[toasterpancakes]

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A short disclaimer that while the work on this tumblr may involve subjects who are actual celebrities - the work here is merely fantasy and purely for fun. Any and all fan fiction / imagines / written work set out herein is entirely a figment of my imagination and should not in anyway whatsoever be conflated with reality. Nothing on this tumblr is meant to serve as an accurate representation of any person.

[mickyschumacher]

[REVOLVING DOOR! PT.13]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you're not sure if you can fix any of this. with max. or with charles. you're not sure if you even want to. but you need to know the truth. the full truth. or in which true love always prevails.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, lots of angst, fighting, jealousy, lovebombing (?), slapping, indirect mentions of family violence, arthur and victoria being cupids, yearning!max, confessions of different types, poor humour, teen wolf ref (see if you spot it), possible plot holes.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 13.1k+ (take some breaks, my loves).

tag list: @ggaslyp1 @lovesick-sylus @charlesgirl16 @adelinegirlsstuff @freyathehuntress @kenkozkmg @angelluv16 @hott1es @samriddhisingh @theonlyonesora @killjoynotes @bluewxrld07 @dreamauri @fuckingsimp4azriel @fightclubendingscene @dontsupressthejess @emmapotato88 @wertyuizxcvbnm @gigivel28 @stereading @loverofhover @babybluelrh98 @leclercdream @baechugff @sunny44 @simplementemeencantafutbol @lilypat @gigigreens @unatempesta-dipensieri @silentreader128 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @a-beaverhausen @ongak @miaaaxxz @moonih @strawberrylov-er @dollstappen @hothsgff @emluvsbunnies @sierrablack @shamelis69 @vampstappen @tothestarsandwhateverend @yumm267449 @widow-cevans @annimausi @mayabbot @fouldiplomatpapershark @kissatelier @inseongsbitch @sexwithhiddlesbatch

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 🫐

𝐀/𝐍: the last one 🤧 a big thank to all of you who read this series, especially to those who've been here since the start and on my taglist. it's been a bit of a rollercoaster here and there but i've enjoyed writing this and talking to you guys about it!!! <3333333

see you in the next one!

Charles groaned, eyes battling the sun sharp ray of light hitting him as his blanket was pulled down. He blinked, squinting as he came to recognise his younger brother. “Arthur, what the hell is wrong with you?” He grunted, rubbing his face.  

Arthur stood straight, face firm. “Get up and get dressed. We're having a talk.” 

“W-What?” Charles asked, still confused and still sleepy.  

His younger brother sucked in a shaky breath. “I swear to God, do not make me repeat myself. I’m giving you five minutes.” 

Charles could hear the door of his bedroom close, leaving him alone with a couple of minutes. He begrudgingly got out of bed, pulling over an old shirt and some sweatpants. His brows were still furrowed, brown hair dishevelled as he walked out to find Arthur sitting in the living room. He walked around the kitchen counter, grabbing himself a cup of water from the fridge. “You know...” he murmured, taking a sip. “I’m gonna have to take back those keys if you start wandering in like this.” 

Arthur said nothing, simply staring at him blankly making Charles frown. “Okay, what crawled up your ass and died?” He mumbled, seemingly annoyed as he leaned over the counter.  

“Did you tell ___ you loved her?”  

Charles blinked, feeling quite awake now. “What?”

His younger brother sighed. "Did you tell her you loved her?"

“I-I mean, yeah...” he nodded, confusion pouring into his face at rapid speed.  

Arthur snorted, brows raised, dry smile on his face. “You? You love her?” 

His older brother clenched his jaw, knuckle wiping the tip of his nose before his hands laid flat on the counter. “Yes, I do,” he muttered. "What's the problem here? Do you want me to say it in French?" 

Arthur rolled his eyes. He thought he had seen lows. But this was an entire new level of it. “The problem? The problem is that you love keeping her around. Like you always have. You don’t actually care for her.” 

Charles tilted his head. What? Had everyone been talking to Max or something? His tongue swiped over his lip, coy smile dangerously teetering on his face. “That’s harsh, Arthur. Don’t forget who you're talking to. And if you're such an angel, why didn't you tell her? If you knew, hmm?” 

Arthur scoffed, standing up. “Because I actually care, Charles. Because as long as you minded your business, she would've been fine. And one day, she would move on and find someone she deserves. Because if she knew the truth, it would absolutely break her,” he exclaimed, voice strained and cracking with hurt. He raised his hand, pointing at his brother.

“I called her from her holiday to help you. I thought you were hurting over Alex and you needed help. Not for you to manipulate my best friend,” he hissed, pupils blown with anger.  

“I’m not manipulating her,” Charles said calmly, staring at his brother, light smile easily sprawling onto his face. 

Arthur’s eye twitched. He wanted to laugh. You might not have seen through his brother’s bullshit but he could. He put his hands on the counter, meeting his brother’s eyes. “You don't love her. You never have. You knew about how she felt, and you didn’t even bat an eye towards her. I mean, seriously. This is a new low, even for you.” 

Charles rubbed his brow. “Well, I see her now.” 

I swear to God, Arthur thought. He was seriously considering punching his own brother. “That’s not fair. You’re playing with her. You can’t choose when you want to be with her. Just beacuse she's choosing to be with someone else.” 

Charles blinked. “You knew about her and Max?” He queried.  

“Don’t change the subject, you prick,” Arthur breathed out. “Tell her the truth. At Zandvoort. She’ll be there. She deserves at least that after years of your games.” 

The silence began to echo as Charles remained quiet. He was thinking about a reality where he did. What it looked like. What it meant for you. For him. The relationship between the both of you.

“No,” he finally said.  

“Charles–” 

“I mean it.” His voice was final – sharp, undeterring, and unrelenting.

“Fine,” Arthur stated, frustration evident in the way he gritted out his words. He took a step back, about to turn on his heel. “Unless you plan on telling her, don’t ever call me again.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━

Arthur walked out of Charles’ apartment fuming. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to. He had his suspicions after you had told him what Max said a few days ago. He thought maybe Max was wrong. That it was just the emotion talking. But no... he was right. His brother was a dick. 

He sighed, kicking a small pebble as he walked down the street, hands shoved in his jacket. What was he going to do now? How was he supposed to tell you? 

“Hey, you’re Arthur, right?” 

Arthur paused, turning to the Dutch voice behind him. He nodded slowly, eyes raking over the blonde figure. “You’re... Victoria, right? I've seen you in the paddock.” 

Victoria smiled gently, nodding. She shifted on her feet. “Um... do you mind if we talk about ___ and Max?” 

“Sure, but if we’re talking about solutions, ___ is doesn’t want to even be in the same room as him,” Arthur sighed with a shrug.  

She hummed in understanding. “I know. Max is too scared to reach out. He headed to Zandvoort early too.” 

Arthur blinked. Max Verstappen scared? Well, that was something you didn't hear every day. He heaved again, rubbing the back of his neck, shoulders beginning to shrug. “How are we supposed to get two people together who don’t even want to be near each other?” 

Victoria tilted her head, sucking in a sharp breath. Her eyes squinted, calculated and hopeful. “Well... about that...” 

━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“Hey, chérie,” Arthur greeted you with a soft smile as he entered your apartment. His eyes washed over the dusts of flour on your kitchen counter. You were stress baking. You had been for days now, sending him home with things to share with Pascale. You had no creative flow with your writing. You didn’t feel like taking a walk for the so called ‘fresh air’ so... baking it was.  

You smiled tightly from the counter, putting down the cloth you were using to clean up your mess. You chewed your lip, turning to wash your hands, keenly aware of the caution your best friend had walked in here with. “H-How... How did it go?” You asked, breathing in slowly.  

Arthur had told you that he was going to talk to Charles. You had no idea why exactly. But you assumed it had something to do with you. And by the looks of his face, it hadn’t gone too well.  

You dried your hands, leaning on the counter. With every passing second of silence, you could feel your throat close up like you were being suffocated. “Whatever it is, just be honest,” you murmured.  

“I want to tell you. Trust me,” Arthur sighed, rubbing his face. “But I don’t want you to hear it from me. I need you to hear it from Charles.  

Your shoulders deflated. Well, that implied nothing good. You pursed your lips, staring at the transparent window of your oven. This was killing you. As miserable as it sounded, you didn’t want to talk to anyone. But by doing that, you couldn’t get the answers you might have needed. 

“What are you thinking?” He asked, walking over to you with a concerned look in his eyes.  

“Ugh, I’m just so confused,” you groaned, tilting your head back to glare at the ceiling instead.  

Arthur furrowed his brows. “How so?” 

You shrugged, looking back at him while you fidgeted with your fingers. “I don’t know... just what else do I have if Max didn’t really hate me? 

He blinked. “What?” 

“Him pissing me off was the foundation of our relationship. I distinctly remember it. He laughed after winning a race while I was taking care of Charles. That’s how it all started. Because that’s how he knew about my feelings.” 

Arthur shifted on his feet. He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t attended that race. He was sick in bed with his mother taking care of him while you, Lorenzo, and Charles went to Belgium. He remembered being so pissed that day. Especially after finding out, you and Max had begun such a spiteful relationship.  

His lips parted, words soft. “I mean, is it really that bad that he didn’t hate you? Isn’t it better if he liked you the entire time?”  

Perhaps it didn’t matter. But it made you wonder. How much of it was real? How much did you truly know Max before this deal? What if everything was just... fake? And here you had let him see some of the most vulnerable parts of you.  

“___?” Arthur grabbed your attention, making you hum. “Do you like him?” 

You paused, swallowing thickly. Your heart raced at the question. You knew the answer. You had known since the yacht lunch. Maybe even that even that day Max told you he’d make you feel better after he saw how upset you were over Leo.  

But you said nothing. Because if you did say it... say anything for that matter, those uttered words would become real. And right now, you weren't equipped to face that reality.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Max had been dreading Zandvoort. Which was odd considering it was his home. But he hadn’t been getting much sleep. All he was doing was training with Rupert. His father had been pissing him off as per usual. He knew he was going to see Charles. But he had no idea if you’d be there.  

You weren’t there on media day. Nor for free practice.  

Fuck, he missed you. He missed seeing your face around the paddock. Your smile. Your cheeks. Your laugh. Your eyes. You were one of the few things that made him happy after having to talk to people who truly had no interest in him. Even if it meant teasing you here and there and watching you get annoyed at him. But without you here, the paddock felt cold. He never even realised how warm you had made it.  

“You okay, dude?” Yuki asked as they both left the brief.  

Max blinked. God, it couldn’t be to the point where everyone was noticing, right? He smiled tightly. “Yeah, fine.” 

But the look on Yuki’s face—his raised brow and pressed lips—told him it didn’t seem like he had lied well.  

Max sucked in a sharp breath, trying to taking advantage of the situation. “I’ll see you later, okay? Good luck for today.” He didn’t wait for a response, walking in any other direction. It was qualifying here in Zandvoort and for the first time in his life, it was miserable.  

There were talks of rain, the McLaren was still fast after the summer break, and every time Max saw Charles near him, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to throw up or punch him.  

The paddock was full as per usual. He shouldn’t even be out here. Not with everyone screaming his name. But he needed some fresh air. He felt a hand on his shoulder, making him turn. He breathed easier at the sight of his sister. “Hey, Vic,” he greeted, giving her a quick hug.  

Victoria smiled gently. “Hey,” she murmured, pulling away. “How are you feeling?” 

“Great,” Max grinned. “Everything is rainbows and daisies and I’m the happiest man on earth,” he cheered, fists raising in fake attempt to be excited.  

She rolled her eyes. “Are you ever not dramatic?” She huffed, shaking her head as he nudged him.  

He only smiled lightly, turning to lead the both of them into a small walk around the paddock when he froze. His sister frowned behind him before leaning to the side to peek.  

Max’s smile fell off his face as you entered the paddock with Arthur and Charles by your side. You were in the middle. Arthur clearly wasn't happy. You were tense, shoulders bunched up, arms hovering over each other as if you were cold.  

His heart stuttered, lips parted when your eyes fell to him. He breathed in, gaze softening at the sight of you, red slowly pouring back into his face. He tensed at the feel of his sister’s comforting hand on his back as you walked past him, not sparing him another glance.  

And while Victoria looked over to Arthur with a discreet nod, Max could only curl his lip at Charles’ smug smile.  

Prick. 

━━━━━━━━━━━

You could still feel Max’s eyes looming as you entered the Ferrari motorhome. You reminded yourself to breathe as Arthur left you and Charles, preferring to go talk to literally anyone else than his own brother. 

“Excited?” Charles queried, taking a seat on the couch. The very one that had doomed you just a couple weeks ago.  

“I guess,” you shrugged, peering around Charles’ room. God, there was no flavour in this room at all.  

Charles nodded slowly, calculations beginning to creep in. He could feel it. Your distance. And it wasn’t just because you were still standing at the door like you were ready to leave. Your tone was cold and brief. Like you were losing interest. A captured fish trying to remove the hook embedded in its heart.   

“Um, I haven't seen you much after the lunch,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head. He smiled lightly. “Is everything okay? I really hope I didn’t overwhelm you or anything.” 

You stared at him while a cold shudder ran over your body. You couldn't believe it. The same eyes you stared into just a month ago were making you want to hurl. Littering your skin in goosebumps. You barely recognised him.  

You nodded after some time. “Everything’s okay. I’ve just been talking to Arthur,” you carefully said.  

Charles stilled, blinking rapidly. His lips parted but nothing initially came out. “What... What did Arthur say exactly?” He asked. 

Your eyes darted across his face, reading every inch clearly. Fear. Not caution, curiosity, or something more tame you wished he had een for a mere second. That was fear. You smiled tightly, shrugging again. “Everything,” you lied.  

You had decided a few days ago that if Arthur couldn’t tell you, then there was no way in hell Charles would even tell you the truth. But what you could do was pretend. Pretend to know. You didn't know what it was. Perhaps you didn't even need to know the truth entirely. Just a fraction of it would be enough to put a stop to this revolving door.

You watched him stand up, walking over to you as a sigh fell from his lips. His hands grabbed your shoulders, and you pressed down the sudden urge to recoil from his touch. “___, you have to believe me. I'm not playing you. I promise. Whatever Arthur–whatever Max said, it isn't true. It just took me a while to feel the same way, that’s all. But it’s all real, I promise.” 

You stayed silent, taking time to dissect his words as you began putting two and two together. You knew he had said something to Arthur. But to Max? How far did this all go? 

And ‘to feel the same way?’ So, he knew? He knew about how you felt and what... acted blind to all of it? 

“A while?” You raised a brow. "That's over ten years, Charles. Why didn't you say anything?” 

Because I never thought you’d leave.  

Charles sucked in sharp breath, fingers digging into your shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m here now. And I want to be with you.” 

You pursed your lips. God... you could really feel the love there. You chuckled to yourself, looking over to him. “What is this? Some last ditch attempt to get me back?” The question landed as cruel as you wanted it to, clipped at the edges with a brutal reality.

Charles mended his brows before realisation slowly began to kick in. He poked his cheek with his tongue, removing his hands from your shoulders. He laughed softly, finger darting out to point at you. “You love me,” he stated. “You worship me. What the hell happened?” 

“I don’t know, Charles,” you honestly confessed, dryly smiling at him and his use of present tense, hurt evident in your tone. Your eyes burned with a sting, lips beginning to tremble. “You’re making me wonder the exact same thing.” 

If you didn’t recognise him before, you sure as hell didn’t now. This was some sick, twisted version of him. Maybe the real one. You had just been so deluded that you ignored all those signs. You should've realised when he dismissed you all those times. He hurt you, he got got someone else, and then he was back to you all over again. And when you went away, he wanted you back.  

“No,” he shook his head, taking a step forward. It was strange. Bizzare. Like he was coming in and out of two different worlds. Just a second ago he was sneering at you. And now he was desperate. He tilted his head, blue eyes softening, hopeful smile plastered on his face. “We can fix this, chérie. Hmm? It’ll be me and you like you always wanted.” 

“That’s the problem,” you hissed, swallowing down the traces of bile threatening to creep up at the endearment. You had always wanted him to call you that out of love. But now it made your stomach churn when it came from those lips. “It’s what I wanted. I loved you in silence because at least there I wouldn't find your rejection. But you never wanted me. And now... now you disgust me.” 

Charles stayed silent, smile dropping off his face in a flash. He huffed, exhausted, annoyed, and with an unbothered pretence. “Fine,” he said, shrugging, hands flailing in the air. "Run off to Max or whoever,” he snarled, shaking his head. Those blue eyes you once loved boiled with rage. "You only need to get fucked good, right?"

You blinked.  

In a second, Charles had his hand holding his cheek, a sharp burn ever lingering on his skin as your action still echoed in the air. The silence spoke volumes as you glowered at him, angry practically rolling off in heatwaves off your body. Your eyes prickled with tears, disgust overwhelming you. You couldn’t believe you had ever loved him. How blind had you been? 

“Fuck you,” you spat, wiping the fallen tear off your face. He didn't deserve that. “Don’t ever talk to me again.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━

Max couldn’t think. Not when he had seen you walk out of the Ferrari motorhome in tears and into the arms of Arthur. He had a feeling he knew what and who it was about which only pissed him off more. He tried to breathe, fingers itching at his sides as the sound of preparations in the garage echoed in his ears. He just had to get through qualifying. And then he was free. Free to potentially kill Charles.  

He replayed it in his head. How you walked out, face initially blank, not even a quiver. But then you looked at Arthur who stood outside with Andrea and you broke. Lips trembling, eyes hot and glassy, hands shaking as Arthur wrapped his hands around you. He could still hear your sniffles in his ears as he sat himself into the car, despite mounds of information pouring around him. His fingers tightened around the straps, jaw clenched, eyes firm.  

Why couldn’t he get calm? Even as his homeland roared his name for the second to last time. His brain was boiling, skin burning, breath simmering. Max swallowed thickly, closing his eyes and taking a deep long breath.  

“Five minutes ‘til green light, Max.” 

Max snapped his eyes open; hands strained on the steering wheel.  

That fucking son of a bitch.  

He couldn’t calm down. He just couldn’t. Even as he slowly drove onto to the track, his thoughts screamed in his head. What happened? What did he say to you to make you that upset? Did you know the truth? How did you feel? 

Max’s lip only curled every time he saw the iconic shade of red in his rear mirror. It didn’t matter if it was Charles or Lewis. He fucking hated it. 

“Woah! That’s a bit too close for Leclerc’s liking. Surely Ferrari’s going to argue Max impeded?” Alex queried.  

“But Charles was sort of in the way. Max had his own rhythm – flying speed. Charles wasn’t even looking. It’s pretty selfish if you ask me.” 

“Well, it's only Q1, Jolyon. We still have a long way to go,” David’s voice echoed. 

“Mate,” GP, Max’s engineer, called through the radio as the team brought back the car into the garage. “What’s going on with you and the Ferraris? Just calm down. We can’t have penalty claims in Q1.” 

Max said nothing, hands rubbing his eye through the open visor of his helmet. He wasn’t still just thinking about what had happened almost thirty minutes ago. That day where you came to his house... he hadn’t stopped thinking about that. Not for one second.  

What could he have said? What should he have said?  

His heart shattered at seeing you hurt. But it ached at your denial. He could still feel the first lurch when you started shaking your head in disbelief. Fuck, he might as well have died on the spot. You asked him to stop talking and for a brief moment, it felt like you had reached into his chest and taken out his heart. And then you closed your eyes, refusing to look at him and for some reason that killed him the most. The purposeful choice to be blind.  

When you opened them, Max could see it. His truth had made you question everything. He didn’t mean to. But he needed you to know. To understand why he was the way he was. Understand how everything leading up to that moment had played its part. It’s not like this was some crazy plan in the making for years. No. He wasn’t that inventive. He never intended that– because that was the point. With you, he never had any idea of what to expect. As a kid and even now. Because you made him lose all sense of rationale. With you, there was no right or wrong, good or bad... there was just you. And that was always enough to tip him over the edge. 

Even when he told himself he didn’t like you in front of the mirror. Even at ten, when a girl in his class said he liked him and all he could think about was you. Even as Charles joined Formula Two in 2017 and Max walked around the paddock with his girlfriend at the time, his eyes always followed yours which always went to Charles. Even as you befriended every girlfriend Charles had ever had.  

He still liked you.  

Perhaps he understood Charles in that aspect. You’ve always had a remarkable way in marking your presence. You made others feel warm because you openly welcomed them. The idea of losing that would also terrify Max—it had been terrifying him. But he would never retaliate like this. By manipulating you. By hurting you.  

Max grunted underneath his helmet, smacking his steering wheel in annoyance, unbothered by the concerned gazes around him.  

He didn’t want to lose you. Even as a friend... or whatever you were to each other.  

But why did it feel like he already had? 

━━━━━━━━━━━

“He said what?” Arthur hissed, blue eyes wide, body automatically standing up from the couch you both sat on as you uttered the last few words of your conversation with Charles. “That’s it,” he nodded to himself, face growing red. “I’m murdering my own brother.” 

You sighed, grabbing his arm and tugging gently to sit him down. “That’s enough now,” you mumbled, tired. You had returned back to the hotel, not wanting to cause any more drama for some ‘fan’ to take out of proportion. The rumours were quiet but not invisible. Your name lingered on underrated gossip pages for weeks now. Most of the time it was about you and Max. Occasionally Arthur. But now you were ‘two-timing’ a World Champion and your best friend’s brother.  

He looked at you, gaze softening. He shook his head in disbelief as he sat down begrudgingly, jaw still tightened with sheer anger. His own brother had shamed you. That was not the same Charles he knew. Nowhere the near the same son his mother had raised. 

“I want to forget about it,” you confessed.  

You did. You desperately wanted to. But your mind was good at overthinking. All those small things he had done... they weren't oblivious actions. He wasn’t as clueless as you thought he was.  

That talk over the sangrias where he went on and on about Alex. The way he looked at you... observing — calculating your reaction. If you were upset, he still had you. And you had been. 

Getting and naming Leo with Alex. You remembered the way his eyes washed over you as he uttered out the pup’s name and as Alexandra asked if you were okay with it. It wasn’t about hurting you or seeing the pain in your eyes. It was a test. How much were you still on his leash? Or when Lando talked about you dating Mick? Like he was waiting to see if you were actually considering it. Because there was no way you would move on from him.  

Then when you baked those lemon slices and he brought up Max and Mick and you naturally assumed he had been talking about the latter. But he had fallen silent and told you it was Max who was querying about you. And the silence, although brief, waited patiently to see whether that admission alone made you happy or not. Whether you were curious as to why Max was talking about you.  

When you lied to him about meeting Yuki, he knew. Mostly because he could spot Yuki outside in the paddock. He knew why you were in the RedBull garage. He just hadn’t expected you to lie about it. And that’s when Charles had realised, he was in danger of losing you.  

Then at the gala where Charles asked you where you had gone. He hadn't told you that when he went to Lando, he had noticed Max was missing at the same time as you. He knew then too. So he brought up Mick again. To distract you. But instead, you had surprised him by saying you were already talking to him.

Hungary was an attempt to retrieve you back. To keep you hooked. He got closer. He praised your presence and pretended to be vulnerable with you. But when Charles scared you instead, he realised some other measure would be needed. Something drastic. Something perfect... like a breakup.  

His apartment was a step closer. Charles was meant to be all hurt and devastated about Alex and naturally, you would come running to him. He was relieved when you did. He supposed he had his brother to thank. But those carefully curated compliments he said... all that bullshit about ‘stability’ and ‘put together,’ those worked the way they were intended to — to fuck with your head. Because why on earth was he showing you so much interest all of a sudden? 

