgotten secrets. You scramble around, piecing together dignity and fragments of memory, but nothing sticks. With no time (or courage) to reconstruct the crime scene, you grab the nearest item of clothing: one of his crisp, oversized dress shirts. Bag, phone, keys then you’re out.
You slam your apartment door shut behind by the time you arrive and collapse onto your bed like a falling building. Your brain is still catching up, somewhere between denial and full-blown existential crisis.
You just slept with George Russell.
George, your best friend, the man who critiques your style and life choices overall. Scolds you for drinking energy drinks past 4 p.m. The one who dragged you to get your eyebrows threaded and once called your car "a rolling death trap." The same George you’ve been naked in front of countless times without a flicker of interest from him, just a deadpan look followed by a sigh and muttering, “Are you on a Slavic diet or what?”
You thought he was disgusted. Or at least completely uninterested. You even joked that if you were both single by thirty-five, you’d carry his babies for the sake of continuing his bloodline. He just rolled his eyes and said, “Please don’t curse my child with your taste in music.”
Maybe he’s not closeted at all. Maybe you just assumed. Maybe last night shattered every assumption you had.
What the hell does this mean?
And worse what happens now?
---
“Did I take someone home last night?”
George asked, his voice low and rough, directed at Lando across the table. They were gathered at a small al fresco café, sunglasses on, each nursing a bowl of soup like it held the key to survival. Everyone looked half-dead, limbs heavy with hangovers, eyes barely open. George, in particular, was questioning not just his choices but his sanity. He’d woken up completely naked in his flat. No lipstick on his mirror. No mysterious texts. Just him, a pounding head, and a disturbing lack of memory.
“I don’t remember, mate,” Lando grumbled. “Never let Carlos plan a party again. I woke up at some girl’s flat, I don’t even know if we slept together. Didn’t ask. Just bailed.”
George winced. “Jesus.”
The last thing he remembered was drinks, dancing, more drinks and you. It was your birthday, and technically Carlos had thrown the party in your honor. But by the time midnight hit, everyone had blacked out the timeline.
He checked his phone. Still no reply from you.
Probably still asleep, he told himself. Or just dying like the rest of them.
“I was barely functional this morning,” Alex groaned, slumped in his seat. “No idea what was in those drinks, but Lily was ready to kill me. Think she threw a shoe at me.”
They all groaned in mutual regret and quietly agreed: Carlos was never planning anything and touching a tequila ever again.
“Did the birthday girl get home safe, though?” Oscar added, his voice scratchy as he winced through another sip of soup.
George glanced at his phone again, just in case. Still nothing.
“I don’t know. She’s not replying.”
A sudden wave of unease crept in.
What if you hadn’t gotten home? What if you passed out somewhere, or something worse?
He typed quickly:
Where are you? You better answer, Y/N, or I’m calling the cops.
And hit send.
“You sure you didn’t go home together?” Alex asked, squinting at him.
George tried to think. If you did, surely he’d remember? And if you had, wouldn’t you still be passed out in his bed?
“No,” he said, rubbing his temple. “Pretty sure.”
“God, Y/N needs to settle down,” Alex muttered. “That party was giving college flashbacks. I thought she chilled out.”
“She has chilled out,” Lando said. “But this was Carlos we’re talking about. He could summon your retirement to a celebration.”
Then he turned to George with a smirk. “You know what would calm her down? If you dated her.”
George nearly choked on his soup. “What?”
Lando shrugged innocently. “What? You guys are always together.”
“She thinks George is gay,” Alex interjected flatly.
Lando winced. “Oof. How’s that working out for you?”
George leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “No clue how it started. I think she just... decided I was. The first time I tried to deny it, she laughed in my face and said, ‘It’s okay, Georgie. Your closet is a walk-in, and I respect that.’ After that, I gave up trying.”
“And now?” Oscar asked.
“She’s too comfortable around me. Way too comfortable.”
They all looked at him.
George had flashbacks during the time she got naked in front of him. Multiple times. The first was at her place and she just pulled her top off mid-conversation and said, ‘You don’t mind, right?’ Like they were talking about lunch.
“Holy shit,” Lando muttered. Getting what George meant
At first, he was stunned. It was so awkward. Heck, he even got a hard-on and had to mentally fight like a war. But he didn’t want to make her feel weird, so he started pretending it didn’t bother him. Now he just... suffering in silence and pretending it doesn't faze him.
“She knows about the girls I’ve hooked up with in the past,” George said. “Still thinks I’m closeted.”
Everyone let out a collective groan.
“I have tried explaining Multiple times. She thinks I’m in denial,” George said dryly. “I even told her she was insane once and she said, ‘You’ll come out when you’re ready. I support you, bestie.’”
Lando was already laughing. “Mate, this is tragic.”
“You want tragic? She once joked that if we’re both still single at thirty-five, I should knock her up to carry on my bloodline.”
“No,” Oscar said, horrified and amused.
“I wish I was kidding.”
“Why don’t you just kiss her? Prove your point,” Lando offered.
George sighed. “Tried everything but that. At this point, I’ve accepted my fate.”
Just then, his phone buzzed.
He opened the message.
Hey. I’m home. Passed out drunk. Idk how. Tell Carlos thanks for the party but screw him for the poison he served disguised as Alcohol.
George exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders finally releasing.
“She’s fine,” he muttered. “Hungover as hell, but alive.”
---
“So, how long are you planning to hide here like a fugitive?”
Carlos asked, sprawled out comfortably on Lewis’ couch with a bowl of nachos in hand.
“For the record, this is all your fault,” you shot back, pointing at him accusingly while your other hand gently rested on your very pregnant belly. “What the hell did you spike those drinks with, at my birthday party?”
Yes. You were pregnant. Six months along. Belly out, hormones unstable, and currently hiding in London. You were pregnant with George Russell’s baby…your best friend, who you thought was gay. Who you joked you’d have a baby with by 35. And then actually did. Just… a little early.
“Amiga, I did not out anything. Athat man is still clueless,” Carlos replied, crunching on a chip. “He probably doesn’t even remember you two made a whole human.”
“Because I didn’t tell him!” you hissed.
Carlos rolled his eyes. “Then why am I stuck babysitting the mother of his child?”
“Because you caused this!” you snapped. “You’re responsible until further notice. And don’t you dare tell him.”
“Not my fault he didn’t wear a condom.” Carlos added, shrugging.
Lewis strolled in from the kitchen, handing you a fresh plate of crackers and fruit.
“She thought George was gay,” he added casually.
“Lewis!” you hissed, eyes wide.
Carlos’ jaw dropped. “Wait. What?”
You sighed and sank deeper into the couch.
You’d ghosted everyone after your birthday. Told them you were in London for a work project with Lewis. Which was technically true for the first month. But after you found out you were pregnant, you extended your stay indefinitely. George kept texting. You kept replying with vague excuses. And now? He still didn’t know.
“All this time I thought you two were secretly dating,” Carlos muttered. “Turns out you just… thought he was gay?”
“Don’t rub it in,” you groaned, stuffing your face with crackers to avoid further humiliation.
“And you’re blaming my party for this?”
“It’s always the alcohol,” you grumbled.
You knew you had to tell George eventually. But after the party, it really seemed like he didn’t remember a thing. And you couldn’t bring yourself to say, Hey, remember that night you don’t remember? Surprise, baby incoming!
“He knows the difference between beige and taupe!” you suddenly blurted. “Do you know the difference, Carlos?”
Carlos tilted his head. “Is it a color?”
“I do,” Lewis chimed in, raising his hand.
You pointed at him. “How did you know that?!!”
“Because I know fashion? And George isn’t gay,” Lewis said with a snort. “He just has taste. Also, your style is hit or miss. So I actually understand if he critiques it.”
You huffed dramatically.
“I’ve gotten naked in front of him so many times. He didn’t even blink!”
Carlos and Lewis both choked on their drinks.
“Are you serious?” Carlos coughed, grabbing a tissue. “You’re way too comfortable, woman!”
“I know the difference between taupe and beige too,” Lewis added dryly. “And I critique your fashion in my head. If you got naked in front of me, you’d be on your own.”
“I’d probably just roll my eyes if you do that in front of me,” Carlos added. “That doesn’t make me gay.”
You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Okay! Fine! I messed up. I gaslit myself, okay? I assumed. And now look where we are.”
“Finally,” Lewis muttered with mock applause.
You sighed. “H-How is he, by the way? I mean, we still text. Sometimes. But…”
Carlos and Lewis exchanged a look. A look that immediately filled you with dread.
“What?” you asked. “What does that mean?”
Carlos bit his lip. “You didn’t hear?”
You blinked. “Hear what?”
“George is getting married.”
It was a joke. Carlos meant it as a joke. But unfortunately, your hormonal, six-months-pregnant self didn’t take it that way.
Your face crumpled. And then you wailed.
Carlos froze mid-chip. Lewis dropped his water.
“Ah, shit. I was joking!” Carlos panicked, leaping off the couch. “Jesus, amiga, don’t cry!”
“Oh no, oh god,” Lewis muttered, hovering like a lost nurse. “What do we do?!”
“I think she’s in love with George,” Carlos said, flailing.
“NO KIDDING!” Lewis hissed. “She’s carrying his child!”
You were crying even harder now. Ugly crying. Loud, gasping sobs.
“Should we sedate her and fly her to Monaco?” Lewis asked, dead serious.
“ARE YOU INSANE?” Carlos shot back. “She’s six months pregnant, not a fugitive from Interpol!”
“I don’t even know why I’m crying!” you wailed. “Maybe because I am wrong. Maybe because he’s going to marry someone and also got someone pregnant. Or maybe because he doesn’t even know he got me pregnant!”
Lewis put a hand over his face. “Okay. Seriously. You need to tell him.”
“I can’t….what if he doesn’t even want this?”
“Y/N,” Carlos said calmly, “he’d fly here in five seconds if you just told him. I’m this close to texting him myself.”
You threw a pillow at Carlos instead.
“You don’t get to joke with a hormonal woman!”
Carlos ducked. Lewis sighed, stopping you from throwing another pillow.
“Okay, okay! But seriously I can’t hide you forever. And George needs to know.”
Then Lewis, not so casually, added, “Also… I might’ve told Toto. And forgot to tell Toto not to tell anyone.”
Your eyes widened in slow horror.
Lewis gave you a sheepish smile. “Oops?”
You stared at them both. Then exhaled sharply, wiping your face.
“Thanks a lot, you idiots.”
But at least… you finally stopped crying.
---
“Your steak’s gone cold, mate.”
Alex nudged George with his elbow, snapping him out of his daze.
George blinked, then looked down at the untouched food on his plate. The steak was perfectly cooked, pink in the center, the kind he’d normally demolish. But tonight, it tasted like nothing.
“Right…” he muttered, picking up his knife and slicing through it anyway, just for something to do with his hands.
They were seated around the long dining table at Toto’s estate, celebrating his birthday with a mix of coworkers, and business affiliates. The mood was warm and familiar.
“Good to see everyone. So many faces,” Toto said, raising his glass in a toast, smiling as the group politely cheered.
Fred turned toward Carlos. “Glad you could make it, Carlos. How was your trip to England?”
Carlos froze mid-bite. He coughed hard, choking on his mashed potatoes like they’d have a personal vendetta against him.
“Uh it was fine… quick. And enlightening,” he said, clearing his throat, eyes darting briefly toward George before gluing themselves to his plate.
George caught that flicker. He frowned.
Carlos had just gotten back from London yesterday. Ever since, he’d been acting… off. Quiet. Avoidant. He wouldn’t look George in the eye, and every time they crossed paths, he flinched like a guilty man caught stealing.
“Yeah?” Toto continued, unknowingly skating straight into the growing tension he was not aware of. “Did you see Lewis and Y/N while you were there? Any idea when they’re coming back?”
The room went quiet.
Alex stiffened. Lando paused with his wine halfway to his mouth. Max stopped cutting. Oscar went very still.
All of them slowly turned toward George.
At the mention of your name, George sat up straighter. His stomach twisted.
Carlos kept his head down.
“Their little project wrapped up five months ago,” Toto added cheerfully, completely unaware of the landmine he had just dropped. “Just a simple dealership contract. No idea why Lewis insisted Y/N had to come along and stay there for long.”
George’s fork clanked against his plate. Loud. Sharp. Jarring.
“I’m sorry Toto, you said five months ago?” he asked, voice tight.
Toto nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Yes. Done and dusted. Nothing complicated. Why?”
George’s eyes immediately cut to Carlos, who was now slicing his already sliced steak stalling a confession. Then he glanced at Lando, Oscar, Max, who all looked like they’d rather disappear into their wine glasses.
“Well, Y/N’s always sharp,” Christian offered casually, trying to fill the sudden silence. “Effective. Clear under pressure.”
And then, with the kind of timing that could kill a man…..
“She’ll be taking maternity leave soon,” Toto added, like he's just talking about a new model of Mercedes AMG. “She’s due in three months.”
The silence shattered like glass.
Oscar started choking on a stalk of asparagus. Lando sprayed wine from his mouth. Alex dropped his fork. Charles muttered a stunned “Oh mon dieu…” with a tight wince. Max just stared, wide-eyed. And Carlos… well, Carlos visibly winced, bracing himself like he’d been shot in the foot.
George, on the other hand, sat perfectly still. Stone.
“Why is she taking maternity leave?” he asked, but the words didn’t even sound like his own. They came out cracked. Brittle.
Toto blinked at him, still blissfully unaware of the emotional trainwreck he’d ignited.
“She’s pregnant,” Toto said simply. “Didn’t she tell you?”
George didn’t respond.
The word echoed in his head, hollow and ringing.
Pregnant.
Six months. Maybe longer. That timeline after her birthday.
He’d been overthinking it for months. The change in your messages. The way you always dodged his questions. The way you disappeared.
You flinched around him before you left.
And now…
Pregnant.
"Like… pregnant, pregnant?" Charles asked, blinking rapidly. "Like... belly?"
“Lewis told me,” Toto confirmed.
That snapped George out of his fog just enough to feel the burn behind his ribs.
Why did Lewis know?
Why not me?
The betrayal cut sharp. Quieter than anger but deeper than confusion. Something was terribly wrong. And the more George sat there, the more he realized he was completely in the dark.
The others didn’t even bother to speak, they just stared. At him.
George pushed his chair back, rising from the table like he needed to breathe. He wasn’t angry. Not yet. He was trying to stay calm. But his voice came out clipped:
“Where is she?”
His eyes snapped toward Toto.
“Lewis’ place, right? In London?”
Toto, caught completely off guard, who's usually confident and firm, stammered. “I—I assume so, yes?”
George nodded, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast. He grabbed his blazer from the back of the chair and tossed it over his shoulder.
“I need air.”
He left the room.
---
They found him outside on the terrace, staring blankly at the night sky, knuckles white against the railing. The others trailed out slowly, unsure of what to say. The air felt too heavy.
“George…” Alex started gently.
He didn’t turn around.
“She’s pregnant,” George repeated, more to himself than anyone. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
The group exchanged glances. No one spoke.
Finally, all eyes turned to Carlos.
He looked like he’d rather disappear.
“You knew?” George asked, voice low.
Carlos rubbed the back of his neck. “I found out when I was in London. I didn’t know before that. She made me promise not to say anything.”
“So she really is…?” Max started.
Carlos nodded. “Yeah. Big belly and all.”
“Who's the father?” Oscar asked hesitantly.
Carlos hesitated. He opened his mouth… then closed it again.
And instead of answering, he looked at George.
“Let me ask you something,” Carlos said carefully. “Did she really get home after her birthday?”
The words landed like a sucker punch. He couldn't remember. God he will not forgive himself if something happened to you.
George’s breath hitched. He looked up slowly, mind racing. He remembered the night bits of it, anyway. You were there. You drank. You danced. And then… blank.
Now pregnant.
His eyes darted to Carlos, then to the others, who were all watching him closely.
“Wait guys what if Lewis is the…?” Lando started to say.
Carlos didn’t respond. Everyone just gave Lando a long, deadpan look.
Are you serious?
George didn’t speak. He couldn’t.
It’s been six months. Going on seven.
He knew something didn’t add up.
“I need to see her.”
And the only thing left was for him to find you.
“Damn we're not serious when we said she needs to settle down.” Lando muttered. Alex shakes his head.
“What did you tell her, George, and she suddenly wanted a kid? That is not in our bingo card this year.”
It's not on his either.
–
It was a quiet Sunday noon.
Lewis had gone out to pick up groceries, promising he’d be back before lunch. You had already finished your bowl of salad and were lounging on the sofa, hands lazily splayed on your very pregnant stomach. The flat was peaceful, almost too peaceful for how dramatic and mad life had been the last few months.
Then the doorbell rang.
You groaned. “One moment!” you called, assuming Lewis forgot his keys again. Typical. The man always left them in the weirdest places. You heaved yourself up from the couch with a grunt, like a tired walrus, and waddled to the door, one hand on your back for support.
“Why don’t you just—” you began, swinging the door open mid-sentence.
And froze.
Lando. Oscar. Carlos. Alex. George.
“Y/N!!!” Lando shouted before anyone else could. “We missed you and—oh my God, you're PREGNANT.”
Their reactions are killing you
Oscar’s jaw unhinged like a cartoon character.
Alex blinked three times like his system was rebooting.
Carlos awkwardly smiled but wouldn’t meet your eyes. Good cause you'll kill him later.
Lando tried to hug you but backed off like he just remembered you were radioactive.
And George……..he didn’t say anything. His face was just ….blank.
Oscar blinked in disbelief. “She’s huge. Like, respectfully.”
Alex elbowed him. “Mate.”
You gaped. “Wha—What the hell are you all guys doing here?”
“You’re just gonna gape there, or invite us in?” Alex finally said.
You blinked.
“Uh… right. Sure. Come in. I….what….. wasn't expecting you?”
“We were concerned,” Oscar muttered, eyes still on your belly.
“You’re M.I.A for 6 months!” Lando beamed, already stepping inside like this was normal. “George kept spiraling. We thought you joined a cult.”
“She basically did,” Oscar whispered. “It’s called motherhood.”
“And Carlos wouldn’t say anything except ‘go see for yourselves,’” Lando added, shuffling inside and gawking at the flat. “I thought you were, like, in hiding. This place is nice.”
Carlos followed in quietly, giving you a soft, guilty nod. He looked apologetic. At least he warned you…before….. sort of.
But George… he walked in last. He didn’t look around. Didn’t greet you. He just stood by the entrance, hands in his pockets, eyes heavy on you, saying absolutely nothing.
Fifteen minutes later, they were all crammed on the living room couch, awkwardly catching up like nothing was different.
Well, almost nothing.
Their eyes kept drifting.
To your belly.
To your face.
Back to your belly.
Oscar eventually cracked. “So, uh… how are you? And, um…”
His eyes gestured vaguely downward.
“…you know... housing a small human? How did this happen?”
You blinked. “Do you want a PowerPoint or…?”
Alex snorted. “Please don’t say it like that again.”
George was still silent.
“Anyway,” you mumbled, gently rubbing your stomach. “It’s… a long story for another time.”
Everyone went silent. Lando looked like he wanted to ask a hundred things.
Carlos muttered something in Spanish that sounded vaguely like this is not how I imagined my Sunday.
But the vibe was strange, like they were afraid the truth might ruin something.
Then the door clicked open.
Lewis stepped in, reusable shopping bags in both hands. “I’m back—” He paused, blinking at the group of men sprawled across his living room like stray cats.
“Did I miss… a team meeting?”
“Mate,” Oscar whispered to Lando, “you think he’s the—”
Before he could finish, Carlos smacked the back of his head.
Lewis set the bags down. “Nice to see you boys too.”
After some drinks and a bit more awkward small talk (mostly Lando asking if babies can kick so hard they bruise ribs), you stood up and clapped your hands gently.
“Okay. I need a moment with George.”
All eyes flicked to him.
George finally looked up.
He followed you wordlessly down the hall and into the guest room. The door shut behind you with a soft click.
You leaned against the edge of the bed and met his eyes. He didn’t move.
“I’m your best friend,” he said quietly. “And I had to find out from Toto that you’re pregnant? You disappeared. You barely text. I didn’t even know if you were okay.”
You looked down at your bump. “I know.”
He let out a short, joyless laugh. “That’s it? No text? No call? I had to find out from Toto. At dinner? In front of everyone.”
You looked down at your hands. “I know.”
“I’m your best friend,” he said, voice cracking. “At least I thought I was.”
That hurt, hearing him say he’s hurt
You looked up.
“I know. I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked a little. “I didn’t mean to hurt you by not telling, George. I just… didn’t know how to tell you.”
His brows furrowed. “What happened?”
You sighed…this is it.
“That night. My birthday.” You paused. “We blacked out. I….I woke up in your bed. We were both… naked. I panicked. You didn’t remember. And I thought, maybe it was nothing. Just a mistake. A one-time thing neither of us meant.”
His brows furrowed. “I remember waking up with the worst hangover of my life. But… you were there?”
“I ran before you woke up.” You laughed bitterly. “I fled like I committed a felony.”
George blinked. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” His hand was shaking, and he almost stumbled backwards.
You bit your lip, hesitating. “Because I thought you were gay.”
His jaw dropped. “What?!”
“You still thought I'm gay even though I made it clear many times I was not?” he said, face in disbelief.
“I mean… yeah?”
He stepped closer, slowly, gaze softening.
“I’m not gay….. I was madly in love with you, yes.”
Your breath hitched. Nearly knocking off the oxygen out of your lungs
“I’ve been in love with you since I could remember,” he continued. “Maybe even before that. And that night, whatever happened, clearly it meant something. Because now… you’re carrying our child.”
Your eyes welled. “You’re not mad?”
“I’m mad it took this long for you to tell me,” he said honestly. “But I’m not mad at you.”
You blinked away the tears, and he stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully. Until his palm pressed gently to your stomach.
“Hi,” he whispered to the baby. “I’m your dad. And I already love you more than anything.”
Your heart broke in the best way.
He looked up at you again. “And I love your mom.”
Tears streamed down your cheeks, and you cupped his face, whispering, “You’re such a dramatic sap.”
“I learned from the best.”
And he kissed you again like he was memorizing the moment.
You pulled away slowly, your brows furrowing.
“What?” George asked, slightly sulking. “What’s wrong?”
“No, no,” you laughed. “I just remembered… we still don’t know the gender yet.”
George blinked. “Wait—what?”
“I had a check-up last week. They asked if I wanted to know but I said no.” You looked sheepish. “I told them to give the results to Lewis.”
George groaned dramatically. “Of course. Of course, it’s Lewis. No wonder everyone thought he was the father.”
“What?!” You looked at him, wide-eyed in horror.
He muttered, “Some of the guys… well, they kind of thought you two eloped or something.”
You snorted. Then broke into laughter. “Oh my God. You guys are actual idiots.”
---
Back in the living room…
Lando squinted toward the hallway. “Are they kissing or arguing?”
Oscar peeked through the doorway. “Definitely kissing.”
Alex leaned in, whispering, “So… George is the dad?”
Carlos shrugged. “At least now he can stop losing sleep.”
Lewis, unfazed, calmly sipped his juice. “Told you it wasn’t me.”
Then you and George returned, hand-in-hand, flushed and smiling.
“So… what is this?” Lando pointed at your intertwined fingers like they were illegal.
“How is George the dad?” Oscar asked, genuinely baffled.
“Well… long story,” George muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
“But I might need something from Lewis now,” you added, looking at him.
Lewis put down his drink and smiled knowingly. “It’s time?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Since everyone’s already here…”
“Alright, wait here.”
