Summary: Being with George is what they call being lucky in life.
Warnings: none, love, fluff, pregnancy, sweetness, a little bit of teasing at the end
Word count: 1.1k
A/N: A little something for my George girlies. I was scrolling through Pinterest and saw the image of the pregnant woman in the header and I couldn’t help it as I was sitting in the sun and felt so much. Enjoy it. :)
-
Fresh cotton sheets hugging your figure, you just changed them earlier this morning.
Sun shining outside, warmth of its rays making your heart flutter in your chest.
Sea breeze caressing your skin, it got you smiling.
You couldn’t help but just soak yourself in that moment of absolute silence and bliss, it was just you and the baby that was growing inside you in that moment. Being nearly six months along, you started to feel heavy, more tired and your bladder was extra impatient each time.
But this time your hands gently rested on your swollen stomach, the tiny little human swimming its way in the home it was given for a few months to grow. You swore you could feel its small feet under your touch, making you giggle softly.
Since you were getting bigger each day, you preferred to wear George’s Tommy Hilfiger button up shirts, since his contract with Adidas, he wasn’t able to wear them that often and well, that was a real shame. You had one with the baby blue colour on, along with just lacy panties on (you didn’t want to give up on those yet).
George stood in the doorway, leaning against it, admiring the sight of you in your bedroom. He knew something was off when you went quiet all of sudden somewhere in the apartment so he got on a mission to find out what’s happening, genuinely concerned about you.
His eyes took in how your fingers grazed your skin, mapping inch by inch of your pregnant belly imagining how you’d felt underneath his touch even though he did exactly that every night.
He was full of pride, capable of making you like this, carrying his child, the proof of the unconditional love that was connecting you two. Having you by his side was something he didn’t expect, but he was grateful for every minute spent with you. You were practically inseparable, you were attending every GP with him, travelling the world, which was very hard to combine with your work, but you managed to get approval for working remotely. You hated even thinking about quitting your job because of being a girlfriend of the F1 driver, because your job was your pride and you were always independent even though you didn't have to. And that was a thing that George loved about you the most. That you loved him for who he was as a person, you didn’t love him for his money.
“How long have you been standing there?” Voice of yours interrupted his thoughts and he chuckled while taking a few steps to sit beside your lying figure on the bed.
“For a moment, I guess. I can’t get enough of you.” His fingers lightly brushed over your skin of your swollen belly, your breath hitching a little. George was so full of love he could cry. Ultimate happiness.
You looked up at him watching his soft expression. His eyes were something that made you always weak in your knees, the intensity of them always nearly drowning you, and those astonishing lashes of his were just a cherry on the top. Also those pouty lips of his, those lips that were doing wonders on your body, devouring every single inch of you, kissing like a god himself.
“Now you’re ogling me.” He chuckled as he caught your gaze.
“I can’t help it. It’s like a first time every time I look at you. And I love it. You’re so beautiful, Georgie.”
With a soft hum, he placed his hand over yours on your belly, taking it into his, looking over your fingers and knuckles. He was clearly thinking about something.
“What’s on your mind, darling?”
“Well… this happened so quickly, that I didn’t have time for one important thing.”
George gave you a mischievous look with a huge smile. You furrowed your brows in confusion.
“I should put a ring on it, sweetheart.”
Those words lingered through the silence, only the waves crashing in the sea outside were heard. Your lips parted in surprise, cheeks slightly pink. Is this really happening?
He still held on to your hand when he slid his other hand into the pocket of his sweatpants, pulling out the most beautiful engagement ring you’ve ever seen. You gasped, eyeing the ring with shock.
George chuckled nervously, taking in your reaction.
“So… baby. The love of my life. The precious gem I ever laid my eyes on. The most important person in the world. Will you marry me? Will you be the Mrs. Russell?” He let out with one breath.
Tears welled in your eyes, choking out a laugh. “Yes, George. Absolutely yes!”
He laughed with you, leaning down to kiss your lips. Then he slid the ring carefully down your finger. You raised your hand up to see how the diamond was glimmering in the summer sun, warmth spreading in your chest.
“You like it?” George asked with a little worry that you might not like it, but you grinned happily.
“I love it. I’m so mesmerised by it. I dreamed about this for so long.” You chuckled.
“I like to watch you being happy. It brings me joy.” He smiled, grabbing your hand again, bringing it to his mouth and kissing the ring.
“You’re my everything, George.”
“Same, darling. You and our baby. I’m so lucky. So freaking lucky.” He leaned down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, kissing that sweet spot there. You laughed a little, your hand brushing through his messy hair.
“You’re using that hair gel again?”
George looked at you with an amused smile. “Is that a problem?”
“At home I like your hair without it. It’s hard to run my fingers through it without getting stuck in those bloody curls.” You chuckled.
He smirked at you, closing the distance between you just to whisper against your lips. “There is something else hard between us.”
You gasped in embarrassment, your eyes wide with a huge smile. “George! There is a baby here with us!”
His hand ended up sprawled on your belly just at the belly button. “If we keep it quiet maybe we won’t disturb it.”
“George William Russell!”
“Are you still marrying me? Because I’m gonna tease you for the rest of your life? With many babies along.”
George was now running from the bedroom with you getting after him.
-
Please don’t use my writings without permission! Pictures found on Pinterest.
summary: that awkward moment when you get caught going on a date with one of your dads drivers.
liked by georgerussell63, alex_albon, maxverstappen1, and 973,826 others!
f1gossip: y/n wolff was seen last night on a date? with george russell, (yes the mercedes driver) last night in monaco? this was actually very surprising for us as well, thoughts?
view comments below!
user1: no shit
user2: no way george pulled y/n
user3: GEORGE IN THE LIKES ??????
user4: NOT ONLY HIM BUT MAX CHARLES ALEX TOOOO ??
user5: sorry guys 😅😅 but that’s actually me and y/n, not her and that skinny twig 😅😅
user6: maybe they were just hanging out??
user7: NO WAY GEORGE PULLED HER
user8: this is actually crazy
user9: okay guys..but the pictures are actually so cute 🙂↕️
user10: RIGJT?? THE WAY HES HOLDING HER JACKET AND PURSE TOO 🥰🥰
alex_albon: holy shit @/georgeussell63 no way you actually got her
georgerussell63: well don’t act so surprised 🙄
maxverstappen1: we will act so surprised. she’s rejected you 10 times.
georgerussell63: she has NOT!
maxverstappen1: sorry, 20 times**
user10: WHAT ARE THESE DRIVERS DOING ON A GOSSIP PAGE ??
charles_leclerc: holy cow 😳
mercedesamgf1: omg no
mercedesamgf1: What the fuck is this. - Toto Wolff
user11: NO GEROGE RUN
user12: SOMEONE CHECK IF GEORGE IS STILL ALIVE
user13: TOTO NOOO
user14: WHY IS EVERYONE HERE ????
liked by georgerussell63, mercedesamgf1, yourusername and 43,837 others!
tagged: yourusername, and georgerussell63
f1: it’s been a while, but y/n is back!
view comments below!
user15: her and lewis 😞😞
user16: THATS MOTHERRRR
user17: she looks so good 🙄
user18: GEORGE BEING TAGGED ???
mercedesamgf1: please un-tag George William Russell. - Toto Wolff
user19: someone PLEASE get this old geezer his own instagram account
user20: the way he adds - Toto Wolff, like we don’t already know ???
user21: oh what i would do to be a fly in the mercedes garage right now
user22: the use of george’s FULL name ??? that boy better run
georgerussell63: 😍😍
leiwshamilton: do you want our boss to kill you?
landonorris: it’s like he WANTS to die
user23: WHY IS HE BEING SO PUBLIC ABOUT TUIS ???
user24: after years of being rejected by y/n he wants everyone to know he finally got her 😭
user25: george finally gets y/n and he loses all fear
f1gossip; y/n was asked about the dating rumors today she was asked “are you and george dating”, she answered, “i think he’s made it very clear, hasn’t he?”
view comments below!
user26: GEORGE FINALLY GOT THE GIRL!!
user27: i low key thought george was having like a manic episode and was pretending to date y/n but this basically confirmed it, happy for them!
user28: LMAO WHATT
user29: okay now toto’s reaction pls
user30: wait but if she’s toto’s daughter? why is her hair like blonde blonde
user31: she dyes her hair religiously
user32: okay but george being like so proud of this relationship is so incredibly cute 😞
user33: netflix is going to eat this up
liked by, yourusername, lewishamilton, georgerussell63, and 926,826 others!
mercedesamgf1: our family 🙏🙏
view comments below!