The yacht was supposed to be the final nail in the coffin. He confessed his ‘love’ for you. He dealt with Max. You were meant to be over the moon. But then he caught you staring across the table. And he knew that he couldn’t win entirely.  

Arthur’s invasion into his apartment had left him worried. He thought he’d win you over at Zandvoort. But things hadn’t turned out the way he had planned for them to.  

And then there was Max to overthink about. The more you thought about what he said... about you being kids, about liking you for years... you realised how his animosity for Charles was well kept. It wasn't until he had you screaming under his touch, where he called you his because that was how much he hated Charles. Because Charles didn’t see you the way he saw you—bare, whole, and raw.  

You couldn't help but think, Christ... what else had you missed? 

━━━━━━━━━━━

Max took a glance across the room as the post-qualifying debrief continued. He mended his brows at the stoic look on Charles’ face. He was quiet. Too quiet. Not even complaining when the stewards had decided his car had been positioned too closely to Max’s.  

His ears perked at the mention of a finished debrief, drivers and team principals standing up from their chairs. He kept his eyes on the Monégasque who also stood up, smiling tightly at the consoling Lewis before beginning to walk out. Max followed after him, waiting for a path where the crowd of people dimmed and the air became quiet.  

Charles paused in his footsteps after some time. He sighed, turning on his heel to blankly look at his old friend. "What do you want now?"

Max stared at him, observing him closely. The clenched jaw, firm eyes... “You told her, didn’t you?” 

Charles snorted, tilting his head. "Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?" He asked, watching Max furrow his brows. He chuckled, unsettled. “You and Arthur,” he sighed, shaking his head with annoyance.  

Max’s eyes raked over Charles again, trying to piece together what exactly had happened. And as he did, the corners of his mouth turning upwards, amusement sprawling over his face. “She doesn’t want you anymore,” he deducted. 

“Yes,” Charles drawled out dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you finally happy now? You got what you wanted.” 

Max's jaw tightened, taking a step closer to him. He spat back, “As long as she’s far away from you.” 

The silence was deafening as the winds of Zandvoort picked up around them, echoing the reality they both knew. It didn’t matter who you chose because it wasn’t about that. This wasn’t about choosing. It was about being loved back. And Charles had never done that. 

“You never deserved her,” Max said quietly. “Not as a kid. And most definitely not now.” 

Charles blinked. He could still remember that day clearly.  

“You’re going to catch a cold,” you huffed as your big eyes peered up at Charles. 

Charles looked at down at you, a few inches taller than you. He eyed your reddened cheeks that the wind had painted. Then he looked down at your hand on his, desperately pushing the soft pair of gloves against his skin. Maybe he was supposed to feel something. But where his heart laid was a small hole—a void. He didn’t feel anything. The void instead preferred your hopeless efforts, sucking them in as if they would repair him. So, he looked at you like a mere fleck of dust, shrugging off your hand roughly. “I’ll be fine. Go give them to Lorenzo,” he said, voice bored and bland.  

He watched your eyes blink, and your shoulders shrink. The hurt flashed over your face in an instance, small hands fisting the gloves tightly. It was the first time his defected heart skipped a beat. And even in the cold of Limburg, Charles felt warm without your gloves as he walked away from you. 

Charles only looked straight, hearing you take a step back before turning. He stopped in his tracks, tilting his head to look at your retreating figure. You didn’t walk well for a five-year-old. Each tread on the asphalt of the paddock a small tremble as you found a boy his age sitting down, rubbing his cold hands.  

He could see the stark difference between him and the boy.  

It was like the kid’s world had stopped when you turned to him. His eyes widened, nervously swallowing with each step you took. Even from afar, Charles could see your flushed cheeks bulge from the side as you smiled at the boy. The sound of your orange coat crinkled in the air while you awkwardly bent down to meet his seated stature. Because even then, you wore his colour. You struggled, splitting the gloves apart and reaching for his hand without any fear. You slid each one on with great difficulty and concentration. And the boy simply just reddened in silence.  

Charles watched the both of your eyes meet and he knew then. That there was no twisted void in this boy’s heart. Not when it seemed like you influenced his breathing at the mere age of five.  

“Good luck,” Charles heard you mumble to the boy. He clenched his jaw, colds hands turning into tight fists before turning back around to resume his walk. He could hear you try catch up with him, small feet fumbling after him and his red coat.  

Only days later, Charles watched that same boy hold up a winner’s trophy. Max Verstappen. That was his name. The name of a champion, of course.  

You thought Charles was dejected that he had lost. So, he let you rub his back, let your hands cling around his arm, let you pull stupid faces as Max walked by, trophy still in his grasp. Even while you smiled at Max, the corners of Charles’ mouth discreetly tugged up. And that small void in his heart grew bigger that day, feeding off a little girl’s desperation and a boy’s irritation.  

“Maybe,” Charles shrugged, not an inch of self-reflection on his face. “But she’ll always belong to me.” 

Max’s face hardened, blood boiling at the words. He knew they were supposed to hurt. Supposed to highlight the long-gone truth. A last effort to make him suffer. Remind him that Charles' was your first love.

But he knew better. He always had. So he stood straight, his head up high as he stared at Charles, eyes firm, jaw taut. “She doesn’t belong to anyone, you dick. If you knew that, then maybe you’d love her back the way she did.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’m surprised you’re in Zandvoort,” you murmured, watching the girl in front of smile gently as she always did.  

You were in a crowded café that chose to keep open after qualifying had finished. You had no idea what the results were. You could hear some names from the mouths of people, but nothing registered because you didn’t know Dutch. Instead, you welcomed the clang and clutter of the scene, the chaos of hospitality far more palatable than racing.  

“I had some work here,” Alexandra shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. 

You nodded in understanding before succumbing to the silence. You weren't sure what to say. You hadn’t spoken to her since she last visited. Things had gotten busy and then Charles had you wrapped around his finger. The more you had thought about it over the past few weeks, the more you had found yourself feeling bad for her. You had no idea if she knew anything. But regardless, unconsciously, she had probably suffered the most.  

“I’m sorry,” you finally said with a small sigh. You rubbed your hands on your pants, regretfully smiling at her. “I know he won’t say it to you, so I will. He’s a dick, much to my surprise,” you muttered, heart still aching at your discovery. 

Alexandra smiled softly, caught between being amused and woeful. Her finger traced around the rim of her cup as the memories flooded in. She took in a deep breath and looked back at you. “It’s okay. I should've known better.” 

You furrowed your brows. Shaking your head, your reached for her hand, giving her a reassuring pat. “You couldn’t have known. I don't think anyone could’ve predicted it.” 

A tight laugh fell from her lips. “I guess not. At least not at first. But I should’ve realised when he was obsessed with you,” she mumbled, guilty. She winced at your tilted head, confusion apparent on her face as you retracted your hand.

“I thought he always stared at you and Arthur because he admired your friendship or something. But even in Japan, he wasn’t happy when you hugged him. Or when you came back from the airport bathroom. Then there was Leo– which I'm so sorry about. I had no idea how much that meant to you.” 

You sat silently in front of her. Processing. How could you have missed all of this?

“But I guess I was too blind to deal with him,” she whispered.  

You hummed quietly, sore smile on your face. “Charles does do that to you.”  

Alexandra blinked, your words hitting her heart. She looked at you carefully as she took another sip of her drink. You looked so different. So tired. Troubled. It was hard to believe that in this café, you were just two girls who had been screwed over by the same man.  

“If it helps, I wasn’t too upset about the breakup. I expected it in a way,” she shrugged.  

You pursed your lips, nodding gently. You gave her a small smile. “You deserve better, Alex,” you said after some time. You could see a little flash of pain flicker through those brown eyes, making your heart clench.  

She reached over, her hand now comforting yours. Her eyes hardened slightly, seriousness washing over her face. “So do you.” 

And she meant it. The same way she talked about Max for you. Because whatever you once felt for Charles, it was clear to her that it was nothing compared to Max.

Her words were simple. But for some reason they made your throat hurt. You mustered a tight smile, squeezing her hand.  

So do you.  

━━━━━━━━━━━ 

The race was about to start in a few hours. Things were tense as they always were in the paddock. You had no idea why you were here. Not really anyways. You weren't in the mood to see Charles, preferably ever again. And while you had come to a recent dislike for attending races with Alex, for the first time, you had missed her. Because at least there would be someone you would know who had gone through something similar.

You frowned to yourself as you walked past the Ferrari suite. Perhaps, you should've clung onto that friendship. You had told Max you weren't jealous of her. It was a lie. But it wasn't so far from the truth. You admired her in a way. Admired how she was seen by Charles.

If anything, you felt guilty. It was technically your fault. If you hadn't threatened his measly little ego, he probably wouldn't have broken up with her to begin with.

You breathed in, shaking your head lightly. No. You couldn't do that to yourself. You couldn't have predicted this.

Your ears perked at the light call of your name, turning around to find a semi-familiar face. Your brows furrowed, head tilting. You had seen that face before...

"I'm Victoria. Max's sister," she pointed out after reading the expression on your face.

Ah.

You had seen her sparsely in your history with Max. Charles' racing was the only reason you had met him. Victoria hadn't joined as much despite being a year older than you, occasionally coming to races here and there. A reminder of why you had known the Dutch driver to begin with. From what you remembered, she was sweet.

Your lips parted. "Right. Sorry. I totally blanked for a second," you said, taking a sharp intake of air as you stretched out your hand. "Not sure if you remember me well, but I'm ___."

Victoria chuckled, returning the gesture. "Don't sweat it. These are..." she blinked, looking around her before sighing. She flickered her eyes to the open part of RedBull's suite, pointing at the three troublemakers running around. "Luka, Lio, and Hailey. My angels."

You smiled gently at the sight. "You guys have really strong genes," you murmured with a small huff, eyeing the Mini Verstappens and then her.

"Tell me about it. Mother's eyes, dad's smile," she snorted, shaking her head.

You hummed with a nod, finally seeing it. You had seen Jos, but their mother, Sophie... yeah, definitely her eyes. The only difference was the colour.

Victoria looked at you carefully as she saw Max come out of the suite in her peripheral, arms wide open to greet his nephews and niece. She watched as your eyes widen slightly and then soften, shoulders that were once rised to protect yourself now slumped.

Your chest warmed, heart melting. Because God, you couldn't help it. Even if you weren't on speaking terms.

You had fallen for those headlines before. The ones that said Max was aggressive, unforgiving, violent, heartless... you could go on. But right here as you watched him bend down, tickling Lio with one hand, holding Hailey in his other arm, and teasing Luka, wide smile etched on his face, you realised you couldn't see any of that.

There was nothing heartless about him.

In fact, he was full of love.

"He's their favourite. They love him," Victoria said, eyes still watching you as she broke your trance.

You blinked and turned to her, smiling softly. "I'm sure they do," you shrugged casually with a nod.

"The world hasn't been easy on him," Victoria breathed, chewing her lip at the mere thought of what they had gone through as a family. Their father's cruel ways... what their mother had suffered. "Yeah, he hurts easy. But he loves deeply. Openly. He's easy to love," she murmured gently.

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling a hot gleam glaze over your eyes. You blinked again, sniffing. Christ... You sucked in a sharp breath and said nothing. You didn't trust yourself enough.

"Can I show you something?" She asked.

You stared at blankly, hesitant. But after a beat, you nodded. Because what was the worse that could happen?

She picked out her phone from her bag, unlocking with a few swipes and taps. Eventually, just as the silence became nauseating, she turned the screen to you. "Do you remember this?"

You squinted at the first paused frame of the video on her phone. You eyed the colorful banners and brands and the specially engineered aphsalt. It was a track, obviously.

Your brows furrowed at the crowds of people and then the two inverted lines of drivers and kids. "Oh, that's... Silverstone, right? Just before he got sick? Wait— I took this one. How did you..."

You had taken it right as the national anthem had begun playing. Normally, the segment was all serious and weared out the thin line between patriotism and proudness. But this one... these bunch of kids were pretty darn excited, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Victoria nodded, confirming but adding nothing as she resumed the video.

You were one of the many in the crowd, right across Max. You could only hear the giggles of the people around you, where even Charles' shoulders began to shake lightly with amusement. Then you could see the Dutch driver began to laugh as well. You couldn't help but record it. It was too funny not to. And you were sure Arthur would've loved it.

You hadn't really thought much of the video. Hadn't even looked back at it really. But as it played, you could hear the echoes of the anthem and the muffled laughs of everyone as you recorded, starting from Nico at the end.

You remembered smiling ear to ear, chuckling to yourself as you zoomed in on Max's face. He was looking at the kid in front of him, lips pressed tightly to stop him from grinning. The small kid's particularly pitched voice made it so goddamn difficult. But he still peered at the kid with a gentle fondness – the way his father never looked at him.

You were so focused on the moment you hadn't realised that in that same video, those blue eyes had caught you in the crowd. And slowly a smile sprawled onto his face, head slightly tilted as if he was in a trance, and he looked at you with an even softer fondness while his cheeks flushed.

A small pang hit your heart, hairs on your body standing up. He just looked so... happy. Nothing like he looked now. Even as he stood merely metres away from you.

"I should probably go," you cleared your throat, making his sister blink in surprise. "It was nice meeting you," you smiled tightly, taking a step away from her.

"___," Victoria called, making you pause in your steps. "Listen, I don't know everything. And I don't know you well. But if I do know one thing... he likes you. Every fibre of his being likes you. From morning 'til night, he talks about you. My mother is considering blocking him," she chuckled, tired and pained. Those familiar blue eyes fell back to you, striking you in the heart.

"You two are right for each other," she whispered, lip slightly trembling, only making the prickling in your eyes worse. "I know it in my heart. So please, just think about it."

━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Charles had crashed. Well, sort of. It was kind of Kimi’s fault. But nevertheless, he was out of the Dutch Grand Prix. And for the first time in your life, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You simply pushed down the echo of doubt, making it go away. You had steered clear of the Ferrari garage, refusing Andrea and Fred’s invitations to come inside.  

You still actually no idea why you were here. Arthur was forced to come with Lorenzo who had made it in just after qualifying, otherwise he would’ve stayed with you—he hadn't explained to his older brother why he wasn't talking to Charles. If you didn’t come, you would be sitting in that hotel room alone with an eerie silence and sheer thought was unsettling enough.  

So here you were. Arthur had offered to join you outside in one of the other hospitality suites, but you said you were fine. At least the paddock was loud enough to silence your thoughts.  

You watched as Charles sat on that hill, photographers and cameramen rushing to get to him as his car was safely collected. You frowned to yourself. If this had been a couple of months ago, you perhaps would be dejected. You’d probably be already planning ways to console and make him feel better. But as he brought his knees to his chest and put his arms around them, you could see his eyes for how they truly were. Without any blindness, without any lies. They were empty and blank. They didn’t shine like they usually did.  

You felt stupid. How could you not have recognised something so obvious? You could’ve blamed Arthur. But you didn’t think he knew the extent of his brother’s ways. How was he supposed to help when this was the one thing you swore to never tell him about? 

You trailed your eyes up the leaderboard, heart stuttering over the familiar name. You pursed your lips and sighed, thinking back to Arthur’s words in the hotel room. 

“Well, it’s not like you don’t know him anymore. You still have the version of him now,” Arthur reasoned as he referred to Max, eyeing the lamp in the room blankly.  

He was right. He often was.  

But you still couldn’t really describe your problem. You just didn't know who you were. Without Charles. Without Max. Your entire life had been centred around them one way or another.  

“I just don’t think you’re thinking about the right things,” Arthur said with a small shrug.  

You raised a brow, turning to him. “How so?” 

He sucked in a sharp breath. “I mean that for every bad moment with Charles, you have had something good with Max,” he said softly, eyes earnest as ever. 

Pursing your lips, you mulled over his words. He wasn’t wrong—of course. If Charles gotten you drunk off sangrias, Max had been there to sober you up. If Charles ruined your day by getting a dog, Max made sure you didn’t feel it. When you questioned your worth, he made you feel whole again. He was the one that had you lying to Charles to simply spend more time with him.  

You blinked at the small sigh Arthur released as he grabbed your hand, giving you a comforting clutch. “Just... Just don’t discredit him.” 

You grunted in annoyance, giving a small glare to the sky. Why did the universe have to make things to goddamn difficult? Why couldn't you have just seen Max from the very start? 

Would he even want to talk to you now? Your heart paced at the thought. You had already ruined things between you.

━━━━━━━━━━━

The race had finished. Things were chaotic to say the least. Oscar had won, Lando had a car failure, promoting Max and the beloved Isack up a place.  

Max wasn’t happy. Even as he flashed his pearly whites to the cameras. Even as he drowned his younger technically teammate in champagne. Even as he held up the evidence of his second place and Zandvoort roared his name. All he could do was stare into the crowd below him and wonder what it would look like if you stood down there. For you to smile back at him with the proudness in your eyes no matter what he had placed. 

He patted Isack’s back as the three of them exited the post-race conference. “Well done, mate. Seriously,” he congratulated with a small smile. 

Isack, who was positively beaming, only thanked him for what felt like the umpteenth time. Poor kid still couldn’t believe it.  

Max pursed his lips, bidding Oscar and Isack goodbye as each of them were pulled away by their press officers. He looked over the sponsored watch on his wrist. It was almost seven in the evening. He sighed, turning to Anna. “Can I skip the debrief?” 

“Do you want me to get fired?” 

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Like we could afford to lose another member of this team,” he grumbled. Seriously. It was loss after loss. The garage had even become more spacious as people began to leave.  

She sighed. “So, what are you? Sick? Dying? Or have symptoms of hometown depression because you placed second?” 

Max tilted his head at the options. “All of the above...?” 

Anna looked at him blankly. “Great. Now go be the lovely magician you are and disappear,” she smiled sarcastically.  

He blinked, grinning lightly, already taking a few steps away into a different direction. “I owe you!” He yelled, feet beginning to speed up and before he knew it, Max was walking through a crowd of people with RedBull cap pressed further down — a half-assed attempt to cover his face.  

It only took a few minutes before Victoria found him, hand on her hip and brow raised in disbelief. “Who do you think you are?” She queried, snorting to herself. “Clark Kent?” 

“Obviously,” Max retorted, arms stretching with a small yawn.  

“Dad’s going to kill you,” she shook her head with an amused grin.  

Max shrugged. He couldn’t care less. His dad had found a way to weasel into every debrief meeting. He was pretty Helmut loved him or something. He looked over his race suit and pursed his lips. “Do you have any spare clothes by any chance?” 

Victoria hummed. “Funny you should ask,” she murmured, reaching into her handbag and grabbing the bundle she had stashed. Something she did every race she used to attend when she was younger. More often than not, the race-loving Max Verstappen, was a kid who ran off after every interview and before every debrief. Of course, he’d deny any direct mention of it now.  

He groaned in relief, head falling back before he took the clothes from her hand. “You are a lifesaver.” 

Victoria tilted her head, eyes darting around the paddock idly and with the uttermost calm and indifferent gaze. “You should go to the suite a few minutes down. Anna told me it’s empty. Like storage or something.” 

Max mended his brows, turning in that direction before taking a few more steps, believing his sister blindly. “How did she know I would skip the debrief?” He asked curiously.  

She looked at her brother, discreetly shaking her head. To this day, he was still the most stupidest person she had ever seen. And she had kids. “Guess you’re pretty predictable,” she shrugged.  

Max gave her an offended look, soon reaching the set-up suite in a few minutes like she had promised. He sighed, raising a brow before looking at his sister. “Can we get ice cream after?” 

Victoria groaned in annoyance, pushing her brother into the suite. “Yes, now hurry up and change!” 

“Okay, jeez!” He snapped back, grumbling some unfriendly Dutch words as he entered, closing the door behind him. He let his shoulders fall from exhaustion, taking off his cap as he surveyed the suite.  

The room itself was pretty empty, full of old labels and clothes in some boxes. There was a small dining table in another part of it, unused. A few windows let the last few rays of sun enter as he rested his spare clothes on the box momentarily. Bending down, he untied his shoes, shrugging them off before grimacing at the way his race suit stuck onto him, still clinging onto the post-race sweat.  

Max sighed at the cold air wrapping around his skin as he reached for the navy shorts and black shirt and pulled them on, shuffling on his shoes. He paused, about to grab his jacket when he heard a bunch of yelps and seemingly miffed grumbles outside the door. He turned when confusion, voices only becoming louder.  

“W-Why are you pushing me– I thought you said we were going back to the hotel?” 

Max could feel his heart drop as the door creaked open. He knew that voice by heart... 

And in a blink, you were suddenly in this room with him.  

He watched in disbelief as your eyes widened at the sight of hin, chest slightly heaving, tips of your ears red as the door shut again. You turned at the sound, confusion ringing in every nerve.  

“We’re locking this door!” Arthur yelled from the outside.  

“Yeah,” Victoria agreed, “Text us when you figure everything out. Bye!”  

You blinked, jaw slack. They were kidding right? Your eyes fell to the doorknob. You reached for it, giving it a hard turn before it stilled on you. A groan fell from your lips as you jangled the doorknob with frustration. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” you muttered to yourself, cheeks burning with humiliation.  

How the hell did they even get a key? Scratch that. When did they even meet each other?

A few seconds of silence passed before you mustered the courage to turn around, finding Max still standing in the same place. The corners of your mouth tipped upwards awkwardly as you shifted on your feet. "Hi," you murmured, swallowing thickly–internally wincing because you hadn’t forgotten that your last words were “Goodbye”.  

Max blinked. “Hi,” he softly said back, shoulders relaxing.  

You pressed your lips at the sudden warm feeling your chest. You sucked in a sharp breath. “Um,” you started, "We don't actually have to talk. I’m sure they’ll be back in no time."

He chuckled internally at your small uneasy laugh. Shoving his hands in his shorts, he smiled gently at you, unaware of the sudden ache in your heart. “Yeah, you don’t really know my sister.” 

You hummed, raising your brows in agreement. "And I'm definitely underestimating Arthur," you mumbled. If there was one thing you knew for sure, Arthur was good at being a menace even if it meant inconveniencing himself. You grumbled to yourself, walking over to the dining table, keenly aware of the blue eyes following after you.  

“But we should probably talk,” Max said from afar as you took a seat. He let out a quiet shaky breath when you turned to him. Your guards were up – eyes firm yet cautious. 

“Don’t you think everything that needed to be said has been said?” You queried, body shuddering at the sudden ripple of cold that ran through you. You didn’t want to talk about it anymore. You had thought about this for almost every second of every day for the past few weeks and it had been exhausting. You didn’t just want to forget. You wanted to pretend. Pretend nothing had ever happened.  

And truth be told, you were terrified of what Max would say. What if it was something you didn't want to hear? That you had ruined whatever it was that you had? A friendship, a situationship... that something.

Max said nothing, only collecting the jacket he was supposed to wear into his hand before walking over to you. His jaw clenched at the way your shoulders tensed at his footsteps near your chair. He swallowed, draping the jacket over your shoulders, ensuring it covered you properly.  

“Thanks,” you mumbled awkwardly, internally muttering to yourself. Christ... you just had to be cold, didn’t you? 

Max grinned to himself as he took as seat across you. You furrowed your brows at the sight of his head shaking. “What?” You asked, curiosity officially piqued.  

He shrugged, leaning back into the chair. “It's just funny how after all these years the roles are reversed. You give me the gloves, and I give you the jacket.” 

“Huh?” You blinked with a lack of certainty. You had no idea what he was talking about.  

Max looked at you like you were stupid. He parted his lips, tone bemused. “When we first met as kids. You gave me those gloves?” He raised a brow, head coming forward to see if you were understanding him.  

“What?” You knitted your brows together, shaking your head. “No, I didn’t. We met when you laughed at Charles after that race,” you scoffed. You were pretty sure you’d remember something like that.  