He disappeared into the other room.
“Okay, seriously, what’s going on?” Carlos asked.
“He knows the gender,” you explained. “We don’t.”
Lewis returned carrying a small velvet box. For once, he looked slightly nervous.
“I had this made just in case you changed your mind,” he said, holding it out to you. “No pressure.”
You blinked, confused. “What is it?”
“Just… open it.”
You slowly opened the box and gasped.
Inside was a delicate baby bracelet. Tiny, elegant… and inlaid with a single, gleaming blue sapphire.
Your hand flew to your mouth as your eyes welled up.
“A boy…” you whispered, voice trembling. “It’s a boy.”
The room fell silent for a beat before the guys erupted.
“OH MY GOD!” Alex shouted, nearly slipping off the couch.
“No way!” Lando clapped, eyes wide.
“Let’s goooo!” Carlos whooped.
Oscar actually looked emotional. “That’s… that’s perfect.”
George stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “A boy,” he repeated softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You turned in his arms, blinking back tears. “You’re going to be such a good dad, you know that?”
He leaned down and kissed you.
Behind you, Lewis smiled, a rare softness in his eyes.
“And no,” he said dryly to the group, “I’m still not the dad.”
“Yeah, but you’re definitely godfather material,” George smirked.
Everyone laughed, but no one disagreed.
“My brain feels like it's been whiplashed.” Lando dramatically holds his head while slowly sitting down on the couch.
“We're barely here, processing the news and George is going to be a father of a boy who's due in 3 months." Alex agrees, gaze distant.
"Well, that's George, does nothing, but goes through life altering events."
---
Track 10 pt. 3
Lando Norris x Sainz Reader
MASTERLIST
Part 1
Part 2
Word Count: 5,237
Warnings: Read at your own risk | Didn't proofread much and probably bad spacings.
Disclaimer:
The characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictional. While some names and settings may resemble real individuals or locations, this work is set in an alternate universe and does not reflect actual events or personal relationships. Any similarities to real-life situations are purely coincidental and used for creative storytelling purposes only.
The door slammed open with no mercy.
“Get. Up.” Charli’s voice sliced through the morning haze like a siren. “You’re trending. Everywhere.”
You groaned and buried yourself deeper into your pillow. “Please tell me it’s not—”
“It is.” She threw her iPad on the bed. “This is bollocks!,” she said, scrolling furiously. “Gold digger? Excuse me....you are a fucking Sainz!”
You peeked an eye open and grabbed the iPad.
WHO’S THAT GIRL? LANDO NORRIS SPOTTED HUGGING MYSTERY WOMAN AFTER WIN — THEN LEAVING WITH A CHILD?
BABY BOMBSHELL? NORRIS SEEN CARRYING CHILD, KISSING WOMAN AT AUSTRIA GP
OFF-TRACK INTRIGUE: F1’S GOLDEN BOY AND THE PADDOCK’S BEST-KEPT SECRET
You blinked. Twice. “They made it sound like we made out and eloped in the garage.”
Charli snorted. “Wait—listen to this part.” She read aloud dramatically:
Speculation is flying fast: Secret child? Love child? Friend’s child? Is she just a friend… or something much more?
You buried your face in the sheets and groaned.
“They don’t even talk about the blonde who was practically climbing him in the paddock!” You said, venom lacing in your tone
“Oh, don’t worry,” Charli said, scrolling again. “They posted her too. But you, you’re the mystery.”
She turned the screen back to you and your stomach dropped.
There they were…..your twins. Blurry photos, yes, but you’d recognize those curls anywhere. It was the moment from yesterday, when you and Lando carried them out of the paddock. Their faces weren’t in full frame, but the resemblance…
The comments were brutal too:
“Are those HIS kids?”
“I know a gold digger when I see one”
“Lol! It’s giving gold digging vibes using a single mother card. Cunning. Her and Kelly Piquet must be best friends"
“This is a Hallmark movie but make it F1 energy.
“Is she a single mom?? "
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, sitting up fast, panic igniting in your chest. “This isn’t just about him anymore. Our kids are in this. Their faces shouldn’t be anywhere. They're children, not PR pawns.”
You scrambled for your phone. 46 unread messages, 13 missed calls. Carlos. Your parents. McLaren staff. Lando.
Your phone buzzed again.
Lando calling…..
You answered on the first ring.
“Y/N…….thank God,” he said breathlessly. “I swear I didn’t think it would blow up like this. I’m calling Charlotte. I’ll fix this, I have to fix this. Do you want me to release a statement? I’ll say whatever you need, just tell me how to….”
“Lando,” you said firmly. “Stop. Just… no explanations right now. Keep their faces out of the press. Please. Just fix that.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then a deep exhale.
“Okay. You have my word. But…can I still see them?”
“Good. And for the record I’m not keeping them from you. We’ll figure this co-parenting thing out. But it has to be… careful. Quiet."
His voice softened. “Thank you. I’m moving the brunch to later. Need to call Charlotte and McLaren. Stay in the hotel. I’ll come to you.”
“Okay. See you later.”
You hung up, rubbing your temples.
Charli raised her brows. “Did you just agree… to soft launch yourself?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Girl, that’s like… pre-soft launch language. Are you sure he’s not going to spin this into a low-key loving family man era?”
You snorted. “No. He won’t. He’d never—”
“He could,” she warned. “All it takes is one wrong quote and boom—‘Lando confirms secret kids with a Sainz!’ It’s PR gold and romantic bait.”
“He’s not like that. He’ll figure something out.”
–
Lando hadn’t even had coffee yet. His hair was still damp from a rushed shower. His phone buzzed every thirty seconds.
Across from him, Charlotte, his PR manager, looked one coffee away from quitting life.
“Right,” she deadpanned, flipping through her tablet. “So you just forgot to tell me you discovered you have twins?”
“I found out yesterday, Char,” Lando muttered, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I’m still processing that I'm a father.”
“I love that for you,” she snapped. “Unfortunately, the internet processed it before you could. Now it’s a narrative war.”
Lando slumped in his chair. “Can’t we just release something like… ‘respect our privacy’ and move on?”
“Terrible. It makes you look…… guilty. Or worse, suspicious. What did Y/N Sainz say about this?” gesturing towards the tablet
“She just wants the twins' faces out of the media.”
Charlotte looked up. That softened her.
“She’s right,” she said, sighing. “They’re kids. You’re still navigating this. We’ll keep it clean. No names, no faces, no confirming or denying paternity. We’ll draft a statement that asks for privacy and highlights how children should be off-limits.”
He nodded. “Good. Thank you.”
“Also,” Charlotte added, already typing, “McLaren’s team wants to know, is this the start of a relationship again?”
Lando looked down at his phone.
A photo of twins giggling at a soap as his screensaver..
He smiled, almost involuntarily.
“…Not sure yet,” he murmured. “But I’m not going anywhere.
“This is a PR nightmare, Lando. I don’t even know where to begin without making you or the mother look bad. People who don’t care about F1 sure as hell won’t care that you have a secret love child from an ex five years ago. God, I wish this was just another dating rumor,” Charlotte muttered, shaking her head in frustration.
“I know,” Lando said quietly. “But you’re good at your job, Char. You wouldn’t have lasted this long if you weren’t.”
Charlotte let out a long, exhausted sigh. “I’ll draft a statement for you to post. Let me know if it needs changes.”
“Thanks. But wait a day or two before releasing anything.”
“A day or two? Why? We need to control the narrative before someone digs deeper and finds out she’s a Sainz. That drags Carlos into it, too.”
“Carlos has his own team to handle it. His sister doesn’t, and her story is tied to ours now. I’m meeting with her today. After that, I’ll tell you everything. You need to know the full picture.”
Charlotte nodded, though she felt like she was one headline away from a full-blown aneurysm. What is this? A hidden-children romance trope? She hadn't expected this from Lando. Let alone from a Sainz. And honestly, she wasn’t sure which was worse- they’re even calling her now Kelly Piquet 2.0 because she might be baby-trapting him. They weren’t even together anymore, and yet somehow the entire situation now had both of their names dangling over a tabloid bonfire.
She could already see the headlines spinning out of control:
"Lando Who? Y/N Says F1 Star Was ‘Never Meant to Be a Father’" "Toxic Past, Secret Future: Y/N Reveals Why She Kept Lando in the Dark About Their Kids"
Another PR disaster brewing. And Lando? He’d already survived more backlash in his career than most.
Lando returned to his hotel, head still spinning from the PR meeting. The turmoil was real, and the silence of his suite only made the weight of it all heavier.
Now came the real question: where could he and Y/N talk about this brunch, co-parenting, all of it, without ending up splashed across gossip blogs or some Twitter thread speculating about his “mystery baby mama”?
Too much was running through his head. None of it had answers, at least not yet. Not until they talked.
“Oh, fuck it,” he muttered under his breath.
Right then, the door clicked open. His teammate, Oscar, walked in holding a Starbucks cup. He didn’t say anything, just walked over and placed it on the coffee table in front of Lando.
“Thought you might need it,” he said simply, dropping down onto the couch beside him.
Lando managed a tired smile. “Thanks, mate.” He rubbed a hand over his face, grateful for the caffeine, though, if he were being honest, a cold can of Monster sounded even better right now.
“How was it?” Oscar asked after a moment of silence.
Lando exhaled slowly. “Charlotte’s drafting a statement.”
“Hope it shuts things down. The online discussions are getting nasty.”
Lando winced, taking a sip of coffee, hoping it would knock some clarity into his system. “Didn’t know you were that chronically online.”
Oscar shrugged. “My phone’s been buzzing nonstop. Hard not to check.”
“I’m not touching any of it,” Lando muttered. “I’d rather not ruin what’s left of my day.”
Oscar tilted his head. “How’s Y/N handling it?”
Lando paused. You barely had a social media presence, part of why it took years to find you again. He knew she wouldn’t care about the damn headlines, not really. But now, with the twins’ faces splashed online?
“She’s probably shocked,” he admitted. “But all she asked me to do was make sure the twins are taken down from the internet.”
Oscar nodded thoughtfully. “Didn’t think you’d end up the ‘dad’ type. But... I hope it calms down soon.”
He hesitated, then added with a small grin, “Also, you seem to be handling it... well. Especially yesterday.”
Lando felt something warm crawl into his chest. Usually, feedback from Oscar meant race strategies and performance metrics. But this…..this felt different. A kind of encouragement he didn’t expect, especially when he hadn’t even been there for half of what Y/N had gone through these past six years.
“Thanks, mate,” he said quietly. “I don’t even know what’s next.”
Oscar clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.”
You opted for wine instead of coffee.Thanks to Charli for buying the cheapest bottle she could find at a convenience store. At this point, you needed something to take the edge off.
“Okay, game plan. What are you going to do?” Charli asked, plopping down beside you on the floor and cracking open a canned beer. The twins were still asleep, somehow, even though it was nearly 9 AM. Thank God.
You didn’t bother with a glass. You drank straight from the bottle.
“I don’t know,” you muttered, gripping the wine tightly. “Maybe just wait it out until they release a statement. No one knows it’s me yet but it won’t take long. Someone’s going to dig.”
Charli nodded, setting her beer down. “Okay, let’s break this down. Pretend I’m your PR... or strategist, or whatever they call it.”
You gave a small nod. Right now, that was the only way to stay grounded. You didn’t care what strangers online called you. That wasn’t the problem. It was how fast everything exploded. Lando barely had time to process anything, and now your children= were all over the internet.
It all started yesterday. And in less than 24 hours, the world was already forming its own version of the story.
“So. You and LN4 had history, exes. You had kids. Which, by the way, he didn’t know about for six years... until yesterday.” Charli paused, scrolling through her iPad with one hand, the other twirling her beer can. “That already puts you in a bad light. So the question is: why only now?”
You took another swig from the bottle. “Bad breakup. I wanted to protect his career.”
“Sure. That explains the past. But why show up now? What changed?”
You frowned. This was the part you didn’t want to talk about. The part that didn’t fit neatly into a PR-approved statement. “We’re not going public, Char. But... I get it now. This is a PR nightmare.”
“You thought it was just a PR nightmare. What about your relationship with Lando?” she asked, voice gentler now. “He can easily say he’s being a good father. But what about you two? People are gonna wonder.”
“We’re not in a relationship... we’re…..” You paused.
What are you?
You cleared your throat. “We’re co-parenting.”
“Okay. Fact. What happens after Austria? The paparazzi aren’t going anywhere. They’ll hover around until someone figures out who you are. And then boom! You're Carlos Sainz’s sister. That’s a headline all on its own. Are you ready for that?”
You hated that she was right. You hadn’t thought it all the way through. You’d been so focused on keeping the kids safe, on keeping your past quiet, that now it was unraveling faster than you could catch up.
Hopefully, Lando will get here soon. Maybe once you talked, things would make sense again.
You didn’t answer her, but she understood.
“Just… make sure you’re sober before your baby daddy gets here. You’ve got a hell of a conversation coming.”
You nodded and took one last sip before handing her the bottle. Your head was already spinning.
God help you—you were drinking before breakfast.
–
The twins were practically bouncing off the walls when Lando arrived at lunchtime, completely oblivious to the buzz online and in the tabloids. Their squeals filled the hotel room as they played with their father. Liam clung to his back like a koala, while Luka darted around, laughing as Lando chased him.
You leaned against the doorframe, quietly watching. The image burned into your memory—one you never thought you’d see again. For a moment, you allowed yourself to soak in it. You never thought this day would come.
“Daddy!” Luka shrieked as Lando finally caught him.
Lando collapsed onto the couch, Liam still latched onto his back and Luka now curled up in his lap.
“Dad… you and Oscar Pastry are teammates! He’s so cool! Can we go to the paddock again to see him?” Luka asked, eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Yes, baby. But we’ll have to ask your mum first,” Lando said with a smile.
Liam’s face fell. “But Daaad,” Liam pouted from his perch on Lando’s shoulders, “we haven’t seen you forever... Thomas’ dad always brings him to school and takes him to go karting.”
Lando’s smile faltered. Your heart clenched at how casually Liam said it and how deeply it landed.
He swallowed, arms wrapping tighter around them. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’ve been traveling a lot for races... but I’m here now. And I promise we’ll do all those things. School drop-offs, karting… all of it.”
Luka bounced beside him. “You’re gonna live with us now?”
There was hesitation. Lando’s eyes flicked up to you before softening again as he faced Luka.
“I’ll still be away most race weekends,” he explained gently. “But after every one, I’ll come back. That’s my promise.”
The twins didn’t look entirely convinced but for now, it was enough.
“Boys…” you called softly.
“Mummm…”
“Auntie Charli’s coming to take you out for ice cream. Your dad and I need to talk for a bit, alright? Best behavior, okay?”
You ran your hand through Liam’s hair, a familiar habit, one you used to do to Lando, too. The memory stung. You quickly shook it off.
The twins dashed toward their dad, hugging him tight.
“See you later, Dad!” the twins chimed, hugging him before bouncing away with their boundless energy.
Charli arrived right on cue, catching a glance between you and Lando before smirking. “Alright, come on, little devils.”
The door clicked shut behind you two.
—
Your mouth dropped open as Lando unlocked a Porsche 911 GT3 for you.
Your jaw dropped when Lando casually pulled open the door of a Porsche 911 GT3.
“Subtle,” you muttered. “Very lowkey.”
He smirked, sunglasses perched on his nose. “Wouldn’t be me otherwise.”
The two of you talked about the twins as he drove, not telling you where you were headed.
“They hate fish, by the way,” you said.
Lando snorted. “Figures.”
“I hate that they got everything from you,” you teased, sulking a little.
“But they’re smart, that’s definitely from you.” He glanced at you quickly before focusing back on the road.
“I’d crash out if they didn’t get anything from me.” You pouted, crossing your arms.
The twins had always reminded you of Lando. Especially back when you were still in Melbourne. You’d often look to the sky, begging God to help you move on. But it only got harder as they grew. They looked more like him every day. Their mannerisms, their quirks, even their love for the same foods. It was like he was haunting you through them.It used to drive you crazy. Now it makes you want to cry.
“How do you tell them apart?” he asked. “I nearly mixed them up earlier.”
You grinned. You’d noticed.
“Liam’s got the moles. Luka has freckles. Same spots, but if you look close, you’ll see. Plus, I color-coded their stuff—Luka’s blue, Liam’s green.”
You smiled, lost for a moment in the memory of their baby days.
“They’re ready to be signed by Williams and Merc,” you joked.
Luka adored his tío’s Williams colors, he said blue was his favorite. Liam always cheered for the green cars during races.
“I want to watch them kart sometime. Are they racing in Monaco?”
Here it comes…..
“I haven’t enrolled them in any program yet, and I sold their karts in Australia. Maybe once we’re fully settled back in Monaco. They’ve adjusted pretty well so far.”
He nodded. But in his mind, he was already contacting every elite karting program in Monaco. If they wanted to race he’d make sure they had everything.
“We’re here.”
You blinked.
“What the hell is Enzingerhof?”
“It’s off-grid. No pap photos. Just mountains, air, and schnitzel.” He winked and came around to open your door. “Come on, Sainz. Lunch with a view. Plus, the view of the Red Bull Ring is incredible. Don’t you think so?”
Lando winked at you, got out, and circled the car to open the passenger door.
You’d just finished a generous plate of Wiener Schnitzel, which, surprisingly, tasted better than expected but your stomach wasn’t handling it well. You blamed the glass of wine you had before the food. Bad move.
You sipped your water carefully, trying to mask the nausea with a subtle press of your napkin to your mouth.
“Okay…” you began, breaking the calm. “So where do we start?”
Lando paused mid-sip and slowly set his glass down. The shift in energy was palpable, but necessary.
“We’re drafting a statement,” he said, voice level. “It’ll probably go out in a day or two. I’ll make sure they send it to me first before anything’s published. I’ll forward it to you just in case you want to revise anything.”
You nodded. His narrative was your narrative now, there was no separating that anymore.
“And the photos of the twins?” you asked.
He exhaled. “Already flagged for takedown. Most of the bigger outlets have been warned off.”
You nodded again, silent thanks etched in your eyes.
“But you know this is just the beginning,” Lando continued gently. “If they keep showing up in the paddock... it’s going to happen again. The photos, the speculation. You have any thoughts?”
You took a moment, pressing your lips together.
“I know. It’s inevitable. But I hope you get it, it’s all new to them. The world didn’t know they existed. And now, overnight, they’re exposed to your world... and you’re still barely processing this yourself.”
Lando leaned back, his hand rubbing at his jaw. “Yeah… I understand.”
A beat passed before he leaned in again.
“We have a minor problem.”
You tensed. “What kind?”
He gave a sheepish look, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve been dodging messages all morning but... my mum….well, my whole family—wants to see you. And the twins.”
You blinked. That... wasn’t small. You hadn’t seen Cisca in years. The guilt pressed at your chest.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “Just... give me a heads-up when. I need time to mentally prep.”
Lando smiled, relieved. “Got it. Just wanted you to know now so you’re not blindsided.”
You nodded, then added, “I told my parents already. When I got back from Australia.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. A flash of regret.
“You mentioned,” he murmured. “I’m sorry you had to go through everything alone.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” you said quietly. “It was my decision.”
Silence settled over the table for a moment. Then you broke it.
“Are you staying in Monaco still?”
Lando nodded. “Yeah. And you are too, right? So... what do you want me to do once we’re back?”
He was tapping his foot now, clearly having mentally mapped this all out already. He’d probably already contacted his interior designer to start a kid-proof renovation of his bachelor pad.
“I’m renting one of Carlos’ apartments,” you replied. “Monte Carlo area. You can visit during your off-race days. I don’t want to lock you into specific times, you’ll visit when you can.”
Lando exhaled, visibly relieved. “Alright. What else?”
“I’ll leave karting duties to you. I’ll take over when you’re away. Same with drop-offs and school stuff.”
“Done. I’ve got connections with the karting programs in Monaco. I’ll get them signed up before summer ends.”
You nodded. You appreciated Carlos’ offer before, but this... this was their father now stepping up.
“As for school,” you continued, “I’m still looking. I want them to learn properly. Not just academics but real life, extracurriculars too. Karting, maybe music or languages.”
“I’m in. Let me know if I need to sign anything.”
Finances. You hadn’t brought it up yet, but you’d quietly built savings for the twins just in case.
“I already have an emergency fund for them,” you said. “But it’s up to you now if you want to set up anything else.”
“I’ve already talked to my accountant,” Lando replied. “We’re setting up accounts for both. Everything’s being arranged.”
You both leaned back, a quiet pause falling over the table.
“And if it’s okay…” Lando added, “Can they visit my place too? You don’t have to come unless you want to.”
You smiled faintly. “We’ll see. Depends on my schedule. But yes, you can bring them over.”
“Alright. Just tell me if you need anything. Anything at all, for them.”
You nodded. “It’s still summer. Might as well make the most of it, watching Grands Prix, karting, and family time. Once school starts, we dial back.”
“Noted.”
“And if they get photographed again… we’ll talk to them about it. Let them decide what kind of life they want with cameras around. We can’t fully control it but we can prepare for them.”
Lando was quiet for a moment.
“They’re braver than I am,” he finally said, lips twitching into a smile.
You glanced out the window at the sweeping Red Bull Ring view and nodded slowly.
“They’re stronger than both of us combined.”
“What about you though?” Lando asked, his voice softer now, edged with concern. “Are you okay?”
You knew what he was referring to…. in this circus: the headlines, the speculation, the “secret baby mama” and “gold digger” labels.
You gave a tired sigh, running your fingers through your hair.
“I’m not online, so I don’t really care,” you said truthfully. “And sooner or later, they’ll figure it out. I’m Carlos’ sister. That alone will shift the narrative.”
Lando leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
“But still. It’s not fair to you.”
You met his gaze. “I’ve lived quietly for years. I can do it again.”
He frowned. “I want to be angry and do something on your behalf. But you wouldn’t want that sooo..”
You raised a brow. “How about you? It’s going to affect you publicly.”
Lando didn’t hesitate. “So what? A man can’t have a family? That’s not some scandal. I race, and I go home to my kids. That’s it. That’s the image.”
You watched him, earnest.
“You really think it’s that simple?” you asked, softer now.
“No,” he admitted. “But I think it’s worth it.”
You looked away, another sigh escaping your lips. The weight of it all from, years of silence, sacrifice, and suddenly, everything out in the open.
But for once, you weren’t the only one carrying it.
And somehow… that made it a little easier to breathe.
—
The paddock photos that have been circulating recently have brought unwanted attention to people who didn’t ask for it, especially my kids. They are young, and they deserve to grow up out of the spotlight, safely and quietly.
I understand that being in the public eye comes with a level of interest, and I’m grateful for the support I get every day. But when it comes to my family, especially my children I ask for kindness and privacy.
I won’t be sharing any further details publicly and I hope you can respect that decision.
Thanks for understanding,
Lando 🤍
Charlotte was on the verge of tears.
She had just hit the damn “post” button on Lando’s Instagram. A clean, measured, drama-free statement. No clickbait. No details. Just the truth.
And then the internet did what the internet does.
“Okay. No. No, no, no, no—what the hell is this?!” she gasped, eyes wide as she scrolled through Reddit. “Oh my god. They cracked the Sainz code.”
The Sainz reveal was never part of the plan. The idea was to give the public a gentle nudge, then quietly let the narrative fade. But Reddit? Twitter? TikTok? They had other ideas. The fandom had gone full MI6, pulling ancient footage and blurry karting videos like they were constructing a cold case file.
She clutched the loaned McLaren team iPhone like it had betrayed her.