user34: GEORGE LOOKS SO SCARED 😭😭😭
user35: NO IM DYING THIS IS TOO FUNNY
user36: GEORGE LOOKS LIKE HES BEING HELD AT GUNPOINT
user38: this is hilarious
yourusername: p5 and p7 👏👏
georgerussell63: wanted to make you proud 🥰
user39: OH BROTHER HERE HE GOES
user40: toto will appear in an estimated 3 seconds
mercedesamgf1: 😐 - Toto Wolff.
f1gossip: george russell and toto wolff were seen speaking after the race in monaco, sources say that after a intense chat, they hugged it out, thoughts?
view comments below!
user41: AND HE APPROVES!!!
user42: YAY
user43: ITS OFFICIAL, TOTO APPROVES
user44: okay now i can actually be happy about this relationship
user45: i kinda feel bad that his own daughter didn’t tell him that she was dating someone…
user46: they bro hugged 🥹
user47: so happy for y/n and george ❤️
liked by f1, lewishamilton, danielricciardo, mercedesamgf1, and 637,927 others!
georgerussell63: after 4 years, i finally got the girl 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏
view comments below!
f1: GEORGE RUSSELL FINALLY DOES IT EVERYONE!!
landonorris: YEAH RUSSELL 🗣️
oscarpiastri: finally 👏👏
danielriccarido: HELL YEAH
maxverstappen1: i still don’t believe it…
lewishamilton: proud of you man 🫂
charles_leclerc: YAY!!!
carlossainz55: he finally made it🥹🥹
mclaren: she could do better
user48: ADMIN??
yukitsunoda: really?
alex_albon: still not convinced this is real 😅
user49: this whole comment section is killing me 😭
liked by, georgerussell63, mercedesamgf1, lewishamilton, and 736,260 others!
yourusername: when he’s dad approved 😍
view comments below!
mercedesamgf1: eh - Toto Wolff.
yourusername: father pls get instagram
georgerussell63: my beautiful gorgeous exquisite breathtakingly beautiful girl 😍😍🥰🥰
user50: need me a man like THIS.
lewishamilton; simp 🫵
yourusername: ??? who taught you that
lewishamilton; the internet
user51: now get married and have 3 kids !!!
georgerussell63: soon!
mercedesamgf1: NO NOT SOON. - Toto Wolff
f1: beautiful couple 😻
user52: THIS IS ADORABLE
user53: i need me a man who loves me as much as he loves y/n
user54: he waited 4 years for her 🥹🥹
user55: the train tracks looks really delicious right about now
user56: me and who???
user57: why is george kinda sexy…
yourusername: how are you just realizing this now?
user57: IT TOOK YOU FOUR YEARS TO NOTICE????
yourusername; no comment.
. . .
notes: i have my chemistry final tomorrow, wish me luck!
A/N: Seriously, thanks @sashenkalebedeva for requesting this bootiful fic. Ily sm vro. Extra note: I know I used 'swallowed' too much, even I tweak writing it but my poor English has its limit guyz🥀
warnings: A few uses of y/n, reader is a female, Kimi is down bad and all flustery for reader, reader just sweet and confident asf, swearing, drinking(if you squint), 1(one) scene of kissing, overprotective bro Max. 1(one) mention of J*s Verstappen.
Description: Your brother Max had always brought you to his races as a lucky charm until his career started at F1. It was a simple action taken to protect you but this weekend. He decides to bring you to the paddock. Everyone's eyes are on you but there's a specific brown-eyed boy following you everywhere you go.
word count: 3.7k
Being Max Verstappen's little sister was fun.
He was a caring brother, protective. Sometimes overprotective but above all, he was caring for your well-being.
You've always followed him like a little duck, waddling behind him with your little feet and little hands.
Once Jos, you two's father got Max into racing because Verstappen's were a racing family, Max started dragging you along with him to every race.
As a good luck charm and it worked. He was talented and started ranking up in his league earlier than everyone.
Skipping Formula 2 entirely to Formula 1 as his talent was noticed by the Red Bull Formula 1 team.
The 'bring little sister for good luck charm' rituals were cut.
Max simply did not want to reveal you to the media and cause trouble for you and your future.
But this week?
It was different from how it was.
This race week belonged to Monaco, flashing lights, rich yachts and a race circuit filled with the echoes of frustrated post-crash radios from the drivers.
"Mijn schatje, you wanna come to the Monaco GP with me this Sunday?"
The question was a treasure itself.
"Oh my fucking god, you're not kidding again are you?" You questioned, eyes wide, a smile ready to spread on your face any moment with a childish spark in your eyes.
Max just sighed and nodded as if he really said yes.
Your smile almost found the damn ceiling.
He just ran a hand through his hair, "Yes, I'm not lying." he said. A smile taking its place on his lips too. "People have been asking about you anyway."
You smirked, "Oh yeah, I'm so famous aren't I?"
Max threw a pillow at the direction you were in from the couch he was sitting. "Shut up."
"Oh, ho ho…" You gripped the pillow, throwing it back at him violently before hiding behind a wall. Then he called out:
"You're going to tell me if some dickhead makes you uncomfortable, okay?"
"Okaaay!"
"Promise?"
"Promise."
────────────────── .✦. ──────────────────
You waited until Sunday.
Doing everything Max says even though it was a rare moment coming from you.
He was shocked when you did go buy some bread and groceries when he felt too lazy and did go to a store to look for heels for Kelly and even babysat Penelope and Lily in Free Practice days+Quali day.
Now today was your day to shine.
The Monaco Grand Prix.
Since It was summer, you chose to wear a pretty sundress and let your hair down. Wearing pretty comfortable footwear before taking your bag which matched your dress.
You looked beautiful.
You also didn't forget to bring your Red Bull cap along with you.
Since you lived in the apartment next to Max's and since you all lived in Monaco. It was easy to get to the circuit in time.
You had a paddock pass.
The arrival was smooth.
Max was looking very uncomfortable with the choice he made by bringing you to a Grand Prix but well.
It had happened already.
He firmly warned you before going to the garage. "Okay, I'm trusting you on this." He started. "First of all you're going to tell me if someone bothers you, feel free to-"
"Tell the interviewers who try to bother me to fuck off I know." You completed the sentence with a grin on your face. "Okay, okay. I'm clearly not a baby, I understood everything." You stated. "Can I go now?"
"Fine, go."
It was all you needed to hear.
With an excited smile on your face, you started walking around. Wandering. Checking out garages after simply greeting the Red Bull mechanics and GP, who was the only one who knew who you were.
You bumped in Charles on the way, he normally saw you since he was in the same building as Max as you. Greeting you with a welcoming smile on his face.
Then you walked and walked.
Staring at the cement, focus somewhere else before you hit someone.
Oh, fuck.
You stumbled back, almost falling but a warm hand on your arm stopped you from falling.
"Oop, are you okay bella?" With the Italian accent reaching your ears. You already knew who he was.
Kimi Antonelli.
Mercedes' rookie and the second seat owner.
A very talented one.
"Oh, yeah. I'm fine." You quickly stepped back. Fixing your dress as his brown eyes watched you with curiosity. "You must be, err, Kimi?" You finally looked at him and smiled. He was staring at you with wide eyes, blinking like a clueless kid.
Kimi quickly cleared his throat before nodding back with a smile. "Yes, It's me and you..?" He raised an eyebrow, not realizing his grip lowered to your wrist but still holding. You first stared down at his hand before tightening your smile. "I think I never saw you around here before?"
"I'm Y/N Verstappen."
"…Verstappen?" Kimi lightly frowned. Looking a bit surprised. "Didn't know Max had a little sister." He hummed before he followed your gaze and stared at his hand wrapped around your wrist.
He quickly pulled his hand back as if he touched lava. "Ah, sorry-"
"No, It's okay." You giggled. "Excited for the race?"
"Not really."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes-"
"Don't lie," you pouted.
"Well, fine! I am excited." Kimi mumbled, a soft blush creeped into his cheeks.
He kept on trying to avoid your gaze, as if the floor was his first love.
You bumped into his shoulder playfully before talking, "Eh, trust me. You'll get some good points but not better than my brother." you stuck your tongue out.
Kimi blinked several times before rolling his eyes.
"You're aware that you're encouraging me to win, huh, little Verstappen?" He smirked, flashing his sharp canines while he raised an eyebrow that made you stare for a long, long time.
You froze before coughing fakely, "No! Don't win! I mean- no, who plays fair shall win-"
"Uhh-huuhh."
"What? Don't make fun of me when you were the one who held my wrist for too long!"
Kimi swallowed. Really swallowed before he got flustered again. "I have to go to the garage now-" he spoke rapidly. "Bye-"
You were about to burst into laughter as you watched him walk the wrong way.
"You can visit the Mercedes garage anytime if you switch teams!"