Max looked affronted, jaw slacked, eyes rapidly blinking. You didn't remember? Holy fuck, you didn’t remember.

“No,” he paused, trying to not bloody malfunction at your current idiocy. “I was eight,” he slowly started, “sitting in the paddock. You wanted to give Charles those gloves to keep him warm. But he said 'No,' like the asshole he is. And then you turned to me and put them on my hands.” 

You could feel the air being sucked out of your lungs as the cogs in your brain began turning. Had you done that? You scratched your head lightly, trying to recollect your memories.

And funnily enough, the flashes of you in that orange coat came back to you. Flushed cheeks freezing, heart pretty much broken at Charles’ refusal. And then you turned and saw eight-year-old Max, hands red from the cold, big blue eyes peering back at you, mystified. In seconds, you were putting gloves on his hands and wishing him good luck. 

You sat back in your chair, mouth falling open. You slowly moved your eyes to Max who had been taking in every single moment of your realisation. “Are you kidding me?” You whispered in disbelief. 

Max narrowed his eyes, confused. “No?” He steadily answered. 

How had you forgotten that? Had you been so caught up in Max hating you that your own brain had blocked out how you truly met? 

“I’m sorry,” you murmured with a small frown. “I must’ve forgotten.” 

Max stared at you for a beat. He could see it in your eyes. The daunting realisation. That whatever you had between the both of you went deeper than the start of Suzuka. But that recognition alone wouldn't resolve this.  

“I’m sorry too,” he said, clasping his hands over his lap. “I shouldn't have said those things that day.” 

You blinked slowly. You wondered for what.  

“He’s treating you like you’re his second choice.” 

“You just don’t want to admit it. You want to pretend Charles is the one because you want to live in your fucked up fairytale.” 

Or... 

“Why do you think I noticed you at a karting track?” 

“You don't get to do that when I’ve watched you be pathetically in love with him for years.” 

You watched him sigh, more to himself than anything. “I was just so... overwhelmed,” he admitted. “Everything just came out wrong. You weren't — you aren’t a second choice,” he said, firm blue eyes looking back at you. “I can understand that it's not easy to get over your first love and I didn’t mean to reduce those feelings to nothing.” 

Your heart ached, a sudden sliver of heat wavering over you upon hearing those words. You nodded in understanding. You were unlearning how to love Charles. So when faced with that type of confrontation, your reaction had been overwhelming for the both of you.

You swallowed, taking in a quick breath to soothe yourself. “So, you didn’t mean any of it?” 

Max was about to unconsciously nod, hopeful that you were open to a conversation, when his brain stilled. He mended his brows and shook his head. “No. I meant some of it,” he confirmed, chewing his lip, a habit he supposed he got from you. “But I didn’t say it properly.” 

“Say what?” You asked, a strange warmth starting to pick up between your skin and his jacket.  

Max leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, knuckles briefly skimming past his lip as he looked at you. He took in a sharp inhale of air, letting it rest deep in his lung as he contemplated what to say. “I meant what I said. That I’ve liked you since we were kids. I tried to stop because I knew how much you loved Charles. I tried to stop for the sake of you. But I seem to lose that ability when it comes to you. These past few months... they’ve only deepened what I feel.” 

“Then why did you suggest the deal?” 

He bit his lip before sighing. “You looked so hurt,” his voice strained as he spoke, “when you got off the plane. In the bathroom... I was worried for you. Y-You always quietly spiraled every time Charles got a girlfriend. But the way you saw me... I couldn’t just outright tell you I was concerned for you. So, I just said anything to stop you from hurting. Even though, okay, I do admit that it was a pretty selfish deal on my part.” 

You pursed your lips, fidgeting with your fingers at the table. You had no idea that behind all that supposed hatred was so much concern. You could feel your heart twist at that sentence. ‘But the way you saw me...’ 

“So, all the ‘pathetic’ stuff you said... you didn’t mean?” You asked.  

“Sort of,” Max confessed honestly. “I think I was more just angry at Charles. B-But I don’t want you think this fake. Any of it. As much as I love you, you do seem to have the natural ability to piss me off. And I cherish that.” 

You blinked, skin positively burning now. “You love me?” 

Max’s lips parted, blue eyes slightly widening as a scatter of heat crawled up his neck. Did he just say that? He swallowed, blinking almost in awe. He looked at you, quietly.

“I do,” he affirmed softly, shoulders lifting into a small shrug. “How could I not?” 

Perhaps, he had. In his own silence. Because at least in his silence, you didn't belong to anyone. In his silence, there was only what he felt for you.

Surprise coursed through your veins when the Max Verstappen sheepishly grinned. You almost smiled, amused. His words were wrapped in that new softness you had begin to like. You pressed your lips together, suppressing your entertainment as a comforting silence fell over the both of you. Well– comforting for you perhaps.  

Max sat there, leg quietly bouncing in anticipation. He had just poured his heart out to you, told you he loved you, and you were saying nothing.  

He blinked when you suddenly groaned, head falling back onto your chair as you glared at the ceiling. “W-What?” He asked.  

“I'm just so pissed off,” you moaned in annoyance, hands stretching to cover your flaming face. You let them fall after a mere second, looking back at Max incredulously, which left him taken aback. “Why couldn’t I have just seen you first?” 

Max blinked, trying to process your words. If he was registering what you were saying correctly... He slowly stood from the table, hands almost shaking like he was in disbelief. He called your name gently, cautious but you were still talking.  

You narrowed your eyes, practically pouting to yourself. “Like you were literally right there, sitting... but no... of course I choose my best friend’s brother who turned out to be some fucked up freak,” you whined.

Max swallowed, nearing you slowly. “___, stop dancing around it,” he breathed. It’s like he wasn’t just being teased but he was being tortured. The words... the feelings... they all seemed to be on the tip of your tongue. But here you were overthinking while his heart was slamming in his chest.  

“And now I have over ten years of stupidity under my belt... I mean what type of love résumé even is that?” You huffed, raising your hands with incredulity.  

“___!” 

“What?!” You turned, firm face faltering when you realised, Max was no longer across you but only inches away, hovering as he stood over you. You blinked, lips parted. When the hell did he get so close? Your fingers unconsciously moved to the sides of your chair, clutching with a tight grip. You could feel the faint traces of his hot breath just from there as those stupidly gorgeous blue eyes stared back at you.  

Your breath caught as his hands wrapped around your shoulders, pressed against his own jacket as he pulled you up from the chair. You tried to not shudder when he slowly rested a hand just over your chest. 

“What do you feel here?” He whispered, not looking away for even a second.  

“I...” you started before you could even think. Your mouth dried, eyes falling to the floor. God, you never remembered his eyes looking this intense. “I...” you mumbled, trailing off again when you felt his finger slide under your chin just like he had done a few months ago, other hand still on your chest.  

You jutted your bottom lip, hesitantly putting your hand over his on your chest, swallowing when you heard his breath hitch. “Can’t you feel it here?” You quietly said back.  

“Nice try,” Max murmured even though he could. Your pulse was loud and strong. Potentially concerning for others. But each warm beat against his hand made him smile softly. “I need to hear you say it,” he whispered, voice strained, looking into what felt like your soul as his other hand travelled from your chin to your cheek before tucking your hair behind your ear.  

You would’ve hated this. Such vulnerability from him out of all people would‘ve made you want to peel your skin off. You would've cursed him out. Rolled your eyes. Maybe even give him a light punch to the shoulder.  

But that’s what you would’ve done a couple months ago.  

And today was now.  

You chewed on your lip, mouth slightly quirking at the pointed look from Max. You released your lip and sighed, aware of how his fingers seem to perfectly rest in your hair. Your grip on his hand tightened as you breathed in once again. 

“I want you.” 

Max poked his cheek with his tongue in attempt to prevent himself from smiling but God, was he miserably failing. He cleared his throat, “Shitty dad and all?” 

You hummed in thought, brows furrowed, trying to not pass out from the sheer warmth of that stupid goddamn smile. “Well now that you’ve brought it up–” 

Max only chuckled, dipping his head closer to press his lips to yours, silencing your teasing for now. He welcomed the warmth of your mouth instantly, hand in your hair pressing your further into him while the other fell from your chest to wrap around your waist.  

You could still smell him after all this time. Suede... patchouli and a smokiness that enveloped you, tingling on your tongue as your hand moved to hold the side of his face, pricks of his stubble grazing your fingers. You weren’t sure what exactly he was thinking. But you wondered if his heart too was exploding in his chest. As if all the fresh air in the world had wrapped around you, both giving and taking away your breath.  

But for Max... he couldn’t think. He just couldn’t. He could only feel your touch as your heartbeat rang in his head. It was melodic. He wanted to save it. In his heart. In his head. In his veins. He shuddered against you, lips sloppily greeting yours, struggling not to become undone as your fingers crawled underneath his shirt. There nothing sexual about it. It was just you. There. With him. Rubbing small circles into his skin as you showed him how much you wanted him. 

Because truth be told, Max knew. He knew how terrified you were of admitting it. Of what it meant. To you. For what you knew all these years. For what you had felt all these years.

But here as you nudged his lips open and grazed his tongue with your own — unhurried and full of love and not lust, his heart couldn’t help but lurch. Because this time you kissed him free and truly to your own accord. And he couldn’t help but be undone because of it. 

You grasped his waist in your fingers tightly, pulling away just a little. Your breath stammered, struggling in the same fast pace your heart was currently working at. Your lips, swollen, still brushed against his for a mere second, foreheads lightly pressing against one another.  

You couldn't help but smile to yourself. It was the damn bathroom all over again. Except this time, you knew the truth. You might not have figured yourself out entirely. But if there was one thing you knew was that you had all the people you loved right here with you. And that counted the one in front of you.  

You chewed your lip unintentionally as Max’s hands both fell to your waist, resting there to keep you close. He smiled with that awful... boxy... smile you had found yourself liking making you laugh softly. “Have you always been this shy?” He teased. 

You hit his chest gently with a small curled up fist, ears growing hot under his gaze. “I hate you,” you mumbled despite grinning.  

You could feel his chuckle rumble through the tips of your fingers. “No, you don’t,” he sighed out, still smiling.  

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head despite finding yourself in agreement. “No, I don’t,” you affirmed, moving your arms to hang them around his neck. You both stood silently amongst the chaos of Zandvoort outside that door. No more words truly needed to be said.  

"Can I ask you something?" Max asked quietly after some time. He continued when you nodded. "What did you wish for?"

You mended your brows. "What?"

"That day. At the fountain. What did you wish for?" He asked.

You blinked, thinking back to the gala. One of your lowest points. You smiled at the memory; Max's offence to Hercules, his sudden interest in lepidopterology, and of course, those pebbles. You looked back at him, gaze soft. "I wished to be happy," you shrugged. "And I'm pretty sure it came true."

Max stared at you for a beat.  A second. Then one more. He breathed in, chest thrumming with not satisfaction but a passionate yet soft proudness. That's all he ever wanted for you. "And here I thought you were going to wish for me," he mumbled, words teasing.

You narrowed your eyes, grinning ear to ear. "I think that's called narcissism," you whispered back, fingers running through the small locks of hair at the back of his neck.

He chuckled, vibration rippling through you. He shook his head. "I think I'm just obsessed with you," he shrugged, unashamed as he pressed his lips to your forehead, leaving a lingering kiss.

"Has anyone ever told you you're too sweet sometimes?" You queried, smiling at him, heartbeat loud in your ears.

Max thought to himself, brows raised and lips pursed in a pretence. "I think so. See there's this really really beautiful girl–"

"Oh?"

He nodded, grinning. "Yeah, and she has these amazing eyes. She loves carnations. She loves baking. She's actually a secret cat whisperer. Writes these amazing stories about travelling. Oh, and she loves long walks on the beach because she's cheesy–"

"Hey!"

"And this girl she thinks I'm too sweet... which is weird because no one else does. I think that's why I love her," Max heaved, voice cracking, blue eyes fixed on you.

You bilnked away the strange hot sting over your eyes, hitting his chest lightly again. "Gonna make me cry, you dick," you mumbled, inhaling some fresh air in attempt to calm your pacing heart.

He laughed gently, the sound sending your brain all over the plave as his fingers rubbed smooth circles on your hips. "I'll just wipe them away," he murmured, shifting on his feet with you in his grasp, letting reality fall over the both of you.

You chuckled lightly, shaking your head as you skimmed over his face carefully. "I probably should've realised it was you as kid. You and those chubby cheeks!" You cooed, fingers reaching to pinch them.

Max's lips parted. "Me? Did you even see yours? All red because of the cold. They still give me cuteness aggression, you know," he mumbled, own cheeks flushed.

"Meh," you shrugged. "Not better than yours."

"Hmm... let's agree to disagree," he said, making you chuckle. He bit his lip, debating if he wanted to let that smile disappear for a mere second. Of course, he didn't want to. But he needed to know. "What are you going to do with Charles?"

You swallowed at the name. His name once brought you an endless amount of joy, making you shiver. But now... you could only shiver with disgust and repulsion. You mended your brows as you looked at Max. "I don't know," you admitted honestly. "I don't know if I have it in my heart to forgive him."

"You shouldn't," Max said almost instantly, jaw clenched in annoyance. He didn't even deserve your love, let alone the generous act of your forgiveness. "But he's Arthur's brother. He's your.. he was your family," he murmured tentatively, tucking your hair behind your ear once again.

"We'll see how Pascale feels after Arthur tells her. The boy's already been on a no talking strike with him," you chuckled softly before sighing. "My life is a mess," you groaned quietly.

"Catastrophic really," he added on with a small smile.

"Gee, aren't you so helpfu?" You retorted, eyes narrowed.

Max grinned. "For you? Always," he confirmed, making you roll your eyes.

You smiled gently before a thought occurred to you, making your brows furrow as a small frown sprawled onto your face. "Can I tell you something?" You queried, looking back at him.

He sighed dramatically. "Is this going to be our thing now?"

You chuckled softly before quietening down, removing your hands from his neck. You breathed in. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

Max creased his brows, confusion pouring into him. What had you done to warrant that? In an instant, his brain worked to find some viable explanation because he had a strong distaste for you being upset. It left this bitterness on his tongue that he just couldn't swallow.

You pressed your lips together, spotting his uneasiness from a mile away. "I mean for what I said that day. I shouldn't have played your feelings off like that. That was unfair of me. I was just so... angry. At myself, maybe. You were saying all the right things but I was an idiot."

He said nothing for a second, eyes firmly on you, analysing your words carefully. He heaved, shaking his head. "You were— are unlearning. I should've known better than just attacking you with all the information. I actually think you were right to feel that way," he murmured, shifting on his feet.

You nodded ever so slowly, chewing the inside of your cheek. "Still. I'm sorry," you whispered.

Max frowned at the guilt on your face. He tilted your chin with his thumb, holding your gaze gently. "Don't blame yourself. Everything will be okay. I'm here, aren't I?"

You blinked back the second wave of hot tears, chuckling at his words. "Ah Max Verstappen, my hero," you teased, bringing your hand to hold his.

He smiled, not refuting your words. Yes, your hero. That's all he'd ever wanted to be.

You breathed out after some time because at 7:11 in the evening on some random Sunday, you finally accepted that this was real. You hummed to yourself, peering over to Max who was still staring at you so lovingly no matter how many times you told him to stop. You pursed your lips, “Think we should text them?” 

Max blinked. He had entirely forgotten about his sister and Arthur. Troublemakers. The both of them. And he was still owed some ice cream. He looked back at you and shook his head. “No,” he murmured, bringing your closer to him if was possible. “Let’s just pretend we haven’t made up for an hour.” 

“An hour?” You repeated, brows raised with interest. What was so special about an hour?

Max nodded, smilingly down at you. “Yep,” he said, returning his thumb under your chin. “Give me at least one hour where only you and I know about us.” 

Your stomach churned at his words. You laughed quietly to yourself. “Deal.” 

Max’s eyes shined with amusement. His thumb moved to your bottom lip, flesh still red and swollen. He looked back at you with such a warmness, you couldn’t help but take in a sharp breath as he whispered, “Don’t you think we should seal it with a kiss?”  

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[toasterpancakes]

I haven’t read this but I’M NOT READY (and I’m scared)

[mickyschumacher]

[REVOLVING DOOR! PT.12]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: a daunting realisation leads you and max to an emotional discovery. or in which you decide to take matters into your own hands.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: skeletons of fluff, angstttt, lots of crying and emotions, lily, arthur, victoria being real ones, potential to hate the reader (ik im srry), also like a fake depiction of charles and max's karting history bc i fucked up with the times and ages at the start so...

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 6k+

tag list (lmk if you wanna be added): @ggaslyp1 @lovesick-sylus @charlesgirl16 @adelinegirlsstuff @freyathehuntress @kenkozkmg @angelluv16 @hott1es @samriddhisingh @theonlyonesora @killjoynotes @bluewxrld07 @dreamauri @fuckingsimp4azriel @fightclubendingscene @dontsupressthejess @emmapotato88 @wertyuizxcvbnm @gigivel28 @stereading @loverofhover @babybluelrh98 @leclercdream @baechugff @sunny44 @simplementemeencantafutbol @lilypat @gigigreens @unatempesta-dipensieri @silentreader128 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @a-beaverhausen @ongak @miaaaxxz @moonih @strawberrylov-er @dollstappen @hothsgff @emluvsbunnies @sierrablack @shamelis69 @vampstappen @tothestarsandwhateverend @yumm267449 @widow-cevans @annimausi @mayabbot @fouldiplomatpapershark @kissatelier @inseongsbitch @sexwithhiddlesbatch

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 🫐

𝐀/𝐍: okay so please don't kill me... enjoy ♡︎ // second to last chapter AHHHHHHH

You were seasick. Not lovesick. Seasick. That’s what you had said when Charles, Lily, and Max had found you – leaning on the railing, trying to catch your breath. Because that’s what it was.  

This wasn’t love. You knew what love was. Love was you and Charles. Years and years of it. This wasn’t even an inch of anything more than the both of you had kissed on.  

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lily queried, brows bent in concern while she rubbed your back gently. She was too sweet. A mere acquaintance since today and here she was taking care of you as you wiped your face with some water in the bathroom.  

You smiled weakly and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry you had to see me like this,” you murmured, lips pressed tightly together as you dried your face, faint taste of bile still ruminating in your mouth.  

Lily’s face softened at your words, embarrassment and regret written all over your face. “Oh, this is nothing. You should see me after a few cups of wine,” she laughed with a mission. And it worked. Your shoulders eased while colour made its way back to your face. 

You sucked in a sharp breath, trying to feel fresh again. “Should we go back up? I’ve probably ruined the lunch,” you mumbled with a small groan as you said it. Fuck. Your skin burned, fingertips pressed into your forehead while you grovelled. You hadn’t thought of that. Everything had happened so suddenly.  

You could feel Lily’s hand wrap around your arm, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “You haven’t. It’s been amazing. These things happen,” she shrugged. 

You turned to her in disbelief. Things like almost having a panic attack over something entirely idiotic? “Dude...” you started, “Where have you been all my life?” You asked, admiring her kindness.  

Lily laughed quietly. “In England,” she replied.  

You sighed, shaking your head. “Should’ve been born here to be friends with me.” 

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” She gave you a light nudge, making the both of you grin as you returned back to the deck. 

━━━━━━━━━━━

The walk back to the deck filled you with dread.  

You could still remember how Max wrapped his hand around your shoulder, holding you up to him, asking if you were okay, concern heavily running through his voice. And instead of recoiling, you found yourself breathing easier. Or was that when Charles had pushed him to the side and frantically checked you for any other signs of being sick.  

You slowly blinked, internally sighing. You wished the earth would swallow you whole right now.  

You could capture a quick glimpse of everyone before they had seen you and Lily. Carlos and Rebecca were quietly talking to Charles. Lando laughing with that mysterious girl, laying on the loungers. And then finally, Max sitting across Oscar at the table. It was only a few seconds, but you thought he looked tense. With the way his chin rested on his hand, jaw taut, blue eyes slightly blank, attention occasionally drifting to Charles.  

Did he always look that? So... rugged? So firm? 

He always just seemed to piss you off with every chance he got. But when he wasn’t, he didn’t look so awful.  

It was Oscar who first noticed the both of you, abruptly standing up, capturing Max’s attention to swing his eyes in your direction, the same concern still ever present in his gaze.  

You sucked in a sharp breath. Christ... 

It’ll be fine. You were seasick. That’s all.  

You braved an awkward smile, feeling Lily peer at you with encouragement from the corner of your eye. “Hello,” you slowly greeted, laughing softly as though to ease out the anxiety in your bidy. God forbid you threw up again. 

Oscar pressed his lips together, gently smiling in return. “Everything okay?” 

You swallowed, nodding, eyes falling to the cracks in the deck as the weight of everyone’s worry seem to become unbearable. “Yeah, yeah, um... I don’t know. I don’t normally get seasick,” you said sheepishly, scratching the back of your neck. 

“Maybe it was something you ate,” Lando called out. 

You looked over to him and his friend. She seemed nice and sweet. She hadn't even done anything really. Yet for some reason she was bothering you. Like an itch at the back of your head that you couldn't really scratch. You cleared our throat, smiling tightly, nodding once again. “Yeah, maybe,” you murmured. “Sorry if I made lunch weird. That was... pretty dramatic,” you laughed out, fingers haphazardly tightening and loosening.  

“You didn’t,” Max finally spoke, voice quick, reassuring, and firm.  

Pressing your lips together, you nodded silently. The weight of his eyes was the worse. Heavy and intense. Like he wanted to scream. Shout. God knows what. But it was the way they stared at you. As if he knew you were lying. That you weren’t okay. Reading you like an open book. It was unsettling.  

You shuddered when you felt a hand on your back. Head turning, you found Charles next to you. He smiled at you gently before looking at everyone else. “We should probably all head back,” he said as your eyes fell back to Max’s face. He wasn’t pissed off. He looked purely annoyed.  

“Thanks for coming. I really enjoyed it,” Charles smiled, tilting his head as he looked at Max and then back to you. He stared, blue eyes boring into yours, making his presence known. “Ready to go?” 

You blinked, nodding after some time, a bit too exhausted to try and decode why the man in front of you displayed the same signs of anger as he did when a race went wrong. “Sure.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━

It had been almost a week since your debacle on the boat. You hadn't talked to Max. You couldn't. In fact, you were trying to stay away from all things Max.  

You could’ve sworn you were going crazy. Or maybe it was making you crazy.

Because here you were, staring at your phone, on a zoomed in picture Max had posted of himself during the summer break. He was in Portugal now. And while the idea of him being so far away let you breathe in peace, you were still keeping tabs on him like some weirdo.  

Your head tilted, brows furrowed, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Your eyes ran over the photo. Wet body in the water, muscles taut. Scatters of red on his face. That wide boxy smile. Perfectly swooped brown hair. You groaned, throwing away your phone on the couch and rubbing your face harshly.  

What is wrong with you? 

This was Max. The guy who had been pissing you off since you saw him race in go-karts. To you, he was always absolutely infuriating because he thrived off knowing your biggest secret. Vexing because he used it against you. A few months ago, you couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him. He used to make you want to peel off your skin. That’s how much you hated him.  

But then again... you made that deal with him. 

You leaned up, blinking quickly as a strange cog in your head finally turned in place. The deal. That was your problem. That stupid goddamn deal. It was the only thing that had united the both of you in the first place. The whole reason you were in the same room as him to begin with.  