“WHY are they so fast? Are they being paid for this?” she muttered, now doom-scrolling through a conspiracy thread titled “Sainz: From Karting Queen to F1’s Soft-Launched Mother?”
The entire situation had evolved. What was supposed to be damage control now looked like a full-blown PR warzone, except the public wasn’t mad anymore. They were romanticizing it. Shipping it. Making edits.
Hallmark Movie energy one post said. Fatherhood Lore unlocked, said another.
Charlotte flinched as another notification came in. Then another. Then twelve.
She opened one of them: a link to a new fanmade TikTok edit using slow-motion footage of Lando hugging the twins, overlaid with “Until I Found You” by Stephen Sanchez and clips of old karting videos from 2013.
“Oh god. It’s a fanfic now,” she muttered. “I’m in hell.”
She didn’t even want to check Threads, but of course she did. And there it was trending everywhere:
#SainzPlotTwist #LandoLoreUnlocked #YoungestSainzEra
Meanwhile, back in Monaco, you were busy trying to keep your own panic at bay as the boys played quietly with their coloring books on the floor, still unaware of the wildfire outside your apartment door. God, you just came back from Austria 2 days ago.
You have seen the posts. The photos. The wild theories. You even recognized one photo from ten years ago. It was you and Lando at a karting event, your arm slung casually around his shoulder, both grinning after a race.
You looked… young. Free. And happy.
Now? You were exhausted. Drained. Staring blankly at the ceiling, wondering who the hell told the internet or how they found out about your surname.
You barely heard the knock on the door.
You opened it to find Carlos.
He raised an eyebrow. "So... how's your quiet weekend going?"
You groaned and stepped aside, letting him in.
"I'm not even online and somehow I'm the main character of Twitter," you muttered.
Carlos didn't respond at first. Just threw himself on the couch and let out a long, theatrical sigh.
“Want me to release a statement that I have no idea what’s going on?” he deadpanned.
You shot him a glare. “You knew.”
“I knew some,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t know Reddit would play detective and speedrun your entire past in 12 hours.”
A beat.
“They even found your karting gloves from 2014. How?”
You buried your face in your hands. “I don’t know. I didn’t even remember that.”
Another knock.
This time it was Lando, phone in one hand, coffee in the other. “We have a problem.”
Carlos pointed a thumb toward you. “She knows.”
Lando groaned. “They’ve gone full CSI. I just wanted to post one quiet statement. One.”
Carlos gave him a slow clap. “Congratulations. You’ve achieved fanfiction canon.”
Lando dropped into the armchair next to you, rubbing his temples. “They think this was all a secret affair. Or a PR stunt. Or that I’ve been co-parenting in the shadows. One thread even said I should be cast as the lead in a Netflix drama called Two Laps to Fatherhood.”
Carlos snorted. “That’s actually not bad.”
“Can someone put the internet in DND?” you grumbled.
Lando looked over at you, a tiny smile playing on his lips. “Hey… we wanted people to stop calling you a gold digger.”
“And now they think I’m Carlos’ prodigal little sister with a secret family arc.”
“Well…” Carlos smirked. “They're not wrong.”
You all sat in silence for a moment, the madness in the internet temporarily paused by your shared exhaustion.
Then Carlos added, “Just so we’re clear… if they write fanfic about this, I’m not reading it.”
After Carlos checked in on you, you and Lando were left with the kids. You are going to work so Lando came to pick the twins up and go to his place.
“Everything they need is in their bag.” You zipped it up and handed it over to Lando, careful not to meet his eyes too long. “Call me if anything comes up.”
He took the bag from you with a nod, but you weren’t done.
“I’ll be back before 5:00 PM. And please, Lan… no expensive stuff.”
The nickname slipped out before you could stop it.
You froze.
He did too.
There was a beat of silence as your eyes met his, both of you registering the same memory, one that didn’t belong in the present.
“…It’s been a while since you called me that,” Lando said quietly, almost like he didn’t want to scare the memory away.
You opened your mouth, but the sound of twin footsteps running toward him spared you from answering.
“Dad!” Liam cheered, hugging his leg. Luka was right behind, already rummaging through the snack pouch of the backpack.
“Hey, boys,” Lando said, his voice soft as he ruffled their hair.
You took a small step back and cleared your throat. “Best behavior with your dad, okay?”
Luka turned to you, mouth slightly puckered in thought. “Mum, why don’t we just live all together? Don’t families live all together?”
You blinked. Then blinked again.
“I—well…” You looked to Lando for backup.
He crouched slightly to meet their gaze. “Buddy… daddy has to live close to where he works, and mommy too. Sometimes families live in different houses, but we’re still your family.”
You gave him a look. That wasn’t… awful. But it wasn’t helping either.
“We’re… arranging things,” you added, kneeling beside them. “So Daddy can visit, and we can all spend time together when we’re in the same place.”
Liam’s brows furrowed. “I wish we can just go wherever you go.”
You touched his cheek, gently smoothing down his hair. “Liam, baby… Daddy’s doing his best so he can be with you both, okay?”
There was a pause. Then a small nod from him. Luka copied it too, just because.
“Now go have fun. But be good, yeah?”
They dashed off toward the hallway, already arguing over who gets to sit behind the sim rig first.
Lando lingered for a moment. He looked like he wanted to say something. Instead, he mouthed a quiet thank you, and followed after them, the sound of little feet echoing behind him.
You closed the door gently.
And exhaled.
Since coming back from Austria, Lando had been showing up every single day. He’d picked them up, enrolled them in karting, took them with him to his padels, and spoiled them just enough that you had to put your foot down more than once.
The twins were obsessed with the sim rig he had at his home, which he told you he’d completely renovated to be kid-friendly while you were still in Austria. You hadn’t visited yet, but from the photos and FaceTime tours he gave you, it looked more like a mini adventure park than a bachelor’s flat now.
It was sweet. Responsible, even.
But also…
Unsettling.
Because it was becoming too easy for the boys to love being there. Too easy for this to start looking like something it wasn’t.
And every time they asked “why can’t we just all live together?”, it made your throat tighten.
Because how do you tell two kids who love both their parents that once, their parents loved each other too but not in a way that lasted?
So you did what you did best.
You buried it. You dressed up. And you went to work like it was any other Tuesday.
Monaco, thankfully, didn’t care who you were. You could walk its streets with your name and your past and your secrets and people wouldn’t even look twice.
If only your heart could do the same.
—
You met Carlos for lunch one Thursday noon. A casual café tucked into the quieter side of Monte Carlo. He didn’t even wait for the menus before jumping in.
“So, are you coming to Silverstone or what?”
You poked at your salad. “I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to let the kids go without me.”
You had told Lando before that the twins could spend the summer watching the Grand Prix, making the most of the break. But now that it was actually happening, the thought of being in a different country from them, even just for a weekend, made your heart clench. You’d been with them for six years, every day. This would be the first time you'd be away from them that far.
“It’s his home race,” Carlos said, reaching for his fries. “His parents will be there, and I will too. Besides……how about you? You haven’t even properly reintroduced him to our parents.”
You winced at that, your fork freezing mid-air.
You hadn’t had the conversation with your parents yet. Sure, they probably knew by now. Thanks to the internet doing what it does best. But there hadn’t been a formal talk, or even a reintroduction. And now that Silverstone is coming up… Lando’s parents would be there too. He mentioned they wanted to meet the twins. And you.
“God,” you muttered, setting your fork down. “So much is happening. I kind of just want to disappear.”
Carlos snorted. “Please. What is even going on between you and Lando?”
You blinked. “We’re… parents.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re playing house.”
You shot him a glare. “Don’t start.”
“That’s why you can’t explain to the kids what’s really happening,” he said, undeterred. “They have a father now. What next?”
“Why do you sound like Mama right now?” you groaned, crossing your arms.
“Because I’m right,” he said with an obnoxious smirk. “You still like him. Or whatever it is you’re calling it. Why do you two insist on being the world’s slowest slowburn?”
You stared at him. You weren’t sure if you hate him right now because he was being annoying or because he was probably right.
“If you come to Silverstone,” he added between bites, “you have everything. Family, support, your weird fake domestic life. Might as well show up for it.”
You rolled your eyes and reached for your drink, trying to change the subject. You spent the rest of lunch steering the conversation toward anything but your complicated pseudo-family.
Until your phone buzzed.
Lando.
“Hey something came up. Can you pick up the kids for me?”
You groaned. “Lando just asked if I can pick up the twins.”
Carlos grinned like the devil. “Why don’t you just give the man a chance and live your best domestic fantasy?”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m serious. Watching you two interact gives me the same stress as a slow-burn Spanish telenovela. All longing glances and emotional repression.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Come with me then. Help me pick them up.”
He raised both hands in surrender. “Can’t. I’ve got a date with my girlfriend. You’re on your own.”
Fantastic. Now you were going into enemy territory. His place, for the first time.
Alone.
—
“Mummy!” The twins barreled toward you the moment you stepped inside the unfamiliar but undeniably Lando-coded house. He had told you to just let yourself in via text.
You glanced around as they wrapped their arms around your legs. The place was a surprisingly well-balanced blend of bachelor aesthetic and toddler functionality, minimalist lines softened by bursts of color, like a curated chaos. The toys were organized in color-coded bins, neatly labeled and sealed in glass-front cabinets. The furniture had rounded corners. Even the sharp marble counters had been covered with safety pads.
Clearly, the renovation was fresh. And clearly, someone had gone all in on the whole “dad life” design brief.
“Where’s your dad?” you asked, scanning the room.
The twins pointed dramatically toward the couch where a suspiciously shaped mountain of blankets lay. You squinted, and then saw tufts of familiar curls poking out.
“Daddy said he’s not feeling well,” Liam explained solemnly. “Told us to stay away so we don’t get his sick.”
And right on cue, Lando shifted, groaning, eyes half-open as he looked around groggily. His face was flushed, lips slightly pale.
“You’re here,” he mumbled, squinting.
You marched over and placed your palm against his forehead and immediately recoiled. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”
He just blinked at you, defeated. You turned back toward the twins.
“Alright, guys,” you said, already zipping up their overnight bag. “Change of plans. You need to say bye-bye to Daddy for now.”
The twins groaned in protest.
“He’s not feeling well,” you explained gently. “You’ll visit when he’s okay, alright?”
They nodded reluctantly and trudged over to wave goodbye to their dad. Lando barely managed a weak wave before flopping back into his pillow fort.
“Stay right there,” you said firmly, slinging the twins’ bag over your shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
—
You managed to rope Carlos into meeting you outside Lando’s building, all under the thin excuse of first time visiting Lando’s place. He looked entirely too smug for someone helping out last-minute.
“You’re taking them, I just…..he’s sick, their dad is sick,” you started, fumbling for the right words. “No chef, no help. I’m just going to make sure he doesn’t die.”
Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You sure it’s just soup you’re serving?”
You shot him a death glare.
“I mean, sure. The love of your life is lying half-dead on a couch. You’re clearly just being a good person.”
“God,” you hissed. “Stop being annoying. He’s sick.”
Carlos opened the car door, ushering the twins in. “So am I picking you up tomorrow morning? Or should I start shopping for a tiny jumpsuit now, you know, for the potential niece or nephew?”
“Carlos!” you shrieked.
“Just asking,” he said, totally unbothered. “You look like you're about to nurse that man back to health with soup and unresolved tension.”
You swatted him on the arm before stomping away.
—
Back at Lando’s place, the rain had poured. Great. You hoped his pantry had something decent because you were not stepping back out in that storm.
Lando stirred again as you walked in, clearly not asleep.
“I thought you left with them,” he mumbled, groggy but watching.
“I said stay where you are, not that I was leaving,” you replied, slipping your soaked shoes off. “Carlos took them home.”
You hung your blazer on the coat rack before walking toward the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” he asked, brow creasing.
“Not letting you die,” you said without looking back.
Lando groaned and flopped dramatically back into the pile of blankets. “Be my guest.”
You rolled your eyes and opened his pantry, scanning for the basics. To your surprise, it was fully stocked. The perks of having an assistant with OCD and a nutritionist on speed dial. You grabbed what you needed and started prepping chicken soup.
While it simmered, you rummaged around for a thermometer, still muttering under your breath.
The scent of simmering chicken soup filled the room, warm and nostalgic. You moved quietly around his kitchen, only half-listening to the rain tapping against the glass walls. The last time you made him soup like this, you were both nineteen. He had twisted his ankle during training, and you made him lie down while you cooked with whatever scraps you found in his tiny apartment. He hated that soup. But he ate every last spoonful anyway.
Bachelor dad, soup, rain, and feelings. This was not how your Thursday was supposed to go.
You stirred the pot absentmindedly.
When you returned to the living room, Lando had kicked off his blanket halfway. His curls matted to his forehead, eyes half-lidded, body slumped against the throw pillows. He looked like the boy you used to patch up after karting crashes. That boy who followed you around with a stupid grin, who sulked when you beat him on track, who lit up like Christmas whenever you smiled at him.
“Sit up,” you said gently, placing the bowl on his coffee table.
He grunted, making a show of struggling, so you rolled your eyes and helped prop him up, your arm curling around his back, your hand brushing against bare skin as you adjusted his hoodie. He flinched slightly from the chill but didn’t move away. Neither did you.
“You’re burning,” you murmured, resting the back of your hand against his cheek. He leaned into it. You didn’t stop him.
“I’m dying,” he croaked dramatically.
“You’re not dying.”
“Feels like it.”
You huffed. “You’re just feverish and annoying.”
“Still the same words you used on me in 2019. Spa. Remember that flu?” he whispered, eyes closing.
You blinked.
“I remember,” you said quietly, taking the spoon and starting to feed him like he used to beg you to. “You wouldn’t shut up unless I made you tea.”
He opened one eye and smirked. “I faked being worse so you’d stay.”
You paused with the spoon mid-air.
“I know,” you said after a beat. “I stayed anyway.”
His smile faltered. His fevered eyes were glassy, and you could tell he wasn’t filtering anything. Must be the fever.
“I don’t want this to be a thing we just… survived.”
You froze.
He was staring at the ceiling now, his voice rough, honest in that fever-drunk way.
“I know we’re trying to do the right thing. I know we’re figuring it out. But I…..I missed so much already. And I don’t want to be just the dad who shows up with gifts or karting gear. I want to be there. For them. For you too.”
“Lando…”
He turned to look at you, lids heavy, voice softer now. “Do you still resent everything?”
Your breath caught. His hand reached out, fingertips brushing your wrist. Just a touch. Not a grab. Not a pull. Just enough to burn.
“I never hated nor resented you,” you whispered. “I just hated how it ended.”
“I would’ve wanted it all,” he murmured, eyes drifting closed. “I wanted you back then. I just didn’t know what to do with everything.”
Your heart was a thundering mess. You placed the bowl back on the table with shaking hands.
“I can’t do this right now. You’re sick. You’re—”
“I still want you,” he mumbled, already drifting back to sleep. “Even now.”
Silence.
You just sat there, staring at him, unsure if it was the fever speaking or the truth he never had the courage to say when he was fully himself.
Your fingers brushed his curls back from his forehead gently.
And you stayed.
The rain didn’t stop.
You meant to just sit down for a bit. Just rest your eyes while waiting for his temp to cool down. Just wait out the storm.
But the patter on the glass was hypnotic, the warmth of the living room wrapped around you like a blanket, and Lando, feverish, quiet now, was lying peacefully on the couch beside you, his breathing steady.
You didn’t realize you had dozed off until the sunlight hit your face.
You blinked slowly, brain foggy, muscles stiff. The living room was washed in soft morning light, and for a long second, you forgot where you were. Until you felt the warmth of someone pressed against you.
Lando.
One arm was draped over your waist, your legs tangled together like it was the most natural thing in the world. His head rested near your shoulder, curls brushing your cheek, breath warm against your skin.
And your hand—God. It was curled into the fabric of his hoodie like it belonged there.
Your chest tightened.
You didn’t move for a few seconds. Just stared at the ceiling, heart in your throat. He looked better, color back in his cheeks, breathing still slow with sleep. He didn’t even flinch when you carefully untangled yourself.
You found a pen in his kitchen drawer and scribbled a note on the back of one of his McLaren notepads:
Soup’s in the fridge. Temp was down to 37.5. Sleep more. Try not to get sick again. —Y/N
Then you slipped out the door before your heart could betray you.
–
Carlos was already on your couch when you got home wearing one of your stocked robes like he owned the place, drinking your orange juice, and scrolling through some karting results of the twins with a smugness only an older brother could pull off at 8:00 in the morning.
“Took your sweet time,” he said without looking up. “So… how’s the patient?”
You dropped your bag onto the floor with a groan and fell onto the armchair.
“Alive. Sweaty. Fever broke by midnight.”
Carlos raised a brow, “And you stayed because…?”
“Rain. Soup. Children. Shut up.”
He sipped the orange juice slowly. “Did you also fall asleep in his arms because of the soup, rain, or children?”
You threw a pillow at his face. He caught it effortlessly.
“I knew it. You’re blushing,” he said gleefully. “This is it. This is our telenovela finale.”
“It was nothing.”
“Uh huh. Except you’re wearing his hoodie.”
You looked down. You took his hoodie instead of your blazer.
Damn it.You were.
You yanked it off with a huff and threw it across the room like it had personally betrayed you.
Carlos stood, patting your head mockingly. “You’re so doomed. I give it two weeks before you two either make out in a garage or blow up at each other in front of the kids.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t. I’m literally the only sane person here.”
You threw another pillow. He was already laughing.
-
–
Your place felt hollow the moment you stepped inside.
It wasn’t the silence you’d had quiet nights before but the absence of laughter, of tiny footsteps running down the hall, of giggles echoing from the kitchen. Even when the twins spent nights at Lando’s, they always came home before you did. He made sure of that. Your routine had adjusted easily once he came into the picture. You went to work, he picked them up, and somehow, the days felt lighter. The load wasn’t just yours to carry anymore.
Home had started to feel like a shared space again. Like family.
Just yesterday, you came home to all three of them passed out on the living room rug. The twins snuggled on their father’s chest, tangled in one another like a soft, breathing pile of peace.
But tonight, no one was here to greet you.
And this time, they weren’t just a few blocks away. They were midair, already on the way to another country, without you.
You FaceTimed Lando three times before boarding. The twins waved, excited and unbothered, their little cheeks flushed with travel joy. Lando looked calm, assuring you each time that everything was fine.
Still, your chest felt hollow. Empty in a way you hadn’t expected.
Wine in hand, you sat on the edge of your bed, scrolling through your phone. Their photo album pulled you in. Soft smiles, flushed cheeks under the Australian sun, a blurry photo of them fighting over identical toy cars, the countless times they tried to switch clothes to confuse you. They were mischievous, clever. Little shadows of Lando in every expression.
You missed them so much your chest physically ached.
Before you realized it, you were checking flight sites, scanning last-minute tickets to Silverstone.
You’d probably make it by race day.
---
“Daddy, the Mercedes car looked soooo cool earlier,” Luka said as he clutched the mini die-cast George had given him. “Uncle George said I can drive it when I grow up!”
Lando tried not to frown. Mercedes? Really?
“Did he now? Well… I guess I better start talking to Toto Wolff about a contract.” He ruffled Liam’s hair.
“But…” Luka’s voice was quiet this time, his fingers curled around the hem of his shirt. “But Mommy’s gonna be sad.”
That pulled Lando’s full attention.
“Why do you say that, baby?”
Liam answered instead. “Because she cries at night. Back in Australia. Every night.”
Luka nodded, serious. “She stopped crying when you came, Daddy. But now she’s alone again… what if she starts crying again? It hurts here.” He pressed a small hand to his chest.
Lando's breath caught. The guilt hit hard. He hadn’t realized how much the twins had noticed and how deeply they’d been watching. How much they had felt.
Did Y/N even know? Did she realize her sons saw the cracks she tried so hard to hide?
“Boys…” he knelt in front of them. “What can we do to make Mommy happy?”
“Don’t go so far away,” Luka whispered. “Don’t leave us. Or her.”
It felt like a punch to the chest. Lando swallowed down the tightness in his throat.
“I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’ll always have to leave for races, but I promise you….. I’m coming back. Every time.”
The twins looked up at him, waiting.
He exhaled. “Mommy and I… we’re trying to fix things. We were apart for a long time, and now we’re learning how to be a family again.”
That seemed to make sense to them, even if their brows furrowed in thought.
“I’m doing it the right way this time. For Mommy. For you. So one day, we can all be together.”
Liam sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Okay. But make her happy, please?”
He will. God, he will.
“She likes flowers! And coffee!” Luka added, suddenly enthusiastic. “And she gets really happy when we win at karting!”
Lando chuckled softly. Of course she does.
“Alright,” he said, voice warm. “We’ll bring her all of that when we go home to Monaco, yeah?”
The twins nodded, now excitedly chatting about coffee and flower shop options like it was a full mission.
Tomorrow, he’d take them to the paddock again. His new sitter would be there to watch them while he worked through media and team obligations. Thankfully, the press had been careful so far. No questions about his personal life during media day, and no photos of the boys had leaked from inside the garage.
He’d thank his PR team later.
For now, all he could do was keep showing up. For them. For her.
And the rest? That was up to Y/N if she welcomes him back.
---
You tapped your foot anxiously, the soft click echoing under the too-bright lights of the airport lounge. Another delay. You cursed under your breath as the notification flashed across your screen again: Delayed. New departure: 03:55 AM.
Your phone buzzed with another FaceTime call from Lando. You didn’t answer, not this time. Instead, you sent a quick text:
> In the middle of something. Call you later.
It wasn’t a lie. You were in the middle of trying to surprise the man you’ve been tiptoeing around for months, the father of your children, the man who had been showing up, consistently and patiently, like he was trying to rewrite all the ways he had once let you down.
The last two nights had been... nice. FaceTimes that started with quick check-ins on the twins but stretched longer than expected, full of soft jokes and tired smiles, until one of you fell asleep mid-call.
You were supposed to surprise him. But now, you were arguing with your brother through texts because of course, you vented your frustrations about the delay to him.
“Why don’t you just tell him you’re coming?” Carlos texted. “Then maybe you wouldn’t be so pissed about a delayed flight you chose to keep secret.”
You rolled your eyes. Of course he had a point. Annoyingly, he always did.
“I didn’t peg you for the grand gesture type, hermana. But fine. Go make your man happy.”
You gave up replying. He had already figured it out, and knowing Carlos, he'd blurt it out to Lando before the lights went out on Lap 1.
Still, the urge to see him, not just the twins pulled at your chest. And here you were, spending a small fortune on a last-minute flight to London, skipping meals, running on nerves and caffeine. You used the excuse of wanting to see the kids, but the truth echoed louder in your heart.
You just… missed him. All three of them
---
Traveling at midnight seemed like a good idea. But midnight turned into morning, and morning turned into exhaustion. By the time you landed in Heathrow, the sky was grey and heavy with rain.
Carlos, for all his teasing, had arranged a car to pick you up. You curled up in the back seat during the three-hour drive to Silverstone, managing a short, restless nap.
The rain hadn’t stopped when you finally arrived at your accommodation just after noon. You had barely an hour to get ready.
No time for a meal. No time to breathe. You threw on the McLaren shirt he once joked you looked better in than him, a black skirt, your worn Sambas and bolted out the door. The cab was late. Traffic was worse. And every red light felt like the Universe taunting you for trying.
Meanwhile, at the McLaren paddock, Lando’s parents were meeting the twins for the very first time.
“Oh,” Cisca gasped, kneeling in front of them. “Aren’t they just beautiful?”