"You sure you're going the right way, champ?"
"Oh-"
You started laughing, seriously bursting as he got more flustered and changed his way. "Will still wait for you though!"
As you watched him leave you continued giggling to yourself before walking to the Red Bull garage.
Max saw you giggling stupidly, so he narrowed his eyes and scared you by appearing right at your back.
"Let me guess, Kimi?"
"How'd you know-"
"I'm not blind, liefje," he snorted as if it was a boring comedy. "I'm your brother."
You rolled your eyes and walked back, a little bit far away from him. "Wow, news for me." You murmured plainly before fixing your hair. "He's a good guy." A low shrug. A soft blush appearing on your cheeks.
Max saw it.
"You're making me regret my decision."
"In what way?"
He rolled his eyes playfully before chugging down a water bottle at once then handing you one. "Hydrate," he said.
Feeling unheard, you pouted. Not taking the water bottle. So, Max raised an eyebrow. His blue eyes watching you, he was simply an overprotective brother.
And you sometimes got tired of it.
He then crossed his arms, mirroring your pouty face. "Remember, I said dating drivers is a big no and you agreed." One eyebrow raised, extending out the water bottle. Max looked like an annoying mother.
"No, you di-"
"Geez, shush."
"Ughhh! I hate you!"
Max just smirked and set the water bottle next to you, patting your shoulder lightly. "Love you too, bug."
He left to get ready for the race and you just sat there.
────────────────── .✦. ──────────────────
The race did not go well.
The Red Bull Max was driving said no I'm not doing this shit and caused him to DNF.
You had a whole anger crisis, too close to recreating Toto's headphone smash but with the coffee filled mug in your hands, it was a bit hard to accomplish.
When Max was out of the race,
your eyes watched one person.
Kimi.
He was going on full speed, clean corners and too surprising moves for the Monaco circuit.
And for the results, he was P1.
You watched him with interested eyes. Maybe a little too interested. Watched his sharp canines flash whenever he smiled, a dry thumbs up with a victorious smile on his face on the podium.
Champagne flew all over the place.
Kim K. stealing Kimi's towel was also an event no one expected.
You were walking in the crowd of people until you heard someone calling for you.
"Someone took my towel! Can you believe it?" Kimi's tone was surprised and whiny. As if that towel was his bride. "My towel…" He whined once again.
"Kim Kardashian took it."
"What-?"
"Lewis' WAG."
"Oh-" Kimi hummed before turning his attention back to you. One arm wrapped around your shoulder while he guided you out of the overwhelming crowd. As you two stopped somewhere quiet, you quietly took out your phone. Extending it to Kimi to enter his number.
He grinned while doing it. Saving himself as Mercedes boy that I'm obsesseeeeddddd about
"Anyways," he started. "Changed teams or still a Red Bull girl?"
"What makes you think that I'Il switch teams for an Italian boy with a sweet mouth?"
"I have a sweet mouth?" The right side of his lip curled upwards. A little smirk as the sweet red tone found its way on his cheeks. "Why wouldn't you? If I were you I would-"
Suddenly you moved closer, faces inches away. Kimi froze. Completely froze.
With his reaction, you only got closer. "Once a Verstappen, forever a Verstappen. Same with being a Red Bull fan." Your pointing finger placed on his lips, silencing him.
Maybe you had no right to be this much of a menace to him.
But God, he loved it.
"You better start learning more about me, champ." You shrugged, pulling back. "Or your silver arrows won't have a chance to pierce my heart."
"Wh-"
"I need to find my brother or he'll kill you for talking to me."
"But Max loves me!" Kimi blurted, trying to surpass the growing heat in his body. The redness on his face spread to his ears. "But-"
"Bye!" You gave him no chance to talk back, giving a little wink before walking to the direction you were going. Kimi stared.
His heart was racing with a feeling he can't name. The feeling of your finger against his lips was still there. He swallowed. Oh, he could easily die from this.
"I will find you again, little Verstappen!" He yelled.
and sure, you couldn't save your ass from him because it was Monaco.
There was going to be a post-race party amongst drivers and you'd beg to come with Max.
────────────────── .✦. ──────────────────
"Absolutely no, liefje."
"But WHY!" You groaned loudly. Ready to smash your head into some wall. The dress you've planned to wear to the party hanging from your clutched hands while Max was on his phone. Lips pursed.
As if he was considering. Spoiler alert. He was not.
Max sighed. "You already came to the race and I didn't promise to bring you to some post-race party."
"Dude, I'm clearly old eno-"
"Yeah, you're 9 years younger."
"I clearly did not mean that!" You whined. "Ugh! Ik luister niet naar jouw onzin, eikel!" ("Im not listening to your bullshit, asshole!") You raged. Angrily reaching for a pillow on the couch. Throwing it at Max's face before groaning again. "I hate you, dumbass!"
Max looked up from his phone. "Watch you words, bug." You threw him a death glare and he looked down like a guilty kid before clearing his throat. "Fine. Come with me." Your eyes lit up. "But you're either going to be talking to Kelly or be standing next to me." Your hopes found the floor all over again.
Pouting and whining.
"Ugh! Okay!"
"Okay now go back to your apartment because you're ruining my mood that's already ruined."
You turned your back to Max. A little smile playing on your lips as you walked to the door and left Max's apartment. The dress still in your hands.
Tapping the name Mercedes boy that I'm obsesseeeeddddd about then starting to type
Y/N: I'm coming to the party to pull your ear.
Kimi: Gee, you're going to see me and all you can think about is pulling my ear? I'm hurt, signora.
Y/N: Yeah, yeah. Now cry like a baby while thinking about me pulling your ear.
Kimi: Oh, trust me.
The messages didn't end there. He added you on Instagram and spammed a whole series of reels and the worst thing was.
You did respond to every single one of them.
The flirtation didn't show the end of the road.
────────────────── .✦. ──────────────────
You spent almost an hour to get ready.
Hair tied with a claw clip. A pretty sundress adorned with flowers. A beautiful necklace.
Your make-up was light. Struggled a bit with the eyeliner but it turned out so damn good.
You left the building with Kelly and Max. Yapped with Kelly in the car on the way to the party place.
Secretly typed her a message about how Max was not letting you do anything and how bad you wanted to talk with Kimi and she answered with don't worry, girl. You'll be free when he gets too distracted to notice you anyway.
You smiled, thankful.
The building was nice.
Flashy, fancy but gave the 'club' aura more than anything else.
Some drivers you knew, some you didn't know. Few engineers, mechanics. Some team managers.
Max threw you his usual warning gaze. "Don't make me regret this."
"Yeah, yeah." You murmured before following Kelly to a blind spot Max couldn't see. She patted your shoulder, smiled then left to find the other WAGS.
You got a drink from the bar. A light drink, nothing much.
You were staring at some stupid wall before you jumped with a sudden move of someone nearby.
"Boo!"
"AHH-"
"Shush!"
Your heart jumped, slowly turning your head to look at who it was behind you and… Kimi. Big surprise.
"What the fuck, have you lost your mind?" You whispered rapidly. A hand over your heart before he put a finger on your lips. Silencing you.
Dejavu
Your cheeks got flushed by the color red and pink. Eyes wide like a prey animal being hunted by the hunter.
The corner of his lips curled upwards. He smiled before he started grinning. "No, dummy. I didn't lose my mind." He murmured calmly.
"I will fucking bite your finger." You hissed.
"Before you bite me I want to-"
It was too late. You sank your teeth into his finger and made him whimper like a kicked puppy. He pulled his finger back. The hand he hid behind his hand came into vision and revealed a bouquet of freshly cut roses. "Ah, cazzo-" Kimi huffed.
"Cazzo what..?" You raised an eyebrow with confusement.
"Cazzo means fuck and thanks to you, I have a bite mark on my finger now!"
"Bad boy."
"Wha-"
"You swore in front of a girl. Tsk tsk."
Kimi pouted. Then he lowered into one knee, holding up the rose bouquet like it was a wedding ring. "Then, bella. Please accept this gift as an apology for my mistake…" He put his free hand on his heart.
A soft shade of red already appearing on his cheeks. Then he looked up at you with his sweet brown eyes.
He got you blushing.
You froze on the spot. Looking down at him with your heart racing. You swallowed slowly before accepting the bouquet.
"T-Thanks…"
"My pleasure, cara." Kimi revealed his sharp canines once again. You stared, he gulped. His Adam's apple bobbing with him swallowing slowly.
"Oh, Kimi. I didn't know you were here tonight." The Dutch accent messed up everything.
You glanced at Kimi's back. Max was standing too close like a killer ready to kill. Blue eyes covered with a stern expression. Glancing back and forth between you and Kimi. "Brothe-"
"Cut it, liefje." Max whispered. An angry smile on his lips. Oh it was so done.