If that went away... then this would go away, right? There would be no doubt. No Max. No nothing. There only be you and Charles. Like it was supposed to be. How you always wanted it.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Max wasn’t expecting you. You hadn’t called him or texted him. And to be honest, he was trying to fulfil the suggestion to stay away from you. Not because Charles told him – never. Because he couldn’t trust himself around you.  

He couldn’t trust himself to keep quiet and tell you everything he knew. Because what was he going to say? Charles was actually one of the most selfish people he had ever met and he’s just using you? Like you'd believe him. 

And where was the evidence?  

“Yeah, he just told me that. So just believe me. I’m telling the truth.” 

The part that haunted him the most was your reaction if he did tell you. He couldn’t bear the thought of the light in your eyes fading away as he told you. Or your smile dropping. Nor your eyes glossing over because you’d be crying of Charles in front of him again.  

And there he would stand, again. Angry and annoyed, laughing, having to pretend like your tears didn't make his heart ache. Because that 'logical' response would be better than telling you why the mere sight of you in pain made his breath catch.

But here you were. Awkwardly perched on the couch of the lobby, clearly full of anxiety as your foot tapped away, eyes flickering between the vapid paintings on the walls and the questionable art sculptures in the room.  

You could feel your body freeze when your eyes fell to him. You swallowed thickly, chewing your lips seconds later. Fuck, why was he making you so nervous? Your fingers clasped around each other tightly as he walked over to you, casual and hands to the side.  

That familiar boxy smile slowly graced his face. “Hey,” he greeted, scratching his brow. “You know you can call me, right?” He joked. 

You knew. But if you did, you probably would’ve hung up. At least here, you couldn’t run away. Because the idea of that was far more mortifying than anything else at the moment.  

You observed him carefully. Portugal had kissed him and left a small glow on him. 

Even if he didn't seem particularly relaxed after a much needed vacation... it looked– it was nice.  

You shook your head lightly before breathing in. “Um, yeah,” you murmured, rubbing your knees with your hands. Honestly, you hadn’t even planned what to say. All you knew was that you needed to end it.

This. It. Whatever it was.

But Christ, the words were fizzling out on your tongue every time you tried. Your stomach churned, bubbling with an unfamiliar uneasiness.

Max knitted his brows together, easily spotting the look on your face. It was the same one you sported at the lunch before you had thrown up. He had seen it as he was talking to Lando’s friend. It was why he was the first standing up after you left. Only to be pushed aside by that absolute cretin.  

“Is everything okay?” He asked gently.  

You winced at his softness. He didn’t make this any easier for you. Because this wasn’t Max. Since when was he this forbearing? This… mushy?  

“Do you mind if we head up?” 

Max blinked, pausing for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Yeah, sure,” he murmured. Something was very clearly wrong. Especially if you couldn’t say it out in the open. 

The ride up to his penthouse was like your first. Quiet. Tense. Standing like you were on the verge of breaking. The only difference was he wasn’t holding he wasn’t holding you up. You stood near him but at a maintained distance. Like you were scared he was going to infect you. Every other time you had been in this elevator, you were laughing... joking... teasing...  

God, this was even worse than you ignoring him. To acknowledge him and render him invisible at the same time was a damning prowess.  

Opening the door to his penthouse, Max watched you enter first, taking note of how familiar you looked in the setting as you took your shoes off. He followed suit, heading to the kitchen to grab some you a cup of water. He returned, finding you seated on his couch, leg still jolting with nerves. He placed the glass on the coffee table in front of you and sat across you. “So,” he breathed, lips pressed tightly together. “What’s going on?” 

You stayed silent. You weren’t trying to muster up the courage. No. You had no idea exactly what it was that you were trying to build so you could finish this off. Your hands had been clammy for ten minutes now, a physical manifestation of how you felt. Dread was pouring into you like a broken dam.  

You sucked in another sharp breath.  

Remember why you were doing this.  

Why are you doing this? A small voice queried in the back of your head. What are you? Afraid?

You blinked, internally shrugging off the sound. “I...” you started, blowing air into your cheeks, unable to look him in the eye. God, why was this so hard? “I think... I think we should stop this,” you carefully said.  

Max pursed his lips. “This?” He repeated, confused.  

You nodded. “Uh, you know,” you pointed between the both of you. “This. The deal,” you clarified with a slight shrug.  

Max blinked, leaning back into the couch, hard blue eyes staring at you. He had expected this. That lunch had proven something was bound to happen. He didn’t, however, expect it to be so early. After some time pondering, he cautiously spoke, “Is this because of Charles?” 

Your lips parted. How did he...? You cleared your throat, nodding. “I– yeah. He said he loves me.” 

You couldn’t explain what you expected from Max when you had said that. Perhaps some sort of overjoyed reaction that left him saying he was really happy for you. Or even a silent nod. But you watched as he laughed softly and whatever guards he had down with you were suddenly back up – eyes firm, jaw taut, teeth grinding against one another.  

“What?” You queried, slightly flustered, unable to pick apart his reaction like you normally did.  

Max shrugged, hands turning outwards in his lap. “Nothing. It’s just funny,” he huffed. “How you come back to him so easily?”  

You blinked, skin beginning to itch. So easily? You narrowed your eyes, jaw clenched as you folded your arms. “Max, I’ve been in love with him for years. Of course it’s easy.” 

He snorted, bow laughing to himself while he shook his head. Only you would say something so naive. He licked his lips, leaning forward to hold your gaze. “He’s treating you like you’re his second choice,” he stated.  

“Excuse me?” Your voice was sharp, offence screaming on the surface. Your shoulders lifted, tense and propped up like the way a shield. Were you dreaming? Was this some sort of nightmare reality and really you were still stuck in your apartment, debating on how to do this? 

Max swallowed, instantly regretting the way he had said it. He sighed with frustration, standing up to take a seat next to you. He slowly started speaking with the utter most wariness, unaware of how the hairs on your body stood straight. “Can’t you see how fast he's moved on? Suddenly looking back at you? Touching you? He hasn't looked at you like that since you were kids. Ever.” 

Your eyes grew hot. You could tell he was right. Stating only the same truth you had revisited time and time again over the past few weeks, wondering why the love of your life had just started to reciprocate even a little bit of your feelings.

But your heart ached at those inklings. Brain rerouting that truth when you were reminded how long you had spent pining after Charles. All those years... all that time, it couldn't be for nothing. He was just giving back what you had given him, right?

You chewed your lip, glassy eyes reverting to the glass of water in front of you. You huffed, corners of your mouth turning upwards to block out those alarms. “Are you sure you’re not jealous?” You queried with a tired grin, reaching for the glass before taking a sip to cool the swarming heat in your body.  

Your body stilled when Max said nothing, silence echoing in heartbeats. You hesitantly turned towards him, heart racing when you read those eyes. Still tense and stormy as ever. But in that mix were slivers of a softness you had only ever seen in yourself – the very one you gave to Charles.  

You shook your head, placing the cup down. “No, no, no,” you began only to be interrupted. 

Max laughed quietly, pained at your reaction. He hesitantly put a hand on your own, sending a current down your arm. “I mean come on. Surely, you’ve noticed. Our excuses to meet. Asking you to stay.” 

You stood up abruptly, shrugging off his hand. You stared at him hard, heartbeat screaming in your ears. “You said no strings attached, Max,” you slowly murmured, cautious.

It didn't make sense. It couldn't. He hated you. 

“Well, I lied.” 

He stood up, towering over you as he usually did. He tilted his head, blue eyes looking at you, searching your face for an answer – anything that would soothe the ache in his chest.  

“Max,” you groaned, feeling the tears brim in your eyes. Your hands fell to your face, covering those annoying tears. Why was he ruining this? It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to agree and be okay with it and you were going to move on. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. 

“What do you want me to say?” He asked, the exhaustion he had been feeling for the past few weeks over his feelings slowly beginning to creep into his own voice as it cracked.

“You fill my house!” He shrugged defencelessly, running a hand through his hair, dishevelling its kept, guarded exterior. “My house has been empty for years. But everywhere I look, everywhere I walk — you’re there! I have never been able to get you out of my head. No matter how hard I’ve tried. No hard I’ve tried. No matter how hard I’ve tried to hate you.” 

You blinked, taken aback, removing your hands from your face, a rush of cold air skimming by. Tried? What does that even mean?  

Max looked at you resigned, shoulders slumping. “I mean, shit, ___, why do you think I noticed you at a karting track? One of my favourite things ever? ___, you wore my colours. My colours.” 

“Stop,” you sighed out, voice raw and sore as you shook your head. “Stop talking,” you said, taking a step back. If this was what you thought it was... you couldn’t hear it.  

Max shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No, no. You don't get to do that when I've watched you be pathetically in love with him for years,” he gritted out, sucking in a sharp breath.  

For some reason, you closed your eyes at the hurt in his voice as if that would block it out. You felt his fingers graze your face as he held your jaw in in his hand. It's soft and gentle, carried with care. You hated that it felt right.  

Fuck. Fuck... 

“I want you to look at me when I say this,” Max stated. 

“Max–” 

“Please.” 

You sighed, opening your eyes. You almost couldn’t recognise him with those reddened eyes and his flushed skin. In all your life, you had never seen him look so torn. So destroyed.  

Max breathed in, gaze focused on you, undeterred by your harsh glare that you tried to build as if you were trying to keep your guards up. “I’ve liked you since we were kids. I tried not to. I tried to move on. But this deal... this reminded me exactly why I’ve failed every time. I like you, okay? And I think you do too– yes,” he interrupted when you shook your head adamantly.  

“You just don’t want to admit it. You don't want to admit that at that stupid gala, he had hurt you more than he ever had. He made you question your fucking worth. Made you feel like you aren't beautiful when you're the most precious woman I've ever seen. And here you are wanting to pretend Charles is the one because you want to live in your fucked up fairytale – well guess what? This is reality. Whether you like it or not.” 

You clenched your jaw, frowning at him, new tears beginning to drip from your eyes. “Is that it then?" you queried, hands resting at your sides as your shrugged shoulders slumped. "What do you want me to do? Run to you? Choose you because you think I'm beautiful?” 

Max blinked, giving you a curt nod. “Yeah,” he softly said, biting down on his lip when he felt the early signs of a tremble.  

Choose him. Choose him, a voice echoed.

But all those years... that can't be all for nothing, another chimed. Your love can't be wasted - you didn't deserve that.

You breathed in, tight and long, suffocating, lips pursed tightly before they parted. “Goodbye, Max.” 

Max watched as you took a few steps back, leaving his hand falling from your face and down to the side of his body as you retreated to his front door, sniffles loud and clear in the air. He flinched at the sound of his door slamming shut, the echo, reverberating in waves as he was left alone in his empty penthouse.  

That’s the thing about En Passant. The capture must be done on the very next move, or the opportunity is lost. 

Max had lost.  

But Charles hadn’t won either. And for now... that was the only hope he had.  

━━━━━━━━━━━

Arthur had never been so startled when you knocked on his door and he found you in tears. Instantly, he brought you into his arms, ushering you to his living room. “Oh chérie,” he mumbled, lips pressed against your hair, hands tightening around him as you cried in his arms. “What happened?” 

You hadn’t kept Arthur in the loop. With so much happening, you probably should have. But it was all so quick. Hungary. The breakup. Charles’ apartment. The lunch. Max.  

So, you began where you left off, sharing your vulnerable moment with his brother in Hungary. How Charles’ realisation had daunted you and was the whole reason why you had flown to Estonia to begin with.  

Then came Charles and Alex’s breakup. Which, by the sounds of it, had happened not too soon after Hungary. That, of course, Arthur knew.  

But as you explained Charles’ behaviour at his apartment, dry tears staining your cheeks, Arthur couldn’t help but become bewildered. He knew as much as the next person… his brother had never batted even an eye to you. Ever. At least not like that. Charles saw you the way Arthur saw you – as a sister. It was the most unfortunate to fall in love with him.  

Arthur had even suggested it to Charles a couple of times. Not directly of course. But small little nudges your way. How you and Charles would be good a fit because you get each other. How you're able to read his mind. Anything to set him up with you. But Charles had always ignored it, telling Arthur, “Why don’t you just date her instead?” 

So, for Charles to be up and about, right after breaking up with Alex, hugging you and clinging on to you… it just didn’t sound right.  

Arthur blinked after your last words. “Wait, he told you he loved you?” He queried, even more confusion piling into his face.  

“Yeah, at the lunch,” you nodded, sniffling.  

Arthur mended his brows, brain beginning to hurt. If you told him this was about literally anyone else, he would be more inclined to believe you. But his own brother? He couldn’t even recognise him.  

“Which is when you had the panic attack?” He asked, trying to salvage the pieces of this puzzle he had lost. He felt you nod again, savouring the warmth of his chest in the moment as you curled up to him.  

Arthur frowned, tucking your hair behind your ear. “But what’s got you like this?” 

This clearly wasn’t the aftermath of Charles. This was something else. And by the hesitation on your face, he was right. It hurt him to see you like this. You normally told him everything. But watching you struggle, watching your defences crumble was devastating.  

You stayed silent for a moment, trying to replay the past hour in your head. “I went to Max,” you confessed with a pained sigh after some time. “I thought that if the deal was making it difficult to love Charles back, then maybe it was time to break it off. But then Max said I was Charles’ second choice,” you stated bitterly.  

Arthur made a face. Second choice?  

You huffed with a sardonic amusement. “Said Charles ‘moved on too fast.’ What the hell does he know?” You grunted, annoyance still dripping through your veins.  

“So did you break it off?” 

You paused, pulling away from Arthur’s arms. You looked up at him, uncertainty swirling within your eyes. “I guess.” 

He raised a brow. “You guess?” 

You swallowed, wincing at the taste of salt in your mouth. Clearing your throat, you sighed. “He said... he broke the rule,” you murmured. “No strings attached,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Arthur.  

Arthur smiled softly to himself. “I thought that would happen,” he admitted quietly. He tilted his head, spotting the absent look on your face as you chewed your lip. He nudged you lightly. “What?” 

“He said he had felt that way since we were kids.” 

Arthur’s body stilled. He blinked. One. Twice. Another two times. He was sure he had heard you incorrectly. “K-Kids?” He stuttered; disbelief ever present in his voice. No way... surely he would've noticed.

He raked over his memories. In all those times he had ever spent with Max Verstappen, had there ever been a sign? Snowball fights, stomped sandcastles, broken daisy chains, blown dandelions, your reddened cheeks when he'd beat his own brother in a sprint... Max was a menace as a child. But he couldn't of liked you then. Could he?

You nodded idly, staring at the fabric of the couch as Arthur leaned back, sighing with you, disbelief pouring into the both of you. Why was this getting more complicated with every passing second? 

━━━━━━━━━━━

“Max? Oh sweetie,” Victoria gasped as he opened the door for her. She frowned at her red-eyed brother, immediately bringing him in for a hug, soothing hand rubbing his back.  

“Sorry for calling you all the way here,” he mumbled, voice sore like he had been shouting or crying – neither of which his sister could tell.  

Max usually was pissing her off in the way brothers usually did. Irritable jokes. Teasing. But she could tell, this was real. When he had called her and begged her to come to Monaco, she knew he wasn't joking around. He needed his sister.  

“Nonsense,” she mumbled, pulling away gently. She looked m at him, taking in his exhausted expression. He sighed “Have you had anything to eat yet?” 

Max shook his head silently, head overrun with dangerous thoughts. What if he had lost you forever? Fuck. Should he have said nothing?  

Victoria stared at him. She almost didn’t recognise him. She sighed to herself and walked into his penthouse, opening the fridge before turning to her brother who remained at the door, lost in thought. “Okay. I’m going to make some tomato soup. And then we’ll talk, hmm?” 

And so, she did.  

Max sat at his dining table, adamantly not wanting to sit on the couch. He could still see you there. The moments of your fight clashing with every good memory he had of you in his house.  

“What happened?” Victoria asked after a few minutes of silence and ensuring Max had something to eat.  

Max stared at the bowl in front of him, rubbing his face as he sighed, frustrated. “I fucked up, Vic. I fucked up bad,” he confessed, slightly gnawing on his knuckle. 

She raised a brow. “With ___?” She gently queried.  

Her brother nodded quietly, still in disbelief. Your voice echoed in his brain. The shouting. The hurt. Ringing in his ears like a tinnitus he couldn't get rid of. “I...” he started, breathing in shortly before cutting himself off. “Charles asked me to stay away. So, I did. did. That’s why we did Portugal together.” he murmured like he was still trying to go over every second of this fallout.  

“Yeah,” Victoria softly agreed with a nod. She knew about that conversation Max had with Charles on the yacht. Safe to say she was considering throwing the nearest vase at the Monégasque.  

“And then she came over here out of nowhere and, fuck, I said nothing right,” he exasperated, reddened eyes finally looking over towards his sister. His hands flailed as the emotion took over him. “I-I told her Charles wasn’t treating her right but not why. I told her I liked her but not why. I didn’t give a fucking explanation about anything!” 

His sister winced at his anger, watching his body slowly simmer down with a pained laugh. She could see his eyes well and there he was – her true brother. Not the one in the media. Not the ‘Rarely Emotional Max.’  

This was him.  

The same guy who spent hours on the plane reading through your blog. Your very first follower actually (his username was iluvc4ts_33 and he always leaves a comment on your posts). Her brother who was distraught when you cried over Charles winning Monaco and hesitantly debated consoling you but chose not to. Max who had named his cat Jimmy after you suggested it randomly when you were kids and less hateful. He who broke your handmade daisy chains and made you even better ones after. Who attacked Charles with endless snowballs just to see you laugh and 'accidentally' ruined both of yours joint-venture into sandcastles, only to make a bigger one with you.

Victoria mended her brows. “Max, do you remember the first time you saw her?” 

Max looked at his sister like she had grown two heads. His eye twitched, head leaning in with incredulity. “Vic, I’m sitting here, crying over ___ who I don’t think is ever going to talk to me again and you’re asking me that?” 

Victoria rolled her eyes. Ever the flair for dramatics. “Shut up and answer the question.” 

“Of course I do,” he mumbled. 

Because Max could never forget it even if he tried.  

It was in 2005 in Limburg, Belgium at a karting circuit. The first time Max ever competed directly against Charles. He had heard of the Monégasque before, name swirling around through the adults and some other kids. He was curious, naturally. Who was this kid? 

Max had come to the circuit with his dad. It was cold that day. He had already been training in the rain beforehand, leaving his hands absolutely freezing to death. Italian winters weren’t exactly the kindest things.  

He was sat somewhere in the paddock, trying to remember the turns in his brain while he warmed up his hands by rubbing then when he heard a voice yell.  

“Charles! I told you to keep your gloves on.” 

The voice was soft and sharp, reprimanding yet with good intentions.  

That voice was you.  

Max blinked into himself, cheeks all rosy as he watched you run after this famed Charles. He tilted his head, blue eyes picking up your out of breath expression once you finally caught up to your friend. Your hair fell out of the beanie you wore, long and loose. You were bundled in an orange coat. You were young. Only by a couple of years. But you stood firm, grabbing the boy’s hand.  

“You’re going to catch a cold,” you huffed, big eyes peering up at Charles. 

Charles looked at you like a mere fleck of dust, shrugging off your hand. “I’ll be fine. Go give them to Lorenzo.” 

Max could tell. Even as Charles walked away from you, dismissing your entire presence. You loved him. Even then.  

It was the way your shoulders shrunk as the hurt splashed across your face. You stepped back unconsciously like you had just been stabbed. You pouted to yourself, shifting on your feet awkwardly, gripping the pair of gloves in your hand tightly.  

Max could feel his world stop as you turned around, big eyes meeting his and then falling to his reddened hands. His heart slammed in his chest with every step you took near him. He watched your cheeks bunch up as you smiled gently, your five-year-old self bending down to meet him. He sat silently, skin burning when you grabbed his hands, sliding on each glove with great difficulty, tongue resting on the side of your mouth as you concentrated.  

He swallowed when your eyes flickered back to him. He could'e sworn he had just died. He watched the cold air deepen the flush on your cheeks while you smiled again. “Good luck,” you mumbled, looking up at him.  

And just like that, you were walking away, still able to see the faint trace of Charles’ red coat.  

In that championship, Max had won. Charles wasn’t on the podium. And he caught you again with him, this time consoling the dejected Monégasque – like you would for years to come. You looked at him and smiled. And even then, as Charles looked from you to him, curious or miffed, he couldn’t tell. But Max could feel that ember of annoyance in his chest.  

So, he laughed and shook his head. Like you and Charles were beneath him. All while keeping those glove-covered hands close to himself all the way back home, holding into them like they were a last resort as his father critiqued every little thing he had done wrong that week.  

"What does this have to do with anything?" Max sighed, chest aching even further, head lightly dipping, the weight heavy on his shoulders.

His sister pursed her lips, hand reaching over to comfort him. "Whatever you feel right now. Remember it. Don't let this brief moment of weakness get in between the both of you."

"I know," he swallowed, gnawing on his lip, sting in his eyes. She was right. As she often was. But it was difficult to see this as just a mere obstacle. All he could replay in his head was the pain in your eyes. The way his confession struck you, creating this glass like denial – fragile, firm, and protective. "It feels like I've lost." His voice strained, fracturing like his heart.

"You haven't lost, Max," Victoria murmured. "You can't expect her to just accept the truth. Charles..." she paused at her brother's breath catching in his throat. "He has been everything to her. And he knows that. He's exposed this careful... facade to her purposefully. You have to recognise that you threaten his control."

Max sighed, leaning back in his chair, sniffling. He listened to his sister's words carefully, arms folded. "She's unlearning," he said, turning to her.

"Yeah," she agreed, smiling gently, patting his arm.

A silence enveloped the both of them for a beat, the realisation slowly settling in. To unlearn what had been embedded into years and years of friendship, it would take time. Even if you accepted it. Because this wasn't just a lie. This was a betrayal to your very love. To who you were.

For a moment, Victoria could feel her heart clench as her older brother looked at her, same blue eyes full of misery and hope. "Everything will be fine... won't it?" His voice echoed into his penthouse, unsure and scared. Similar to that of the same kid who fought to not collapse under his father.

She swallowed thickly, throat tight. She sucked in a deep breath of air, letting the ache curl into her lungs before she released it. "Of course it will."

It had to be.

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[toasterpancakes]

This chapter crushed me because the glove, the gloves when they were just children, and WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE WAS HER FIRST FOLLOWER 😭😭😭😭😭😭 AND NAMING HIS CAT JIMMY JUST BECAUSE SHE SUGGESTED IT RANDOMLY (contrasted with the naming of Leo)

The same guy who spent hours on the plane reading through your blog. Your very first follower actually (his username was iluvc4ts_33 and he always leaves a comment on your posts). Her brother who was distraught when you cried over Charles winning Monaco and hesitantly debated consoling you but chose not to. Max who had named his cat Jimmy after you suggested it randomly when you were kids and less hateful. He who broke your handmade daisy chains and made you even better ones after. Who attacked Charles with endless snowballs just to see you laugh and 'accidentally' ruined both of yours joint-venture into sandcastles, only to make a bigger one with you.

I just 😭 can’t……………… go back to being happy and domestic and sitting around in his apartment PLEASE.

[formulafanfics13]

Eyes Up, Lando - MV1

Masterlist

Summary: Max takes you to an exclusive F1 dinner full of chaos, elegance, and dangerously low necklines. The girls are obsessed with your tits, the drivers are trying to behave, and Max just wants to get through the night without punching Lando. Warnings: fluff, suggestive humour, titty compliments, soft possessiveness, wag chaos, everyone is a little tipsy

It started with the dress. Midnight blue, floor-length, dipped low at the back and even lower at the front. A proper V-neck. The kind that made your boobs look like art. Sculpted. Heavenly. Deadly. Max hadn’t said anything when you stepped out of the hotel bathroom, just sat on the edge of the bed and blinked once, slow.