She studied their faces like they were long-lost portraits that come to life,small replicas of her son, down to the shape of their lips and the dimple on Liam’s left cheek.
“Let me see your eyes, babies,” she said gently, tilting their chins up. Her own eyes shimmered with tears. “My God… it’s like looking at Lando all over again.”
Lando’s heart clenched.
His mother was forgetting all about his home race, about Silverstone, about the noise and crowds and chaos around her. All she saw now were her grandchildren. Two bright, curious boys with pieces of her son etched into their bones.
His father stood beside him, quieter but just as moved.
“Where’s Y/N?” he finally asked, glancing around the paddock.
Lando’s smile faltered. I wish I knew.
“She couldn’t make it,” he answered, eyes fixed on the ground. “Work’s been hectic.”
His parents nodded, accepting it though not without a flicker of disappointment.
Cisca leaned in to give him a hug. “Go win, Love. Be safe.”
“Good luck, Daddy!” The twins each kissed one of his cheeks. It was all the luck he needed.
As he turned toward the garage, he looked over his shoulder, just once, hoping, foolishly, that she might still show.
---
You nearly tripped over your own feet as you sprinted through the paddock, hair damp from the rain, chest heaving from a run you hadn’t expected to make. Traffic. No paddock pass. A scanner that wouldn’t work at first. 57 laps. And somehow you only made it by lap 55.
Your heart was racing faster than any of the cars on track.
You found your pass. The scanner beeped green. You were in.
You ran.
Every corner turned felt endless, every second stolen from you by the universe. But the McLaren garage came into view.
You made it.
Chest rising and falling, eyes wide as you spotted the leaderboard confirming what you thought you saw from the screen on your way in: Lando was leading.
Tears pricked your eyes. Whether from exhaustion or overwhelming relief, you didn’t know. But you were here. You made it. And he was about to win his home race.
And this time, he wouldn’t be alone at the finish line.
---
You hadn’t seen the twins yet, but you knew they were in good hands. And in this moment, for once, you let go of the worry. Just for five laps. Just long enough to watch him fly.
Lando.
You stood there, eyes fixed on the monitor, heart pounding louder than the engines. Five laps left. Five moments frozen in time as you watched him dance, not just drive, on the track he’d always dreamed of conquering.
People online might call him overrated. Say he’s only fast because McLaren finally built him a rocketship. But they don’t know him. Not the way you do.
You know the boy who used to get velcroed into his kart seat because he was too light to keep it grounded. The one who used to beam at you from behind his visor when he beat you which wasn’t often and pout when you ruffled his hair and called him a sore loser. You know the boy who kissed you behind the team van at sixteen, the one you fell in love with at eighteen, who became the father of your children at twenty.
The man who never stopped trying.
This wasn’t just his home race. This was everything. The culmination of sacrifices you both made. The moments you carried alone so he could chase this dream. The thousands of sleepless nights, the heartbreak, the distance.
And now here he was, racing like he was born to do it. Like the world was finally catching up to what you always knew.
God, you love this man.
And with every turn, every split-second decision, every perfectly executed apex you were falling for him again.
Your chest felt like it might explode. With pride. With love. With the simple, impossible joy of witnessing the man you love win at what he loves most and to know your children were here to see it too.
When the checkered flag waved, and Lando crossed the line first, winning the 2025 British Grand Prix, your knees went weak. The roar of the crowd, the eruption in the garage, the radio crackling with triumphant screams…it all faded around you.
Because in your heart, it was quiet.
Just the memory of two kids racing in silence, and the sound of his laugh echoing from years ago.
You didn’t rush down to parc fermé. Not yet. You stood there, watching the replay. The slow motion. His hands shaking as he crossed the line. His scream into the radio.
You composed yourself, barely, before finally heading down.
His mother was already in his arms when you reached the barrier, and you could see him glancing around, subtly, anxiously hoping.
And then he saw you.
Helmet off. Hair damp with sweat. Eyes searching.
You didn’t wait.
You ran.
No hesitation. No nerves. You ran through the paddock, through the crowd, past the media and cameras. To hell with everyone. This moment was yours.
He barely had time to react before you threw your arms around him, almost knocking him back. You felt him exhale into your neck, like he had been holding his breath before you arrived And you felt like you breathed again in for the first time in days.This moment feels like oxygen in your lungs
His arms wrapped tightly around you, as if to make sure you wouldn’t disappear again.
“You’re here,” he whispered, disbelieving. “I made it. I won. Are you real?”
You pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were wide, glassy, scanning you like you were a dream. He looked down at your shirt.
“You’re wearing a McLaren.”
“I am,” you nodded, voice trembling. “Yes, you won. And yes, I’m real.”
“Why are you crying?” he asked gently, wiping a tear from your cheek.
You laughed through the sob in your throat. “Because… I’m so damn happy I made it. Watching the love of my life win his home race…”
He froze.
“The love of your—?”
You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed the collar of his fireproof suit and pulled him in, kissing him right there, in front of thousands.
In front of his parents.
In front of the media.
In front of the whole world.
And he kissed you back like it was the only truth left on Earth.
When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, you whispered, “Go. Celebrate your win. We’ll celebrate ours later.”
You turned to leave, but he caught your arm and pulled you back, claiming your lips again slower and deeper this time. Like he was telling you everything he hadn’t said in the last six years. Like he couldn’t let you go.
When he broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I wish I could skip this and just go home with you and the boys.” His voice was hoarse. “But you just made this victory the best of my life.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead before jogging off toward the cooldown room, his eyes still lingering on you.
You turned to head back to the pit only to find every single person watching you like they’d just witnessed the climax of a movie.
You and Lando Norris had just snogged in front of the world.
Yeah, you’re definitely making headlines.
You could not care less.
---
Lando screamed across the line.
He’d done it.
He won.
Not just him, Nico got his first-ever podium. The crowd roared despite the rain still falling over Silverstone like a blessing. It was a good day. A damn good day.
Well, almost for everyone.
Oscar Piastri wasn’t exactly thrilled, his expression unreadable as always. But Lando knew he’d come around. Oscar’s competitive fire ran deep, and today wasn’t his day—but tomorrow, maybe. For now, Lando waved to the grandstands as he coasted into parc fermé, heart still hammering in his chest.
He jumped out of the car and immediately made a beeline for his mother.
Cisca was in tears. She held him like she was seeing that little boy again, the one they used to velcro into his kart seat so he wouldn’t rattle around. Now here he was, a man, a winner, a father.
She let him go, and he spun around, instinctively searching for two things—his kids... and her.
The twins were nowhere in sight. Maybe with the sitter. But……..
Then he saw her.
Hair wet and messy. Shirt damp from the rain, clinging to a McLaren logo he never thought he’d see her wear again. She was running toward him like a vision out of a dream — chest heaving, tears in her eyes, everything about her screaming relief, urgency, love.
He froze.
As if time stilled just for this.
And then she hit him — nearly knocked him over as she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. He could feel her breath, fast and shaky, and the way she clung to him like it hurt to let go.
“You’re here,” he breathed, stunned. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, terrified she might vanish. “I made it. I won. Are you real?”
She pulled back just enough for him to see her eyes, glassy and soft. He glanced down, catching sight of the McLaren logo.
“You’re wearing McLaren,” he murmured, like it was proof he wasn’t hallucinating.
“I am,” she nodded, voice cracking. “Yes, you won. And yes, I’m real.”
He immediately noticed the tears brimming in her eyes.
“Why are you crying?” he asked softly, brushing a thumb over her cheek.
She let out a breathy laugh that nearly shattered him. “Because… I’m so damn happy I made it. Watching the love of my life win his home race…”
His lungs forgot how to work. His heart nearly exploded.
“The love of your—?”
But he never got to finish.
She yanked him down by the collar of his fireproof suit and kissed him, hard and urgent and full of everything they’d never said, everything they lost, everything she still felt.
Six years. Gone in a single heartbeat.
He melted into it, body pressed to hers, arms tightening again like he never wanted to let go. When she finally pulled away, both breathless, she cupped his jaw and whispered:
“Go. Celebrate your win. We’ll celebrate ours later.”
She stepped back to let him go.
But he wasn’t done. He’s ready to pay penalties just to skip post race duties so he could go home with them.
No. Not yet.
He pulled her in again, slower this time. A kiss filled with depth — six years’ worth of longing, apology, and love. A promise sealed between their lips.
When he finally broke away, he rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in.
“I wish I could skip all this and just go home with you and the boys,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “But you just made this the best win of my life.”
He kissed her forehead, eyes lingering like he needed to memorize her all over again, and then finally turned toward the cooldown room.
Behind him, she stood, tears still in her eyes, lips tingling, chest full.
People stared. Mouths open. Cameras flashing.
They didn’t care.
This wasn’t PR. This wasn’t planned.
This was them.
—
In the cooldown room, Lando sat with the same dazed smile on his face, hair still damp, suit unzipped to the waist. He stared blankly at the replay on the monitor, seeing none of it.
Oscar and Nico flanked him, both glancing his way.
“Dude’s high,” Oscar mumbled, chewing on a piece of gum. “What’d he inhale in that car?”
“He’s not answering,” Nico said, waving a hand in front of Lando’s face. “Helloooo?”
Oscar sighed, then grinned. “Whatever it is, I want some.”
Nico laughed. “You and me both.”
Lando, still smiling, blinked slowly, like waking from the best dream he’d ever had.
He didn’t care what they said.
Because for the first time in a very long time… he felt like he already won the WDC.
—
You were blushing furiously in front of Cisca Norris, and there was absolutely no hiding it. She caught you just as the podium celebration ended, practically beaming with affection.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, pulling you into a warm embrace like no time had passed. “I’ve been looking for you, you sneaky thing! Thought I imagined that kiss in parc fermé.”
You cringed, half-laughing, half-praying for a meteor to strike the Earth. “Oh… you, uh… saw that?”
“Everyone saw that, darling,” she winked. “But I’m not mad. I’m thrilled. I’ve been waiting for this day since—well, too long now.”
You smiled sheepishly, still dazed. Your brain was somewhere between did I just kiss Lando in front of Sky Sports and am I hallucinating from exhaustion. She didn’t seem to mind the fog in your expression, though.
“They’re incredible, you know? The boys. Absolute balls of energy and carbon copies of Lando,” she said, placing a hand over her heart. “I almost cried seeing them. It was like watching little Lando all over again, velcroed to his seat and grinning like a goof.”
You nodded silently, your throat tightening. You were still trying to process the weight of the day: the chaos of your travel, the mad dash into the paddock, Lando’s win, and that kiss.
“And my god, are you eating enough? You’re all skin and bones…oh, what am I saying, of course you’re not. He can barely cook for himself,” she tsked playfully. “Come over for lunch tomorrow. I’ll feed everyone.”
You blinked. “Oh. Uh—I… we’d love to.”
“Perfect!” Cisca clapped her hands in delight. Then, with zero hesitation and all the finesse of a scheming romantic, she added, “How about we watch the boys tonight? You and Lando could use a little… time.”
You nearly choked on your own breath.
God help me.
Before you could summon a response, two excited blurs came barrelling through the McLaren hospitality.
“Mummyyyyy!”
The twins nearly knocked you over, Liam clinging to your arm while Luka attached himself to your leg like a koala.
“I missed you!” Liam squealed. “Mum, dad won! He’s the best!”
You dropped to your knees, kissing their cheeks and holding them close, fighting off the sudden sting in your eyes. “I know, baby. I’m so proud of him. You both give Daddy a big hug later, okay?”
Luka was quieter, arms still tight around your leg. His big eyes stared up at you, glassy and earnest.
“Baby? Are you okay?” you asked, brushing the hair from his forehead.
He just nodded, voice muffled as he buried his face in your neck. “I missed you, Mommy.”
Your heart clenched painfully. Luka had always been the softer one, gentle, observant, a little sponge for emotions. His arms around your neck felt like home.
“Look! It’s Daddy on the TV!” Liam shouted, pointing at the screen in the corner where Lando was mid-interview, flushed and glowing from victory.
You watched, frozen, as the camera zoomed in on him. The interviewer smiled, holding the mic out.
“Lando Norris, British Grand Prix winner! Home race. Home crowd. First place. How does it feel?”
Lando laughed, rubbing his neck. “It’s insane. Honestly, I don’t even know where to start. The team worked so hard. The fans were incredible. My family’s here. My—”
He hesitated, cheeks pink.
“My people are here.”
You bit your lip. That damn smile of his.
The interviewer raised an eyebrow. “Your people?”
Lando chuckled nervously. “Yeah. Just… everyone that matters.”
“And the moment in parc fermé? That was a surprise reunion, wasn’t it?”
His smile turned soft. “Yeah. That was her. The mother of my kids.”
The crowd around the paddock let out a cheer.
“And more than that?” the interviewer asked teasingly.
Lando hesitated for only a moment. “Yeah. A lot more than that.”
Your cheeks burned as Cisca squeezed your arm with a smug little hum beside you.
“Oh, daddy said hi, Mum,” Liam whispered with a cheeky grin.
Before you could respond, Cisca leaned down toward the twins. “Boys, how would you like to stay with Gran and Pops tonight?”
The twins looked at you eagerly.
You hesitated. You’d just gotten here. But she wasn’t wrong, they missed their grandparents. And the way Cisca was already plotting the sleepover menu in her head made it hard to say no.
“Mommy’s staying at the hotel,” you said gently. “But I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch, okay? Gran really misses you.”
They nodded, clearly excited, and ran to gather their little backpacks.
You turned to Cisca, still flushed. “You’re really leaving us alone, aren’t you?”
She grinned. “I didn’t raise a fool, sweetheart.”
-
Lando was practically sprinting out of the paddock showers after debriefs and media duties. His hair was damp, hoodie half-zipped, shoes untied, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to see his people again.
He finally spotted them outside hospitality: Cisca chatting with his dad, the twins clambering into her car, and you were standing there like something he’d only dreamed of a hundred times.
His pace slowed when your eyes met his. That soft, quiet smile on your face stole the rest of his breath.
He reached you, pulling you into a tight hug, burying his nose into your shoulder like he was afraid you'd vanish.
“Hey, tired?”
You nodded against his chest. “They’re with your mum for the night.”
Lando pulled back slightly, eyes wide. “Wait…they’re not with us?”
You shook your head. “Nope.”
There was a beat of silence before a slow, crooked grin curled on his lips.
“So… we’re alone.”
“Looks like.”
He blinked once. Then smirked. “Wanna go somewhere quiet and… celebrate?”
You arched a brow, smirking. “Hotel. Shower. And maybe… finally finish that movie we never did six years ago?”
He laughed, cupping your cheek. “That, and everything else we missed.”
And as his fingers laced with yours, and the Silverstone night began to wind down, the real win of the weekend was already written in your smile.
The air was cool and still, the stars barely peeking through the thinning clouds after the rain. The countryside stretched out beyond the windows of the small stone cottage Lando had driven you to—quiet, tucked far from the celebration chaos at Silverstone.
Just the two of you. No cheering crowds. No media. No pressure.
“This is nice,” you murmured, curled between his legs on the plush outdoor couch, your back snug against his chest. A glass of wine in your hand. His hoodie on your shoulders. The world on pause.
Lando hummed, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Better than any afterparty.”
You smirked. “Oh really? You, the human disco ball? You live in afterparties.”
He chuckled, fingers lazily trailing patterns over your thigh. “Okay. Fair. But this? You. Wine. Quiet. No one else to perform for? This is my favorite kind of party.”
You took a slow sip of wine, warmth in your chest that wasn’t just from the alcohol.
“I knew about the parties, by the way.”
“Did you?” he asked, lifting his brows.
“I'm not online much,” you replied, “but Charli basically moonlights as a CIA agent. She sent me everything.”
Lando let out a breath, burying his face in your neck. “God… I was so stupid. Trying to look unbothered. Thinking I could drown out the silence with noise.”
You leaned your head against his. “You missed me.”
He kissed your temple softly. “Every single day.”
Silence wrapped around you again. Not the kind that fills space awkwardly but the kind that meant everything was finally settling.
“I’m still mad at Carlos,” he said suddenly.
You laughed. “Why?”
“For not knowing where the hell you were all those years.”
“They didn’t know,” you shrugged. “I didn’t want them to.”
Lando sighed. “Remind me never to piss you off or make you mad again or you’ll just vanish to another continent.”
You turned, cupping his cheeks and placing a kiss on his lips soft, forgiving.
“I’m not going anywhere again,” you whispered. “We’re going to talk. Like adults. Even if we’re mad, even if we’re tired. We talk.”
Another kiss. Then one to his nose. Then one to his jaw.
“And we’ll be the best parents to those little gremlins,” you added, resting your head back against his chest.
Lando let out a breath like he’d been holding it for six years.
“This,” he murmured, hugging you tighter. “This is better than any trophy.”
You smiled against his chest. “Still feels like a fever dream.”
“I know,” he whispered.
A beat passed. You shifted slightly, tone more serious now.
“I’m sorry.”
Lando blinked. “For what?”
“I don’t know… for leaving. For shutting you out. It was selfish. I wanted to protect the kids but I ended up hurting you too.”
His fingers gently tilted your face toward him. “Hey. Look at me.”
You did.
“We’re here now. That’s what matters. You did what you thought was right. And I was a bloody idiot for not fighting harder. But we’re not those people anymore.”
You nodded, eyes glistening.
“We’ll start over. Slow. Real,” he said. “One step at a time.”
You smiled faintly. “Lunch with your parents tomorrow.”
“Then once we’re back in Monaco… I’ll face the wrath of Carlos Sainz Sr.”
You laughed. “He’s not mad.”
“He’s always mad.”
“And your brother-in-law will never stop teasing.”
Lando groaned. “Oscar has already started. You should’ve heard him backstage.”
Silence again. Comfortable. Your fingers laced with his. The stars overhead. The wine forgotten.
Then, softly:
“If you’re ready,” he said, brushing your hair back, “you and the boys can move in. With me.”
You looked up, eyes wide, lips parting slightly.
No pressure. No demand. Just quiet, open hope.
“Let’s take it slow,” you whispered. “But yeah… I want that.”
His smile could’ve lit the sky.
You had meant to watch a movie back in the hotel. You're all wet running from the rain and laughing like teenagers through the hallways on the way to his hotel room.
The countryside sky had opened up the moment you stepped out of the car.
“Are you kidding me?!” you shouted, eyes wide as heavy raindrops began to pour without warning.
Lando looked up, then looked at you—grinning. “It’s just water, baby!”
You squealed as he grabbed your hand and the both of you broke into a sprint across the hotel lot, rain soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your McLaren shirt clung to your back, your hair stuck to your face, and your sneakers made squelching sounds against the pavement.
You both reached the glass-covered entrance, breathless and dripping.
“God, we’re soaked!” you laughed, wiping water from your eyes.
“You look hot,” he panted, lips curled into that mischievous smile of his.
“Shut up.” You swatted his chest. “You look like a soggy labrador.”
He smirked. “A sexy one?”
You groaned, playfully rolling your eyes as he led you inside. The concierge gave you a knowing look but said nothing.
The elevator ride was filled with suppressed laughter and shivers, the cold from your damp clothes seeping in. You were both still breathless as you stepped out onto the hallway of his floor.
“I cannot believe we ran through that!” you said between giggles, dragging your fingers through your wet hair. “Like idiots!”
“We are idiots,” Lando replied, digging for his room key with one hand while still holding yours with the other.
The hallway echoed with your laughter as the lock beeped and the door swung open.
He stepped in, tugging you gently inside.
The door clicked shut behind you, sealing the world away. You both stood still for a second, dripping puddles onto the carpet, shoulders heaving from laughter, from adrenaline, from the weight of everything this day had meant.
You turned to face him.
And it was quiet again.
Except for your breathing.
And the sound of the rain now muffled by walls.
His gaze dropped to your lips. Then your soaked shirt. Then back to your eyes.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“I’m freezing,” you whispered. “And completely overwhelmed.”
He nodded. “Same.”
You stepped closer, your fingers brushing his shirt. “But I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
“Me neither.”
You took a breath, heart thundering. “So… what now?”
Lando laughed softly, like he couldn’t believe this was real. “We dry off.”
“Okay.”
“Then maybe—”
“Maybe we watch movies,” you said.
“Yeah, movies.”
You shrugged, stepping closer until your chest touched his. “Right, the movies.”
He kissed you first this time, gentle, rain-slicked skin, trembling fingers. You smiled into it, feeling the warmth replace the chill in your bones.
Clothes were peeled off piece by piece between kisses and shy grins. You moved like you had all the time in the world.
Because this time, you did.
No running. No hiding. Just you and him and the second chance you never thought you’d get.
“God I missed you so much” You said almost out of breath.
“Me too baby…me too.”
The night stretched long. Quiet. Soft. Sacred.
And when you finally curled into him hours later, your head resting against his bare shoulder, both of you warm, dry, and wrapped in each other
It didn’t feel like a celebration.
It felt like coming home.
—-
Charlotte could barely breathe after the last PR wildfire and now it feels like the internet's digging up every scrap of drama it can throw at her. She’s not just a publicist; she’s the buffer between Lando’s whirlwind personal life and McLaren’s polished image. First came the accidental child reveal. Then Y/N turned out to be a Sainz, sparking theories of her being Lando’s secret girlfriend, baby mama, even. Now they’ve gone full rom-com at Silverstone. Lando Norris, the eternal bachelor, is suddenly a family man.
His image flipped overnight. One moment he was the cheeky young driver, the next he’s a doting father and committed partner. And the season’s not even over yet Charlotte feels like she’s aged three years in three months. The truth? There’s no controlling public perception. It swings from admiration to scandal in a heartbeat. Surprisingly, though, the “family man” rebrand is playing well. Lando looks more grounded, more mature, more serious in the paddock.
Still, they’ve held the line: no interviews, no confirmation, no press release. The questions keep coming. The rumors keep spiraling. But Lando? He’ll speak when he’s ready. Charlotte just has to hold the front until then.
🌐 Reddit Thread: r/formula1gossip
Title: Hard Launch in Silverstone
u/thefastandthefurious28
> I actually felt that moment. Last time everyone was calling her a gold digger — plot twist: she’s a Sainz. Another plot twist: she and Lando were karting sweethearts. And then she ran to him on the track. SKY SPORTS CAMERA OP DESERVES A RAISE.
u/mclarenjuicebox
> Not just a kiss. He held her like they were the only ones in the garage, kissed her forehead, and then the lips? Lando's never gone public like this before. That was raw.
u/yntruthers
> This isn’t just any woman. That’s Y/N Sainz. Ex-karting champ. Years of history. Literal childhood sweethearts.
u/w11sympathycrash
> Honestly? I think they never really broke up. Lowkey feel like they’ve been in each other’s orbit since karting. Oscar DEFINITELY knew- give us the TEA!!
u/justvibing234
> Nothing about this felt staged. She wore an oversized McLaren tee, half-visible ID badge, just landed at Silverstone. Girl didn’t even try to be photogenic. But the yearning? The way she ran? I felt that in my bones.
---
🟦 Twitter/X Threads
@f1trollwatcher
🚨 Lando Norris wins in race — and in romance.
🧵 Let’s break down the breadcrumbs we missed 🕵️♀️
1. Last week: She was seen arguing with Lando near hospitality. Then people spot kids. Then someone says she’s Carlos Sainz’s sister.
2. Today: She RUNS to him post-race. He hugs her. He kisses her. Lips and Forehead. 💀
3. Lando nearly skips media to stay in the garage with her
4. The way he looks at her? That's love.
@papayarules
I want her prayer routine. She's a Sainz. Intelligent. Racing background. Dating a future world champ. Mother of his child. I'm lighting a candle rn.