"Oh, hi Max-" Kimi greeted him bravely as if he wasn't trembling limb to limb.
Instinctively hiding the bouquet Kimi gave you. Holding it tight behind your back. You exchanged a fear filled glance with Kimi but didn't expect Max to put a hand on his shoulder and lean in to whisper something into his ear that made him swallow audibly loud.
Slow three pats on the shoulder. Then he left.
Kimi looked scared but he just walked backwards and grabbed your wrist. Leading you to the quieter hallway.
"Y/N."
"Kimi?"
You bit the inside of your cheek, one eyebrow raised. Still clutching the bouquet of roses nervously while you couldn't help but get lost in his eyes.
"Can I kiss you?"
"HUH-"
"Please don't let me repeat myself."
"Don't be a baby, repeat." You grinned.
"Can I kiss you?"
"Fineee~"
Kimi stared at you for a whole time span of 10 seconds. Blushing like crazy before actually making his lips meet yours.
It was a soft kiss. Actually very soft.
He gently held your face in his hands, his teeth catching your lower lip before the kiss deepened and-
click-
You quickly pushed Kimi, glancing sideways to see Lando with his phone in hand. The flash was eye hurting. That damn muppet took a photo, didn't he…
"Norris-!" You called out but he quickly ran back into the party place as if he applied some rocket on his ass.
"We're fucked." You both said in unison then started laughing.
Surprisingly the time went pretty fast.
You talked and joked with Kimi. He kept his arm wrapped around your waist. Threw some dirty looks to people and you almost strangled Lando to death.
People started leaving when the clock hit 2AM
Walking to the car with a guilty expression, Kimi walked behind you to maybe explain himself. Max stood still in front of the car like a clone of Michael Myers.
When you both stood in front of him like guilty teenagers. Kelly threw a death glare at Max.
Then surprisingly, Max put a hand on Kimi's shoulder that made Kimi flinch and Max laugh. "I'm okay for now but just wait until you actually try to marry her."
Wow. What a rich threat.
Max let go of Kimi and got in the car with Kelly.
"Well, you've got a bigger trouble now."
"I know. This sucks so bad…" He faked a whine before kissing your temple and watching you leave…
*does the macarena dance and falls down the stairs*
I GOT A OTHER IDEAAAAA EHEHEHHW!!! So this time I will directly start with the driver our dear Jack, there isn't enough fan of him out there, like come on he is so cuteeee! Anyway I think you are aware all of the harassment the hate etc he had to got trough so maybe the episode he tell a out those people that he had to call the police on. What if his girlfriend, the reader obv, is at his apartment or something just chilling and hear some car pulling up and thought it was jack but upon hearing too much footsteps and different voices so she began to panic, maybe like she had just get out of shower, so she calls in panic at Jack. So Jack with Pierre and Kika (maybe they had to gone put and reader was sick and didn't want to pass it to kika and Pierre, Kika had taken reader under her wings being younger than her). So Jack rush home while calling the police and then all fluff and comfort i kno you will make a great writing put of this
𓂃۶ৎCost of Fame. x JD7
#pairing: Jack Doohan x Fem!Reader
#summary; What crazy fans won't do to get a close look...
#word-count; 1.3K
MASTERLIST
Fame came with it's downsides.
The hatred, the opinions, he tended to not let it get to him. Like a wise man once said, a lion doesn't concern himself with the opinion of the sheep. He'd simply scroll knowing anyone saying anything about him hadn't done half the work he had in his life to be where he is.
But those stories of stalkers, people who will do anything for a look, a view, a photo, a touch, a smell... he thought those were fairy tells only scary to the ones whose fame was absolutely out of control. As in Michael Jackson, Britney Spears, not little him who drove an Alpine and his dad was a moto gp champion, albeit he wasn't a nobody, it's not like he couldn't go to the cinema every once in a while.
So he lived life in peace, appreciated the fanbase he had. Enjoyed the friends he made.
That night he, Pierre and his girlfriend Kika had plans to go to a restaurant, something nice and not too fancy, just to chat it out, become better teammates and most likely shit talk Flavio Briatore to hell. His own girlfriend however, Y/N, couldn't come because she had come down with some sort of flu, medicine would solve it but on the risk of infecting someone she decided to stay home.
"Have fun though, baby." She spoke with a hoarse voice.
"Poor you," His aussie accent strong and quite frankly teasing. He approached for a kiss yet she pulled away.
"Nu-uh! You don't want to be catching whatever I have, then how will you drive!"
He frowned as if confused, but clearly teasing her "With my feet and hands?"
She only giggled, slapping his thick biceps jokingly.
Her time at home was spent watching some TV shows, texting friends, taking more medicine and coughing a lot. Jack sent her the occasional "You good?" text to make sure she wasn't going into some crazy sepsis shock, which mad her chuckle a little everytime with his worry. She took a warm shower to perhaps unclog her filled lungs, and as she got out and wrapped her naked body in a towel to just go back to her bedroom and fall face first into the pillow she heard it.
The garage opening.
It didn't sound like the usual slow automatic opening of Jack's car coming in, and it's rather early for him to be home.
She tiptoed to the side window that could give her just the enough view she needed to see the back of his car, she didn't see it. Maybe he was already in? But the noises were still there... and now, a new one began. Voices. Not only one, multiple. Maybe it was Jack and Pierre? Could be a drunk neighbor. Hey-- it could be a lot of things, but just to be sure, she sent a text.
"Jack, you home yet? Are you trying to open the garage?"
Jack had felt his blood gone cold. He was far from home, still in the restaurant finishing his food, he probably wouldn't be home for half an hour.
"No, why? Is someone there?"
He sent back, suddenly stopping his meal to hold his phone tightly.
"Mate, you alright?" Pierre spoke with that very much stupid french accent.
He couldn't help but feel a bit of a cold sensation in his stomach. "I don't know, Y/Ns asking me if I'm opening the garage?"
Pierre frowned, now a bit more attentive to the conversation. "That's...strange."
Now, not to be paranoid, but Jack did have some cameras installed in his house. In case of robbery, just that. Maybe when they were on vacations. He never imagined he'd have to check on that whilst someone was in the house, but the thought of his girlfriend in danger was simply too much to play about. Most of them were just outside, one in the living room for good measure.
She had said the garage, he had a camera inside of it not outside. But even so, with the dimmed light, he saw it...the bottom moving up and down like someone trying to break in.
His whole body felt like wood, he felt like he couldn't move for a second. Couldn't speak. The adrenaline hit like a shot of crack trough his bloodstream when he sent a panicked message to his girl.
"Lock yourself in the bathroom, don't make noise, turn off the lights. I'm coming."
Which...obviously he forgot to add "And stay calm" because he could imagine she was about to die in a coughing fit from how much fear she was feeling. His head shot up with widen eyes at Pierre.
"Mate call the police for me, someone's trying to break in. I'm driving home."
His friend seemed equally bloody scared as he was, "What? Whats going on?"
"Someone's trying to break in!" He repeated, already standing up abruptly, throwing some 100 euro notes on the table to pay for the dinner without even checking and fast walking outside to the parking lot.
Pierre did as he was told, he wouldn't question it of course, now was not the time for "Are you sure?"
He passed Jack'd adress, the situation. "Yes there's someone in the house... h-his girlfriend, it's a tall girl, he said he sent her to the bathroom."
He didn't listen much, everything was spinning, the road seemed blurry, every red light was a joke. Why would he care about silly road laws when some unknown idiots where trying to break in his house?!
Even if the ride was only 10 minutes, it felt like 10 hours.
"They said they'll send someone over, they'll only take 5 minutes." Pierre warned him, which made him feel at least rather calm, they'd be there before he was apparently.
Said and done, by the time he pulled over in front of his house, about 10 cops were going about his property. Two young men sat by his garage door being questioned. He jumped out and before being able to rush in, a lady stopped him, apparently the captain.
"Mr Doohan?" She asked to confirm, he nodded-- cleaning the sweat from his brow, suddenly realizing how wet he was from the stress. "We cam as soon as we can, the two boys were trying to break in trough your garage, I understand you're a famous athlete?"
"Not that famous!" He argued, as if this was somehow his fault. "I-I'm a Formula 1 driver, never won anything." He blurted out, even if it pained him to say it.
She smiled sadly a bit, "Well, famous is famous, but nothing was stolen, no one was harmed, your girlfriend is inside."
"Can I go in?"
"Of course."
It was all he needed, his feet moved earlier than his mind as he shot down the door and into his very familiar home. He let his coat fall to the ground near his shoes and found his girlfriend sat in the living room wrapped in a blanket being questioned by another cop (now of course in comfy pajamas rather than wrapped in a towel.)