“Is it too much?” you’d teased, twirling slightly.

“No,” he’d said, standing up and pulling you in by the waist. “It’s not enough. But I’ll be patient.”

Which is Max-speak for I want to rail you into the floorboards, but we have a thing to go to, so I’ll behave.

Barely.

Now, two hours later, you’re sat at a long candlelit table in one of the fanciest rooftop restaurants Monaco has to offer. All the drivers are here. All the team principals. Stefano. MBS. Even the WAGs, grouped at your end of the table in a feral huddle of heels, hair, and inside jokes.

Alexandra sits beside you, Rebecca across, Kika next to her, and both Lily M and Lily Z are already tipsy on sparkling rosé. There’s a course being served, but you’re all ignoring it. The real show is your cleavage.

“Okay but seriously,” Kika says, leaning closer to get a better view, “how are they so perfect? They’re sitting like fucking royalty in that dress.”

You laugh into your champagne.

“They’re not even moving,” Lily Z marvels. “That’s insane.”

“I can’t stop looking,” Rebecca admits, sipping her drink. “Like, I’m in love with you. Max better hold onto you tight.”

“He already is,” Lily M says under her breath, eyeing where Max’s hand is wrapped possessively around the stem of his wine glass, arm resting behind his chair like he’s staking claim on a kingdom.

You smirk.

The drivers are trying very hard not to look. And failing.

George, bless him, keeps his eyes locked on his bread plate like he’s in church. Charles flicks his gaze up once, then looks away so fast he knocks his fork off the table. Pierre keeps making casual conversation with Kika while subtly side-eyeing your boobs like they’re a threat to national security.

Lando? Lando is the worst. You catch him staring three separate times. And on the third, Max leans forward slightly, voice just loud enough for the surrounding drivers to hear. “Mate. Eyes up.”

Lando jumps like he’s been caught with porn open on his phone. “I wasn’t- I mean, I didn’t-”

“You were,” Max says, deadpan. “And I’ll forgive you because they do look amazing, but I will break your hands if you keep trying to memorise them.”

The table explodes. Carlos chokes on his wine. Alex straight-up howls. Charles is facepalming. George looks like he wants to slide under the table and disappear.

And the team principals? Toto sips his wine calmly. Christian pretends to be reading the menu. Fred mutters something about “les enfants, putain”and rolls his eyes.

You’re wheezing.

Max just leans back, satisfied. You lean into him, grinning.

“You know they’ve all seen them on Instagram, right?” you whisper.

“Yes,” he says, calm as ever. “But tonight, they’re mine. Just mine.”

You press a kiss to his jaw. “They always are.”

[toasterpancakes]

Best line -> Fred mutters something about “les enfants, putain”and rolls his eyes.

[toasterpancakes]

please send max requests!

[toasterpancakes]

Heels & Sneakers

Summary: Max picks you from the club at 2am to walk you home; he brings Lando and sneakers. A follow on blurb from The 6 + 1 Times Max Verstappen Tells You That He is Going to Marry You (but can be read as a standalone)

Pairing: Max Verstappen x (female) reader (established relationship, childhood best friends to lovers) ft. platonic!Lando Norris

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, PDA, mentions of going out, suggestive themes, not proof-read.

Word count: Again, I’m sorry but i wrote this on the tumblr app so I have no clue

A/N: Childhood best friends to lovers with Max really gets me. If you send me a Max (or Lando, or George, or Alex) request, I would 10/10 do it - just saying.

DISCLAIMER while the work on this tumblr may involve subjects who are actual celebrities - the work here is merely fantasy and purely for fun. Any and all fan fiction / imagines / written work set out herein is entirely a figment of my imagination and should not in anyway whatsoever be conflated with reality. Nothing on this tumblr is meant to serve as an accurate representation of any person.

“I gotta to go,” you yell out towards your friends, body leaning forward, in an attempt to be heard over the loud booming bass of the music around you. You gesture to the phone which you have in hand, the screen lit up with a message from Max: Just got here. Come out when you’re ready? Your friends nod, a group of five girls with arms outstretched, each ready with a squeal and a goodbye hug of their own who smother you as a collective, each yelling a different farewell of “love you” / “see you at brunch” / “this was fun” / “get home safe” / “we need to do this again soon”.

You grin, throwing one last wave towards the group as you start to weave your way through the crowd on the dance floor. The extended weekend, courtesy of the bank holiday on Friday had the club more crowded than usual for a Thursday night. It was a night you and your friends, a motley crew that had amassed over your 2 years of being in the city, had planned on an impromptu whim. Max had asked if your group had wanted a table, but you had rejected his offer, preferring instead to be in the middle of the dance floor - the risk of you getting mobbed by the crowd without Max was low. You free yourself of the throng of people and duck through the doors, slipping by a group who had just stepped into the venue, their eyes bright and cheeks flushed from an alcohol induced glow.

The scene outside the club is hardly what you would call quiet, chatter punctuated by the occasional whoop of excitement, unbridled laughter and the faint thump of the bass reverberating from the inside of the building’s walls. But the difference in the noise level is sharp, as you step outside into the cool of the evening. You wander to the edge of the sidewalk, eyes combing the opposite sidewalk for the man you are looking for. Your face breaks into a smile, eyes recognising him before your mind, not drunk but running on a measured amount of alcohol registers him. Max, standing beside Lando, the two men holding a conversation beside a familiar looking car parked roadside - Lando with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth in the balls of his feet and Max with his legs squared, one hand in his pocket, and the other holding onto a pair of sneakers by the laces. You had gone to the club, and Lando over to Max’s (and now yours) for Fifa.

Lando spots you first and it earns you a friendly, familiar grin and wave of his hand. His greeting has Max whipping his head around, eyes already scanning his surroundings for you. His gaze lands on you and it softens, visibly, as a smile breaks out on his features. You raise a hand in a small wave back before flicking your head from left to right, checking for a clear road before crossing towards the two men.

Max has his hand out of his pocket and arm open before your feet even hit the ground of the sidewalk he and Lando are standing on. It allows you to tuck yourself into his side, Max’s arm winding around your shoulder, securing you against him like two pieces of a puzzle that fit together.

“Hi,” you greet both men, as Max greets you, a squeeze to your shoulder, lips connecting with the side of your temple.

“I brought you sneakers,” Max says, lips still against the side of your head, “figured your feet would be tired.”

“My knight in shining armour,” you joke, your words light and teasing but the smile on your face real. You move to reach for the sneakers, only for Max to move his hand out of reach. You raise a brow at him but Max only shakes his head lightly. You glance at Lando who looks just as mystified as you.

Max answers your questions with actions, he bends, one knee at a ninety degree angle and the other on the ground.

“Hand on my shoulder and foot up,” he instructs with his words and you listen, thanking yourself for your choice to wear jeans. Max’s hands move, deftly, gently prying off your heel before slipping your foot into a sneaker which he tugs in with a finish. He repeats the motions with your other foot.

“You guys are so cute, it’s actually disgusting,” Lando’s voice floats over, and you meet the glance of the curly haired Brit. His words, despite his choice, are fond. You had come to know him well enough over the course of Max’s friendship with him on and off track, and even better since you had moved to Monaco.

“He’s cute,” you say with a grin to which Lando fake grimaces.

“Not as cute as you,” is what Max says without an ounce of shame as he straightens back to his full height, sneakers on your feet, your heels dangling from his fingers. He slips his free hand into yours, palm warm.

“Am I cute too?” Is Lando’s reply, as he pushes his bottom lip out in an exaggerated fake pout, his arms turning palms up and up in a questioning manner.

The reaction is mixed: a “no” paired with a scowl from Max and a “yes” supplemented with a giggle from you. It has Lando both grinning and clutching his hands at his chest.

“Max, you wound me, but I’ll take a yes from her anytime.”

“You’re lucky she likes you,” Max says, faux threateningly.

“You’re my favourite WAG,” Lando stage whispers at you, “am your favourite driver.”

“Lando,” Max cuts in, only for you to shake your head.

“Second favourite after Ollie,” you say in an equally dramatic stage whisper which has Max squeezing your hand in protest, his brow twitching upwards. He doesn’t comment, because he knows it’s in jest; Max would happily cede the title of favourite driver as long as he was your number one in life.

“I’m telling Carlos,” Lando grins almost devilishly as he whips out his phone. He flicks on the camera, capturing him, and you in frame, both grinning wildly, and half of Max’s face, watching on in a strange mixture of entertainment and exasperation.

“Go home Lando,” Max says as he raises the hand holding your heels towards Lando’s car.

“Would my favourite WAG and her butler like a lift?” Lando eyes the shoes in Max’s hand which the Dutchman had flapped semi aggressively at him.

“It’s alright, we’ll walk off the alcohol,” you shake your head lightly.

Lando nods in understanding as he holds his hand out to Max. You feel a temporary loss of warmth as Max lets go of your hand to clasps Lando’s in a farewell shake. Lando extends rhe same hand to you and you offer a similar goodbye.

“We’ll do brunch, you me and Ollie,” he calls out, head turning slightly back as he slips into his car.

“Can’t wait,” you call back, raising your free hand which isn’t grasped in Max’s.

You both watch as Lando pulls away, car speeding into the distance.

“You know he’s probably planning that brunch already,” Max says as he tugs your hand gently, leading you down the street in the direction of your apartment.

“Probably, but I don’t mind,” you shrug as Max brings your intertwined hands up to his mouth, letting his lips brush the back of your hand.

“Did you have fun?” He asks, as you pass an excited group who you are sure are heading for the very club you had come from.

“Yes,” you hum a response.

“More fun than when you go out with me?”

“Competitive,” you comment with a soft laugh, as you lean slightly into Max’s side.

“Me?” Max feigns innocences as he welcomes the slight intrusion into his personal space, choosing to let go of your hand and instead to envelop you within his reach and pull you even closer “never.” He punctuates his sentence with a tiny grin as both your steps slow.

You come to a complete stop, and turn your body so that you are standing, your front facing Max. You lean towards his ear, and Max, ever facilitative, ducks down slightly while his free hand, without your heels, grips your side over your top. You slide our hands along the band of Max’s jeans, fingers slipping to dance along the skin of his abdomen beneath his shirt.

“I like frat boy Max,” you say, letting your lips trail along the shell of his ear before you plant a kiss, soft, featherlight on the skin right below. It has Max’s fingers pressing against your body more firmly.

“We can turn back, get back in the club with your friends,” he says, fingers running their way up your side, wrapping themselves round the side of your ribs.

“Or we can continue home, and to bed,” you take a step forward to press a kiss on the underside of Max’s jaw, before pressing another to his lips, soft, but lingering. It is innocent enough to any bystanders, but you pull away to catch a glimpse of bright blues that have darkened with a hint of something more primal.

“You’re a menace” Max mutters as he eyes you. His gaze doesn’t leave your face but you feel his hand shift, thumb idly sliding along the fabric of your top, hans still wrapped around the side of your body.

“Yes, but your menace,” you pull away from Max, and his hand drop from your body but finds your fingers immediately, “take me home Verstappen.”

“C’mon,” Max squeezes your fingers with his as he takes the lead, tugging you in the direction of home.

[toasterpancakes]

The 6 + 1 Times Max Verstappen Tells You That He is Going to Marry You

Summary: It started when you were both 6 years old and Max declared that he was going to marry you and continued to do so at various points during your lives. You’re both now 28, and it takes one practice date with Max, and one real date you go on with another guy for him to say it again. A small follow-on in the same Universe: Heels & Sneakers.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x (female) reader

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of intoxication, Max and reader being generally dumb idiots pining for each other, Max constantly mentioning he is going to marry her, best friends to lovers, F1 inaccuracies, timeline inaccuracies, sudden confessions, crying, arguing, mentions of heartbreak / the end of a previous relationship, mentions of a cheating ex-boyfriend, mentions of not eating during a break up, sudden love confessions, they go from best friends i love you fast, let me know if I should include anything else. Not proofread.

Word count: I wrote this on the tumblr app, so idk unfortunately, but I ran and spiralled with this.

A/N: I’ve half of the first chapter of each of the George and Lando min-series which I’ve wanted to write done (+ a bit of the Epilogue for the George series - why am I jumping around chapters, I’ve no idea), and somehow, Max Verstappen hit my brain like an absolute force to be reckoned with, so here we are. Please engage, like, comment and reblog if you’ve liked this!

DISCLAIMER while the work on this tumblr may involve subjects who are actual celebrities - the work here is merely fantasy and purely for fun. Any and all fan fiction / imagines / written work set out herein is entirely a figment of my imagination and should not in anyway whatsoever be conflated with reality. Nothing on this tumblr is meant to serve as an accurate representation of any person.

Dividers used in this post taken from here and here.

“I’m going to marry you,” 6 year old Max announces to you, his voice confident, loud, sure, and unabashed in the way children tend to be.

“Only adults get married Maxie,” you respond to the boy currently lying on the grass beside you, both of you staring up at the pinkish hues of the evening sky.

“I’m going to marry you when I’m an adult,” Max says again with the same measure of certainty as he first had. It makes you giggle as you hold up one of your hands, sticking it abruptly into the air, a fist with only your pinky finger sticking out.

“Promise?”

You feel Max’s pinky, almost the same size as yours, curl around yours, tight - locking both your hands hanging above you both in a promise.

“Promise.”

You and Max are both lying on the beach. It’s a hot, dry, summer’s day, the kind that was perfect for being belly down on a beach towel, the sun’s rays hammering down on your back. Your face is propped up by your hands, eyes watching the water out in front of you ripple under the sunlight.

“Look at that boat,” you say, extending a hand to point towards the object of your interest - a white yatch, luxurious, huge, with two levels that is floating on the water, “it’s huge.”

Max hums in agreement without looking upwards, his focus trained instead on the magazine in front of him.

“I wish I could have a boat like that one day,” you sigh, as you drop one of your elbows back on the surface of your beach towel, cheek propped up in your upturned palm. It wasn’t so much the boat you were attracted to, but rather the group of you people you could see on the top deck, their strains of laugher floating towards you - people that were happy, carefree, effortless.

“I’ll buy one for you,” says Max who finally glances up from the soccer magazine he has open in front of him to look at the yatch, “when I become world champion”

“And why would you do that,” you say teasingly without glancing towards Max. You can hear him flip a page of the magazine which he is pouring through.

“Because we’ll be married,” Max says it as if it were second nature to him, without a beat of hesitation. You roll your eyes, but feel the heat of a flush creeping up your cheeks. Max had never wavered in his stance - not since you both were 6, but it was something that you had begun to notice since the beginning of spring. You were now 11, almost 12, with puberty well and truly kicking in for you and surging on slightly ahead of Max.

“You don’t know that,” you drop your head, face down on your towel as if to hide your embarrassment.

“I do,” Max says again, without missing a beat, as if it were fact. You feel wandering fingers tugging on your hair, asking silently why you had face planted yourself into your towel.

“They are going to sign me,” Max exclaims as the door of your bedroom flies open with a bang. You stare at him from where you are seated, curled up in an old, soft arm chair in the corner of your room, book open in your lap.

“Wha-” you start to question only for Max to supplement his i initial statement in a rush of excitement. His eyes, blue, striking and dancing wildly with equal parts excitement and equal parts adrenaline as he remains rooted in the doorway of your room.

“Toro Rosso,” the words are tumbling out of his mouth, “they are signing me as a test driver for the remainder of the season, and to drive for them next year.”

You’ve karted a handful of times, casually, the result of Max and his sister Victoria dragging you to the track - as one would expect being friends with Max Verstappen, but despite not being anywhere near as good as Max and Victoria, you’ve been friends with Max long enough to understand the ins and outs of karting, F3, F1. His words make you freeze, your eyes widening, jaw literally dropping open.

“Straight from F3?”

“Straight from F3,” Max voice is quieter this time as he confirms it, but his eyes - his eyes grow even brighter.

“Max,” your voice is shaky as you scramble out of your chair into a stand. Your eyes welling up with tears - of shock, happiness - because god knows how much he has wanted this since you both could remember.

There isn’t a need for anymore words and Max chooses instead to speak with his actions. He crosses the distance of your room in seconds, body slamming into yours, arms winding tight around your body. Max picks you up, lifts you so you are feet off the ground as he crushes you in a bone crushing hug. You laugh, the sound wet with the tears that have now slipped out from the sides of your eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” you say, as Max chuckles, before setting you back on the ground. He pulls apart from you, giving himself enough space to peer at you.

“Don’t cry,” he says, lifting both his hands to cradle your face in his palms, thumbs swiping away at the tears that falling rapidly down your cheeks, “you heard I was getting signed right?”

His tone is gentle, but the smile remains firmly on his face.

“I know, I’m just,” you sniffle, your hands gesturing blindly in the air beside you as you try to finish your sentence.

“I know,” Max says more softly this time as he drops his hands from your face, arms going around your shoulders instead to pull you into him. Your face collides with his shoulder, tears causing the material of his hoodie to go damp. You don’t have to explain yourself, because Max knows - knows just how happy you are for him.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, voice muffled from being buried against Max, “I shouldn’t be crying. It’s stupid.”

“Well, it’ll be a good story for the wedding,” his joke comes soft, sudden, and teasing but you both feel a hidden weight behind the lightness of his tone. Max’s marriage proclamations had dwindled from the moment his voice started to drop in octave, and became almost non-existent since he started shaving regularly. The weight of the world and words had become heavier as you both grew from tweens to 17 year old teenagers just hanging around the cusp of adulthood.

“Max,” you find yourself laughing against his shoulder. You keep your face buried against the well worn material of his hoodie, not daring to look up as you feel your stomach do a series of somersaults, “is that your attempt to stop me from crying?”

“Yes,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice grow. Max holds you tighter, pressing you even closer into him as if he was afraid you would slip from his fingers, “it worked, didn’t it?”

He tilts his head to rest the side of his cheek against the side of your hair, as he feels your shoulders shake with another laugh. You miss the look that flashes through Max’s eyes, wistful, longing, want - a look that the world didn’t commonly associate with Max Verstappen.

“So, you and him huh?” Max slides into the kitchen in the pretext of getting himself a new bottle of beer while shutting the door quietly behind him. The echos of the celebratory ruckus caused by your joined families, and more, muffled, but still audible from the hall. You are both 19 now, one an F1 driver, the other a University student; a pair of best friends who had seen too little of each other this year.

“Mhm,” you hum as you pull can of diet soda from the fridge. You set it down on the table intending to search for spoon to crack the tab open, but Max reaches for it the moment the can hits the countertop. His fingers make quick work of popping the tab open, before he sets the can down in front of you.

“Fragile nails, I know,” he shrugs. He had seen you chip your nails too many times from wrestling with stubborn drink cans.

“Thanks,” you smile before you lift the can to your lips.

“You guys dating?” Max redirects your conversation, asking his question, straightforward, to the point - Max.

“Something like that,” your tone is non-committal, casual, but Max can tell that there is something bothering you and more behind your words.

“Something like what?” He pushes you with his words, and you know he is. Max sees yours shoulders square with a tension and he takes a step towards you.

“Leave it Max,” you say, brow furrowing at his question. The truth was you wanted to give him, Will, the guy you had brought home for Christmas a name, but each time you had tried to broach the topic of ‘what are we’, left you and and Will hanging, suspended in limbo because of his reluctance to explore the topic further.

Max takes another step towards you. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. Max’s eyes are hard, but unreadable and you tighten your grip around the cool can you still have in your hand.

“Something like what?” He asks again, his voice lower this time, quieter, almost dangerous.

“Max, leave it,” you say again, your tone sharper, voice slightly louder.

“So, I’m around less for one year and you end up forgetting what taste is?” Max’s words manage to be both blunt and cutting at the same time. You glare at him, feeling the tell tale sign of your throat seizing up, as you fight back tears that prick behind your eyelids.

“Around less?” You scoff with an empty, humourless laugh, “you mean weren’t around at all?” Your words come out more accusatory and bitter than you had intended.

You’ve never blamed Max for not being around, but you felt his absence, and you had never asked him, but you were sure that you felt his absence more than he did yours. He was off, around the world, living his dream, and you? You felt like you were still, just you. It wasn’t for a lack of trying to keep up with one another - he tried, you tried but you barely saw each other in person, him a junior driver, already on the rise to dominance but still struggling to prove himself everyday, and you a University student with classes, school work, extra-curricular’s, and a general lack of time and funds to fly yourself from race to race. You both made do with FaceTime, calls, messages, but time zones complicated things, had you and Max missing each other one too many times.

You see Max open his mouth to say something, but you hear the knob on the door turn.

“Everything alright?” Will’s voice accompanied but his head peeking through the door. You manage to take a step to your side, slipping away from Max before he can even react.

“All good, got my soda,” you say with a false cheeriness as you head for the door. Will pushes it open further and offers you a hand. You take it, and follow him out of the kitchen, and back in the hall, leaving Max alone, fist clenched, heart hammering.

Max doesn’t speak to you for the rest of the party, and you don’t seek him out, but his text comes later that night after all your guest had left, your phone lightning up on your nightstand with a buzz.

Max: I’m sorry.

You find yourself exhaling, as if you are letting go of a breathe that you hadn’t even noticed you were holding. He doesn’t tell you exactly what he is apologising for, but he doesn’t need to. You understand.

I’m sorry too. That wasn’t fair.

Max: I wish I got to be around more often.

I wish you did too.

Your reply is simple, truthful. Max knows you aren’t accusing or blaming him for not being around, just telling him in more words than necessary that you missed him.

Max: You will be.

Max: You know, when we’re finally married.

His reply makes you laugh, a sudden sound ringing out in the silence of your bedroom. It is unexpected - but entirely Max.

With our two children?

You find yourself smiling as you type back your reply.

Max: I was thinking three.

Max: Can I come over tomorrow? You know, just to hang out.

The smile on your face softens a the question

I would like that.

Max: Anyone that doesn’t see you are amazing is stupid.

His message comes, sudden, out of the blue and with no link to the previous conversation, but hard hitting - just the way Max is. You don’t respond, you don’t know how, but it means everything to you.

“Max Emilian Verstappen,” you groan as you stagger out of the lift, “are you even trying to walk?”

“M’ trying,” Max mumbles, as you drag him out of the lift and down the hallway towards his apartment. He moves his feet, as if attempting to walk on his own, but only ends up leaning further into you.

“Trying my ass,” you mutter to yourself as you begin the walk towards the door of his apartment.

“Mmm,” Max hums, eyes barely open, “you have a nice ass.”

“Max,” you gasp, half incredulous, half amused.

“I mean it,” he says, raising his arms in a failing motion, before dropping them back to his side.

“How did you get so drunk,” you sigh as you muster your strength to drag him the last few steps towards his door. The question is rhetorical - you had watched his grid friends ply him and themselves with an inhumane amount of alcohol to celebrate the start of the F1 summer break - fourteen blissful days of well deserved rest which Max had cajoled you into taking time off the spend with him in Monaco. He had booked your flights, planned our the two weeks, arranged for your transportation from your home to the airport, and for himself to pick you once you landed in Monaco, cleaned up his guest bedroom for you - giving you absolutely no reason to say no.

“M’happy you’re here,” Max sighs out as he turns his head to nuzzle the side of your hair. It makes you gulp, suddenly nervous, your brain threatening to run itself into overdrive, but you push the feeling away as the movement causes him to lean more of his weight on you, causing you to plant your feet even more firmly onto the ground for balance. You stop mid walk, your focus on keeping Max upright and standing.

“I’m not going to be very happy I’m here if I die from you collapsing on me.”