@mclarenvortex
Paddock froze when he kissed her. No PR teams. No official posts. Just pure love and chaos. I’m spiritually unwell.
@f1burnbook
The internet: Who is she?!
Me: Carlos and Lando about to be in-laws. Lando skipped post-race press to kiss his baby mama all day. I'm emotionally bankrupt.
Rumors were now surfacing of the couple spotted post-race, strolling the English countryside and sprinting through the hotel parking lot under the rain, soaked, laughing like teenagers.
Charlotte didn’t even bother trying to stop it. She just bookmarked engagement rings and checked the media team’s drafts folder. Just in case.
She could hear the announcement coming.
---
Charli screamed loud enough to scare her cat, nearly dropping her iPad. It was noon in Sydney — and suddenly, her best friend was blowing up the internet. She saved every TikTok edit of Y/N sprinting toward Lando like it was the final lap. That forehead kiss? The slow-motion moment? Yeah, she teared up a little too.
Y/N had been carrying the emotional weight of it all for months. But now? No more heartbreak during wine nights. No more vague Instagram stories. Her best friend won. Full stop.
How to Get the Girl
Charles Leclerc x Reader
MASTERLIST
Warnings: None | Charles sister is a bit of a btch
Word Count: 2,419
Disclaimer:
The characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictional. While some names and settings may resemble real individuals or locations, this work is set in an alternate universe and does not reflect actual events or personal relationships. Any similarities to real-life situations are purely coincidental and used for creative storytelling purposes only.
“I can't fucking believe it.” You hissed under your breath, both hands gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Your breath came in short, furious bursts, as if you'd just sprinted a mile.
You were on the brink of crashing out.
“Okay, okay……. breathe. Tell me what happened.”
Saskia’s voice was calm, trying to ground you.
“That snake, Leclerc! She stole my project and my client!” you snapped, voice rising. You knew damn well it was yours. It was the draft you'd poured hours into for your client’s dream house. The one that mysteriously vanished from your hard drive last week. And now, suddenly, she has a 'new' idea? The exact same structure, design language, everything, just tweaked enough to not look like a carbon copy.
“She what? That's—how is that even allowed? Isn’t that straight-up unethical?”
You exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring.
“I filed a complaint. Asked for an internal investigation. But guess what? They backed her. Said there’s no evidence. She took credit for my work, Sas. My sweat, my blood. And they acted like she earned it.”
Saskia winced, sympathy etched into her face. Things had been bad between thee two but this was another level.
“Gods be damned, first she took your boyfriend. Now your career?”
You straightened, fury giving way to something quieter resolve.
“You know what? Let her have it. I’m done. She can choke on it. I quit.”
“Oh my god. You’re serious?” Saskia blinked, stunned.
“Dead serious. I’ll start over. Somewhere better. That place? It doesn’t deserve people like me.”
Saskia’s stunned look softened into a proud grin.
“And how about a drink tonight?” you added, voice lighter.
Her smile bloomed wide. “Now that sounds like a plan.”
The Monegasque air had never felt more like home. You hadn't realized how small your world had become. Revolving entirely around work and your boyfriend. Well… ex-boyfriend. You broke up a month ago, and now he’s with that leech—Leclerc.
You didn’t give a damn if she had a famous brother. That’s the only reason anyone paid attention to her in the first place. Beyond that? She was hollow. Nobody. Just like your ex and his paper-thin ego. Honestly, they deserved each other.
“I didn’t know Monte Carlo had places like this,” you said, eyes scanning the warm, low-lit ambiance of the lounge. It was effortlessly chic, tucked away from the usual tourist traps.
“That’s because you buried yourself in work and played house with a cheating bastard,” Saskia muttered, wincing at the memory.
“Poor girl,” you said with a dry laugh. “He’ll drain her dry. Give it a year, maybe two. Then he’ll drop her the second he finds someone shinier.”
You took a sip of your vodka, the alcohol burning its way down your throat. You winced. How long has it been since you last had a proper drink? And how many would it take before you stop thinking about all this?
Saskia raised her glass with a smirk. “Glad you got rid of him. Cheers….to freedom.”
You clinked glasses.
“To freedom,” you echoed, feeling the sting of vodka again.
Your phone buzzed. A Snapchat notification lit up your screen.
Èlise Leclerc sent you a message.
Your nostrils flared. Rage surged through you, and for a split second, you seriously considered hurling your phone across the room. Instead, you slammed it face down on the table, hard enough to make Saskia flinch.
A thin crack split across the screen.
“What the hell is her problem? Why is she acting like we’re still in high school?” you barked, holding the phone out to show Saskia the message.
Saskia narrowed her eyes at the screen, then muttered into her margarita, “I’m already imagining at least five different ways to torment that woman. All of them, illegal.”
You gave a humorless laugh. “Honestly? My ex, who she’s dating now, has enough karma.”
You tossed back another shot of vodka, letting it scorch its way down.
It had been years, and still, you couldn’t figure out what you ever did to deserve this kind of vendetta from Èlise. She’d never liked you from the moment you both started at the firm. Always armed with fake smiles, backhanded compliments, and subtle digs. Then came the boyfriend snatching. And now? Your project. Your work.
You could maybe forgive everything else. But not this. Not the thing you bled for.
You drank to forget. And you kept drinking until the count slipped away with the bitterness.
Charles Leclerc was exhausted. Race weekend had drained every ounce of adrenaline in his system, and now, back in Monaco, all he wanted was a stiff drink and quiet.
No fans. No cameras. No drama.
He ducked into a tucked-away bar that he vaguely remembered from a night out with Pierre. It was lowkey, dim lighting, vintage music playing from an actual record player, and a crowd just small enough to go unnoticed.
His gaze swept the room and then halted.
Oh.
Shit.
Her.
The brunette at the bar, half-slouched and dangerously close to toppling off her stool, was impossible to miss. She had a magnetism even through a haze of vodka. Tousled hair. Leather jacket off one shoulder. That tipsy smirk.
That was the girl Èlise wouldn’t shut up about.
He’d never met her in person, but her name had been mentioned so many times it felt like he had. Èlise would come home from work ranting in circles.
"She thinks she’s so smart."
"She’s such a try-hard."
"Men only like her because she’s pretty."
"She’s not that good of an architect."
Charles had gotten so fed up once, he’d actually searched her name on Instagram out of pure spite. What he found wasn’t what he expected.
She wasn’t just pretty……she was stunning. Her portfolio highlights? Impressive. And in every photo, there was a sense of boldness, like she knew exactly what she wanted out of life. It irritated him how easily he understood why she got under his sister’s skin.
And now here she was. In the same bar. Live. In 3D.
And stumbling straight toward him.
The room was spinning, but you were still aware enough to know you needed to pee. Or maybe cry. Or maybe yell into the void. Or throw a drink. It was one of those kinds of nights.
You wobbled off the bar stool like a newborn deer, Saskia shouting a half-assed “You good?” behind you. She was in the middle of flirting with the bartender, so no help there.
You squinted. And walked straight into someone solid. Very solid.
The scent hit first. Clean and warm, like leather and citrus and ego.
You looked up.
And nearly sobered on the spot.
“Wait a damn minute,” you slurred, brows knitting. “You’re… Leclerc.”
He raised an amused brow. “Guilty.”
You took a tiny, unsteady step back. “The other Leclerc.”
His lips twitched. “Depends. Which one are you running from?”
You snorted. “The one with the Botox smile and the personality of a scratched fork.”
Charles blinked. Then burst out laughing.
“That’s a new one,” he said, hands in pockets, clearly entertained.
You tilted your head, mouth tugging into a grin. “She talks about me a lot?”
“Only when she’s breathing.”
“Well, at least I know I’m living rent-free in that tiny glittery brain of hers.”
“She says you’re competitive. And mean.”
You placed a hand dramatically over your chest. “She flattered me.”
Charles let out another laugh, and you noticed it crinkled the corners of his eyes. Charming, annoyingly so. He looked down at you like you were a riddle he suddenly wanted to solve.
“You’re nothing like she described.”
“Yeah,” you said, swaying a little, “I’m hotter.”
“Also funnier,” he added, stepping forward slightly, steadying you with a hand on your elbow.
His touch was light, but firm enough to make your stomach flip. Or maybe that was the vodka. You weren't sure anymore.
You looked up at him, bold and buzzed. “Careful, Leclerc. You’re starting to sound like you don’t hate me.”
“I’m starting to think you were never the problem.”
You raised a brow. “No shit.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The buzz of the bar faded just a bit. The air between you crackled, tension laced with something a little too enjoyable.
Then Saskia’s voice cut through: “Babe! I swear if you’re fighting someone again—”
You groaned. “Duty calls.”
Charles chuckled. “Try not to cause any damage.”
You flashed him a sly smile over your shoulder as you turned to leave. “No promises, Leclerc.”
He watched you walk back toward your friend, shaking his head with a smile he hadn’t worn in weeks.
Well, shit, Charles thought, now I really want to get to know her.
You were drunk.
Like... absolutely, unapologetically drunk. The kind of drunk where your heels felt like medieval torture devices and your voice had no volume control. Saskia was slumped like a broken doll in the back corner of the bar, passed out with a lemon wedge stuck to her cheek.
You stumbled out the door, your phone at 3% and your dignity at -20%.
And then you crashed again right into a firm chest.
“Okay, now you’re doing this on purpose,” Charles said, steadying you by the arms with practiced ease.
You squinted up. “Are you following me?”
“I was leaving. You walked into me.”
You jabbed a finger at him. “I don’t trust you.”
“Noted,” he said, amused.
“You might conspire with your glitter goblin sister and burn my apartment down.”
Charles blinked. “What?”
You crossed your arms, nearly toppling over. “It’s exactly what she would do. Set fire to my curtains. Poison my dog if I had one. Shatter my wine collection. You know. Witchcraft.”
“You think I’d burn down your flat... for Èlise.”
“I wouldn’t put it past either of you. Monaco’s weird.”
Charles laughed. “Alright, Miss Suspicion, where’s your home? I’ll take you both back.”
You glanced behind you. Saskia was snoring like a cartoon character. “Let's drop her first. Then we’ll talk.”
“Okay. We’re here in my apartment. Now... your address?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll tell Èlise. She’ll send plague rats.”
Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, barely holding in a laugh. “Plague rats. Right.”
You pointed at him dramatically. “You’re trying to lure me into safety. But I know your kind.”
“I literally am trying to keep you safe.”
“Well, you’re failing because this isn’t my bed.”
“You refused to give me an address!”
“Fine,” you said, swaying. “New plan. We sleep together.”
Charles choked. “What—”
“Not like that. Literal sleep, Leclerc. Not the other sleep. Geez, your mind is in the gutter.”
“I’m the one trying to act civilized here!”
You stumbled past him, kicked off your shoes, and flopped dramatically onto his couch. “Too late. I’ve claimed asylum. I’m sleeping here.”
Charles stared at you for a long second. “I’ll get you something to sleep in.”
You were curled up in Charles Leclerc’s bed, wearing his oversized black Ferrari T-shirt. Your leather jacket was slung over a chair. Your tight mini dress? Hung over a lamp.
Charles checked in on you once to make sure you hadn’t suffocated yourself with a pillow. You’d already passed out diagonally across the bed, starfished like a drunk goddess.
He shook his head, smiling to himself. Èlise is going to kill him.
Charles hummed as he flipped pancakes in the kitchen, shirtless and annoyingly pretty even half-asleep. He liked cooking after race weekends, it calmed him.
Then he heard it.
A scream.
High-pitched. Familiar. Too familiar.
“CHARLES?!”
He flinched and turned around.
Èlise stood in his doorway, eyes wide with horror.
And right behind him, walking casually from the hall, was you. In nothing but his shirt, messy hair, and a smug little smirk.
“Oh my god!” Èlise gasped. “What the hell is she doing here?!”
You grabbed a glass of orange juice from the counter. “You invited me in with your unhinged behavior, babe.”
“You slept with my brother?!”
“No,” Charles said flatly. “We just slept. Not everything’s about sex, Èlise.”
“She’s using you! To get back at me! She probably staged this!”
“Wow,” you said, sipping the juice. “You think I went through all this trouble just to annoy you? I have better hobbies than sending snapchats.”
“You slept together, didn’t you?!”
You smirked, stepped over, and without warning, grabbed Charles by the neck and pulled him in for a kiss. He stumbled slightly, shocked and then melted into it, one hand automatically finding your waist.
When you pulled away, Èlise was frozen in place.
“Well,” you said sweetly, “can’t take him from me now, can you?”
Charles blinked, wide-eyed. Then started grinning like a goddamn idiot.
Èlise walked out in horror. Slamming the door of Charle’s flat.
The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Silence followed.
Charles stood frozen in the kitchen, a spatula still in his hand, eyes wide in disbelief.
He turned to you slowly. “You owe me dinner for that.”
You scoffed, hopping onto one of the barstools. “Aftercare, right?” you muttered, sarcasm lacing your voice.
He shook his head and turned back to the stove, flipping something in the pan like nothing happened.
You watched him from your seat, eyes trailing his movements.
Damn, he’s hot when he cooks. Now if only he could cook up Ferrari’s strategy too.
–
You were seated across from Charles at a cozy outdoor restaurant, dressed in something much more put-together this time.
“I still can’t believe you asked me out after that chaos,” you said, poking at your pasta.
Charles shrugged, smile warm. “You kissed me. Figured I’d shoot my shot.”
You raised a brow. “I did it out of spite, you know. Not for romantic declaration.”
“Duly noted,” he said, sipping his wine. “But I’m here because I want to be. Not because of her. Not because of drama. Because I like you. And I think I want to know what it’s like to kiss you when it’s not for show.”
You blinked, thrown off for a second.
Then you smiled. “Well. We’ll see if you earn it.”
Charles leaned back, eyes gleaming. “Challenge accepted.”
All I Ever Need
Kimi Antonelli x driver! Reader
MASTERLIST
Warnings: Toxic Kimi | 18+ | suggested | Might be💩. | Apologies in advance - I tried and also I didn't mean to 😭.
Word Count: 6,664 words
Disclaimer:
The characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictional. While some names and settings may resemble real individuals or locations, this work is set in an alternate universe and does not reflect actual events or personal relationships. Any similarities to real-life situations are purely coincidental and used for creative storytelling purposes only.
Even when he’s not trying, Kimi Antonelli makes headlines. A photo of him lacing his boots turns into a thirst tweet. Someone catches him yawning in parc fermé and suddenly he’s the second coming of Peter Parker. Cute. Humble. Relatable.
They say he’s “so Tom Holland coded.”
They say “he’s Peter Parker in real life.”
They say “he was way cuter back in Prema.”
They joke: “I want him to be my keychain.”
And of course, “Bro is 18 and already living our dreams.”
You wanted to scream. Or throw something. Preferably with anyone romanticizing Kimi Antonelli like he’s some sweet little prodigy.
Because that guy? That guy is not cute. Not wholesome. Not innocent.
He’s a menace. A smug, sharp-tongued, overgrown brat with a talent for two things: winning races and making your blood boil.
You bit your tongue, holding yourself back from saying something that would make his PR rep cry blood. The media doesn’t know the real Kimi. He plays that wide-eyed media darling act well. And watching him parade around like motorsport’s next messiah makes your blood boil. He’s just another teenage boy with too much horsepower in both his car and ego.
There are days you fantasize about smashing his scooter with a tire iron or key in his AMG GT 63 S, just to see if the mask would finally crack. Maybe then he’ll drop the golden boy act and the world will finally see him for who he is.
You scoffed at the thought.
So, where does all the hate come from?
Karting.
He’s been filthy rich since birth, always showing up with the best engines, fresh tires, and an attitude bigger than the track. And he drove like a lunatic. Always trying to push you off, spin you out, clip your wheel just enough to send you into the barriers right in front of your family. Right in front of your father.
Your father who spent millions just to get you there.
People whispered that you only got in because your dad could bankroll a whole team.
That you didn’t belong.
That your seat was bought, not earned.
Including Kimi. Especially Kimi.
But everyone got in with the same opportunity as yours, right?
He’d get dirty, but make it look like an accident. Play innocent. Flash that stupid boyish smile. That’s how talented he is.
You survived karting without killing each other. That alone was a miracle. Years of racing wheel to wheel with Kimi turned you into someone who could race anyone because once you learn how to survive him, no one else comes close. And finally, finally, they saw your potential.
You weren’t just someone’s rich daughter. You were good.
But Kimi? He never let it go.
You were both ten when it started.
“I met Lewis. He signed my cap,” he bragged to his friends, but looked straight at you with that smug glint in his eyes.
“And I met Toto,” you replied casually. “He let me stand beside him and walk through telemetry.”
Kimi’s smile slipped for half a second.
It was childish. But so was he.
Once, when you were checking your kart after a repair, he walked by, nose wrinkled
“Don’t you have someone who checks that for you?”
“I’m the one driving it. I need to know what’s wrong.”
He tilted his head like you were an alien species.
“You’re greasy,” he said, grimacing. “You smell like gasoline.
You raised a brow. “Because I race?”
“No. Because Doriane and Eli don’t smell like they live in a junkyard.”
He turned away before your mouth could even form a comeback.
What an asshole.
By thirteen, the crashing stopped, but the smugness didn’t. Every time he finished ahead, especially when you DNF’d due to mechanical failures, he’d show up just to rub it in.
“You can chase me all you want,” he whispered with a smile to the cameras after standing on the top step of the podium while you stood third. “But you’ll never come close.”
Then he looked at you. Dead in the eye. That infuriating glint in his smile.
You said nothing. Not with your mouth. But your mind was busy cataloging every way you could punt him into the gravel without leaving traceable evidence.
And then came Prema.
You wanted to believe karting was the worst of it. But fate, apparently, has a sick sense of humor.
The moment he saw you in the paddock, he groaned. “Seriously?”
You never understood what you did to make him hate you this much. You weren’t his friend, but you weren’t his enemy. Still, he treated you like motorsport Barbie, like you’d wandered into the paddock by accident and refused to leave.. But clearly, Kimi Antonelli carried grudges like he carried trophies.
Thankfully, Ollie was less obnoxious.
By fifteen, it escalated.
You remember that one time they stole your fireproofs before a race. You were running around like a lunatic, panic rising, already in your base layer, half-dressed and pissed.
“Where is it?” you snapped.
They didn’t take you seriously. Gabriele just looked at Kimi, already laughing.
“C’mon Kimi, give Y/N her suit.”Kimi held it up like a trophy. “Come get it then."
“I’m literally in tights,” you said, nearly begging. “Give it back.”
He looked you up and down.
“What’s there to see? You’re flatter than a punctured tire."
The guys burst out laughing.
You hadn’t given a damn about Kimi Antonelli’s crap since you were seven, but that? That made you want to deck him.
Still, you stayed calm. You always did. Your father made you promise:
Clock in. Lock in. Go home. Do your homework. Race.
So you stood there, jaw clenched, voice level.
“Give it to me. Please.”
Your voice softened when you said "please” tilting your head slightly, eyes wide, a subtle plea slipping through. It caught him off guard. His grip slackened.
Kimi blinked, hesitating, lowering the fireproof from above his head. Just for a second.
And that was all you needed.
You snatched it harder than you intended, almost wrenching his arm with it. He staggered back a step, startled.
“In racing,” you said coldly, “we don’t blink. Or someone takes the seconds.”
Silence fell. The boys froze. You turned and walked off clutching your suit, jaw set, heart racing not from adrenaline, but rage.
You locked in. And for the first time… you beat Kimi Antonelli. You ended up in P1 and him on P.
He didn’t look mad. Not smug. Just…quiet. Distant. His gaze stuck somewhere behind you like he couldn’t compute the shift.
It was Ollie's moment. He was beaming with happiness and excitement when he told you the news.
“I’m really happy you got into Ferrari,” You hugged him tightly, genuinely thrilled. But his groan reminded you of the fine print.
“Reserved driver.” he corrected, but you shook your head
“Still—it’s Ferrari. Not everyone has a chance to be in F1.” You meant it. You were proud of him.
But there was that small ache inside. That whisper that said you'll never get there. Not the way they will. Not like the boys in Prema, whose contracts practically printed themselves.
“Hey…” Ollie nudged your shoulder. “You’ll get into F1 Academy. I feel it. Kimi’s under Mercedes, Arvin’s Red Bull, Paul’s Alpine… we’ll all make it. You belong here too.”
You wanted to believe him. But all you could say was, “I… I mi—nevermind.”
“What?”
You almost told him. That you were thinking of quitting. That the opportunities were too small, too scarce for girls like you. That no matter how much you bled into the track, it was never enough. Not when the system was already designed against you.
And women? Always the exception. Not the norm.
Before you could say it, the door slammed. Kimi stormed out like a lit fuse.
“Oh, he’s in a mood,” Ollie muttered. You both shrugged it off.
You were alone in the Prema sim room, finishing a test run before the engineers reviewed data. Kimi walked in unannounced, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
You ignored him, hoping he’d turn around and leave.
No such luck.
“You braked too early at Turn 1,” he said flatly. “Again.”
You didn’t answer, fingers still on the wheel. The data wasn’t even loaded yet.
He pushed off the wall and walked in, slow and deliberate, like he owned the room and you were wasting his air.
“Your racing line’s all over the place. That’s probably why they gave you the Academy seat, pity points for trying hard.”
You finally turned to face him, brows drawn. “Why are you even here, Kimi?”
“To watch a tragedy unfold,” he said with a half-smirk. “Or maybe to figure out how low the bar is now for Ferrari.”
That one burned. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.
Still, he wasn’t done.
“You know, when they said you were coming back this season, we had a bet going.”
You didn’t want to ask but the silence dragged. He let it hang like bait.
“Most of us said you'd quit halfway through. Thought your dad would pull you out after the third crash.”
“And what did you bet?” you asked quietly.
He stepped closer, leaned on the sim rig beside you. His tone dropped to ice.
“I said you wouldn’t even start. You’d fold the moment the pressure got real. And here you are, trying to prove everyone wrong. It’s cute.”
You swallowed hard. “Why do you care so much about what I do?”
“I don’t,” he said with a sharp, cruel smile. “I care about my lap times. I care about my reputation. And unfortunately, being associated with a glorified marketing project like you? It drags all of us down.”
Your jaw clenched. He was brutal. You’d heard worse in whispers, but never this close. Never this direct.
“Done pretending you’re one of us?” he added, stepping back. “Good. That’ll save you some embarrassment.”
Then he turned and left
And you sat there, knuckles white on the steering wheel burning from the inside out.
The Prema garage had that strange tension it always did during goodbyes. Technicians packing up, helmets being double-checked for the last time, last-minute laughs before everyone scattered to their next chapter.
You sat cross-legged on top of a toolbox, sipping an energy drink while watching Ollie wrestle with a faulty helmet clasp. You’d been laughing with him for a while, relaxed, even as the reality of what was next loomed in the back of your mind.
“Ferrari’s going to eat us alive,” Ollie groaned, tugging at the chin strap.
“No,” you said with a grin. “You’re going to cry over sim hours. I’m going to cry over media training.”
He snorted. “We’ll survive.”
Kimi walked in just in time to hear that. You knew it without even looking. You could feel the drop in temperature.
“You sure about that?” he said, voice cool and casual but his eyes went straight to Ollie, then to the narrow space between the two of you.
You didn’t answer. Neither did Ollie.
Kimi picked up his data tablet from the bench, flicking through screens like you weren’t there. Like he hadn’t just insulted both of you with one sentence.
“You’re awfully chipper for someone who can’t stay off the gravel for two races straight,” he added, gaze fixed on the tablet but voice meant for you.