"Baby!" He exhaled, finally feeling the threat die down. He wrapped his hands around her shoulder. "Oh fuck, you scared me. Thank god I have the cameras."
"Sorry.." She mumbled shyly. "I thought it m-might have been just you and Pierre opening it or something, didn't want to go outside."
"No don't apologize, you did the right thing. You text me, never check out danger. See?" He kissed her temple softly "I took care of it." After a short moment of silence where he just sat besides her and brought her closer to rest his cheek on her head, he asked "Are you better?"
"Yeah, I am... much calmer, that's for sure." She leaned back with him, their bodies' heat growing at the contact. "Guess that's just the price of having a handsome hyper talented famous boyfriend."
He scoffed "I'm not that famous."
"But you are handsome."
═════════════════════════════════════════════
#note; Me and the 7 Jack Doohan fans rejoiced at this ask fr. I know they got my boy stressing that one day he had to call the police. REQUESTS ARE OPEN BTWWW
Warnings: FLUFF!! Mentions of giving birth, parental guilt, guilt of leaving your family behind and choosing between career or family, lewis is the BEST dad and BEST husband, healthy family, Daisy is the cutest baby, that’s all I think!!
AN: I saw a video based on the title and it was so cute I HAD to write this!!!🥹❤️ this was written in a rush and finished at 2 am, pls Im sorry. I’ve been mia a long time so I might be rusty. But this photo from the plus44 photoshoot KILLED me. I need to give him babies. He’s a girl dad. Bye.
[divider by @pxrce-lain ]
"You know she's going to lose her mind, right?", you chuckled fondly while typing on your laptop, the click clack of the keys a pleasant sound in the quiet, cozy, coolness of your bedroom, which was filled with warmth as your husband's infectious giggles floated out of the closet.
"I know, that's the point!", Lewis walked out with a blue hoodie on, a bright smile pulling at his cheeks, one that showed his cute tooth gap and deep dimples.
He had just gotten back from a triple header and finally had some time off, which he wanted to spend doing domestic things with you and your 3 year old baby girl, Daisy.
“You don’t know how difficult it was to keep this secret from her. When you called me to say that you’d landed and told me to not put her on the phone, she kept side eyeing me like I stole her chocolate or something!”, you grumbled jokingly as he came up to your bedside and flopped down in front of you, his hands coming over to cup your chin before leaning in and kissing your other cheek sloppily.
Ideally, he was going to come home after Daisy came back from nursery. But somehow his flight was scheduled earlier than expected, due to which he was now home after Daisy had left for her nursery. Which is why he had immediately put his bags away, showered, and changed into comfy clothes, just so he could pick her up.
Your heart grew three sizes when you saw how excited he was.
It was like all of his exhaustion had melted away at the thought of seeing her again. You were used to him being away for longer times after being with him for so many years. But ever since Daisy had started to figure out that her dad had to go away for weeks and months for his job, even though she could still see him on the tv screen, she had understood that he would not be coming home anytime soon, she had understood that whenever Mommy said that "we will see daddy on TV today!" more than once a week, it meant that Daddy was not going to be back sooner.
It always prompted a sad breakdown, which broke your heart, and you had to call Lewis while he was in the midst of working or in a meeting, and he'd have to reassure her that he will 'pinky promise' call at bedtime for a story. (And he would, without fail. No matter how tired he was.)
"She's just like her mummy. So smart and sharp", he pressed another kiss to your cheek before squishing your face in his hands.
You pouted and took a hand off the keyboard to poke at his stomach through the soft fabric of his hoodie He jumped and chuckled loudly.
"Owkay, shmartass. Now go and bwing the pwincessh home", you managed to blabber out from your squished cheeks, making your speech sound similar to Donald Duck.
Lewis giggled again before releasing your face to softly caress it and kissing you, jumping out of the bed to quickly reunite with his princess.
-
The nursery is pretty close to your house, so Lewis found himself standing outside the nursery gate in just under 10 minutes, which still leaves 5 minutes for him to spare until they let the kids disperse.
He had the hood over his head, so as to not disturb the other parents, kids and teachers, even if all them had already gotten used to seeing Daisy's very famous Dad and Mum pick her up. They had seen him at enough events, cheering little Daisy on, and be present pick ups to not be surprised about his presence.
He sent you a quick text to let you know that he'd reached, before pocketing his phone and restlessly darting his eyes towards the gate in anticipation, his teeth stressing the inside of his cheek and feet constantly moving back and forth.
After flashing a smile to another parent standing next to him, the sharp trill of the dispersal bell hit his ears, making him perk up and snap his head towards the sound, an involuntary smile already stretching at his lips.
He tries to stay strong for the both of you, he really does, but he misses the two of you so, so much. When he's all alone in a hotel room in some other country, or even in some of his own houses across the world, the silence feels like it physically hurts, the bed is always too cold and lumpy without his two girls in it, making his insomnia worse and emotions wavy.
Lewis hates to admit it, but he has missed some of Daisy’s milestones, barely even making it in time for her first day of school, and the thought that he's putting one half of his heart at stake for his other side that consisted of speed and adrenaline, always makes him doubt himself whether he's doing it right, or not. Of course, he has you reassuring him at every moment, you have made your own sacrifices to ensure that you guys had a normal life, and it was something he'd always respect. You're his rock, you’re why he keeps pushing even on his darkest days.
Lewis also knows this makes him looks clingy and unsure of himself, but maybe he is. He doesn't take his family lightly. And god, he's hoping he doesn't cry right now in front of everyone and worry, or embarrass, Daisy.
He heard the stomps of little footsteps over the sound of his loud thoughts, pulling his attention back towards the gate. Now, his eyes had a shine to them. Whether they were unshed tears or the happiness at reuniting with his Daisy-Daze, he welcomed it nonetheless. Brown eyes eagerly swept past bright outfits and backpacks, the sweet squeals and giggles of kids automatically brightened the otherwise gloomy day in London,
and that's when he heard it.
"Daddy?!"
A loud, high pitched voice yelled over the other kids' voices, Lewis getting a whiplash from how quickly he turned his head towards the source, and there she was.
His little princess, in her purple t-shirt and lilac leggings, her sparkly Barbie pink shoes, her bouncy curls- which were tied up in adorable little plaits, a ritual that he missed dearly- were adorned with matching rubber bands and were all over the place as she ran over to where he was standing, her tiny ‘Sofia the First’ backpack going up and down as she did so.
Lewis immediately crouched to be on her level, his eyes crinkling and dimples deepened by the sheer amount of joy he was feeling. He opened his arms for her to climb in, a small 'oof' leaving him as she crashed into his chest, her tiny but determined arms going around his neck as her face pressed into the shoulder of his hoodie, eyes scrunched up tightly as his hands pulled her closer to his warm embrace.
"Hi, my sweetie", Lewis cooed, his own eyes shutting close, the telltale sting of tears made him pull her closer as he safely picked her up, standing upright with a hand behind her head and an arm supporting her legs and bottom.
The entire world had ceased to exist for them.
All the two of them could feel, were these big emotions, that made them take big breaths which expanded their lungs, as Lewis started rocking his body left to right.
He was so sure that if you were here, you’d be crying and capturing this moment proudly. The three of you didn’t need anything else when you were with each other.
His train of thoughts was again broken by Daisy’s soft and shaky voice. “Daddy…I mich you.”
She sounded so small and sad, he felt his heart breaking into pieces. He pouted and pulled away to look at her, his breath hitching as he looked at her damp face, her little mouth tugged into the saddest frown he’d ever seen.
And his guilt was back in full effect.
Lewis couldn’t handle seeing his little sunshine so upset, you even teased him at times for spoiling her (even though she was the most precious and good baby). But on the odd occasion that he’d manage to upset her, his guilt and anxiety would sky rocket because he was the cause of it.
Because she trusted him and loved him so unconditionally, and even though he left the two of you alone at home, for months and months, the two of you still chose him. He’s forever grateful for that.
He was seriously contemplating on taking a break but he knew that you would never force him to sit home, and his own heart, body and mind would find that difficult to do.
So, he had decided to make gold out of what he already had.
“Oh, my darling, daddy missed you so much too”, he gave her a kind smile before brushing her hair away from her sticky cheeks.
She still couldn’t pronounce her S’s or R’s properly, so she ends up saying “mich” instead of “miss”, and it was so cute to return her baby talk back, but you’d told him (and he’d read) that although parents should encourage the kids to talk in whatever way they want, they must never repeat the baby talk after a certain age, to help them grasp the correct vocabulary better.