“Won’t let you die,” Max exhales, his breath tickling the top of your ear. He smells like a mix of tequila, courtesy of Daniel and the last three shots that pushed Max into sleepy drunk mode, and his cologne, “M’gonna marry you, can’t let you die.”

“Max,” you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you even now. You’re both 22 now, but his words from 6 years of age still float in and out of your life.

“S’truth,” he says, planting a soft, careless kiss onto the top of your head. It’s just a brush of his lips against your hair, but it feels intimate - too intimate for a pair who were just best friends. You freeze, for a full three seconds before Max sways in the other direction, reminding you of just how drunk he is. You brush your shock, and his actions aside, refocusing your energy on getting him into his apartment.

“Alright, c’mon Maxie, one foot in front of the other.”

The doorbell rings, and you ignore it, letting the sound sweep over you. You are a mess - hair tangled, in the same clothes you had slept in the night before - clearly not having bothered to change, your eyes tired and red rimmed from crying. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten a proper meal. It rings again, this time the sound accompanies by three loud knocks.

You don’t want to answer it, but the person on the other side is persistent, ringing it again and knocking. You get up, feeling wobbly on your feet, while pulling the hood of your jacket over your head in an attempted to hide the state you are in. You inhale deeply, bracing yourself before cracking open the door just an inch.

You expect to see a deliveryman, but the sight on the other side shocks you.

“Max?” You croak, voice scratchy from crying and a lack of use, “what are you doing here.”

“I’m here to see you,” he says simply and you take a step backward, pulling the door open, just wide enough for him and his carry-on to step through. Max shrugs his backpack off his shoulders as you close the door of your apartment behind him. He turns to look at you- he is wearing jeans, a plain black tshirt, with a red bull jacket thrown over the top.

“You look like shit,” he says while opening his arms. He doesn’t need to say another word, and you don’t need to be asked twice. You step into his embrace, winding your arms around him. You shutter your eyes close as Max wraps himself around you. You don’t cry, because you’ve cried enough since the breakup 4 days ago, but your hands shake and you find yourself gripping onto the fabric of Max’s jacket to steady yourself.

“You should be at home,” you say to Max. He was race fresh, having just come off another win - you had texted him to congratulate him through your tears. Max had found out the day the break up happened - you hadn’t wanted to tell him, because it had happened mid week, during the week leading up to the race weekend, but he had sensed something was off from the way you texted. Max had FaceTimed you right away, and your resolved had crumbled, involuntarily, the moment your cameras flickered on. You had apologised, profusely, amidst ugly tears, but Max had brushed it off, stopped your apologies and asked you to tell him what was wrong. His jaw had tensed, shoulders going rigid, eyes darkening with anger as the story tumbled out of your mouth: your boyfriend of almost 4 years had cheated. Not even a drunken one night stand, but worse: a full on 6 month affair that had been going on with a colleague from work.

“I’ll go home once you’re alright,” he says, hands now rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“I really thought I was going marry him,” you whisper into Max’s hoodie. The thought had been playing around in your head the past few days, and it was the first time you had said it out loud. You were now 26, thinking that you had your life together, and everything was smooth sailing only for yourself to be proven wrong.

Max tenses for a second, his teeth clenching together, hands pausing their ministrations against your back. You would have noticed normally, but you don’t, not with grief in the forefront of your heart and mind.

“It’s his loss,” Max says after a beat of silence. Those are the words that he wants to say, but he can’t - not now, not with you like this, and more importantly, not with a girlfriend back home.

-

Max doesn’t tell you why, but you hear it from him six months later, a casual text that lands in your phone in the middle of the night: I broke up with her.

“Take me to dinner,” the words tumble out of your mouth as soon as Max opens the door of his apartment.

“Well hello to you too,” Max steps aside to let you in. He takes note of the determined look you have in your eyes as you barrel on, straight into his apartment. Things had changed in the past 2 years since you had become single, you had, with Max’s encouragement, searched for, and found a job in Monaco - something suited to your skillset, with better prospects, a more exciting portfolio, and better pay. You weren’t earning big bucks, but it was enough for you to get by, even in a city like Monaco. Max played a big part, not by giving you money, but by arguing with you until you relented to renting an apartment from him - it wasn’t as big as his, just a small one bedroom in the same building as him, a few floors down. He had set a price, which you were aware was well, well below market rate for the location, and by Monaco standards, but you had been itching for a change, and reluctant to continue arguing. You tried to make up for it in your own ways - cat-sitting when he was off for races, cooking an extra portion for him when he was home, picking up his dry cleaning when you picked yours.

“I need you to take me to dinner Max.”

“Do you want to explain more?”

“I’ve a date,” you say as you throw yourself down onto his couch. A cat, Jimmy, jumps onto your lap and you extend a hand to scratch the feline behind its ears. It purrs happily, rubbing its body against you.

“A date?” Max keeps his voice neutral as he settles down beside you.

“Mhm,” you hum in response as you trail your fingers down Jimmy’s back, the feline settling into a loaf like structure on your lap.

“With?”

“A friend of a friend from work,” you say with a shrug, finally looking up at Max, hands continuing the trail down soft fur, “she invited him for drinks a couple of times. He asked me out. Nice guy, cute.”

“Nice guy, cute,” Max repeats, tone flat, “if he is taking you on a date why do you need me to take you out for dinner?”

“I haven’t,” you start, clearing your throat, feeling suddenly self conscious, a far cry from the determination you had barged into his apartment with, “been on a date in a while.”

You hadn’t - not since you broke up with your previous boyfriend. Flirting with the occasional handsome stranger at the bar, dancing a little too closely with someone with a charming smile at the club, but not a proper date.

“So I’m FP1?” Max arches a brow at you.

“If we must speak in F1 terms, yes,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

Max doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to extend a hand towards Jimmy’s nose. The cat scrunches its nose to sniff his hand, before closing its eyes with measured indifference. Max scowls lightly at the betrayal of his own pet, before he finally responds.

“Alright, when do you want to do this?”

“The coming Saturday?” You know there no races the coming weekend.

“Fine with me.”

“Where shall we go?”

“He had no ideas, huh?” Max throws you a look, half amusement and half disbelief. It was a guess, inference on his part, but he hadn’t expected to be, had hoped that he wouldn’t be, right.

“He just asked for suggestions,” you say defensively.

Max shakes his head slowly in disapproval. He is playing it cool, calm and collected outwardly, but his heart is hammering against his ribs, thoughts spinning in his brain. He doesn’t want you to go on a date, but he wants this excuse to take you out for dinner. Not just the both of you heading to the Italian place down the road or ordering takeout.

“6pm on Saturday,” Max says as he leans forward. You find yourself holding your breath as you stare into light blue irises that are just inches from your face, “don’t think of coming down here, I’ll pick you from your doorstep.”

You see his eyes dart down for a millisecond, ghosting over the curve of your lips and you can’t help the similar pattern which your gaze traces down his face. You can’t say you haven’t thought of Max’s lips before, wondering how they would feel against your own. You drag your eyes back up to find Max’s again. You see a flicker of light in his eyes, something that looks an awful lot like hope, intrigue, curiosity.

“Why-” you start, mouth acting on instinct, moving faster than your mind - you want to ask him why, why he is looking at you like he wants to kiss you; but a shrill meow breaks through the space between you as Jimmy sinks his claws into the surface of your pants, sick of having his space crowded by his two humans.

“Jimmy,” you yelp as you and Max jump apart, startled as the feline jumps off your lap, leaping onto the coffee table. He turns back to stare at you both with a look that is almost too scathing for a non-human.

“He’s definitely your cat,” you mutter to Max as the sassy feline swivels his head slowly around to pad his way to the corner of the coffee table.

“Can’t even deny that he is.”

-

The knock on your door sounds at 6, sharp.

“Coming,” you call out as you steal one last glance at yourself in the mirror hanging in the hallway by the door. You looked good - date ready, even if you said so yourself - hair done, and light makeup that helped you look fresh but very much still yourself. You smooth the front of your dress down, brow furrowing with a slight uncertainty - Max had refused to tell you the destination for the night and had, only after much pleading, told you in a vaguely unhelpful fashion that “any dress is fine”. You had gone safe with a black dress, straps holding it up on your shoulders, cinched at the waist, skirt flaring out slightly and falling to mid-calf. You inhale deeply and pull open the door.

The sight that greets you stuns you, but in a good way - the kind that has a smile involuntarily creeping onto your face and butterflies filling the pit of your stomach. You see Max, dressed in a dark linen shirt, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, holding flowers - a small bouquet, not ostentatious, but thoughtful.

“Hi,” you breathe out as a sudden shyness washes over you.

“Hey,” Max says as he offers you the flowers, before leaning in to brush his lips against the side of your cheek, barely there and fleeting, not something he hasn’t done before, but it makes your skin burn with a blush.

“Do you always greet your dates like this?” You tease, a poor attempt to cover up the flush you can feel against your skin.

“Only when they look like you,” Max says, his words ghosting against your skin before he pulls away. Max’s gaze doesn’t drift below your below, but you find piercing blue eyes holding yours.

“You’re making me nervous,” your words are soft and honest, you saying them as they come to mind.

“It’s part of the experience. You’re supposed to feel nervous on a first date,” Max says his voice equally soft, his cheeks dimpling - only lightly teasing, with a genuine curve to his smile.

It was meant to be practice, something to warm you up - your very own FP1 courtesy of Max Vertsappen, but it didn’t feel like just practice.

-

Max had chosen perfectly - he hadn’t gone for anything fancy, opting instead for a restaurant slightly out of the city, perched on the edge of a cliff, nice, polished but subtly so and busy but in a pleasant, quiet laid back manner. He had wrangled you both a table tucked in the corner with a view of the evening sun dancing over the water’s surface, reflecting off the boats floating across the deep blue water.

“So, come here often?” Max asks casually, elbows on the table as he pops a piece of calamari into his mouth. He had ordered, but only after asking you what you felt like having, and had topped your order off with other plates of things he knew you like. You arch a brow at his question, a hint of amusement on your face only for him to shrug innocently, “FP1, remember.”

“No one is going to ask that,” you say deadpan before picking up the glass of wine in front of you to take a sip.

“Alright, I’ll try again,” Max dusts his hands off before leaning casually back in his chair, “what brings you to Monaco.”

“Max,” you start only for him to stop you.

“Nu-uh, FP1 remember.”

“My move to Monaco was caused by guy,” you say slowly, fingers tracing the outline of the base of the wine glass which you had placed back on the surface of the table, “and because of the badgering of some other guy.”

“Some other guy huh?” Max’s smile mirrors the faint, amused one on your features, “he must be pretty amazing for you to move to a whole new country for.”

“He’s alright,” you say with feigned carelessness.

“Just alright?” Max’s smile grows, “I think he’ll be a pretty great guy, You know, handsome, pretty good at what he does, thoughtful, caring.”

“You know an awful lot about him without me having mentioned his name.”

“Just a hunch,” Max says as he throws you a wink.

“He is,” you play along, pretending to nod thoughtfully, “handsome, great at what he does, thoughtful, caring, generous.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

“I think some other guy is handsome,” you correct.

“So, have you and this some other guy dated?” Max asks his question without missing a beat. You fix Max with a look that borders on exasperated, but he counters, too smoothly and pointedly, “you said you moved here at his badgering.”

“No,” you fiddle with the necklace that hangs around your neck, a habit of yours since the very man across the table had gifted you the necklace on your last birthday. Something which you had insisted was too expensive, only for him to have told that he couldn’t return it either because he has thrown away the receipt.

“Why?” Max remains with his tone light, stance open, eyes gentle, but with just a hint of the same calculated focus he uses when racing.

“We’re friends,” you start, fingers still touching your necklace as you turn your face slightly to the side, letting your gaze dance across the sea which has started to ripple with the evening breeze, “and he doesn’t see me that way. I’m not his type anyway. His girlfriends have always been stunning, put together, not me.”

You end your answer with a soft laugh - not mean, but just honest. You had answered without giving it much thought, letting the same words that came to mind, out. You had been thinking of Max’s last girlfriend - she had been glamorous, put together, polished, and with the natural confidence of someone who had grown up in all the right circles. His previous girlfriends hadn’t been all that different either. It wasn’t surprising to you - after all, you knew him as your Max, but he was, well - the Max Verstappen.

“How do you know you’re not his type,” Max’s voice is steady, the same as before, but you keep your gaze focused on the water, missing the intensity in his gaze which goes a notch up.

“He’s a four time world champion, arguably one of the greatest drivers to hit F1 and I’m just me, we don’t really match,” you tone is teasing but your words reflect the truth of your belief. You had asked yourself before, and throughout the years you had known Max, why not - allowing yourself on one too many occasions to toy with what if, only to always remind yourself that this was Max, and you were just you: his childhood friend.

Max doesn’t say anything in response, and you tear your gaze from the view to turn your attention back to him only to find him with his brow slightly furrowed, eyes looking as though a storm is brewing behind. Your heart catches in your chest as his gaze locks on yours - you can’t place a finger on why exactly, but you feel your pulse quicken.

“Max?” You shake off your silence, quashing any feelings that come bubbling up to the surface down.

“Yeah,” he snaps back to his previous self, reaching out for his own glass.

-

“You really didn’t have to walk me to my door.”

“What, you mean your dates don’t walk you to the door?”

“Well, I don’t really live in the same building as my dates.”

Your response has Max letting out a light chuckle as you both come to a stop outside door. Your keys are already in hand.

“Well, this is me.”

“Mhm,” Max hums in agreement, slight amusement on his face. He doesn’t say anymore.

“Thanks for dinner. I’ll get you for-”

“You will not,” Max cuts you off with a disapproving expression. He doesn’t need you to finish your sentence offering to pay for half of dinner.

“I-” you struggle with your words for a beat, before you sigh, choosing not to fight a battle you can’t win, “thank you for dinner, and also for this, FP1. Next weekend seems less daunting now.”

Max doesn’t say anything, but nods lightly.

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” You probe gently.

“Yeah, tomorrow morning. They want to test some upgrades with us in the sim. See what we can do before the race weekend comes around.”

“We’ll see you when you’re back,” you don’t have to explain we. Max knows you mean yourself, Jimmy and Sassy. The found family he comes back to after every race.

“Always,” Max nods again, and you smile, about to turn on your heel to unlock your door when he speaks again, “one more thing.”

“One more thing?” You look at him curiously.

Max steps a step forward, putting himself in your personal space. The scent of his cologne envelops you. Max moves, gently, with purpose, and slow enough for you to move away if you wanted to. His hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb ghosting across your cheek. You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, your stomach flipping - and in a good way.

“Alright?” Max’s voice is low, soft as he checks in on you. His eyes searching yours.

“Alright,” you confirm, barely a whisper.

He leans in, face inches from yours, gaze still locked onto you.

“Still alright,” he murmurs again, and you can only nod. Your confirmation something Max can feel against his palm from the slight motion of your head.

It happens before you have a chance to overthink. You feel Max’s lips against yours, softer than you had imagined, gentle, but decisive - without an ounce of hesitation. It’s innocent enough, one kiss, but the look in Max’s eyes as yours flutter open is what finally sends your mind reeling. One that makes it look like he wants more.

“FP1, right.” you say softly, Max’s hand still against your skin, the warmth of his palm a welcome sensation against your cheek. Max gives you a crooked smile, that is tinted with a hint of amusement, but also wistful and saying so much more.

“Don’t kiss him on the first date,” you find his searching yours, gentle but with something raw behind the blue, something threatening to burst at the seams.

“I won’t,” you both don’t say anything more, but manage to be both sure, while completely unclear on what you’re both agreeing on.

-

The week passes without much fanfare, and as it usually does when Max is away. You let yourself into his apartment twice a day, once before work to check on the cats and feed them and once after, for a longer time to feed them, replenish their water, and to provide a human presence and comfort. You send him pictures, videos of Jimmy and Sassy, peppered in through your usual text conversations. Neither of you mention the last Saturday, or your date on the coming Sunday.

Nothing has changed between you and Max, but there is an undeniable crackle of something more threatening to bubble over.

Max wins, takes 1st, and you watch, eyes glittering, joy surging through your chest as the television shows him stepping onto the podium with ruffled hair and flushed cheeks. You pause the rummage through your closet for a date appropriate outfit to send him a text, something which you always do after each race, podium or no podium, which you know he won’t see till later - after the debrief, his work and media obligations, and the celebrations have taken place.

-

Marc is nice, good looking, sweet, almost without a flaw. He picks you up from your door, holds the doors open for you, is nice to waitstaff, and up takes you to a nice restaurant - fancy, and after for a drink in well selected bar nearby, something that is currently trendy. He doesn’t let you pay for anything, says and does all the right things, compliments you in the sweetest way, which you are sure will have any other girl swooning - but you can’t help the nagging thought running through your brain. The date is perfect but it isn’t Max - it isn’t the both of you sitting amongst a quiet bustling crowd with a sea view, it isn’t Max driving you home with easy conversation and making a detour along the way for ice cream cones at a quaint, but quiet kiosk just before you hit the city.

“Well, this is me,” your words bring about a small smile to your face. One that comes off as being for Marc, but which really is because you had said the same exact words to Max one week before, “thank you for today, it was lovely.”

“Can I see you again?” Your date asks, and you hesitate, visibly, mouth opening briefly before closing again. You had no reason to say no - he was a catch, by anyones standard, but he wasn’t who you wanted, wasn’t Max.

“I’m sorry,” you offer him a weak smile, only for him to nod, understanding even in the face of rejection.

-

Max’s mind is racing at a million miles per second, he hadn’t stopped moving, since he had left you, not at HQ leading up to the race weekend, not during the each segment of race weekend not since he had gotten off that podium, not during media, the debriefs, not since the rushed shower he had before heading for the airport, not since he had boarded his jet, and not since he had ran out and off practically the same moment the wheels hit the tarmac.

Max had channeled his energy into the week, distracting himself from you, from himself, from thinking too much about you. He had flown through the race weekend in a flurry of activity, pushing himself and the team to finish on the top step of the podium, just so he could worm his way home unbothered by anyone else. From experience Max knew, that the surefire way to gain goodwill and a few days of sanctioned silence was to be at the top of the leaderboard.

He tries your apartment straight from the parking garage, suitcase in tow. He rings the bell twice, knocks three times - no answer. He checks the time, it’s late, but still within Sunday, and he hasn’t heard from you since your congratulatory text earlier in the afternoon. Max feels his heart sink, as the realisation sets in that it was likely that you were still on your date and it was going well.

He drags himself back to his apartment, the sinking feeling growing with every step, morphing slowly into something more bitter, into regret. He should have asked you not to go when he had kissed you last Saturday, but Max had been bold enough to kiss you, but too afraid to say more, because while Max wanted you, his greatest fear was losing you.

Max steps in, locking the door behind him and leaving his suitcase and backpack in the hallway. He frowns, ears not picking up the usual sound of claws clicking against the floor that greets him upon entry. Max toes off his shoes, leaving them strew in the hallway as he pads in, eyes darting around in search of the cats.

The sight that greets him as enters his living room has him freeze in mid-step, his attention transfixed on you, lying curled up in a corner of his wide sofa. You’re in tights and a hoodie, arms curled around one of the throw blankets you had left in his apartment with both cats dozing as individual loafs at your feet. Max feels his gaze soften as the bitterness he had been feeling ebbs slowly away. He knows you’ve been out, because Max knows that you would have said something if you had cancelled your date, but seeing you now curled up on his sofa, in his home, his cats dozing at your feet - Max feels like he won more than the Belgian Grand Prix today.

Max flops onto the floor beside you, bringing a hand up to brush your hair behind your ear.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, careful not to startle you. You start to stir, shifting with a soft whine of protest which has Max chuckling softly.

“Welcome home,” your say with a sleepy smile as you bring a hand up to rub your eyes, “I thought you were only going to be back tomorrow.”

“Wasn’t much in Spa,” he shrugs, not bothering to explain the fact that he had in fact, been a whirlwind since he had left you, bothering on a menace for the entire week he had been away, pushing everyone harder than he had in a while simply to keep up with the pace he set for the entire week, prompting even GP to question if this was him making a Mad Max come back.

“Congratulations on the win,” you push yourself up into a seated position, moving to a side and patting the space beside you for Max to settle into. He does, and you let yourself shift closer, mind still foggy with sleep. Max opens an arm, bracketing the back of the sofa, allowing you to curl your body towards his, allowing your head to drop towards his shoulder as your eyelids flutter close again, “you had everyone online questioning if this marks the return of your Mad Max era.”

Max hears the amusement that tints your voice even as you stifle a yawn. Your body is warm against his, the weight of your head against his shoulder, dropping towards his chest a welcome anchor. Max inhales, feeling like he can breathe again for the first time in a week.

“GP asked me that, as well” he admits. Max pauses, before his mouth moves again, words coming out of his mouth faster than they can spin through his mind, “but I just wanted to get home to you.”

“To me?” His words have you cracking open your eyes, pupils clearer, more awake than they were a moment again. Max sees you bite down on your bottom lip as you shift slightly, letting your head tilt up to look towards him. You both stare at each other, and Max searches your face. He’s looked at you thousands of times, memorised every mark you have on your skin - whether a mole or a freckle, but for the first time, Max feels as if he is watching you in daylight because he sees the same expression he has on his face in yours, the same swirling of a storm behind your eyes - fear, hope, anxiousness, longing, the same tell tale sign of someone who has wanted more for a long time. Max watches as your eyes search his, and it emboldens him.

“I keep thinking of Saturday,” the admission comes, raw and honest. Max sees the shift in your expression, micro - with your eyes widening just slightly, but it tells him everything he needs to know.

“What about Saturday?” You are asking him, but you both know the answer to his question.

“I keep thinking,” Max pauses, eyes darting across your features again, “about how I wish I could have kept kissing you.”

Max watches as your lips part, and your eyes widen even more. He sees a light behind your eyes grow, and he keeps talking.

“About how I’ve wanted to kiss you for so fucking long but let every opportunity slip. About how I should have told you not to go on the date after I kissed you. About how I wish you were there in the garage for every single race because you are the only person I care about seeking out after I get out of the car. About how I’ve seen you get your heart broken more times than it should have, and thought to myself that you should have been with me. About the time we were 6 and I promised I would marry you. About the time I broke up with my last girlfriend and walked into a jewellery store on the same day and picked up an engagement ring which I’ve had hidden in my bottom drawer for the last one and half years without wanting to admit to myself that the only person I saw when buying that ring was you.”

You’re now gaping, full on, lips parted, eyes blown wide with the tirade of information which Max had just let out.

“Talk to me,” Max starts again slow, voice almost pleading. You don’t say anything, not yet, but your brain is running at a thousand miles per hour trying to process everything.

“Fuck,” the next word comes again from Max as he moves his arm, leaning forward elbows on his knees. He drags a hand down his face before covering his face with both his hands, “I fucked up didn’t I? Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Your body mourns the loss of warmth as he shifts away, and you pull yourself from your shock. You don’t touch him, but you start talking.

“I went on the date today,” you see Max’s shoulders tense visibly, the rounded edges of his shoulder going rigid and square, “he was nice, the date was perfect, but I couldn’t stop thinking that it was wrong - because it wasn’t a drive out of town to a sea-side restaurant, it wasn’t comfortable silences and effortless conversations, it wasn’t stopping for ice cream and watching as you struggled you eat the ice cream faster than it melted. It wasn’t right because I kept thinking about you.”

Max drops his hands from his face slowly, as he turns, full body moving, to look at you.

“I think I love you,” you blurt out the sudden confession, and you can feel the heat of a blush prickling against your face immediately, warming cheeks, creating a tingling sensation on the tips of your ears and running down the sides of your neck.

“You love me,” Max echos as he stares at you and you feel yourself cringe internally as he parrots your own words back to you.