Ollie’s shoulders stiffened. “Chill out, mate.”
“I am chilled.” Kimi glanced at him deadpan. “Can’t say the same for her tire temps last weekend.”
You rolled your eyes. “God, even now? You’re still doing this?”
He finally looked at you, and for the first time in years, he didn’t follow up with a smirk or an insult. Just silence. His jaw twitched slightly, and then he looked away.
You watched him for a bit longer, confused.
Kimi was quieter this week. Not nice. Just...less explosive. Less confrontational. Like he was restraining something he didn’t want to name. Still sharp, still bitter, but distant in a new kind of way.
“Gonna miss bullying me?” you said dryly, hopping down from the toolbox.
He scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just glad you won’t be crashing into my side pods anymore.”
“You’ll miss it.” You tossed your empty can into the bin. “I know you will.”
Ollie laughed, but Kimi didn’t. Instead, he leaned closer just enough so you’d hear him and only you.
“You think Ferrari’s going to be easy?” he murmured. “You’re not even ready.”
You frowned, taken aback.
“I earned that seat—”
“I didn’t say you didn’t.” His voice was low, sharper now. “But you think being in red means you’ve made it. You haven’t. They’ll chew you up. You let your guard down for a second, and they’ll remind you exactly where they think girls belong.”
Something in his tone made your stomach twist. It wasn't a mockery. It wasn’t jealousy.
It sounded like a warning.
Then, louder, he turned to Ollie.
“Don’t get too comfortable hanging around her. It’s not like you won’t see her every damn day at Maranello.”
You blinked. Ollie raised an eyebrow.
“What’s your problem, mate?”
“Nothing,” Kimi muttered, grabbing his helmet from the rack. “Just wondering when Ferrari became a daycare.”
He left before either of you could say anything.
You watched him go, that familiar frustration bubbling in your chest. But this time, there was something else beneath it. Something…off.
“Was that weirdly possessive?” Ollie asked.
You shrugged.
“I think he’s just pissed the universe let me survive Prema without him killing me.”
“Same,” Ollie said. “Though to be fair, you probably came close.”
You laughed but your eyes lingered on the door Kimi had just disappeared through.
Because as much as you hated him…
You kind of hated that this was the end
Lance Stroll wasn’t used to seeing his godsister in red.
Ferrari red.
In the heart of the Ferrari garage, surrounded by engineers, mechanics, and legacy.
“How does it feel to make them eat their words?” he said, appearing behind her.
Y/N turned, startled then immediately broke into a wide smile.
“Lance!” she beamed, throwing her arms around him.
He hugged her back with a grin, the kind that came out rarely these days.
“How are you, champ? Dominating the Academy like it’s your playground.”
Y/N had always been the calm one between them. Reserved. Composed. The one who never clapped back at critics but let her lap times speak instead. They shared a silent understanding. Two so-called “nepo babies” were constantly reminded they were only there because of their last names.
It bothered Lance. Still did.
But Y/N? She’d made peace with it somehow.
“I hate media training,” she muttered. “Sometimes I feel like my face have subtitles.”
Lance snorted. “You’ll get the hang of it. You look better than you did in Prema, that’s for sure. Should’ve yanked you out of that hellhole years ago.
She winced slightly. She’d told him bits and pieces about her struggles at Prema but she never mentioned Kimi Antonelli. Not by name.
She didn’t need to.
Lance would’ve put him into the wall by now if he knew the full story. Especially knowing they’d shared a track.
“I’m good,” she said instead, brushing it off. “Racing with the guys pushed me harder. It forced me to level up.”
He gave a thoughtful hum, eyes scanning the paddock around them. The energy buzzed louder this season, fresh faces, new rookies, some veterans gone. The entire 2025 lineup felt like a shift in gravity.
“I still hate media day,” Lance muttered.
She caught it.
“Can I just race and go home?”
He gave her a dry smile. “You get it.”
She did.
She also knew what Lance had been through, the years of criticism, pressure, the toll of being a punching bag for the press until one day, he just stopped caring. Stopped enjoying it.
She missed the version of him who loved racing.
Even watching on TV, she could tell the spark was gone.
“They build up golden boys and then crucify them the second they slip,” he said quietly.
She didn’t argue. Just looked away for a second too long.
“Ollie seems to be holding it together,” she offered, trying to lift the mood
“He’s racing today. I’m glad you came. YouI’ll catch my lap too.
She nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to see my former teammate. And how the paddock is treating my favorite godbrother.”
“Alright, last one,” the content manager said, lowering the camera slightly. “Favorite subject in school, Kimi?”
“Leaving,” Kimi deadpanned.
George snorted beside him. “He means math. The kid’s all equations and throttle control.” he said with sarcasm
Kimi smirked, resting his arm casually on the back of his chair. “Yeah, yeah. I finish homework at 3AM, race at 6AM. Balance, right?”
The camera crew laughed. The social media manager gave them the wrap signal.
“And that’s a wrap for the ‘Back to School’ series. Thanks, guys.”
“Pleasure,” George said, standing and stretching.
Kimi nodded, the corners of his mouth still tugged up in that half-smile, his camera smile. Not big, but just enough to look approachable and calculated. Perfect for social media.
But the moment the light on the camera flipped off, something changed.
The mask dropped.
Kimi leaned forward, expression flat, jaw tense. He pulled the zipper of his suit down halfway and ran a hand through his hair, restless.
George noticed it instantly. He’d been around long enough to recognize the shift.
“You alright?” he asked, watching his teammate closely.
“Fine.” Kimi’s answer came fast. Mechanical. He was already looking somewhere else.
George followed his gaze.
Just outside the garage, near the hospitality lounge, a small group had gathered. Laughter floated into the paddock air.
Y/N.
Dressed in Ferrari red, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, her hair lighter than before. There was something different about her that he could pinpoint.
She stood with Lance Stroll, Arthur Leclerc, and Ollie Bearman. Arthur had just said something stupid enough to make them all burst out laughing. Ollie leaned close, nudging her side. She laughed harder.
Kimi didn’t
His arms were now crossed. Brows slightly pulled. That carefully calm exterior cracked for just a second jaw clenching, eyes locked.
George caught it.
Oh, he thought. So that’s what this is.
He’d heard bits and pieces about Prema. The crashing of every race. The unspoken feud. But now, watching Kimi watch her, George saw something that hadn’t been in the interview moments ago.
Not the polished prodigy.
Not the Mercedes golden boy.
Just a teenage boy watching someone who used to be in his world now glowing in a different one.
“She looks different,” George said casually.
Kimi didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
“She’s with Ferrari now?”
Kimi finally glanced sideways. “Obviously.” His voice was clipped.
George gave a slow nod, filing that tone away for later.
“You want to head to briefing?” he offered.
Kimi didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered for a second longer just as Y/N turned slightly, noticing them across the way.
Her smile flickered. Not at him. Not for him. But she saw him.
Then she turned back to Arthur, laughing again.
Kimi turned away first. Zipped his suit all the way up. That Mercedes posture returned.
“Let’s go,” he said, voice even. Mask back on.
But George had already seen what was underneath.
You leaned against the barrier outside the Ferrari garage, water bottle pressed to your lips, eyes half-shielded under the sunglasses, watching the media circus from a safe distance. The sun beat down on the paddock, the heat rising off the asphalt, mixing with camera flashes, the smell of rubber, and too much cologne.
Your gaze drifted toward the Mercedes bay across the way, where a handful of content staff were huddled around the golden boy himself.
Smiling on cue. Laughing like he didn’t have a sharp tongue when the cameras were gone. Playing the prodigy.
He’s good.
Too good.
Manufactured perfection.
And you hated how people ate it up.
Because that wasn’t the Kimi Antonelli you knew.
You watched him answer something about racing and education, probably another lighthearted fluff piece for the Mercedes page. Kimi cracked a joke, everyone around him laughed, and his lips tugged into that signature half-smile. Just enough to seem charming.
He was a master of pretending.
Not the one who used to mock your fireproofs, call you a “junkyard princess,” or spit out insults about how you’d never catch up to him.
The real Kimi is cold. Calculated. Ice in the veins, chip on his shoulder, and acid on his tongue.
You rolled her eyes and looked away.
Let him play his role. It’s not your job to expose it.
You wandered off, finding herself naturally drifting back into the Ferrari garage.
–
The engineers were busy tweaking setups, Charles Leclerc’s car up on jacks after a late overnight adjustment. The air was buzzing, half tension, half caffeine. You watched quietly, hands behind your back, itching to do something. Not just stand around and smile. One of the interns fumbled with a radio near the front wing.
“Charles is running late,” muttered Luca, glancing at the schedule.
“Lewis is in Madrid for an FIA gala. Won’t be back until evening.”
“Zhou’s still mid-flight from Shanghai.”
A beat of silence.
Then a voice cut through it.
“Caltagirone. Suit up. We need someone in the car. You know the setup.”
You blinked, heart jumping.
“Me?”
“You’ve tested this chassis more than any reserve this month. Unless you want someone from Alfa to jump in?”
You didn’t need to hear more.
“I’m on it,” you said, already moving.
–
The moment the tires touched the track, the nerves were gone. The Ferrari responded like an extension of your body. It was quick, clean, fast through Sector 2. Lap after lap, you pushed harder. No mistakes. Only grip, throttle, precision.
When you returned to the pit lane, pulling into the box and stepping out of the cockpit, the team clapped her on the back.
“Telemetry looks solid. Clean input.”
“You might’ve saved Charles a headache,” Luca said with a grin.
You grinned, pulse still buzzed with adrenaline.
And then of cours…….
A familiar voice, slick and smooth as ever:
“You know, they’re going to blame the setup if he doesn’t podium.”
Your head turned sharply
Kimi.
Kimi stood just inside the garage, helmet in hand, casually leaning against the wall like he hadn’t just dropped a line soaked in venom.
“Hello too Kimi, long time no see. ” you said flatly.
“I didn’t see you there,” you said tightly, unclipping your gloves.
“Clearly.” He walked a bit closer, tone calm, almost bored. “Nice laps. Still braking a bit early on Turn 6 though.”
“Thanks for the unsolicited critique.”
He shrugged. “Just looking out for Ferrari’s future, I guess.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You mean Charles’ future.”
“I mean anyone who has to follow your data.”
Your jaw clenched.
“I was asked to step in. I delivered. Sorry you missed your chance to be smug on camera again.” you said crossing your arms.
“Say what you want, Antonelli. I was asked. I delivered. If that bothers you, take it up with the stopwatch.”
He leaned in just enough, voice low and mocking.
“I don’t need a stopwatch to know you’ll always be chasing me.”
He smirked. “ And I’ll save that smug for after Quali when I’m ahead of you. Again.”
She took a breath, trying to let it slide. But God, she wanted to snap back. Maybe throw a wrench. Just once.
Instead, she smiled sweetly. “Careful, Antonelli. If you keep talking, someone might start believing you have something to prove.
He didn’t respond. Just stared for a second too long.
Then he turned and walked off, the smirk returning just before he disappeared around the corner.
---
The tension in the Ferrari garage is sharp enough to cut through the heat. Headset snug over your ears, you stand behind the telemetry screen, eyes flicking between Charles’ onboard camera and the data feed streaming across your tablet.
“Battery’s stable,” you say calmly into the mic. “ERS can push for two more laps. Tell him he has one shot at Oscar.”
Your voice is steady. Your heart? Not so much. Every time Charles closes the gap, your pulse surges.
You were only supposed to be observing today, maybe helping with live adjustments. But when Charles’ race engineer needed backup, you offered. And Ferrari trusted you enough to say yes.
And now?
Charles crosses the line in P2.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Applause breaks out in the garage nothing too wild, but enough to feel the satisfaction ripple through everyone. He kept it clean. No mistakes. P2 on merit.
You smile to yourself.
Then your eyes flick down to the final classification as it updates.
Bearman P12.
You grin wider. That’s a hell of a recovery drive for a car that looked miserable on Saturday.
But your smile falters slightly as your eyes find it
Antonelli P18.
No incident. No mechanical issue. Just... slow.
Oof. You exhaled through your nose. No retirements to cushion that. Just a bad, bad day.
But she didn’t linger on it.
Someone's gonna throw a fit later.
Then you walk out of the garage.
The Haas bay is a lot more relaxed, not podium-happy, but far from disappointed. You spot Ollie sitting on the side rail, helmet already off, hair a sweaty mess.
“Ollie!” you call.
He turns, and a wide grin spreads across his face when he sees you.
“You made it!” he says, hopping down.
You walk up and throw your arms around him. He smells like sweat, engine heat, and burnt rubber.
“P12?” you pull back and raise your brows. “You came back from P18. What a day.”
He laughs, still catching his breath. “We might not have points, but I’m taking that like a podium.”
“You should. Honestly, I nearly spilled my water when you dove past Gasly. You’re insane.”
You both laugh, slipping into the easy rhythm you’ve had since karting. He’s one of the very few people who never treated you like a novelty.
You bantered for a few more minutes, joking about Haas’ wheel guns, and a pit stop that nearly gave you a heart attack
Across the paddock, Kimi had just handed off his gloves and helmet inside the Mercedes motorhome. His face was unreadable, but tension radiated off him in waves.
P18.
No mistakes, just no pace. No excuses left. He’d driven like shit, and the car didn’t save him.
And now, walking down the lane toward media obligations, he caught it out of the corner of his eye
Y/N. Laughing with Ollie in Haas team’s garage. In his paddock.
He didn’t even realize he’d stopped walking until George passed him and gave him a confused look.
“You coming?”
Kimi blinked. “Yeah. Just….” he waved vaguely and kept walking.
But the image stuck in his mind.
Her smile.
The ease.
The fact that she’d never laughed that much around anyone or him.
It shouldn’t bother him.
But it did. Because why is it always Ollie
And today, he didn’t just lose positions . he lost control of something else.
You’re just passing through. No plan to stop, no intention to look. Just cutting through the garages with a smile. Charles finished P2. Ollie fought to P12. You should be in a good mood.
You were, until you stepped into the sharp, bitter air of the Mercedes garage.
Then you see him.
Kimi.
Still in his half-zipped suit, gloves off, fireproofs around his waist. His hair’s a mess. His jaw is tight. And his stare fixed on the car like it personally betrayed him.
P18.
No crash. No failure. Just… off-pace. Irrelevant.
You don’t mean to make noise, but the moment your boots hit the garage floor, he hears you.
He turns, sharp, cold. Like you’d just kicked him while he was down.
“Oh, perfect,” he mutters, venom in his voice. “Here comes the Ferrari princess to rub it in.”
You stop mid-step, frowning. “Excuse me?”
He scoffs. “Don’t play innocent. You’ve been strutting around like you own the grid.”
You blink, stunned. “I literally just walked in here.”
“You think I didn’t see you in the Haas garage? Smiling. Laughing with Ollie like your whole world’s perfect?”
Your jaw clenches. “Because I’m not allowed to be happy for my friend?”
He steps forward, arms crossing as he towers over you. “Spare me. Every time something goes wrong for me, you just happen to be somewhere looking smug.”
Your blood starts to boil.
“I wasn’t even thinking about you,” you snap.
He laughs, it was short but humorless. “Yeah, well, I think about you all the time.”
You freeze.
Your heart skips.
What?
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “That pisses me off more than anything.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you blurt. “Why are you only like this with me? You treat everyone else like normal people, and then I show up and suddenly I’m the punching bag for whatever fucked up decision you made?
Something flashes in his eyes. For a second, you think you’ve actually hurt him. Good.
Then he laughs again, not mocking this time. Just… honest.
“Because now you fight back,” he says, voice quieter now. “You don’t shrink. You should never have. Since 3 years ago.”
You stare at him, breath stuck in your throat.
“You don’t expect anything from me,” he adds. “You never looked at me like I was some prodigy, some golden boy. Even when we were ten. You just saw me. And you still do.”
You’re still frozen. Words caught behind your teeth.
“I hate everyone,” he says, softer this time. “Everyone except you. You’re the only one I can be myself around…. even if that self is a complete dick.”
Your throat tightens.
“You ever think maybe the reason I crash into you, push you, piss you off… is because I like you?” he snaps. “I’ve liked you for three goddamn years, and I didn’t know what to do with it. So I made you hate me instead.”
You flinch. “ You’re fucking crazy. You think that’s how you deal with feelings?”
“I don’t do feelings,” he grits out. “But you? You make me feel. All the damn time.”
Silence falls heavy in the garage, everything else muted around you.
You look at him and realize he’s completely unraveling.
Not angry anymore. Just stripped bare.
Your chest tightens painfully. Because a part of you had always wondered if there was something behind all the bullshit. But you never expected… this.
“I wanted you to notice me,” he says. “So I did the only thing I knew, I got under your skin. But damn…it took three years”
Your lips part, your heart thudding too loudly in your ears. “You could’ve just said something.”
“I’m saying it now.”
You don’t know who moves first, maybe you both do. But suddenly the tension snaps like a wire.
He steps forward, crowding into your space. His eyes on yours, breathing shallow.
You don’t back away. Not this time.
His hand brushes your wrist, not to grab, not to stop. Just to feel.
“I meant what I said,” he mutters. “I don’t know how to do this the right way. But I know I don’t want to pretend around you anymore.”
You don’t answer with words.
Your hands curl into the fabric of his fireproofs, fisting the material, pulling him closer until his forehead is nearly touching yours. His breath fans against your lips, and for the first time in years, the air between you isn’t heavy with hate.
It’s heat.
His voice drops lower. “You want to bash me with a wrench?”
You whisper, “Every other weekend.”
He grins, crooked, reckless, boyish.
“I want you to take it out on me,” he murmurs. “All the years of frustration. Every ounce of anger you’ve swallowed because of me.”
You smirk, tilting your head. You could practically count the days he tormented you. Each snide comment, each shove on track, each stolen fireproof.
“All that rage,” he adds, stepping closer, voice low. “Give it to me.”
You press a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath your palm.
“Then let me take you out on a proper date,” he says, your eyes burning into his. “You’ve got years to make up for, Antonelli.”
His breath hitches. “I will. I’ll make it up to you, every day, I swear.”
You crash into each other like you’ve done on track a hundred times.
You didn't even know how both of you got into the driver's room. Kimi is still in his fireproof and he's already untangling the knot from his waist.
Your back presses against the cool wall of his driver room, barely lit, the hum of the paddock still faintly audible outside. Kimi’s breath is shallow against your neck, his hands caging you in without touching more than your waist but everything about his body screams restraint on the verge of breaking.
His forehead rests against yours. The kind of closeness that makes everything else blur out.
“You sure?” he whispers, like it’s the only thing that matters right now.
You don’t even hesitate.
“Yes.”
That’s all it takes.
His lips crash into yours again like he’s still trying to win something, rough, desperate, greedy. There’s nothing soft about it. It’s years of tension detonating all at once. His hands slide up, gripping your sides like he's afraid you’ll vanish. You respond with just as much fire, fingers fisting the collar of his tights, pulling him closer, until there’s no air left between you.
He kisses like he has a race to win. Ferce, focused, fast
Your teeth clash slightly before it melts into something more fluid, his lips dragging along your jaw, your pulse. His voice is ragged when he speaks again, just barely against your skin.
“I’ve imagined this,” he admits, a little unhinged. “Too many times.”
You let your hand slide up the back of his neck, anchoring yourself to him, like you’ve been holding it in just as long. “You’re too hormonal. And you could've asked.”
He pulls back slightly, eyes dark and blown wide. “Yeah, well... I don't do things the easy way.”
His mouth is on yours again before you can reply more deliberate this time. Slower. But not softer.
You arch into him as his hands explore with new confidence, like he’s finally been allowed to have you not just chase or provoke you. And yet, somehow, even as he presses kisses down your neck and whispers apologies between every touch, he's still Kimi.
So you did.
You took it all out on him, years of pent-up frustration, every insult, every smug grin, every time he made you feel small.
Your nails left trails down his back like you were writing a history he’d never forget.
You marked him, unapologetically hickies blooming high on his collarbone, dark and angry, like it had been pulled there by a vacuum.
He didn’t complain.
He let you be rough. Let you take control. Let you feel like you were finally winning a race only the two of you had been running since karting.
And through it all, he kept whispering your name like a secret he’d been dying to say out loud.
By the time it was over, both of you were breathless, sprawled over half-discarded fireproofs in the corner of the driver's room, skin flushed, hearts racing louder than any engine outside.
Kimi was quiet for a moment. Uncharacteristically so.
Then he exhaled, a breath that sounded like release and surrender at once and muttered with a crooked, satisfied smirk
“You didn’t go easy on me.”
You turned your head lazily toward him, one brow raised. “Did you deserve easy?”
He chuckled, turning to face you. His lip was split slightly. You didn’t even remember doing that.
“No,” he said. “Not from you.”
There was something raw in the way he looked at you now, not just from what you’d done to each other, but what you meant to each other. The push and pull.
“You gonna ghost me now and back to being an asshole?” you asked, a half-tease hiding the real question beneath.
He shook his head.
“I’m going to take you out,” he said, gaze steady. “Properly this time. Not in this fireproofs. Not in helmets. Just us.”
Your chest tightened at the gentleness behind his voice, still wrapped in his usual roughness.
“Good,” you said. “Because I’m not done taking things out on you.”
He smirked.
---
🏁 2025 GRID CHAT 🏁
Ollie:
uhm can someone check on Kimi… George?
George :
What’s up with him?
Ollie:
He looks like he fought a bear and got dragged by a demon.
Lando:
WHAT DO YOU MEAN 😭😭😭
George:
He seemed fine yesterday?
Max:
Where is he, btw?
Alex:
Define "fought a bear." Like… emotionally? Or physically?
Ollie:
Physically.
We were doing recovery ice bath and bro has SCRATCHES and BRUISES.
Charles:
Bruises???
Carlos:
Did he fight his car or what?
Ollie:
Not normal bruises, like… neck bruises.
And back scratches.
Deep ones.
Carlos :
Oh. God help the kid
Alex :
ohhh I shouldn't have asked
Max :
oh 😏
George :
…that damn kid.
Charles :
no way
Max :
OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Carlos :
I suddenly understand the P18 drive.
George :
He didn’t crash on track. He crashed in feelings.
Lando :
I need bleach for my brain
Alex :
Can someone tell him to wear a hoodie at least 😭😭
Max :
Leave him. Let the kid cook.
TRACK 10 pt. 2
Lando Norris x Reader
MASTERLIST
Track 10 pt. 1
Party 4 U Oscar Piastri x Reader
Word Count: 9,493
Warnings: Cursing, Angst (?)
Disclaimer:
The characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictional. While some names and settings may resemble real individuals or locations, this work is set in an alternate universe and does not reflect actual events or personal relationships. Any similarities to real-life situations are purely coincidental and used for creative storytelling purposes only.
“¡Madre mía!”
("My goodness!")
Your mother gasped, practically clutching the sofa for support.
Back in Monaco after the Canadian Grand Prix, you’d decided it was time they deserved to know. Well... almost everything.
“¡Dios mío, Y/N! ¿Quieres darnos un infarto?”
(“My God, Y/N! Are you trying to give us a heart attack?”)
Carlos added dramatically, one hand on his chest like he was in a telenovela.
Everyone looked seconds away from calling an ambulance. You bit your lip to stop from laughing, it wasn’t the time. Not with how your parents looked one step away from disowning you.
They’d barely finished celebrating your news in Canada about moving back to Monaco for work and now, you’d hit them with something even bigger.
Carlos stared at your boys like he’d spotted an alien life form.