So you’d always correct her in your responses, and she would always get the cutest furrow in her brows as she processed it.
She had the same look right now, except now she just looked adorably mad, her chubby fingers gently pulling at his hoop earring, her favourite thing to do whenever she was cuddling him or wanted to self soothe.
“You late. I wait for you evevy day! I-I tell mummy I mich daddy. Mummy say Daddy back soon but, Mummy mich Daddy too when Mummy sleep. Daddy late and on TV, again!”, She huffed out and clumsily wiped her tears, her cheeks puffed out because of how hard she was trying to be angry.
Lewis bit the inside of his cheek again to control the surge of emotion, torn between crying or cooing at her adorable British accent that she took from him, and instead, held her hand in his own inked ones, bringing it up to kiss it, before moving up towards her face to kiss her cheek in apology.
“Daddy’s so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I know I’m late. You can scold me all you want. But I’m here now! I came here just to pick you up! Tomorrow, we will go out on a picnic—You, Mummy, and I. What say, hm? No school for you.”
He saw the moment her eyes lit up with joy, her legs began swinging with excitement at the thought of staying at home with her favourite people and doing her favourite thing: picnic!
She was completely his twin with the way she loved the outdoors. Spent nine months in your tummy, only to come back out as her father’s carbon copy.
Safe to say, your hands were full with two adventurers.
“Picnic? Pwomise? No ‘chool? I sleep with mummy daddy?”, she asked excitedly, her hands bunching up his hoodie as he smiled at her brightly, nodding as a reply.
Lewis giggled loudly as she let out a big “Yay!!” and pressed her cheek to his, his hand splaying over her back to bring her closer.
“Tank yew, daddy!”, Daisy said cutely and pressed a loud smooch on his cheek, making him smile so hard that his cheeks were hurting. His baby girl was already getting so big, she’d learnt manners and everything now!
If only she knew how much that deeply affected her poor old man. He already misses all the times he’s spent away from her and missed on these firsts.
“Thank you? Princesses don’t say thank you to their daddy, Daze. I love you, so so much, okay? Daddy loves you and mummy the most, don’t forget that, okay?”, his voice unknowingly broke as he finished the sentence, his hand rubbing her small back in comfort as she watched him with that child like innocence in her sparkly doe eyes.
“I no fowget, daddy. Mummy and me love you one, two, three, four, five!!”, she stubbornly added, her favourite thing to say whenever you would say “too.” It was so sweet, that you and Lewis couldn’t help but make it a little tradition and a silly joke to let her prove that she loved you more in numbers.
She simply added the numbers that she knew.
Which were only till 5, for now.
Lewis simply smiled fondly, his heart full with so much love that he didn’t know what to do with it.
This little human ruled his life, and he was happy to let her do it. She had him wrapped around on her tiny finger, right from the moment he saw her screaming, crying, pale and squirmy little body in the hospital room, 3 years ago.
He cleared his throat before the dam broke, and gently removed her backpack, slinging the tiny thing around his broad back, and shifted her to his other side, locking his arms across her to secure her on his hip, her legs going around his waist and arms holding on to his shoulders with her unwavering trust in him.
At that moment, he knew exactly what his sister told him when she held Willow for the first time on her hip: pure, soft, tender love and overwhelming responsibility for this little baby who returned all of your love back, tenfold and trusted you blindly to never drop them when they wrap around you like this.
God, he’d do anything for her. And you. The thought was scary, but he was nothing if not daring and fearless.
“Okay. Let’s go back to mummy, Daze?”, he softly asked her, kissing her forehead as he made his way out of the school compound.
“Okey, daddy”, Daisy Hamilton sleepily murmured before laying her head on her father’s big and comforting shoulders, the ones the held the dreams of thousands and the sweet weight of his daughter’s and wife’s tired heads.
Lewis Hamilton was an 8 times world champion.
But this was his most favourite victory: being loved unconditionally by the people he called home.
summary: Argentina has just won the World Cup, a magnificent victory for Argentinian women all across football, but what happens when you have barely a week off before the season starts up again and a certain formula 1 team invites you to a race?
PART ONE - PART TWO
warnings: none really, some Spanish but it’s all translated, reader is women’s football player, in second person ‘you’, idk what else to put.
authors note: okay so let’s pretend the last World Cup was 2025 and not 2023 and let’s pretend that Argentina won. ALSO, anything that’s on a story, insta post, insta comments, Franco interacting with reader, let’s pretend it’s all in Spanish. I only have a few bits that are in Spanish (google translate - all translations are next to the Spanish and like (this) - shrunken and slanted.)
⤷ first time writing in a smau, how do we like it? is it a no or yeah?? also the second person should i change it to a different perspective?
masterlist
* no hay como mi casa - there’s no place like home
the plane ride home felt surreal.
everything felt fake, like one little pinch would wake you up to a room full of unicorns and fairies, back to being a little girl who’s dream was the world cup.
but you were a fully grown woman. you’d won the world cup for your county, and you’ve pinched yourself more times than you can count.
this is real.
yourusername
yourusername Soy Argentina, desde la cuna hasta la tumba🇦🇷⚽️ (I am Argentinian, from the cradle to the grave)
Liked by afaseleccion, leomessi and others…
afaseleccion ¡Viva Argentina! (long live Argentina!)
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⤷ yourusername ¡vamos!🩵 (come on!)
leomessi 🇦🇷🇦🇷
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⤷ yourusername 🇦🇷🩵
francolapinto ¡Las mujeres gobiernan el mundo!🇦🇷 (Women rule the world!)
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⤷ yourusername 💪👸🇦🇷
your fingers pad on the keyboard. a few quick emojis for a reply and your phone is quickly switched off again.
everything seemed to be coming up yourname.
truthfully, you didn’t know exactly what to do with the week or so you had left before the prem started up again.
‘relax’ people would say. ‘relax and read a good book’. but your life moves fast, it always has, relaxing by a pool with a random book you picked up at the airport won’t do you any good.
but maybe an invite from a certain formula 1 team might..
the sunglasses emoji was the last thing your eyes saw before you hit post.
relax? relax my ass.
life was about to speed by as you quickly prepared to travel once more.
pulling up fabrics before lazily throwing them back on the bed had become your new favourite pass time.
too short, too long, too baggy, too tight, too much, not enough. everything was wrong.
it was a grand prix for christs sake.
people are classy, elegant, defined. this is a sport for the people that come from money, hardly any place someone from the masses would appear at.
but you’re famous now. you’re a footballer.
world cup winner, man city striker signing and apparently new grand prix attendee.
fame seemed to follow your every move. pictures here and there, nothing major thankfully, but enough to feel appreciated, seen.
everything seemed picture worthy. this is a once in a lifetime experience.
that’s what you kept telling yourself, at least.
maybe it was a reminder to be grateful for everything on this trip or maybe it was a ploy to make your mind trick you into buying more.
be grateful.
you met important people, saw important things, it was only media day but still, so much was on show.
your head was practically spinning the moment your feet stumbled through that hotel door.
food. shower. bed.
food. shower. bed.
food. shower. bed.
those words appeared in your head over and over like a mantra. the plan the moment you stepped inside.
order room service food, take a long relaxing shower and jump into that huge queen sized bed that seemed to be calling your name even from outside the hotel.
you would’ve followed this three step plan, this very simple plan, if it wasn’t for a notification that caught your eye.
franco colapinto.
the moment your scanned into the paddock for practice day, an alpine staff member popped out from, well, i don’t know where.
he greeted you with a big grin, “hello! my name’s daniel, but you can call me dan, everyone does!” your head nods slowly, unsurely.
“nice to meet you dan.., i’m your-“ , “yourname! i know! big fan! congratulations on the big win by the way!” the man grinned up at you.
you must’ve had a good two, three inches on the ray sunshine that stood before you but that didn’t deter you or him, he just craned his neck to a comfortable position and kept speaking.
“i’ve been tasked with giving you the grand tour!”, dan starts moving, “and to lead you to the hot lap of course!”
“hot lap?..” the words felt foreign. forced. you’d never stepped foot into this world, just another thing to dip your toe into. a cultural experience.
“you’ll see.” dan winked back at you before leading you all around the paddock, never failing to spot a legend in the crowd.
nico rosberg.
david coulthard.
jenson button.
the ‘usuals’.
eventually, daniel led you to the alpine garage. soft beats could be heard thumping from inside, no doubt the mechanics got bored and decided silence didn’t cut it anymore.
but dan didn’t stop to show you around the garage, no car tour or headset try on, just straight through and to the circuit.