“Max I-,” your doubt kicks in as you fumble over your own words.

He doesn’t give you a chance to continue, but he moves like lightning. His lips are against yours, arms winding around you, pulling you onto his lap. Max manoeuvres you with a shocking ease so that each of your knees are bracketing his thighs. You’re kissing, his mouth sliding over yours, your lips meeting his with equal feverance, like you have both waited for this forever. It is desperate, messy, heated - but perfect.

“You love me,” he mumbles again, and this time you can feel his words against your lips. He pulls away, only to rest his forehead against yours, hands slipping under the hem of your hoodie, but still only gripping either side of your hips over the material of your tights. Max holds you as if afraid that if he didn’t, you would slip away. You see blue irises sparkling, brighter than you’ve ever seen them after a race or championship win.

“You bought a ring?” You ask, unable to help the smile that creeps onto your face. Your palms are light, pressed flat against his chest. The confession doesn’t scare you, not when it is you and Max, not when it is this. Not when he has been telling you since you were both 6 what exactly he wanted to do.

“I did,” he doesn’t even attempt to deny it.

“You’re insane,” you breathe out, but you statement is without malice, as Max leans forward to capture your lips with his again. It feels so natural to him, for you both to be here with everything different and yet it being all the same.

“I’m insane but I love you,” Max mumbles once again, against your lips. His confession slips out as easily as yours. You pull back slightly, causing Max to frown at the loss of your lips against his. He squeezes your hips lightly in protest.

“Were you just going to hide it in your drawer forever?” Your curiosity gets the better of you.

“Until you were ready, yes,” the response answers your current question, “and until you are ready, because I am going to marry you.”

He repeats his promise of 22 years ago again, with a smile on his face that manages to straddle mischief and a genuine happiness, and which causes his cheeks to dimple.

You run your hand up his chest, along his shoulder, along the side of his neck letting your fingers hang loosely from the base of his neck.

“You’ve always been presumptuous.”

“Or I’ve just know all along that you’re mine.”

“Am I?” You only mean to tease with the question but it elicits a growl from the back of Max’s throat. He drags you closer to him, pulling you further along his lap, closing the mere inches of space you have left between you.

“Yes,” his voice is low, tone featuring a possessive edge, “you’re mine.”

You don’t reply, because you don’t need to - you know, Max knows, and some part of you has known all along that you are his, have always been his. You opt for tilting your head down to meet Max’s lips again and you feel his smile against your own.

[pucksandpower]

Crash Course in Love

Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz’s best friend!Reader

Summary: in which Carlos forgets to tell his two best friends they’ll be staying in his villa together, and now a stressed out lawyer has to survive living with a human golden retriever, but you know what they say … opposites attract

You’ve been in Marbella for four days and already gone through three bottles of wine and two existential crises.

Carlos’ villa is too quiet for someone used to white noise: emails pinging, heels clacking, cortisol. The silence in this place isn’t peaceful — it’s accusatory. You’ve spent more time staring at the sea than you have your own reflection in the last ten years, which is saying something.

It feels indulgent. Like if someone walks in, they’ll accuse you of being lazy. You’d have to explain the insomnia, the migraines, the crying in bathroom stalls between depositions.

But Carlos isn’t here to judge. He’s off somewhere filming shampoo commercials in Paris or golfing in socks with his dad. He just texted you the gate code and told you to “relax, coño.” So here you are, inhaling almond-scented air and avoiding your inbox.

You’re halfway through a rerun of The Holiday when the doorbell rings.

You don’t move.

It rings again. Louder.

“Delivery?” You mutter to no one. You didn’t order anything.

You shuffle to the door in socks and an old hoodie of Carlos’ that you’ve unofficially adopted. You crack the door open and freeze.

Lando Norris is standing there. With a suitcase. And a sunburn.

“Hey,” he says, blinking like he’s not entirely sure this is the right house. “You’re not Carlos.”

“You’re … not a delivery guy.”

“Definitely not. Unless you ordered someone with mediocre Spanish and no plan.”

You blink. He grins.

“Sorry, I’m Lando. Uh. Carlos said I could crash in the guest room. Hotel bailed on my reservation. Long story. But he didn’t mention you’d be here.”

“He didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

“Cool. So we’re both surprised. That’s … fun?”

You stare at him. He looks like he just rolled off a yacht he wasn’t invited on. Sleeveless shirt, board shorts, and the confidence of someone who’s never had to Google “how to flirt.”

You open the door all the way. “Come in, I guess.”

He wheels his suitcase past you. It makes an annoying thunk over the threshold. You follow him into the hallway, watching as he does a slow 360 like he’s never seen furniture before.

“Whoa. This place is insane. Does Carlos actually live like this, or is he secretly royalty?”

“Just rich.”

“Same difference.”

You cross your arms. “You want something to drink?”

“God, yes. I’m parched. Is that still a word people use? Parched?”

You turn toward the kitchen. “Not since 1912.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Alright. Tough crowd.”

He follows you to the kitchen like a golden retriever. Doesn’t ask where things are — just opens cabinets and drawers like it’s his Airbnb.

“I got this,” he says, pulling out two glasses. “I’m a fantastic guest. Top tier. Five stars on all platforms.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You have reviews?”

“No, but if I did? Flawless.”

He pours two drinks. One is wine. The other is apple juice. He hands you the wine. “Cheers.”

You eye the juice. “Is that … what you’re drinking?”

“I burnt a little on the flight. Gotta rehydrate.”

He’s completely serious. Like drinking juice is a medical emergency. You stifle a laugh.

“You okay?” He asks, suddenly earnest. “You look like you’re tired. But not like, normal tired. Lawyer tired.”

You blink at him. “Lawyer tired?”

“Yeah. Like … your eyeballs are sleepy but your soul’s still trying to finish a brief.”

You stare.

“I mean that in a good way. Like, impressive. Respectfully.”

“Wow.”

“I should stop talking.”

“Yeah, probably.”

***

Dinner is his idea. You offer to order something in. He insists on cooking. “I make a mean carbonara,” he says. “Or maybe risotto. Wait, do you eat dairy?”

You nod.

“Okay, sick. Chef Lando it is.”

You spend the next hour watching him destroy Carlos’ kitchen with the chaotic enthusiasm of a man who’s only cooked two times in his life and once lit a tea towel on fire.

He tells stories while he cooks, most of them involving near-death experiences, bad tattoos, and a rental car that somehow ended up in a lake.

You lean on the counter, sipping your wine. “Do you ever filter?”

“Rarely. But I can if you want. I can be quiet. Mysterious. Brooding.”

“You?”

He makes a face. “Okay, rude.”

“You burn your hand yet?”

“Twice,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m hiding it to preserve my ego.”

He fumbles with the tongs. Pasta flies out of the pan and onto the floor. He shrugs. “Five-second rule?”

You deadpan. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

He laughs. You notice he has a nice laugh. Not performative. Just … happy.

Dinner is terrible. Somehow both overcooked and cold. You take one bite and try not to gag.

“So?” He asks, eyes wide with hope.

“It’s … ambitious.”

He winces. “I’ll order pizza.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Should’ve stuck with cereal,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

You don’t mean to smile. But you do.

***

Later, you sit on the couch with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls through terrible Spanish romcoms on TV.

“This one’s got a 3.4 on IMDb.”

“Perfect.”

He clicks play.

You steal glances at him when he’s not looking. He’s gotten more attractive since the last time you saw him, though you’re not sure if it’s the jawline or the fact that he keeps folding your hoodie when you leave it on the back of a chair.

He’s obnoxious, yes. Too comfortable too fast. But when you yawn mid-movie, his entire face falls.

“Oh no, I’m boring you.”

“It’s the wine.”

“I’m still boring you.”

“You’re not.”

“I totally am.”

He turns toward you, earnest again. It’s disarming. “You wanna sleep? I’ll shut up.”

“You never shut up.”

“Harsh.”

He watches you for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

You pause. That question again. The one you’ve been dodging since the breakdown.

“Yeah,” you lie.

He nods. But doesn’t push.

You both go quiet. The movie drones on in the background.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a cool vibe.”

You look at him. “What does that mean?”

“I dunno. Like … your energy. It’s nice.”

You snort. “Are you high?”

“No! I’m complimenting you. With words.”

“This is how a teenager hits on a barista.”

“Okay, true, but still. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “Just accept the compliment.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t say no.

***

By the time you head to bed, the house smells like burnt garlic and whatever cologne he bathed in.

You hear him shuffling around in the guest room next to yours. Singing under his breath. Awful pitch.

You press your face into the pillow. You’re not supposed to like this. The noise. The chaos. The presence.

But when you wake up later and find your bags stacked neatly by the door — shoes lined up, hoodie folded on the chair — you smile.

Just a little.

And only when no one’s looking.

***

It starts the next morning with coffee.

You’re barely awake — just a hoodie-draped zombie with bed hair and a fading dream you don’t want to examine — when he appears in the kitchen, too chipper, too shirtless.

“You drink it black, right?” Lando asks, holding out a steaming cup like he’s been doing this forever. His curls are a mess. There’s toothpaste on his chin.

You blink at him. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

“You made fun of me yesterday for putting oat milk in mine. I remembered.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s called observation. I do it professionally.”

“Driving is not the same as remembering my coffee order.”

“I do both with style.”

You accept the cup, suspicious. “Did you spit in this?”

“Only love and a little judgment.”

You take a sip. It’s surprisingly decent.

“You’re not completely useless.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He says it with a grin, but something flickers in his eyes when you smile over your cup. You don’t catch it. Not yet.

***

Days pass like that. Mornings laced with caffeine and accidental comfort.

You fall into a rhythm neither of you talks about. He gets up earlier than you expect — blasts music while brushing his teeth, sings ABBA off-key in the hallway, makes smoothies that look like radioactive goo.

You argue over playlists constantly.

“No. We’re not doing Pitbull at eight in the morning.”

“He’s Mr. Worldwide! It’s inspirational.”

“He’s bald and shouting.”

“That’s showbiz, baby.”

Sometimes, you win. Most of the time, he sneaks Mr. Brightside onto every playlist and pretends he didn’t.

You never thought you'd get used to someone like him. Loud. Playful. Constantly hovering in your peripheral vision. But there's a gentleness under the antics. A sweetness that doesn't beg to be noticed, but you notice anyway.

He drives you to the market without asking. Carries your groceries like it’s a competition. Starts trying to cook again — more confident than competent.

“What’s your favorite dish?” He asks one evening, hunched over his phone like it owes him money.

You answer without thinking. “Cacio e pepe.”

“Easy. I got this.”

He doesn’t got this.

He overcooks the pasta, forgets to salt the water, and ends up Googling “what is pecorino” in a panic.

You walk in on him whispering “don’t clump, don’t clump” at the sauce like it’s sentient.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Need help?”

“Nope. I’m an artist. This is part of the process.”

He serves it with flair. You pretend not to notice the texture is more glue than cheese.

Still, you eat it. He watches your face the whole time, pretending not to. When you finish the plate, he beams like he’s won a Michelin star.

^**

The rain starts on a Tuesday.

You wake to gray skies and the soft percussion of drops against the villa’s roof. You think it’ll pass. It doesn’t.

By mid-afternoon, you’re both restless.

“I have to move,” you say, pacing in the living room. “I need to do something.”

Lando sprawls across the rug like a teenage boy at a sleepover. “Let’s play Mario Kart.”

“That’s not productive.”

“You’re literally vibrating with stress. Sit down. You need to get your ass kicked by Princess Peach.”

You do not get your ass kicked. You annihilate him.

“This game is rigged,” he whines as your kart zips past his. “You’re cheating.”

“I'm just better.”

“You're heartless. Cruel. Unfairly good at drifting.”

“You sound like a man who’s losing.”

He groans, flops over, and covers his face with a throw pillow. “I hate fish.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just thought I’d change the subject.”

You snort. “Okay. Why?”

“They smell weird. They look weird. Their eyes freak me out.”

“Do you think fish can understand us?”

He lifts the pillow slightly. “Are we high right now?”

“No, I’m serious. What if they know we’re watching them?”

“Then I owe a lot of apologies to some sushi.”

You laugh. A real one. Not the polite chuckle you use in meetings, not the rehearsed smile for courtroom civility. This one hits your ribs.

He sits up. Watches you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just … you’re different when you laugh like that.”

You glance away. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot something was weighing on you.”

His voice is soft now. Uncharacteristically so. You don’t respond right away. Just look out the window, rain sliding down the glass in long, lazy streaks.

After a while, you say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He looks over.

“I mean, with my life,” you continue. “I was going so fast, for so long, and now I’ve stopped and I don’t … know what’s left.”

You stare at your hands. You hate how raw that sounds. How uncertain.

He doesn’t jump in. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t try to fix it.

Just sits beside you. Quiet.

“I used to think being successful would feel better than this,” you say. “But I don’t even remember who I was before I started chasing things I don’t even know if I wanted.”

“Do you wanna go back?” He asks.

“No. But I don’t know how to go forward, either.”

He nods. Not like he understands completely — but like he’s trying to. Like he’s holding space for you, instead of advice.

“I don’t have answers,” he says eventually. “But I’m really good at distractions.”

You smile faintly. “Clearly.”

“I mean, c’mon. My carbonara almost killed you.”

“It did. I wrote a will after.”

“Harsh.”

“Truthful.”

He grins, and you feel lighter. A little.

***

That night, the rain intensifies.

You can’t sleep. Not because of the storm, but because something inside you is too noisy. Like your mind won’t stop pacing the room.

You wander out into the hallway, barefoot and restless, planning to make tea.

You don’t expect to see the front door open.

Or the rain soaking the floor tiles just past the entry.

Or him — barefoot, shirt clinging to him, hair dripping, crouched on the porch with his hands around a toppled plant.

You step outside. The rain is warm. Immediate. Your hoodie clings to your skin.

“Are you serious?” You call.

He looks up. His smile is sheepish, wide. “It fell over. I didn’t want it to drown.”

“In the middle of a storm?”

“Poor guy didn’t ask for this.”

You stare at him. His knees are muddy. There’s a leaf in his hair. He’s cradling the ceramic pot like it’s a kitten.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.”

“But also kind of … sweet.”

He looks at you.

You’re not sure what’s shifted. Maybe it’s the rain. The hour. The silence between the two of you that’s no longer awkward.

You’re suddenly aware of how close he is. How sincere his face becomes when he thinks you’re not looking.

He stands slowly. Water drips down his neck.

You say, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You say, “You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

And there it is — that moment. Hanging. Taut.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

But the kind of stillness that precedes something inevitable.

He tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t touch anything else.

His fingers are cold. His eyes are impossibly warm.

You shiver.

He notices. “Come on. Let’s not catch pneumonia.”

You nod. Follow him inside. Neither of you says much as you dry off.

But something’s different now.

And you both feel it.

Like you’ve stepped into something bigger than a holiday detour.

Something that might last.

***

You don’t expect him to ask.

You’re elbow-deep in a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some Spanish cooking show neither of you understands, when he says it — casual, like it’s nothing.

“You should come to Monaco next weekend.”

You blink. “What?”

“To the race. I’ll give you the VIP treatment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get a lanyard. And free food. And I pretend to be cooler than I actually am.”

“So, your regular weekend?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You scoff. “I’m not going to be some … grid girl.”

His grin falters. Just a little. “It’s not like that.”

“Lando.”

“You’d be my guest.”

“That’s worse.”

He turns toward you on the couch, legs folded under him like a golden retriever mid-persuasion. “Come on. It’s glamorous. There’s champagne. Helicopters. You love judging rich people.”

“That part is tempting.”

“I’ll let you wear one of my team shirts.”

“Still not sold.”

“I’ll bribe you with food.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll-” He pauses, thinks hard, then lights up. “-I’ll serenade you. Publicly. At the paddock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Off-key. Acapella. I’ll make the engineers cry.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

He leans closer, dramatic whisper: “Come on. I’ll look lonely if you’re not there.”

“You’ll be surrounded by people.”

“Yeah, but none of them steal my fries and insult my music taste.”

You try not to let the warmth bloom too fast. “That’s your best argument?”

He lifts his hands. “That’s all I got.”

You shake your head. “Fine.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You sigh. “Yes. Before I change my mind.”

He fist pumps the air. “YES. I mean — cool. Chill. No big deal.”

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

“Your loser.”

You ignore the way your chest does a weird little flutter.

***

You regret saying yes almost immediately.

Not because you don’t want to go — but because it’s a lot.

The paddock is chaos. Noise. Cameras. Sunglasses on everyone, like they’re all pretending it’s not just overcast. You can feel eyes on you from the second you step out of the car.

Lando’s bouncing on the balls of his feet beside you, grinning like he owns the place. Which, in a way, he kind of does.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod, a bit dazed. “You weren’t kidding about the VIP treatment.”

“Would I ever lie?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

He hands you a pass. “Here. This is your all-access badge. Makes you important.”

“Is it laminated?”

“Of course it’s laminated. We’re not animals.”

You laugh. He smiles like that was his whole goal.

People greet him constantly — engineers, press, fans. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder more than once, guiding you through the crowd.

You notice it after the third introduction: no one asks who you are. They all assume.

“Oh, so this is your-”

“Hey, you finally brought her!”

“Lando’s girl, right?”

You start correcting people. At first.

“Oh no, we’re just-”

“Not together, actually.”

“Just friends.”

But he never jumps in. Never clarifies. Just smiles, tugs you along, calls you mate in that annoyingly endearing way.

At some point, you stop correcting anyone. You tell yourself it’s just easier that way.

You’re lying.

***

You meet Oscar by the snack table.

He’s polite, a little dry, surprisingly funny. You’re mid-laugh when Lando shows up, scooter wheels screeching dramatically.

“Hey,” he says, too loud. “What’s going on here?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Just talking.”

“Looked like flirting from over there.”

Oscar blinks. “I was complimenting her trainers.”

Lando squints. “They’re mine.”

“Ah.” Oscar smiles. “Well, you’ve got good taste.”

You can feel the tension radiating off Lando like heat from asphalt.

“Oscar was just telling me about the simulator,” you say, steering the conversation.

Lando crosses his arms. “Yeah? I’m faster than him in it.”

“By two-tenths,” Oscar says mildly.

“Still counts.”

You glance between them. “Are you … racing right now?”

Oscar shrugs. “Always.”

Lando tries to lean casually against a tire stack. Misses. Nearly faceplants into a crate of water bottles.

You wince. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, hopping back up.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable.

You bite your lip. “Should I, uh, go find my seat?”

Oscar nods. “Probably safer over there.”

You follow Lando as he storms off, silent. His curls are a mess. His ears are red.

When you finally stop near the garage, you say, “What was that?”

“What?”

“You nearly crashed your scooter trying to interrupt a conversation.”

“He was flirting with you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was definitely flirting with you.”

“And if he was?”

Lando blinks. “I-”

You tilt your head. “Lando.”

“I didn’t like it.”

You cross your arms. “Why not?”

He stares at the ground. Rubs the back of his neck. Looks nothing like the confident, camera-ready version of himself from earlier.

Finally, he says, quietly, “I just really like you.”

You freeze.

“I know I’m not your type,” he adds quickly. “And I know you’re probably just being nice to me because I make dumb jokes and cook badly and follow you around like a puppy-”

“Lando-”

“-but I’d try, you know? To be whatever it is you’re looking for. Even if I’m not it.”

The words hang between you. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen from him before.

You laugh. Just a little. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s too much.

He looks crushed.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That wasn’t — I’m not laughing at you. I’m just … overwhelmed.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile through it.

You reach for his arm. “You don’t have to be anything else. You’re already …”

You stop. Your heart fills in the blank your brain can’t say.

You’re already it.

***

Back in the garage, you watch him from a distance. He’s talking to his engineers, gesturing wildly, helmet tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t glance your way.

For once, you’re the one staring.

Something’s shifted again. The line you’ve been walking is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with.

Maybe this thing — whatever it is — isn’t waiting to be defined.

Maybe it’s just becoming.

***

It starts with a subject line you don’t want to read.

RE: Return to Work Policy Update.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the villa’s sun-warmed patio, coffee cold beside you, when the email comes through. You stare at it for a full minute before opening it.

Then you read it. Reread it. And again.

By the time the words actually register, your throat is dry.

They want you back.

In the office. Full-time. Effective immediately.

No room for extension. No regard for the months of burnout, the time zone, the soft, tender recovery you’ve only just begun to trust.

The deadline sits there, bold and final: next Friday.

If you don’t return, they’ll consider it a resignation.

Your hands tremble. Not dramatically. Just enough to spill a little coffee when you try to pick up the mug.

You wipe it away with your sleeve. Then you close the laptop slowly, gently, like maybe that’ll keep the contents from being real.

***

Lando doesn’t notice at first.

You’re good at hiding. You always have been.

He bounds into the kitchen mid-morning, wearing swim trunks and no shirt, hair wet from the sea. “I made toast!” He announces proudly. “It’s only slightly burnt. Also, I may have used all the butter.”

You smile. Or something close to it.

He pauses. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna go for a swim?”

“Not right now.”

He watches you for a second longer than normal.

Then shrugs. “I’ll save you a good floaty.”

You nod.

But later, you don’t join him. You stay inside. You open a suitcase you haven’t touched in weeks. You fold slowly, carefully. As if touching your things too fast might make it all feel too real.

***

The villa shifts.

There’s a silence between you that hasn’t been there before. Not sharp, just … echoey.

You stop making jokes. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop stealing his hoodies and pretending not to.

Lando notices.

And he spirals.

First, he overcompensates — louder jokes, bolder breakfasts, compliments that sound like YouTube comments.

“You’re glowing today. Like, solar flare-level.”

“Okay.”

“That hoodie’s working overtime. Is that a new shade of existential dread?”

You manage a weak laugh. It makes him look relieved. Which only makes you feel worse.

Because none of this is his fault.

He doesn’t know.

You don’t tell him.

***

Wednesday, he plans the party.

He does it in secret. Sort of.

Oscar is in on it. So is Carlos — over FaceTime, mostly to say things like “Do not set anything on fire” and “Are you using actual TNT?”

Lando doesn’t care about the logistics. He just wants to make you smile.

“She’s leaving, I think,” he mutters, digging through drawers for balloons. “She hasn’t said it, but … I can tell.”

Oscar looks at him, concerned. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.” Lando shrugs. “I think I broke it.”

“You?”

“She’s … retreating. Like, emotionally. It’s like she’s packing her heart before her suitcase.”

Oscar frowns. “That’s poetic. Are you okay?”

Lando ignores the question. “I just want her to know she matters here. That this mattered. That I’ll-” He stops. Runs a hand through his curls. “-that I’ll miss her. So fucking much.”

***

The party is terrible.

Confetti ends up in the punch. The playlist is just ABBA and Martin Garrix on loop. Oscar bails halfway through. Carlos texts I warned you.

But the real problem is this.

You don’t show up.

Lando waits. He checks his phone. Checks the garden. The pool. The kitchen.

Nothing.

Eventually, he wanders outside. Something tells him to check the back.

That’s where he finds you.

Curled into yourself on a bench beneath the lemon tree, head bowed, fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. Shoulders shaking.

He stops mid-step. Heart hammering.

“Hey.”

You flinch, barely.

He walks slowly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.

You shake your head.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he admits. “But you’re-”

“I’m leaving,” you say suddenly, voice hoarse. “Next Friday. If I don’t go back, they’ll fire me.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lando sits beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just near.

You bury your face in your hands.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper. “But I don’t know how to stay, either.”

And just like that, the dam breaks. The tears come fast, messy, embarrassing in their intensity.

You expect him to panic. To joke. To offer a stupid, misplaced solution.

He doesn’t.