“Am I crazy, or do they look like... someone we know?” His eyes flicked between the twins and you with rising suspicion. “Hermana...”
("Sister...")
“I swear they have a face I’ve seen on a podium before.”
Your stomach flipped. Whatever Carlos was thinking, he was right.
“Madre mía…” your mother whispered again, voice shakier now.
("My goodness...")
Your father was the only one with quiet arms crossed, lips pressed, eyes calculating.
“Y tú, señorita. No me lo esperaba.”
("And you, young lady. I didn’t see this coming.")
Your mother pointed a finger at you like she was delivering a verdict.
You suddenly felt fifteen again. Like you got caught sneaking out after curfew.
“I didn’t know what I was doing back then, mamá. Lo siento.”
("I'm sorry.")
She gave a dramatic sigh, then narrowed her eyes.
“¿Y el padre?”
("And the father?")
You hesitated. Your mouth dried. Your family knew him. That was the problem.
You and Lando had been a mess of hormones and ambition from the ages of sixteen to eighteen. Fighting, making up, crying, crashing. You supported him, but you also needed support. And when you felt like you were coming in second to racing, things began to splinter. The paddock, the pressure, the jealousy it all boiled over.
One stupid fight in the garage about consideration, a jealous comment, his careless laugh with a grid girl one time, until you snapped one day. That weekend, he almost ruined his race because of the distraction. And that’s when you knew. One of you had to walk away.
So you did. You begged your parents for a gap year and left to travel the world. Cut everyone off. It wasn’t until you were already on the other side of the world that you found out you were pregnant.
And you were alone. In Australia.
The breakup, the pregnancy, the isolation, it all blurred into survival. You had no one but your grumpy landlady and your best friend Charli, who became your emergency contact, your birthing partner, and your pseudo-sister.
You took online college classes during your pregnancy but dropped out after giving birth to work instead. Twins weren't part-time jobs. And when they arrived…tiny, screaming, and undeniably Lando’s spitting image, you knew you were in this alone.
It was a humbling experience. From living a comfortable life provided by your parents to your own hard work. And now, you are back. In Monaco. Reassigned, stable, and ready to let your family in.
Just... not ready to tell him.
“That part... he doesn’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “I’ll talk to him. And I know you probably already have an idea who he is—but please. Let me be the one to tell him.”
Carlos gave you a look that could peel paint.
“Oh, we all have an idea, alright,” he muttered. “They’ve got the same curls. The same eye color. Honestly, one of them even has that smug little grin.”
You winced. Yeah. They were walking, talking, juice-box-drinking clones of Lando Norris.
“You better, señorita, before we track him down ourselves!” your mother huffed, standing and clapping her hands. “Ahora, vengan a Abuela, niños.”
("Now, come to Grandma, little ones.")
The twins looked to you for permission with their impossible aquamarine eyes. You gave a small nod, and off they went straight into your mother’s embrace.
“Papá...”
("Papa...")
you called softly.
“Mi amor...”
("My love...")
he exhaled, finally opening his arms. You ran to him like a child again.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “Always. Estamos aquí para ti, bueno?”
("We’re here for you, alright?")
You nodded, burying your face into his chest.
He chuckled, brushing your hair back. “Now, let me go meet my grandchildren properly.”
“Get your wallet ready,” you teased gently. “They’re into karting.”
He laughed louder at that, shaking his head as he walked off.
And then you were left alone in the kitchen... with Carlos.
You braced yourself.
“Y/N Sainz...” he said slowly, arms folded.
You gave him your best puppy-dog look. “Please don’t be mad at him. Or tell him. Yet.”
He nodded toward the other room where your parents were entertaining the twins.
“They look like mini Lando. It’s honestly creepy. Beautiful, sure but not a single Sainz gene in there. Are we sure you gave birth to them?”
You scowled, crossing your arms. “Wow, thanks. I only carried them for nine months and almost died pushing two human beings out of my body.”
Carlos grinned. “I’m just saying. If you told me Lando cloned himself in a lab, I’d believe it.”
You rolled your eyes.
“I didn’t know it was that serious between you two,” he continued. “All you did was argue. I can't believe I have nephews now with my former teammate.”
“We were young. Emotional. Stupid.”
Carlos let out a breath. “He was wrecked when you left. Nearly blew his shot at F1. He couldn’t focus. He almost didn’t make it, you know. When you disappeared. I thought he was gonna crash out every session that week.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
“I thought I was doing the right thing. He was on the brink of something huge. I didn’t want to derail it all. Especially not with... this.” You gestured vaguely toward the doorway.
Carlos softened slightly. “Still. You didn’t have to do it all alone, hermana.”
("Sister.")
“I would’ve been there.”
“I know. I just didn’t want anyone looking at me with pity.”
He patted your shoulder. “No pity. Just admiration. You’ve done good.”
You leaned into him, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Carlos.”
There was a beat of silence. Then—
“I won’t say anything... yet,” he said. “But if I slip in an interview, that’s on you.”
So you might want to tell Lando soon, before I blurt something like, ‘Yeah, the twins? Definitely have his nose.’”
You snorted. “You’re the worst.”
“Correction: I’m the best brother you’ve got.”
You laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. Carlos winked.
“Alright, let’s make it up to you. Fancy dinner tonight. Dress nice. I’m paying.”
“With your F1 sponsor money?” you teased.
“Hey,” he shrugged, “if I’m basically raising Lando’s kids with you now, I deserve hazard pay.”
--
The rhythmic thwack of padel balls echoed off the court walls, but Lando wasn’t really playing. He was holding the racket, standing where he needed to be, but his head was somewhere else, stuck somewhere between Montreal and 6 years ago.
“Mate, you gonna swing or meditate?” George called out, raising a brow from the opposite side of the net.
“Shut up,” Lando muttered, forcing himself to return the ball. It hit the glass.
“Wow. Elite reflexes,” Oscar deadpanned.
Carlos chuckled under his breath. “He’s in his feelings. Leave the guy alone.”
The rest of them, George, Alex, Charles, Oscar were practically having fun. Lando, meanwhile, had been spiraling ever since the Canadian Grand Prix.
It wasn’t just the crash. Or the backlash online.
It was her.
Out of nowhere. After years of silence. Like a ghost showing up mid-race weekend. Still looking like everything he tried to almost forget. And sounding like nothing had changed.
She left when he was about to tell her the biggest news of his life that McLaren was giving him a real shot at F1. He had rehearsed the words. He was finally going to show her that everything they fought for, everything he bled for, was paying off.
But she never gave him the chance.
One day she was there, fighting with him over something stupid, jealousy, stress, god knows what and the next, she was gone.
Vanished. No goodbye. No closure. No answers.
And now she was back, as if she hadn’t shattered him. As if it didn’t take everything in him to stay focused, to not crash out of every session. As if it didn’t rip him apart every time someone asked, “What happened to her?”
And Carlos….fucking Carlos…he swears if he played dumb the entire time. “No idea where she is, mate,” he had said as if Lando believed it. Like he wasn’t her damn brother. Like he didn’t see how hollow Lando became without her.
She had the nerve to say it “worked out” for both of them? Damn right it did! But did she know what he became after she left? How he’d race like he had nothing to lose? How his own mum had to light candles before every qualifying session because she was scared he wouldn’t come back whole?
He was close now. He was finally close to the World Drivers’ Championship.
But at what cost?
“Is Y/N staying in Monaco now?” Charles asked casually, leaning over to grab a water bottle.
Carlos paused for a second, thoughtful. “Depends. But she said she’s staying.”
Lando’s jaw clenched.
She’s back. Actually back. Not just passing through.
“And she’s so back,” Charles added, smirking, “that she and Lando already started bickering in the Williams hospitality like it’s 2018-2020 again.”
“Wait, you two saw each other already?” George asked, curious.
All heads turned.
Lando cursed under his breath. “Yeah,” he said flatly.
“Man of many words,” Oscar murmured.
Carlos cleared his throat. “You know... the arguing was actually kind of nostalgic. I almost expected her to throw a water bottle at your head again.”
“Would’ve deserved it,” Lando muttered.
Carlos bit down a grin and didn’t say anything for now. He was bursting to spill, to throw the biggest revelation. But he made a promise to his sister. And he wasn’t the reckless one in this story.
Instead, he leaned against the net and looked at Lando with barely concealed amusement. “You alright, mate? You’ve been playing padel like a ghost.”
Lando ran a hand through his curls, exasperated. “I just—fuck. I don’t know.”
“You still care about her,” Oscar said, not unkindly and unexpectedly invested in his teammate's dilemma.
Lando didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it either.
Because the truth is, he loved her, and he still loves her.
Even after all this time, after everything, she was still his person. The one who believed in him before the world even knew who he was. The one who told him he could do it. That he was more than just fast, that he could be great. And the one he shared his struggles and victories with.
And losing her? That hurt more than any crash ever could.
---
You were packing for Austria this time, for three people.
You and the twins.
Their little suitcases were filled with excitement: snacks they smuggled in, mini ear defenders Carlos had sent, and a growing collection of toy cars. It would be their first time in the paddock, and they’d been buzzing since they found out their tío Carlos was an actual race car driver.
“Mum, is tío a pilot like in Top Gun?” Liam had asked yesterday.
“No, cariño. But close enough.”
Thankfully, Carlos had everything arranged. Passes, transportation, even the hotel room with the extra bed. God bless him, traveling with two five-year-olds wasn’t for the faint of heart. Especially when they were currently wrestling on top of your half-zipped luggage.
“Boys!” you warned, a little louder. “That’s enough!”
“Luka, let go of your brother.”
“But Mum—” Luka protested, arms still locked around Liam’s waist. He finally let go with a dramatic flop.
“Mum,” Liam whined, tugging at his curls. “I want to cut my hair.”
His honey-brown-blonde curls stuck out like static, and you brushed a few strands behind his ear. “Are you sure, honey?”
He nodded seriously.
“Alright. We’ll get a haircut in Austria, okay?”
You paused, your hand lingering near his cheek. Their curls, the shape of their eyes, the smattering of freckles on Luka, the tiny mole near Liam’s lip. Everything about them reminded you of him.
Lando.
Every time you looked at them, it was like seeing him in miniature. The way Liam furrowed his brows when he concentrated. The way Luka’s face lit up when he laughed. It used to ache in the beginning, now, it was a dull pang you’d grown used to. But lately, it was getting harder to ignore.
Especially after yesterday.
They had been playing with Carlos, giggling and asking about his car. And then out of nowhere Luka asked:
“Tío... is our dad a pilot like you, too?”
Carlos had frozen. He glanced at you like the words knocked the wind out of him.
You hadn’t answered. Not out of fear but out of guilt.
Guilt that they never asked before. Guilt that maybe they had been wondering all this time and just never said it. Guilt that you were so wrapped up in heartbreak and old wounds, you hadn’t even realized your sons were quietly longing for someone they’d never met.
Last night, you couldn’t sleep.
You stared at the ceiling, thoughts tangled like the mess of clothes left unpacked. It was unfair. Unfair that they had to wonder. Unfair that Lando didn’t know. And unfair that your past, your pain, was affecting their future.
Maybe you were afraid. Maybe part of you still hadn’t moved on from what happened. But you were a mother now. And they deserved more than your unresolved hurt.
So today… you were going to start.
“Boys,” you said gently as they started sorting their socks like race tires. “Can I ask you something?”
They turned to you with their curious, familiar eyes.
“Would you… want to meet your dad?”
They both paused. Looked at each other. Then back at you.
“Wait—” Liam blinked. “We have a dad?”
Your throat clenched. “Yes… and he kind of has the same job as tío.”
Their eyes widened.
“Luka! Daddy is a pilot too!” Liam squealed.
And then came the blow.
“Mummy! Yes! Can we meet him please?” Luka beamed.
You smiled, but your chest was breaking. “Mommy will talk to Daddy first, okay? Then we’ll find out when you can meet him.”
“And tell Daddy we miss him, Mommy.”
“And if he can drop us off at school, too,” Liam added hopefully.
You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears.
For years, you told yourself they didn’t need him. That they were okay. That you were enough.
They had been silently craving something you couldn’t give them. Something that he could. And that realization gutted you.
You hadn’t thought much about how you’d tell him. You’d buried it, avoided it, convinced yourself the moment would never come. But now... it had to. For their sake. You had to face it, face him. Set aside your pain and do what was right.
Even if it tore you open all over again.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Mommy will do anything.”
You took a breath, trying to steady your voice. “But for now, go take a bath. It’s past bedtime.”
They ran off, racing to the bathroom like it was the start of a Grand Prix.
You stood there, staring at the half-packed suitcase, still holding a tiny sock in your hand.
---
The Austrian heat was relentless.
The twins were not handling it well.
Liam was fussy about his curls again. “Mum, it’s hot and my hair is itchy!”
Luka, red-cheeked and sweaty, was aggressively pouting at his untouched plate. “Mommy, it’s fish. I don’t like fish.”
You sighed and muttered under your breath, of course. They ate everything except fish. Naturally, they’d inherit that trait from their father.
“I want Belgian chocolate, Mum,” Liam declared with crossed arms, not even trying to bargain, just stating a demand like a little emperor.
You looked up at the sky as if begging it to swallow you. Why is everything today reminding me of their father?
“Alright,” you said with a tired smile. “We’ll get Belgian chocolates for dessert. Just finish your mashed potatoes, okay?”
Thankfully, that worked. The boys nodded and started eating with dramatic sighs, like martyrs sacrificing themselves for dessert.
Afterward, you knelt in front of them, brushing curls away from their foreheads.
“Mommy has a meeting later,” you said softly. “Anita will be with you while I work. Please be good boys. No running off, okay?”
They nodded again and dashed toward their sitter, laughing along the way. You watched them go tiny, chaotic, beautiful reminders of a man who didn’t even know they existed.
Your stomach knotted.
You hadn’t told him.
Not yet.
You took a deep breath and turned your attention to your meal at the hospitality area. You still had an hour before your Zoom call with your boss, and if there was ever a time to enjoy good food in peace, this was it. The tiramisu was calling your name.
Until someone else did.
Lando.
Just like that casually sitting down at your table as if this is his place.
White linen shirt, three buttons undone, black shorts, bare-faced confidence. Of course he looked like a vacation.
You raised a brow but resisted the urge to be snarky. You told yourself if you were going to tell him about the twins eventually, you had to rebuild the bridge first. Act like adults. Make it normal. This wasn’t going to be a "Hi, congrats on the WDC chase, you're a father now. Surprise!"
“Wow. What happened to hi, hello?” you said, poking your fork into the dessert again.
“Hi,” he offered, sheepishly. “Hope you don’t mind.”
You hummed, satisfied with the tiramisu. “Not at all.”
You sat in silence after that but it wasn’t awkward. It felt… quiet. Easy. Two people with shared history and too much unsaid, finding calm in food instead of feelings.
“How are you?” he asked, breaking the stillness.
“Good. Been busy.” A safe answer. Your eyes flicked toward the paddock entrance with slight concern, half-expecting two tiny humans to come barreling back asking for more chocolate. Hope not. Not when their clueless father is here.
Lando nodded, pushing around crumbs on his plate.
“It’s… nice to see you again,” he said. “Hope I’ll be seeing you more in the paddock.”
You sighed softly, half to yourself. The air was getting heavier. Your fingers tapped the edge of your fork.
Then, impulsively like a reflex firing too fast you asked:
“What do you think about kids?”
Lando choked on his water. Actually choked. His face flushed red, his cough echoing across the hospitality tent.
You grabbed a napkin and handed it to him.
“What the hell?” he gasped between coughs.
Smooth. Really smooth. What happened to warming up?
“Sorry. I just …..forget it.” You said dismissing the topic. Damn what was I thinking?
“No, wait. What do you mean? Kids in general or like…” he gestured between you two awkwardly, “our kids?”
You crossed your arms, not confirming and rolling your eyes at him. “Why ask me? Do you want to have my kids?”
It was nearly your turn to choke. Too late, your brain said bitterly. I already did, Norris.
Lando, ever unbothered, smirked. “I mean… if it’s with you, sure. As many as you want.”
A blush crawled up your neck and bloomed across your cheeks. Damn him and how you wanted to wipe off that smirk. Damn the flutter in your stomach that you still hadn’t outgrown. Was it the tiramisu?
“Thank you for that enlightening answer,” you muttered.
He laughed, fully and loudly, drawing glances from nearby tables. “You’re so red. Oh my God.”
“Shut up. It’s the heat,” you grumbled, fanning yourself.
“Sure. Blame Austria,” he said, raising his hands in surrender, though the teasing still danced in his eyes.
Then, he pulled something from under the table and handed it to you. A bright orange McLaren tote bag.
“What’s this?”
“Team kit,” he said. “I’d like to see you in the orange garage again.”
Your mouth parted slightly. He wanted you… in the McLaren pit? On race day?
“I’m loyal to my brother’s team,” you said carefully. “Not switching teams at the last minute.”
“But you always looked good in Merch’s wherever team I am” he said, softer now. His gaze locked on yours.
You swallowed. You felt your heart inch forward and your guilt yanked it right back.
You cleared your throat. “No promises.”
But you knew deep down you couldn’t keep avoiding it. Not after what the twins said last time.
Not after Liam looked up at you and whispered, “I can't wait to see daddy, mommy .”
---
Qualifying ended with satisfying results and Lando stood on top.
A perfect bounce-back after the disaster in Montreal.
The media swarmed him post-session, but Lando was all smiles. Every answer was wrapped in his usual calm charm.
“Why the sudden performance boost?”
“What has changed since Canada?”
And all he ever said, with a knowing smile:
“Just a good weekend.”
But the truth?
Though he hadn't seen her all day, not even a glimpse but yesterday’s unexpected encounter still echoed in his chest. It lingered in the way she looked at him. In the way her lips curled around sarcasm, but her eyes softened after every quip.
It was enough to wake something in him.
---
They were all gathered for lunch after media duties, Lando, Carlos, George, Pierre, Charles, and Oscar. The vibe was light, jokes bouncing from table to table.
Pierre clapped Lando on the back.
“Mate, you’ve been all giddy this race week. What’s going on? Found a new pre-race ritual or just hooked on Red Bull?”
“I think I know why,” George hummed, stabbing his fork into some pasta.
Carlos leaned back, one brow raised, smirking like the older brother he technically was.
“My god. I don’t know whether to be proud or concerned seeing you this lovesick over my sister.”
Lando just shrugged, casually sipping his drink. “We’re… okay, I guess.”
Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You guess? That’s all you’ve got? My sister finally graces the paddock after five years and you’re out here answering like it’s a weather report.”
Before anyone could follow up, Charles piped up completely unbothered and far too casual.
“My mum said she saw a kid earlier who looked just like you, by the way.”
The entire table went silent.
Lando froze mid-sip. George choked on his water. Oscar glanced sideways. And Carlos?
Carlos visibly zoned out, mouth slightly agape, as if he'd just realized something very, very real.
“What?” Charles blinked. “Why are you all looking at me like I just said aliens exist?” he said in thick French accent
Carlos rubbed the back of his neck and recovered quickly, his brain screaming at him not to react.
Then George grinned and leaned in with a chuckle.
“Imagine… Lando, halfway to the WDC… and boom! He finds out he’s a dad. That would be cinematic.”
They burst into laughter except Carlos, who forced a tight smile, and Lando, who just shook his head, the laughter fading fast as something else crept in.
Because… the idea didn’t sound so bad.
He remembered that conversation with Y/N. About kids.
God, the idea of little versions of her and him, bright-eyed and full of fire, with her voice and her attitude, running around the paddock. Gripping little karting helmets. Wearing McLaren orange. Calling him Dad.
It hit him square in the chest.
He’d want that.
But not now, not yet. Not without fixing what broke between them. Not without knowing where they stood first.
Still… the thought gave him butterflies.
“Mate…” Charles smirked again. “Are you sure you didn’t get someone pregnant? Feels like you’re hiding something.”
Lando narrowed his eyes and hurled a napkin at him.
“Not a chance.”
Alex laughed under his breath. “Ooh… Lando, loyal to the little Sainz. How romantic.”
“Not so little though,” Carlos muttered too low for anyone to fully catch, “not when they already have twins…”
“What was that, Carlos?” Alex asked, half-laughing.
Carlos cleared his throat fast. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
But Lando was already squinting at him.
Carlos waved it off with a smirk and sipped his drink.
“I was just saying… Lando might have some little swimmers, right? Might want to start prepping the wallet. And maybe review some family planning techniques while you’re at it.”
The entire table groaned in sync, each one reacting like the idea of fatherhood was a curse word.
“Kids?” Pierre snorted. “I’ll think about it after I survive the next two seasons.”
“Same,” George muttered. “Let me age like fine wine before I start changing diapers.”
Lando just smiled quietly.
But in the back of his mind?
The thought refused to go away.
It wasn't terrifying.
It was just… complicated.
Because the only thing harder than chasing a title…
Was trying to rebuild something with the only girl he ever truly loved.
---
"Little Sainz. Good to see you."
Zak Brown’s familiar voice pulled you from your thoughts as you stepped into the McLaren garage.
"Zak."
You returned the hug warmly. There was curiosity in his eyes why you're suddenly here after years. How long has it been since you were in this garage? But he didn’t pry.
“Really. Good to see you. Feel at home, yeah? Just like before.”
He patted your shoulder before disappearing toward the engineers’ room.
You exhaled slowly and scanned the space. Your eyes landed on Lando.
He was already suited up, standing by his car while mechanics buzzed around like clockwork. Tire checks. Aero adjustments. Radio checks. The usual rhythm. But he wasn’t watching any of it.
His eyes were all on you
You were dressed lightly, Austrian heat unforgiving as always—in a sundress that hugged just right, the fabric in soft orange florals suspiciously close to McLaren colors. It was a coincidence. Mostly.
You didn’t wave back.
Instead, you walked over, instinctively, and stopped in front of him. Without a word, you extended your hand.
Lando slipped off his left glove and gave it to you.
Just like before.
Thumb, palm, fingers you slid it back on like a practiced ritual from your karting days. Once snug, you tapped the back of his hand twice.
One for the race. One for you.
Then, without pause, you leaned in, pressing your cheek to the right side of his helmet, right above the cheek padding.
“Left for love,” you whispered just above the noise. “Right for luck.”
He didn’t move, but you heard it.
A breath caught inside the helmet.
Still his ritual.
Still his rhythm.
Still… yours.
He gave a short nod, turned toward the grid. And as he walked away, you raised two fingers behind your back. Crossed.
He didn’t have to look.
He knew.
But as soon as the moment passed, reality hit you like G-force on a high-speed corner.
Cameras.
You glanced up.
A Sky F1 lens was pointed right at you. So was the official F1 photographer. The slow-motion clips were probably already aired. #LandoNorris #MysteriousGirl #PaddockWhispers.
You muttered a quiet shit under your breath and spun on your heel, heading back into the pit wall like it could shield your embarrassment. And what was that? One for love? Girl, you are what? 18?
“I just saw that,” Charli grinned, nudging your side with her elbow as you reached her.
She had flown in last-minute for “moral support” but you knew she also wanted front-row seats to your emotional implosion.
“You’re blushing, by the way.”
“I’m overheating.”
“From him.”
You groaned. “Why are you like this?”
“Oh, I live for this. And now I totally get why you had an emotional crisis over the twins’ haircuts yesterday.” She wiggled her brows. “There’s no hiding it. Your boys are little carbon copies.”
The thought stung a bit.
Especially because the twins watched from the William's side today. And Carlos, you owed him a nice dinner for not watching from William's side. But it killed you not to bring the twins here…..not yet. Not until he knew.