“ta-da!” he beams up at you, small jazz hands coming out and pointing to the car settled on the track, “your carriage awaits m’lady!”
and with that, daniel spins on his heels and scurries off. without so much of a peep.
you stand there like a statue for a few moments, literally debating leaving or not, before a soft voice calls out at you.
at first, you don’t register the words, not until the voice replaced his words with the fluid notes of spanish.
looking up, your eyes meet these softer ones.
“hola.”
he greets you, arm already stretched for a shake. the smile he gives you is nothing short of beautiful and it calms your nerves.
“I’m franco..”
the man trails off after giving his name, was he waiting for yours or was he just.. like this?
you quickly move your hand out, taking his in yours.
“nice to meet you, i’m your-“ , “i know- i mean.. i know ‘cause i watched the world cup..”
oh. he’s a… fan?
“i watch men and women’s, you did amazing. that hattrick against sweden? it was amazing, ay dios mío..” (oh my god)
a small laugh comes out without you even realising, only coming back to reality when he awkwardly laughs too.
eventually, after letting go of each others hands and standing around awkwardly, he leads you to the car.
yourusername
yourusername i feel the need, the need, for speed! 🏎️💨🏁@francolapinto
Liked by francolapinto, alpinef1team and others…
alpinef1team hot laps with franco!! 😎🚙💨
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francolapinto estabas tan asustada como una bebe (you were so scared, like a little baby)
⤷ yourusername mentiroso. (liar)
francolapinto so is speed better than the pitch?
⤷ yourusername never
⤷ francolapinto you sure? i think you had a lot of fun today😉
⤷ ❤️ liked by creator
⤷ yourusername maybe i did 🤷♀️
user1 the Argentinian link up we’ve been waiting for
user2 I NEED that hot lap footage🙏🙏
⤷ user3 @alpinef1team pleaseeee 🙏😖
user4 that last pic of Franco 😭
user5 I know they’ll be speaking spanish the whole time 🥲
⤷ user6 what’s wrong with that?
⤷ user5 nothing! Just that I have to read subtitles 💔
⤷ user7 subtitles are better than nothing bro
user8 those helmets are so funny to me they’re so goofy 😭
user9 a new franco fan?? 👀
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sending that text was a shot in the dark, something brave.
you had sent it twenty minutes before qualifying for christs sake.
maybe that’s what you needed, a bit of courage. you were certain he wouldn’t be on his phone until after so that gave you nearly two hours of contemplation.
what you didn’t expect was for him to pick up his phone straight away, reply and then flash you that charming smile from across the garage.
while qualifying was occurring, you quickly posted a picture of yourself in the alpine garage and titled it ‘paddock too boring so I had to pull up’.
and subsequently you spent the next hour rolling your eyes at a few too many know-it-alls who corrected you that it was the garage and not the paddock instead of watching qualifying.
that also means you missed the moment the chequered flags were raised at the end of q1 and franco finished with a p16.
the garage let out small sighs.
some were sad, a car already out in q1? that was a rough start to a grand prix. but on the other hand, gasly passed past p16. he was now in q2.
those were the other sighs, the sighs of relief.
one more chance.
which quickly plummeted as pierre crossed the checkered flag with a speed that planted him p14.
navigating the garage and then the paddock was a while different ball park compared to the halls of a stadium.
everyone was everywhere.
people wanted a peak of their favourite drivers, photographers needed good shots, journalists needed a headline.
hungry. that’s what they were.
hungry.
but nevertheless, you escaped relatively unscathed, but not before you got corned by someone, god knows who they are- dan?
the alpine worker beamed up at you before he thrusted a bag full of Lego blind bags into your arms, insisting you take them, they were free after all.
so of course you took them.
ripping them open the second you got back to the hotel, they were confusing to say the least.
everything was simplified, colours were easy to identify but sometimes it’s hard.
in the end, you ended up building a miniature williams car, a miniature ferrari car and… a miniature alpine car!
-
before you know it, your phone blares through the silence.
thank god you had gotten out of the shower a few minutes ago, you would have never heard it.
scrambling to answer while in the middles of pulling up some joggers proved to be a task until you ultimately pressed answer.
“hola!”
franco’s chipper voice rang through the speaker. for someone who placed back of the grid, he sure did sound chipper.
“hola franco, you ready yet?”
the other side of the call made a strange sound, like a shuffling. a shuffling that happens when you’re scrambling around trying to sound busy as if you weren’t waiting hand and foot for the clock to strike an appropriate time.
“of course i am! just leaving the hotel now, see you in fiv-“
the phone ends abruptly.
you almost thought it rude until the thought of how excited he was crossed your mind.
it was disappointing that franco only stayed on for a measly 20 seconds, but 20 seconds on the phone was nothing compared to basking in another persons company.
getting ready really didn’t take too long, just some joggers and a tank top, usual lazy football clothes.
your hand grabbed your phone and key card, shoving them in your pockets and shrugging on a random zip up hoodie that was flung on the chair.
-
walking to the pitch felt strange. you didn’t have your coach with you, nor your teammates who are normally laughing and joking before practice. no, it was just you.
just you and franco. on a pitch in the Netherlands. at nearly seven o’clock.
alone.
the quietness helped calm your nerves at least. it was only a twenty minute walk from your hotel to the pitch so it helped all the thoughts and nerves swirling around.
finally, you arrived at the agreed spot. a fancy pitch, fenced off and definitely rented out. the lighting seemed professional despite it being half the size of an actual football pitch.
the green was laid perfectly and seemed cared for, it definitely felt like it when your trainers stood on it for the first time.
cleats would’ve been more acceptable for this but, who knew you were going to need them when you accepted to come along to this race?
it didn’t seem like franco had arrived yet so you just took off your jacket and threw it on the sidelines, your phone and key card along with it.
in the middle of some little warm ups, things that were ingrained into your mind at this point, franco had arrived, football in hand.
“you’re here!”
that made you look up, turning your head to the side you see franco with a big grin on his face while he slings his back pack off of his shoulder.
“i thought i had some time to get the ball before you got here.”
he said sheepishly, moving his hand to emphasise the ball. his argentina shirt was creased, clearly he had packed it hurriedly and hadn’t touched it since.
“you ready to show me some talent, or are you too chicken?”
franco teases, dropping the ball in front of him. and of course you took that one little sentence as a challenge.
over the next two hours, you treat the poor boy as your personal jester. you had to admit, he was pretty good, but against a professional footballer? franco stood no chance.
it started to get late, the sky was darkening and there was only so much football you could play before you both started to get tired.
luckily for you both, there was a bowling alley around the corner with a pub joined next door.
the night kind of went blurry after that..
it was full of strikes, pints and helmet stealing… you think? honestly who knows at this point.
Summary: After one disastrous weekend Max suggests that maybe you're not cut out for F1. He spends the rest of the season trying to rebuild what his words damaged.
6.1k words / Masterlist
You had only just made it back to the garage after a humiliating FP1 session a spin at Turn 8, a lap time that left you rooted to the bottom of the timing sheets, and nothing but clipped, uncomfortable silence from the pit wall as you limped the car back. By the time you climbed out of the cockpit, heat still trapped beneath your race suit and embarrassment burning beneath your skin, you already felt as though every pair of eyes in the garage was fixed on you.
Max didn’t need to make it worse.
“Maybe this just isn’t the place for you.”
The words hit you harder than any crash ever could.
He didn’t sound angry, somehow that would have been easier to take, his voice was calm and detached, delivered with the kind of cold certainty that made it sound less like an insult and more like a conclusion he'd already reached.
Your throat tightened so quickly it hurt.
For one awful second you could only stare at him waiting for something else, a flicker of regret, a sign that he'd spoken out of frustration rather than meaning it, but nothing came. His expression remained unreadable, already turning back towards the monitors as though the conversation was over.
You blinked twice and gave a small nod, because pretending to agree felt safer than letting him see how deeply he had cut you. Then you walked past the engineering desk without speaking, keeping your shoulders straight and your gaze fixed ahead until you were safely out of sight, where no one could see the tremble in your chin or the tears gathering behind your eyes.
You didn’t say another word for the rest of the day.
You avoided him for the rest of the weekend.
During team meetings you took the seat furthest from his. In briefings every answer you gave was clipped, addressed to your engineers never to him. You didn’t look his way once even before FP3 when you caught him watching you through the reflection in the garage mirror as you pulled your balaclava over your head. You saw the way his gaze lingered almost as though he wanted to say something, but you turned away before he could.
Then qualifying came and everything got worse.
You locked up into Turn 12, the front tyres protesting as the car skidded just wide enough to cost you two tenths through the final sector. Two tenths that might have been enough to save you. Instead your name dropped to sixteenth as the clock ran out, leaving you stranded in the garage and eliminated in Q1.
By the time you had climbed out of the car the headlines were already writing themselves.
RED BULL’S LATEST RISK FAILS TO DELIVER.