He just slides closer. Wraps his arms around you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says softly, chin resting on your hair, “but I can sit here until you’re okay.”

You cling to him like he’s a life raft. And maybe he is.

You cry harder.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I’ve spent years building a life I’m not even sure I want anymore.”

“Then don’t go back to it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am without it.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, quietly, “I think you’re someone who deserves to choose. And be chosen.”

You pull back slightly. Just enough to look at him.

His eyes are red. Not from tears, just open. Vulnerable.

“Lando,” you whisper.

He leans in.

Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle. Reverent. A question more than an answer.

You breathe into it. Let your hand slide to his jaw. Let yourself feel the way he sighs against your mouth, like kissing you is something he’s been holding in for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he says, barely audible.

You close your eyes.

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

You don’t decide to stay because of Lando.

Not exactly.

You decide to stay because the thought of packing up now — of folding all this softness into a suitcase and shipping it back to a life you’re no longer sure you chose — makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with clarity.

Lando doesn’t ask questions. He just finds you that morning in the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, scribbling a pros and cons list onto the back of an electric bill.

You don’t look up. You just say, “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

He’s quiet for a second too long, and you glance up — worried he didn’t hear, or worse, that he did.

But then he grins. Huge. Bright. Like someone lit a fire inside him.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No.”

“Like … not leaving leaving?”

“For now.”

“For now,” he echoes, nodding, trying to play it cool. “Right. Yeah. Cool. Chill.”

You sip your coffee.

He bumps your shoulder. “So … does this mean I can keep introducing you as my emotionally exclusive, spiritually bonded non-girlfriend?”

You laugh into your mug. “That’s not a thing.”

“It could be. It sounds deep. Very committed. Like a tax bracket.”

“Just say girlfriend.”

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“Then talk.”

He straightens, clears his throat dramatically. “Would you do me the honor of being my emotionally exclusive-”

“Lando.”

“Girlfriend. Would you be my girlfriend?”

You give him a long look. “Okay.”

He whoops and spins you around the kitchen before you can change your mind.

***

The days fall into place like dominoes after that.

Not perfect. Just … consistent. Yours.

Mornings start with half-burnt toast and Lando doing pushups in the living room because “I skipped the gym, babe. You want me to be weak?”

You steal his hoodies like it’s your job. He leaves little notes in your shoes like it’s his.

Sometimes, you fight. Over dumb stuff — who used the last clean towel, whether ketchup belongs in the fridge or the pantry, if “driver” is a real career or just a glorified Mario Kart enthusiast.

But the making up is easy.

It always has been, with him.

***

One afternoon, Lando walks into a coffee shop holding your hand and introduces you to the barista.

“This is my girlfriend.”

You blink. He hasn’t used the word out loud yet.

“Well,” he adds quickly, “not officially officially, but like, we’re emotionally exclusive. Spiritually connected. She knows where I keep my socks.”

The barista nods slowly, very confused.

You squeeze his hand. “We’re dating.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “Cool.”

Lando turns to you as soon as she walks away. “Was that weird?”

“A little.”

“Did I oversell it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you still like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He beams. “Sucker.”

***

You record a video of him attempting to fold laundry and accidentally inventing a TikTok dance while pulling a hoodie inside out. It gets 300,000 likes overnight.

He tries to act modest. Fails completely.

“I’m an icon,” he says, scrolling through the comments. ‘Boyfriend energy — see that? That’s me. I am the boyfriend.”

You steal his phone.

“HEY!”

“No more reading comments. You’re unbearable.”

He leans in, eyes wide and innocent. “You knew what you signed up for.”

You did.

You just didn’t know it would feel this good.

***

Carlos calls during dinner one night. You’re sitting outside, feet in Lando’s lap, a half-eaten bowl of pasta between you.

Lando puts the call on speaker.

“Have you both burned down my villa yet?”

“Nope,” Lando says cheerfully. “Just christened all of it.”

You kick him.

Carlos sighs. “I knew letting you stay there was a mistake.”

You grin. “We’ll leave it better than we found it.”

“Good. Because I’m coming back next month.”

Lando chokes on his milk.

Carlos raises an eyebrow — visible even through the pixelation. “What?”

“Nothing. Cool. Chill. Welcome back, mate.”

You lean in. “We’ll be out before then.”

“Where are you going?”

Lando shrugs. “Nowhere far.”

Carlos stares suspiciously, but lets it go.

For now.

***

It happens on a Sunday.

You come home from the market, arms full of fresh herbs and way too many lemons because Lando said “go big or go home,” and walk into absolute chaos.

Smoke. Everywhere.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Lando?”

A pan clatters. “It’s fine!”

You drop the groceries and rush in. He’s waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, eyes watering.

“What did you do?”

“I was trying to make that shrimp thing you like!”

“I told you I was allergic to shellfish!”

He pauses. “Wait, shrimp counts as shellfish?”

You just stare.

“I thought it was like … seafood.”

“It is seafood!”

“So … not fish?”

You blink at him. “That’s your defense?”

He drops the towel. “I’m really bad at this.”

You cross your arms. “I noticed.”

He opens his mouth to keep digging the hole.

You laugh.

It surprises both of you.

“God,” you say, walking over, “you’re a disaster.”

“I tried to impress you!”

“With anaphylaxis?”

“I got confused!”

You wrap your arms around his waist, still laughing.

He exhales, relief flooding through him.

You tilt your head up. “Next time, just buy me a cupcake.”

He grins. “Can do.”

Then he kisses you. Slow, familiar. Like you have nowhere else to be.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this mess of smoke and lemons and burnt fish-smelling air is yours.

***

Later, curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, you ask, “So what’s the plan when Carlos comes back?”

Lando taps something on his phone, pretending to be casual. “We … move?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”

He tosses the phone down and stretches, clearly trying to be nonchalant. “I mean, we can’t actually stay here forever.”

“No,” you admit.

“I’ve been looking at places.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, cheeks going pink. “Just, you know. In case we want … options.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “And do we?”

“I do.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then grins.

“Hey … do you know any good lawyers?”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because Carlos is definitely going to want his villa back. And I think I need legal counsel before I sign the papers on a new one.”

You laugh. “Are you trying to retain me?”

He grins. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.”

You nudge him playfully. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

And you’re staying.

***

Carlos arrives at the villa just after noon, sun-tanned and dead-eyed, dragging two suitcases and a single, unrelenting hope.

Peace. Quiet. Maybe a cold beer. No one yelling. No team meetings. No cameras.

Just Marbella, his lemon trees, and the blessed sound of absolutely nothing.

He exhales as he unlocks the front gate, breathing in the soft scent of sea salt and sunscreen. It’s good to be home.

Or so he thinks.

Because he hasn’t noticed the massive moving truck parked next door yet.

***

He’s halfway through unpacking — half a beer gone, half a suitcase open — when he hears it.

A crash. Then laughter. Then what sounds like, yep that’s Lando’s voice shouting, “Babe, I think I broke the blender but like … in a hot way?”

Carlos freezes.

“No,” he mutters. “No. No. No.”

He walks stiffly out to the garden wall, cranes his neck — and there, as if summoned by evil spirits and bad karma, is Lando.

Wearing a tank top, holding a screwdriver, grinning like the world is made of sunshine and Monster energy.

“CARLOS!” He yells, delighted. “You’re back!”

Carlos stares, horrified. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, right — funny story!” Lando sets the screwdriver down on what might once have been a blender. “We live here now.”

“You what?”

“Moved in last week.”

Carlos blinks. “Here? As in … next door?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”

Carlos looks like he’s trying to mentally summon a lightning strike. “You bought that place?”

“Well, technically it’s still in escrow,” Lando says, wiping his hands on his shorts. “But spiritually, we’ve already moved in.”

Carlos glares.

Lando grins wider. “Wanna see the kitchen? We painted one of the walls blue by accident but I think it kind of slaps.”

Before Carlos can recover enough to yell, you step out from inside, wearing Lando’s hoodie and holding a glass of orange juice like you own the sun.

You freeze. “Oh.”

He blinks. “You’re here too?”

You smile sheepishly. “Hi, Carlos.”

Lando beams. “We’re neighbors!”

Carlos closes his eyes. “I need another beer.”

“Want one of ours?” Lando offers brightly. “I bought those fancy ones you like. The ones with the weird labels.”

Carlos opens one eye. “Did you drink all the ones in my fridge?”

“No! I have your beer memorized.”

“That’s not better.”

You snort, already laughing.

Carlos stares at the two of you, then sighs. “This was supposed to be my peaceful getaway.”

“We can be peaceful,” you promise.

Lando leans against the garden wall. “Super peaceful.”

A loud crash echoes behind him.

You wince. “What was that?”

Lando blinks. “Oh no. I left the microwave on.”

Carlos groans into his hands. “This is my nightmare.”

“C’mon, it’s us,” Lando says, grinning. “What could go wrong?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He just walks back into his villa, muttering something about divine punishment.

***

From his kitchen, he can hear you both laughing through the open windows.

And weirdly, it kind of sounds like home.

[toasterpancakes]

as a lawyer, this fed my soul.

[toasterpancakes]

Ocean Eyes: Whereabouts Unknown | Mini-series | Masterlist

F1 - A Lando Norris Fanfiction

Pairing: Lando Norris x (Childhood Best friend) Reader

Genre: Romance; fluff; angst; hurt / comfort

Warnings: Childhood best friends to lovers; they are both idiots; sexual tension; general cursing; fem!reader; reader has long hair; general use of pet names; F1 inaccuracies; pining; years of pining; mutual pining; mentions of previous relationships / break ups; reader is from a privileged background; includes hurt / comfort; dealing with burnout / insecurity / mental and general struggles; will have mentions of Lando’s ex-gfs (maybe Magui - but we don’t hate the real person); this is a work of fiction and invents his whole love life (vs reality) and timelines; i’ve avoided mentioning ages here and play around with the construct of age vs reality. The long and short of it is please enjoy this purely as a work of fiction!

Length: Mini-series

DISCLAIMER: All work posted here is purely fanfiction and a figment of my imagination, which is not meant to be conflated with reality. This is not representative of reality, or Lando Norris (or any person) as a real life individual. This work is fiction and is not meant to be an accurate representation of the F1 and its workings, or an accurate representation of anything at all.

Summary: Lando Norris has gone missing. Last sighted almost 3 weeks ago at the MTG in Woking, Surrey for the last team debrief of the season following a successful season and another Constructors Championship title, no one has heard from or seen him since - and the last place you expect to find him is sitting in your living room finishing your leftover takeout from the night before. Lando is all crooked smiles, easy jokes and “everything is fine”s - but you know him well enough to see the flash of a storm that is brewing behind those blue-green irises. Cue: the F1 winter break where Lando Norris becomes your house guest, tries to hide from the rest of the world, almost burns down your kitchen, loses some of his tan, turns up the heating 24/7; helps babysit the neighbours kid; drags you out of country, all while you try and figure out what is going on under that mop of curls.

STATUS:

Coming soon

CHAPTERS:

Coming soon

[toasterpancakes]

London Boy | Mini-series | Masterlist

F1 - A George Russell Fanfiction

Pairing: George Russell x Reader; ft. (platonic) childhoodbestfriend!Alex Albon

Genre: Romance; fluff; angst

Warnings: Sexual tension; general cursing; fem!reader; general use of pet names; F1 inaccuracies; pining; years of pining; mutual pining; mentions of previous relationships / break ups; mentions of a trust fund maybe; reader may end up being less than average in her own way; i don’t profess to be an expert on the english countryside; reader and george will be idiots; this is a work of fiction and invents his whole love life (vs reality) and timelines; i’ve avoided mentioning ages here and play around with the construct of age vs reality. The long and short of it is please enjoy this purely as a work of fiction!

Length: Mini-series

DISCLAIMER: All work posted here is purely fanfiction and a figment of my imagination, which is not meant to be conflated with reality. This is not representative of reality, or George Russell (or any person) as a real life individual. This work is fiction and is not meant to be an accurate representation of the F1 and its workings, or an accurate representation of anything at all.

Summary: Another racing year goes by and the F1 off-season rolls around. You’ve just quit your last job with nothing lined up, and are almost at the one year mark of the end of your previous relationship, so when Alex Albon, your childhood best friend who you’ve known since the literal day you were born asks you to join him and his girlfriend, Lily in the countryside for the off-season, you don’t have a reason to say no. Oh, and did Alex forget to mention, his other best friend, the (almost) newly single (and undeniably good looking) George Russell, who has just broken up with his previous girlfriend four months ago and who you’ve also known for years now, but have always had an slightly awkward relationship with for a reason you cannot for the life of you pin down, will also be there? Just you and George along with Alex and Lily in the English countryside - the off-season would be peaceful, right?

Or, the one where Alex Albon is finally sick of watching George Russell throw himself into different relationships as flimsy replacements for what he wishes was you, and takes it upon himself to play matchmaker during the off-season.

STATUS:

Coming soon

CHAPTERS:

Coming soon

[toasterpancakes]

Hi darling.

Can i please request a George x Reader fic?

George and reader have very recently admitted to having feelings for the other. And reader wants to kiss George but is shy to because they are unsure if that's ok in the new found boundaries of their relationship

Thanks so much in advance love xo

I’m not sure why tumblr didn’t let me respond to this as an ask (as opposed to posting it immediately, and thereafter editing my post to write this), but thank you for your request, it is a WIP!

[toasterpancakes]

please send GR x reader requests!

[toasterpancakes]

Silly G(eorge)oose

A George Russell Fanfiction

George Russell x Reader (Fem) ; (platonic) childhoodbestfriend!Alex Albon x Reader

Summary: George knows that he is being irrational, but he just can’t help it - i.e. the one where George is just being a silly goose.

A/N: First ever F1 fic, because I looked at GR and fell hard. This could be part of a greater universe with GR x reader and (platonic) childhoodbestfriend!Alex

Send me GR requests!

-

George knows that he is being irrational - utterly and stupidly so, but he just can’t help it.

George knows that you love him, knows that he is the only man for you - something you’ve told him numerous times, unprompted, and something which George knows in his bones, but it doesn’t stop the twinge of jealousy that runs through his chest as he watches you and Alex, one of his good friends no less, from a distance.

You haven’t noticed him, all 6 feet of him, skulling around in the corner of his home from a previous life, the Williams garage. George knew you were due in paddock this afternoon, but what he hadn’t been entirely sure of was the exact time of your arrival. He had been stuck in meetings all morning - strategy for the upcoming race, press preparation, helping the team figuring out the necessary adjustments for his car, only to be alerted by a a beatific Kimi who had rolled into the garage on an electric scooter, to take George’s place in press chair, that he had waved hello to you right around the Williams garage on his way in. The news had George bellowing a thanks, as he weaved his way past Kimi, legs carrying him in an almost sprint out of Mercedes.

He had expected to see you talking to Alex upon stepping into the shade of the Williams garage, but the actual sight of you talking to Alex, body language open and laid back in a way that only two people who had known each other for a lifetime could achieve, both your eyes sparkling with childish delight as you both prattled on from across each other had George pause in mid-step, as he found himself stepping closer to wall. It wasn’t something he hadn’t seen before - in fact, it was something he had seen many times throughout all the years, since he was was 12 and first laid eyes on you after a karting match which featured both him and Alex; after all, you had known Alex who was 2, almost 3, years older than you, since you were in diapers, and yet it caused a ripple of jealousy to flicker through his being. The logical side of George knew that it was embarrassing.

“Kinda feels like you are invading huh,” the familiar voice cuts through his thoughts as a statement.

“Yeah,” he affirms, tearing his glance away form you to look down to his left at Lily, “its stupid isn’t it?”

His question earns him a good natured but understanding chuckle from her.

“Yes and no,” she responds, which causes George to lift an eyebrow slightly before she continues on, “no, because it took me about a year to get over feeling like I was invading just about anything, and yes because you are never invading on anything and they would both be upset if they felt like you thought so.”

George hums in acknowledgement, to which Lily chuckles softly again with a shake of her head.

“Looks like you need a reminder Russell,” she says, before raising her voice to call out loudly across the busy garage, effectively gaining both yours and Alex’s attention.

George lifts a hand in a wave as you both catch sight of him and Lily standing in the corner of the garage. George feels his heart leap in his chest as your features shift into a different smile as your gaze lands upon him - it’s unbridled joy, eager excitement all laced with a soft edge.

“Cmon then,” Lily tilts her head towards you and Alex as she begins to cross the garage to you both.

George follows in easy strides and before he reaches your side, you’ve met him three steps away from your original position, sliding yourself effortless into his slide as he secures you against him with an arm around you, engulfing what is his.

“Hi,” he feels you stretch up for a kiss in greeting and he obliges, leaning his head down, to let your lips brush the side of his jaw, before turning with a swift precision to capture your lips briefly with his. You let him kiss you, and George feels your smile against his lips. He can’t help but smile back as his grip around you tightens.

“Lets keep it G around here shall we?” Alex voice cuts in, tone joking and George pulls away from you, letting his lips brush against the top of your head before he angles you both to face a grinning Alex and Lily.

“I’ll never get used to that,” muses Alex.

“Its been long enough now,” you roll your eyes, referring to the almost year you and George had been officially a couple.

“Its like watching Alicia,” Alex grimaces slightly with the reference to his sister, but tone still light and teasing as he shakes his head, “except worse because I know him,” he gestures to George with a hand.

“Yeah well, better get used it to it mate,” George grins, the irrational jealous streak in his chest loosening itself and fading into the recesses, “I’ll be sticking around.”

“Get with the program Albon,” is what you say to counter Alex’s fake gag and eye roll before you untangle yourself from George’s side only to reach for the front of his shirt, tugging him to meet your lips.

George’s eyes meet yours, the tip of his nose bumping yours, blue-green irises sparkling as his hair, product free, flops across his forehead.

“For a long time,” he murmurs in reference to his previous statement, to you, but loud enough for your two onlookers.

“I guess I’ll have to keep you.”

“You better,” is what he says, before his lips meet yours again.

[toasterpancakes]

Go get em’ tiger

Austin Butler Fanfiction - see general disclaimer

Austin Butler x you | Drabble

Summary: A snippet of domestic life with Austin before the Golden Globes.

“Come in,” you call out absently, your fingers giving no pause as they continue to fly across the keyboard in front of you. You’ve become so accustomed to the occasion knocks to the door of the room you call your home office that have peppered the last few hours of the day. It had started with Austin’s personal assistant coming in to ask if you had seen the spare keys to one of his cars, and followed with his publicist (“Do you want a coffee? We are ordering in”), a stylist (“I’m so sorry to ask you this but did you have any extra safety pins by any chance?”) and ending with his personal assistant again (“We’re grabbing dinner for everyone, do you want something?”) coming in to ask various questions.

You finish up the sentence you are currently working on as you hear the door creak open before it shuts with a soft click. You expect to hear a question thrown your direction, but the silence has you puzzled. You toggle your mouse to hit the save button - a habit which you’ve formed years ago after having lost a document too many after being bested by technology failing on you, and crane your neck to peer over one of the two screens which you have in front of you. A pair of blue eyes meet your gaze, and you find your lips splitting into a smile.

“Am I disturbing?” His voice cuts through the space between you. Austin doesn’t move from where he is leaning back casually against the door. You drop back down into your chair, legs shuffling slightly, wheeling the office chair slightly to your right so you have an unobstructed view of him.

“Most definitely,” you say without so much as a pause, and you see Austin’s lips quirk upwards into a half smirk.

“I see,” Austin hums patronisingly in response, playing along, as he pushes himself up, legs striding across the floor of your office with an easy gait, easily reducing the space between you. He perches himself in front of you, on the edge of your office desk, “well I’m sorry to be interrupting such important business.”

“Very important business,” you say with a nod which you follow with a tilt of head towards the computer screen.

“Nothing less,” Austin says as he eyes you from his perch, arms crossed loosely across his chest. You content yourself with letting your gaze drift from his face down the rest of his body taking note of his styled hair, face with barely there make up for the red carpet to cover blemishes. He still has on a loose flannel, the top three buttons undone, and dark sweat pants. Austin’s gaze follows your hand as you reach out to tug the end of his shirt lightly.

“Don’t you have to change soon?” You ask only for him to shrug.

“Yeah, probably,” he says unfazed as he reaches out to envelop your hand with his. Austin’s palm is warm, and slightly calloused. You follow the tugging motion coming from his palm and limber to a stand. Austin manages to manoeuvre you into the space between his legs. Your place your palms flat on his thighs as he weaves his arms in the gap between your arms and body, pulling you as close to him as the position would allow.

“Are you very sure you don’t want to come?” He asks, his fingertips finding themselves wandering beneath the back of your top to meet the skin of your lower back. He moves to lean his forehead against yours only for you to retract your head. It makes Austin frown, a brown lifting slightly in question.

“They’ll kill me if I mess up their work,” you say opting instead to bring a hand up to the nape of his neck, your thumb rubbing the space below his ear in a circular motion. Austin lets out an audible sigh, but he doesn’t say anything - because he knows better than to grumble. Austin knew the value of hard work and wasn’t one to mess up work that someone else had put themselves into. He settles instead for letting the weight of his neck sag into the palm of your hand while letting his eyes flutter shut.

“I wish you were coming with me,” he says, eyes still shut.

“Well you know, important business and all,” you joke. Truth to be told it wasn’t work which was keeping you from going as his plus one to the Golden Globes, but more because, as you had told him, this was all Austin, his time to shine - and you didn’t want to take away from it by having the media and audience overshadow him and his work with less savoury headlines.

You could see it now, an article titled “Austin Butler and girlfriend sighted at the Golden Globes - trouble in paradise?” - with a long, entirely false and made-up story about how you both were on the rocks all because you walked two steps behind him on the red carpet. You both were out as a couple, but liked your privacy and kept your relationship out of the public eye as much as possible; yet it only made the media vultures worse, spinning every little glance they could get into a sensational, elaborate rumour.

Austin sighs as he opens his eyes. He lifts the weight of his neck off from your hand, taking your palm in his, he skims the back of your knuckles with his lips - a move that wouldn’t mess up his hair or make up - before dropping both your hands in between your bodies.

“I’ll be home after.”

“You should go for the after-party,” you tell him as he rubs his thumb along the back of your hand, “you’ll have lots to celebrate.”

Your words make him huff out while shaking his head in true Austin fashion - always doubting himself, slow to believe he was as good as they said.

“I rather celebrate with you,” he says an undercurrent of doubt running through his voice, clearly not believing that there would be anything to celebrate.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” you promise to the blue eyes staring back at you, “with peanut butter and jelly,” you continue and you see the twinkle that lights up in his eyes. Peanut butter and jelly - unusual, you would think if you looked at Austin, but it was a comfort food of sorts, something that you knew reminded him of his Mom.

He opens his mouth to say something when a rap of knuckles against the door of your home office interrupts. Austin does groan outwardly this time, because work was work but he hated when work took him away from you.

“Yeah,” he calls out, knowing that they’re looking for him. The door creaks open and his publicist sticks her head in.

“They need you for outfit now,” she says, darting a glance at you both. Austin had his head turned so his side profile faces her, while also effectively shielding you from her view, as if he were trying to keep distinct his work and private life.

“I’ll be out in three,” he calls and she nods, stepping and shutting the door behind her.

“Go,” you say, offering him a smile.

“Say bye before I leave?” He asks, an almost child-like quality to the deep, raspy voice.

You nod in agreement and Austin brings the back of your hand up to his lips again. He keeps his gaze connected with yours as he presses a kiss into your knuckles.

“Go get ‘em tiger,” you say with a wink as he slides off the table.

“Yes m’am,” he offers you a lopsided grin, as he goes hands in pockets towards the door towards his first golden globe.