The media has no mercy, and the last thing Lando needed right now when he was finally fighting for that WDC is a storm he never saw coming, the world knowing before him.
---
The race began and someone handed you a pair of headphones synced to the pit radio.
It’d been years since you watched him drive like this. Really watched.
And your heart was not built for this kind of anxiety.
On Lap 11, Oscar nearly overtook him, and for a second, your stomach dropped. But Lando reclaimed his spot, aggressive yet composed. Lap 20? Oscar locked up. Jesus Christ—they almost collided at Turn 4.
You forgot about cameras.
You forgot about Charli.
You forgot about everything except the screen in front of you.
Your hand gripped the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turned white. You gasped when someone crashed. It wasn’t Lando, thank God—but it didn’t stop your heart from racing.
Carlos didn’t even start the race, the rear brake got caught on fire. Another worry. Another pit in your stomach.
But the laps ticked down.
Pit stops. Sector times.
And then……….checkered flag.
Lando P1.
You didn’t even cheer. Not at first.
You just breathed. Finally,
He stormed into the pit, still half-jumping with adrenaline, hugging his crew. Everyone cheered.
And then……..
Before you could react, he scooped you in his arms like you were both 19.
“P1, baby!”
You froze. You weren’t ready for that, not with a dozen cameras pointed both at you. But he didn’t stop. He kissed your forehead right there. In front of everyone.
What the hell?!
He pulled away before you could speak, already swept back into the victory wave.
You stood there, stunned.
“Ohhh my God,” Charli whispered beside you. “He kissed your forehead in public? That’s like... old Hollywood intimacy.”
You touched the spot instinctively, still warm.
Maybe he just got carried away with adrenaline?
Before you could fully process what just happened, you caught something out of the corner of your eye.
A girl. Blonde. Tall. Model-esque. Wearing a lanyard and confidence. She walked straight up to Lando near the back pit entrance and leaned in, smiling as if she knew him well. The way she touched his arm made you Charli raise a brow.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
You didn’t answer.
Just watched.
And tried not to feel.
"Let's go back to the William's hospitality."
-
“Are you okay?”
You didn’t wait for Carlos to answer. You just pulled him into a hug.
He hadn’t even started the race today due to his rear brakes being caught on fire during the formation lap. It was a cruel kind of luck, the kind that doesn’t even give you the dignity of failure. Just… a stop before you even begin.
“Yeah,” he muttered, his chin resting briefly on your shoulder before pulling away. “Not my day.”
His cap was pulled low, and he didn’t meet your eyes.
“Hey.” You nudged him lightly in the ribs. “You’ll make up for it in the next race, yeah? You’re Carlos freaking Sainz.”
He scoffed and finally gave you a ghost of a smile. “Are you trying to be my PR manager now?”
“Nope,” you said, bumping your shoulder into his. “Just your better-looking, smarter sister.”
He rolled his eyes. “Debatable.”
But you could see the flicker of appreciation in his gaze, the way it softened in that brother-sister kind of way. He was disappointed, but he wasn’t defeated. Not today. Not while you were here.
“I'll be fine,” he added. “But go check on the monsters. I think I heard one of them trying to barter his snack for a pit pass.”
You snorted. “Wouldn’t put it past Luka.”
---
You texted their sitter, but no reply. She was probably passed out somewhere with two five-year-olds running circles around her. The boys had been bouncing off the walls before the race started, so their energy now must’ve been nuclear.
You let yourself walk, the post-race crowd, cameras packing up, the paddock slowly returning to its usual rhythm.
Still, the buzz inside you didn’t quiet.
The race had stirred everything. Watching Lando win, watching him climb that podium again, it pulled something out of you, you thought was long buried. The way he looked at you before the race. The ritual. The kiss on the forehead. God, the kiss.
It felt like yesterday again.
But it wasn’t.
Your phone buzzed.
Charli:
> Used my detective skills. That’s the girl he was linked to last year.
Attached was a photo. Blurry but obvious. Her. The tall, striking blonde you’d seen earlier. She had one hand on Lando’s arm, laughing like she belonged there. His head was slightly tilted toward her, mid-grin.
You stared at it a beat too long.
You didn’t text Charli back.
What would you say?
You told yourself it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t. He could date whoever he wanted. You two were over. Years over. You have moved on. You had twins and a job and a life.
What mattered now wasn’t you. It was them.
The twins.
Liam. Luka. The way they lit up when they asked about their dad. The way Luka clutched your hand and said, "Can we meet him, please?" The way Liam wanted to know if his dad liked racing, too.
Lando deserved to know.
But…
You clenched your jaw and turned a corner near the hospitality suite and froze.
Lando.
With the girl earlier.
They stood near the media pen, out of sight from most fans now, relaxed and laughing. Her fingers lightly traced the edge of his sleeve as she said something. He didn’t pull away.
You couldn’t hear the words. You didn’t need to.
You didn’t realize your hands had balled into fists until your nails dug into your palm.
God, why does this sting? Moved on? Did I really?
It shouldn’t. You weren’t here to win him back. You weren’t here to feel things. You were here to tell him the truth, what he needed to know.
You turned around.
Quickly. Sharply. Before anyone could see your expression twist.
A voice in your head berated you…..childish, dramatic, stupid, but your heart was somewhere else entirely, fighting the ache of something old, unresolved, something you weren’t ready to admit still lived inside you.
He doesn’t owe you anything.
You don’t owe him anything.
But your kids?
They deserve everything.
And that included the truth.
Thank God the paddock had cleared out a bit. If more people were around, you’d look pathetic. And worse you’d break down right here.
But of course, the universe had other plans.
“Y/N!”
You flinched at the sound of your name. You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. You picked up your pace, head down, willing your legs to carry you faster before you completely lost it.
“Y/N, wait!”
The footsteps behind you sped up, heavy and frantic. You didn’t make it far before he caught up.
“Y/N!” he shouted again, grabbing your arm to stop you in your tracks.
“What?!” you snapped, spinning to face him. Your voice was sharper than you meant, but it was the only thing keeping your chest from caving in.
Lando stood there, slightly breathless, already changed into a black McLaren merch shirt but still smelling like champaign. His hair was messy from the heat and the helmet earlier, his expression clouded in confusion and frustration.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, brow furrowed. “You were fine earlier. Then you just vanished. What the hell did I do now?”
You took a breath, trying to keep it even. “Nothing,” you said tightly. “You didn’t do anything.”
He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t blue.
“Y/N, come on. Don’t do this. You can’t just drop back into my life, confuse the hell out of me, kiss my damn helmet, make me feel like—like—” He stopped himself, running a frustrated hand through his curls. “And now you’re running away again?”
You looked away. You couldn’t take the way he was looking at you, with that hurt confusion, like he wanted answers you didn’t know how to give.
“What do you want me to do?” you shot back. “Cause a scene? Yell at you in the paddock? Scream that I am jealous that you're talking to another girl?!"
“I DON’T KNOW—MAYBE?” he bit back. “At least that would be you saying something!”
That was it. You snapped.
“Oh, fucking hell! Fine!” Your voice cracked as the words tore out of you. “Sure, let’s do that! Let’s throw it all out here and in the media so your children can be proud of how their parents are screaming at each other or how insane their mother became trying to hold it together—!”
You stopped yourself too late.
Lando froze. The tension between you fell dead silent. It was like the air got sucked out of the paddock. Even your own breath left your lungs as you registered what you just said.
His eyes widened. “Wait… what did you just—?”
“Mummy!”
Your heart dropped to your stomach.
You closed your eyes briefly, cursing fate under your breath before turning around. The sound of small sneakers hitting the pavement came too fast.
The twins.
Liam and Luka were charging toward you, their sitter jogging helplessly behind them, clearly outmatched. Their cheeks were flushed pink, faces full of joy.
“Boys…” you said shakily, kneeling to meet them. They flung themselves at your legs in tandem, wrapping their little arms around you.
“Where have you been, mummy?” Liam huffed dramatically.
“Mum! The cars were soooo cool!” Luka beamed, bouncing slightly. “And look! We got signs! Look, look!”
“I got one from Charles Le-cleck!” Liam chirped proudly, waving a hat in your face.
“I got one from Oscar Pastry!” Luka said, holding out a signed mini-flag.
Your lips twitched despite everything. Le-cleck and Pastry. The mispronunciation was painfully cute.
You heard Lando’s sharp inhale behind you. You didn’t dare look.
“Alright, alright,” you said softly, brushing Liam’s hair back. “That’s amazing, my love. Now, why don’t you go find Tío Carlos and give him a big hug? He’s feeling a little down, yeah?”
The boys turned to look at Lando curiously. They tilted their heads. Those same sea-glass blue eyes staring back at him.
And then, as if instructed, they waved at him.
Lando didn’t wave back. He was too still. Too stunned.
“Go on,” you said gently, ushering them toward their sitter.
They trotted off, not knowing the mess lingering behind.
You stood slowly. Bracing yourself.
Lando’s eyes followed the boys, then flicked back to you. His mouth opened, then closed, like his brain was still buffering.
“They’re…” he began. His voice cracked.
You nodded once, trying to breathe through the panic rising in your throat.
“They’re mine?”
You didn’t look away this time. You met his gaze. “Yes.”
There was nothing else to say yet.
The shock in his expression was gutting. Like he’d just been hit by something invisible. He blinked, staggered back half a step, and whispered almost to himself.
“Jesus Christ.”
There was no denying it. Not with the way those boys looked at him, blue eyes, the same exact shade, the same damn grin.
He was staring at two versions of himself.
He ran a trembling hand down his face. His whole body felt like it was short-circuiting.
Without a word, Lando grabbed your arm again and dragged you with him.
“Lando—where are we going?” you demanded, half-breathless trying to keep up.
He didn’t answer.
His grip on you was tight. Too tight. But you didn’t fight it. He was moving fast, body running on pure adrenaline, threading you both through the paddock. By the time you realized, you were heading to McLaren hospitality already.
Charles and Oscar were mid-conversation when they caught sight of you. Oscar blinked, halfway to asking a question until Lando strode past them and flung the driver’s room door shut behind you both.
The slam echoed like a gunshot. The two gentleman looked at each other and shrugged
“Explain to me why the fuck you just told me NOW.”
His voice cracked, not just from fury, but from being shattered.
“Lando, please,” you whispered. “Can we just—can we talk tomorrow? When we’re both in our—”
“TOMORROW?!” he barked, eyes wide in disbelief. “You kept this from me for five fucking years and now you want me to wait again until tomorrow? Just……God, why the hell do you always think you know best?”
You flinched.
“Because someone had to!” you snapped back, voice trembling. “We were burning out! You were barely holding it together back then. We fought over everything—everything! And no, you didn’t want to admit it! You were chasing F1 like your life depended on it and I—” You stopped yourself, chest heaving. “I didn’t want to be the reason you failed. I don't want to be the reason you hate something you love doing."
“You think I cared about that more than I cared about you?” His voice broke completely. “You think that podiums, contracts, the fucking WDC mattered more than you?”
“Yes it is! You should! I don't know, Lando!” you screamed. “I didn’t even know I was pregnant! I ran because I couldn’t think straight! And when I found out….what was I supposed to do? Call you up before qualifying and say, ‘Hey, remember that fight we had? Surprise…you’re gonna be a dad!’? From across the country? Hell, my parents didn't even know for years!”
He shook his head, stepping away like your words physically hurt.
“You left. No note. No closure. I spent months trying to keep my head above water, forcing myself to move on when everything inside me said to look for you instead of chasing my formula 1 dream. I thought you hated me. I thought it was all my fault.”
Tears blurred your vision. You pressed a hand to your chest like it might stop your heart from splitting open.
“That wasn't just the right time for everything.” you said, voice hoarse. “You think it was easy for me to carry two lives inside me while I was alone in another country? I was a kid raising kids. No support, no backup plan. Just hope and a fucking landlady with a bad temper but a good heart.”
You paused, wiping your cheeks, but the tears kept coming.
“I was also surviving, Lando. Not living. I didn’t get to fall apart because they needed me whole. And if I had to do it again, I’d still choose to protect your dream. Even if it broke me.”
That silenced him.
For a beat, there was only the sound of your shallow breathing and the ringing weight of the past between you.
“I’m sorry…” he finally whispered, voice raw. “God, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I can’t—can’t even imagine what that was like. You were always the strong one.”
You shook your head, crumbling under the weight of everything you held in for years.
And just like that, he was crossing the room in three steps.
Lando pulled you into his arms.
You collapsed against his chest, sobbing now. Every fear, every moment of loneliness, all the nights you watched the twins sleep wondering if you made the right call, it broke free from your body like a dam bursting.
He held you tighter. One hand stroking the back of your head, the other cradling your spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your temple. “I’ve got you now.”
You stayed like that just two people who had lost everything and didn’t know how to rebuild it.
Eventually, your cries softened. Your breaths found a rhythm again. When you finally looked up, he was still watching you, eyes glassy but steady.
“So… what happens now?” you asked quietly.
He inhaled slowly, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek. “Now,” he said, “I will meet them properly. As their father.”
Your throat tightened.
“And I want to be in their lives, Y/N. Not as a name or a headline or some guy on a podium they don’t know. I want to earn it. All of it. Please…. Don’t ever give it up again. I can do it now….”
You nodded, because there wasn’t a word for what that meant to you.
“We figure this out together,” he added. “This isn’t just your burden anymore. It’s ours. They’re ours..”
A shaky smile pulled at your lips. “I don’t even know where to start.”
He smiled back. “We’ll start with names. You can’t let Oscar Pastry be a permanent memory.”
You laughed wetly. “That’s Luka. He has your sense of humor.”
“I figured,” Lando said softly. “And Liam?”
You nodded. “The more serious one. He’s like you before a race.”
Lando took that in with a look you couldn’t quite read. Then he squeezed your hand.
“I want them to know me,” he said, “but I also want them to see us. I don’t expect anything from you, not after everything… but maybe, if it’s not too late, we can rebuild too.”
You looked at his hand, then at him.
“Start small,” you said. “Be their dad first.”
His smile was gentler now. “Deal.”
--
After the talk with Lando, the shouting, the tears, and the catharsis, you returned to the Williams hospitality, your legs barely holding you up. You could already see the twins from a distance, sprawled on beanbags like two exhausted puppies, heads bobbing as they picked at some leftover snacks.
Charli saw you first.
“Girl…” she muttered, brows pulling together the moment she got a good look at your face. “You look like a wreck. What the hell happened?”
You slumped beside her on the couch, resting your head on the backrest.
“I told him.”
She blinked, then gasped. “Oh my god. Wait. Wait. You mean…..”
You nodded.
Charli clutched her chest like you just gave her a telenovela finale. “Finally! An ending you deserve! Or…wait….is this just the midseason plot twist?”
Before you could answer, the twins came dashing over.
“Mummm… hungry,” Luka whined, rubbing his eyes. The sugar rush from their signed merch excitement was clearly gone.
You knelt and opened your arms. “Sweethearts,” you started gently, smoothing Liam’s unruly curls, “you remember how you said you wanted to meet your dad?”
They nodded.
“Well, I talked to him. He’s going to meet you later.”
Luka and Liam turned to each other, eyes wide. It was that silent twin language again, the way they always processed big news together.
“Daddy’s here?” Luka asked softly, as though saying it louder might scare the moment away.
You nodded, tears prickling again. “Yes, baby. He is.”
---
About an hour later, the crowd had thinned around the paddock. Post-race duties were nearly done, and the sunset cast a golden glow over the tarmac. You were just getting the twins’ things together when you heard footsteps behind you.
Then his voice.
“Hey.”
You turned around.
Lando stood there, changed out of his McLaren shirt, now in a black shirt and joggers, hair slightly damp from a quick shower, and face unsure but soft.
The boys stared at him like he was an astronaut walking off a spaceship.
Lando crouched slowly to their level, nervous energy written all over him.
“Hi…” he said gently. “I’m Lando. I’ve… heard a lot about you two.”
Luka tilted his head. “You’re our daddy?”
Lando’s throat bobbed. “Yeah,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I am. If it’s okay with you.”
Liam studied him, then reached out and touched the mole on his cheek.
“Mum said we have one of those too.”
You let out a shaky laugh behind your hand.
Lando smiled, genuinely. “You do. I noticed.”
Luka stepped forward, looking up curiously. “Can you take us to school someday?”
Lando looked at you first asking permission with just a glance before nodding to Luka. “Yeah. I’d love to.”
And just like that, the wall cracked. Liam launched himself into Lando’s arms. Luka followed without hesitation, and Lando let out a soft, surprised breath as two little bodies wrapped around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You were crying again.
---
By the time you were walking out of the paddock to return to the hotel, the twins had completely crashed. Both were knocked out, heads resting on shoulders, limbs heavy from the long day.
Lando offered before you could even ask.
“I got him,” he said, already scooping up Luka with practiced, surprising ease.
Luka stirred, curled against his father’s chest, and Lando held him like he’d done it his whole life. One arm braced across Luka’s back, the other under his legs. Protective. Secure.
Some people who were left started to look. Staffs, even a couple of photographers nearby, paused and tilted their heads. Curious glances were thrown your way. Lando Norris, walking out of the paddock not with his helmet, but with a sleeping five-year-old that looked exactly like him.
You caught sight of a familiar figure rounding the bend.
Carlos.
He was mid-conversation with someone when he spotted you both. His eyes flicked between Lando and the sleeping child, and he just… sighed.
Loudly.
“About time,” he muttered to himself, giving you a pointed look as he passed.
You rolled your eyes, but you smiled too. He'd been patient.
Lando didn’t say anything, but he was watching Carlos, brows raised.
“Should I be scared?” he asked under his breath.
“Only if you ever mess this up,” you replied.
He chuckled low, shifting Luka slightly. “Not planning to.”
As you neared the car, Lando glanced at you sideways. “He’s heavier than I expected.”
“He’s five. And eats like a vacuum.”
“He’s perfect.”
Your heart caught at that. Not just because he said it but because he meant it.
-
Lando stepped inside quietly, one arm securely under Luka’s knees, the other cradling his back. You held Liam against your shoulder, his soft curls brushing your collarbone. The boys are completely knocked out, completely spent from the chaos and excitement of race day.
Lando moved carefully, like he was handling fine china. He lowered Luka gently onto the bed, tucking the blanket over him with almost painful tenderness. He stared at the boy’s face. His own face, really, heart squeezing with something he couldn’t name yet. Awe? Guilt? A strange, swelling kind of love?
“They’re dead tired,” you said quietly, standing beside him. “The paddock really wore them out.”
“They’ve got good energy,” he murmured, eyes still on Luka. “Bit of a handful?”
“Sometimes,” you admitted with a smile. “But good boys. Sweet and… smart.”
He looked over at you then, eyes catching yours. That silence returned. Heavy, full of things unspoken.
You cleared your throat and reached for your phone. “Oh. here. I’ll AirDrop you their baby photos. And videos. All the milestones. I kept them organized. You know me.”
Lando fumbled to grab his phone like it was the most important device in the world, which, at the moment, it was. You tapped send.
Seconds later, his phone lit up with a notification: "Liam & Luka – (2020–2025)"
Dozens of thumbnails appeared—first giggles, first steps, Liam in a Halloween dinosaur costume, Luka trying to eat a crayon, both of them in tiny race suits sitting in baby karts.
Lando's lips parted slightly as he scrolled, his eyes flicking through time.
“Thank you,” he said, barely above a whisper, fingers frozen on a photo of the boys grinning, gap-toothed, helmets in hand. “They really did kart?”
You nodded, arms crossed gently. “Yeah. Started last year in Melbourne. Nothing too serious, just weekends. Liam’s more into the mechanics though, he asks why the tires need heat and why engines sound different. Luka’s competitive. Cries if he doesn’t finish first.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Sounds familiar.”
You gave a soft, dry laugh. “I wonder where they got that from.”
The silence returned. Not awkward, just full.
“So…” he finally asked, gaze lingering on the twins. “When can I see them again?”
You hesitated, brows lifting slightly. Right. You hadn’t even thought about the co- parenting arrangement. How does one ease their children into a life where their father suddenly reappears?
“I think… we’ll need to talk about arrangements,” you said, your voice quieter, more tired. “They’ll want to see you. We just have to ease into it. Carefully.”
“When do you fly back to Monaco?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay. Tomorrow, brunch? I’ll pick you up. We’ll talk properly.”
You gave him a soft smile. “Yeah. Brunch sounds good.”
You walked him to the door, brushing a finger lightly over Liam’s cheek on the way. Lando paused before stepping out, glancing once more at his sleeping sons.
“I still don’t know how I’m supposed to catch up to five years,” he muttered.
You gave a quiet, bittersweet laugh. “You don’t have to. Just start now.”
--
Lando had barely set his phone to Do Not Disturb, intending to binge all the baby videos and collapse into silence, when he opened the door to find a full-blown chaos unfolding in his own hotel room.
George was halfway through an Uno match with Alex. Charles was eating chips straight from the bag. Oscar looked like he regretted ever sharing a room. And Carlos? Carlos was horizontal on the sofa, holding a juice box like a wine glass.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lando groaned. “Are we ten?”
“Eleven,” Alex corrected, holding up his Uno hand with a grin.
Lando stepped inside, closing the door with a sigh. “What is this? A slumber party?”
“Oh good, the father has arrived,” Charles said, raising a plastic cup mockingly.
Lando narrowed his eyes. “How did you all even get in here?” No one seems to care about his question.
Carlos shrugged, legs crossed. “I wasn’t going back to my hotel when there’s clearly a telenovela playing out right here. I like front-row seats. Come on, spill now.”
“You guys are unbelievable.” Lando raked a hand through his curls, but the exasperation was undercut by how damn tired he was.
“Lando, when I said you'd be World Champion one day, I didn’t think you’d complete the starter pack by scoring a podium and a family in the same weekend,” Charles teased, grinning like a madman. “That's the elite tier, mon ami.”
Lando tossed a pillow at him.
“I mean it,” Charles shrugged. “You? Carrying a tiny clone of yourself through the paddock? The world’s not ready.”
“Oh come on—” Lando tried.
“No no,” Alex lifted a finger. “You don’t get to talk. We saw the kid. I saw one of them. The hair. The dimples. I thought you cloned yourself.”
“And,” Carlos added dryly, “those twins might be your children, but those are definitely Sainz-level tantrums. Ask your girlfriend”
“I’m not.. We’re not–” Lando stammered, flustered.
“Sure. Just like how you’re not gonna fall for my sister all over again, right?” Carlos smirked knowingly.
“I mean…” George arched his brow. “You’re skipping a championship celebration to scroll through baby videos. I think the damage is done, mate.”
Oscar let out a low whistle. “The moment you showed up in the paddock with a kid in your arms, the group chat exploded.”
“It’s in the group chat?” Lando blinked.
“Relax, our group chat only,” Alex said, raising his hand.
“Right, cause I have to explain this to my PR manager first” Lando groaned, plopping onto the edge of the bed with a defeated sigh. He shook his head and smiled faintly, almost in disbelief. “It’s just... a lot.”
Carlos glanced at him, more serious now. “But it’s good, yeah?”
Lando looked down at his phone again, where a tiny video of Liam blowing out birthday candles played on loop. He smiled.“Yeah, it’s really good.”
Then, as though a lightbulb had just flickered on, he smirked.
“Oh, by the way—how dare you, Carlos? I didn’t know you had it in you to keep quiet for that long.”
Carlos raised both hands in mock surrender, his expression the picture of innocent confusion.
“Mate, it’s a no-brainer. It’s either face her wrath… or risk hearing your voice for another minute. I’ll take my chances with you, thanks.”
----