MAX’S NEW TEAMMATE CRUMBLES UNDER PRESSURE.
It didn’t seem to matter that you weren’t actually his teammate, not yet at least. You were still only a junior driver, loaned out for unknown period of time during Isack’s injury, a slight test for the future so you could find your feet without the full weight of Red Bull pressing down on your shoulders. The media had already decided what you were supposed to become though and every mistake was treated as proof that you would never be ready for it.
Max’s comment had only lit the match.
Now the entire paddock seemed determined to watch you burn.
Over the next couple of weeks you began to notice a change in Max, it was easy enough to dismiss at first. He no longer offered unsolicited advice over the radio or hovered beside your engineers while they picked apart your laps. Instead he kept his distance, watching from across the garage whenever he thought you weren’t paying attention.
You did notice but you just simply refused to acknowledge it.
In the hospitality tent you kept your headphones on and your head lowered over a sheet of telemetry, pretending to study the same sector analysis you had been staring at for nearly twenty minutes. The numbers had blurred together long ago, but concentrating on them was easier than looking around and risking another encounter with him.
The chair beside you scraped against the floor and your shoulders tightened before you could stop them. Max sat down without asking, close enough that the edge of his knee nearly brushed yours beneath the table. For a moment, he said nothing, then a Red Bull energy bar slid across the page, covering the corner of the graph you had been pretending to read.
“Eat something.”
You pulled one side of your headphones away from your ear and stared at the bar. “I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.”
His answer came quickly, but there was none of the coldness or impatience you remembered from the last race. Only a quiet certainty that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to examine. You moved the energy bar aside and returned your attention to the data sheet. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable, settling between you like wet concrete. Around you the hospitality suite carried on as normal cutlery clinking against plates, team members laughing near the coffee machine, someone discussing something as mundane as the weather two tables away, but the space between you felt strangely separate from all of it.
Max leaned back in his chair and released a breath, it wasn’t the irritated sigh you had grown used to hearing from him, he sounded tired, defeated, almost. When you finally glanced at him guilt sat heavily in the slope of his shoulders. His elbows rested against his knees, hands clasped loosely together as he stared down at the floor.
“I saw the headlines,” he said at last.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the paper.
“And I know I made them worse.”
You looked away before he could see the flicker of hurt cross your face. “Forget it.”
Before he could reply you pushed your chair back and stood, Max reached for your wrist, calling your name as though he could stop you, but you pulled away without looking at him and walked out.
Max stopped keeping his distance after that.
At the next debrief he walked into the crowded conference room passed several empty chairs and took the seat directly beside you. You told yourself it was nothing, but when he did the same thing at the following session and again the day after that it became impossible to dismiss as coincidence.
Each time he arrived he would set his tablet down beside your notes and settle into the chair as though sitting anywhere else had never crossed his mind. While engineers filled the room and sector times glowed across the screens, Max remained at your side, listening more closely when your laps were discussed and quietly following every piece of feedback you were given.
He never tried to force a conversation, he simply listened, occasionally leaning closer to point out something on your screen or quietly asking one of your engineers to bring up a different lap comparison.
Then he began appearing in your garage after his own sessions. He would arrive with the sleeves of his team shirt pushed up to his elbows and an sheet of telemetery tucked beneath one arm, walking straight past the cameras and curious mechanics. Sometimes he had barely climbed out of his own car before he was asking for your telemetry.
It was strange, watching him study your laps with the same fierce concentration he usually reserved for his own. He replayed your onboard footage, compared steering traces and questioned your engineers until every small inconsistency had been pulled apart.
One evening, long after most of the paddock had begun to empty he stood beside you at the engineering desk, scrolling through a comparison between your fastest lap and the one that had been abandoned after a lock-up.
“This isn’t a braking issue,” he muttered.
You glanced away from the screen. “That’s what they keep telling me though.”
“They’re wrong.”
His tone was so blunt that one of your engineers looked up from the opposite end of the desk. Max either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He enlarged the tyre data and tapped the front-left trace with his finger.
“It isn’t coming up to temperature quickly enough. Look here.” He dragged the laps side by side. “You’re turning in expecting the grip to be there, but it isn’t. Then you’re compensating by braking later on the next lap which makes the lock-up worse.”
You studied the graph, following the lines he'd highlighted. Once he pointed it out, the pattern seemed obvious.
“You’re chasing grip that the car isn’t giving you,” he continued. “You could drive the corner perfectly and still lose time.”
You looked at him instead of the screen.
Max noticed after a moment, his hand still hovering over the tablet. “What?”
“Why are you doing this?”
The question came out more quietly than you intended.
His expression closed slightly, and he turned his attention back to the data. “Because someone needs to.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
His jaw tightened.
You waited, unwilling to let him escape behind another graph or technical explanation.
Finally, Max lowered the tablet onto the desk. “Because I should have said something useful that day.”
You said nothing.
“I knew you were struggling with the car,” he continued. “I knew the balance was wrong, and I knew you were already blaming yourself for all of it.” His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, as though looking at you would make the admission harder. “I could have helped and instead I made you feel like you didn’t belong here.”
The familiar ache returned beneath your ribs.
“And now you think fixing my setup will make up for it?”
“No.” His answer was immediate. For the first time since you arrived he met your gaze fully.
“But it’s something I can do.”
You didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of you still wanted to be angry. Anger was usually easier. It created distance between you, kept his words sharp enough in your memory that you wouldn’t risk trusting him again.
But Max was making it difficult to hold on to, especially when he kept showing up. Every evening, once the media duties ended and the garage began to quiet, you would find him waiting near your engineering station. Sometimes he had two coffees balanced in one hand. Sometimes he had already loaded your onboard footage before you arrived. He never asked whether you wanted his help anymore, but he never acted as though you owed him anything for it either.
On Friday evening, you returned from a meeting to find him leaning against the desk, your more recent data already open in front of him.
He glanced up as you approached.
“Come on,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Get your notes. We’re going over Turn 4 again.”
You folded your arms. “We went over Turn 4 yesterday.”
“And you’re still losing a tenth on entry.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“I know.”
There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as soon as you noticed it. He picked up the laptop and started walking towards the back of the garage, clearly expecting you to follow.
For a moment, you remained where you were. Then you reached for your notebook and went after him.
It wasn’t until a media scrum a few races later that you understood just how much things between you had changed.
You stood behind the taped barrier beneath the harsh paddock lights, waiting for your turn while three different press officers attempted to keep the restless crowd of reporters moving. Your helmet bag hung from one shoulder, and you had already arranged the usual answers neatly in your head: the car was improving, the team was working hard, and you were taking everything one session at a time. Each response was measured, harmless and carefully constructed to give the journalists nothing they could twist into another headline.
A few feet away Max was halfway through his own interview when one of the reporters asked him about you.
“What do you make of her recent improvement? She seems to have found something over the last few races.”
You lowered your gaze, preparing yourself for the usual vague endorsement. Something about promising pace or needing more time. The sort of harmless answer drivers gave when they didn’t want to say anything at all.
Instead, Max tilted his head and squinted at the reporter as though the question had irritated him.
“She’s quick,” he said. “People forget how steep the learning curve is at this level. She’s had to learn a new car, a new team and tracks she’s never raced on before within a few weeks with everyone waiting for her to make a mistake. Give her time.”
Your grip tightened around the strap of your bag.
The reporter glanced down at his notes, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “It was a fairly rough start, though. You must have had doubts after the opening rounds.”
Max’s expression changed immediately.
“You ever driven a car at three hundred and twenty kilometres an hour while half the world watches your onboard and waits for you to get something wrong?”
The reporter’s smile faltered. “Well obviously not, but—”
“No?” Max interrupted, his voice still measured even as his eyes narrowed. “Standing here criticising her is easy. You’re very comfortable judging something you’ve never had the ability to do yourself.”
A murmur moved through the press pack, cameras shifted towards him, microphones lifting higher as everyone sensed the possibility of a headline. Max didn’t elaborate. He didn’t soften it with a laugh or look towards the press officer for rescue he simply handed back the microphone and stepped away from the barrier. He passed close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, but he never looked at you.
You remained frozen in place, staring after him while the reporters around you whispered to one another and your press officer called your name for the second time.
For weeks Max had been helping you quietly, behind closed doors and dimmed garage screens where no one else could see, this was different, there had been a hundred cameras pointed at him, and he had defended you anyway, you wondered briefly whether guilt was still the only reason he kept showing up for you.
You found him alone at the back of the Red Bull motorhome after the race. The celebrations had already begun downstairs, your engineers opening bottles and passing around plastic cups because eighth place ordinarily meant very little, but today it meant everything. Your first Formula One points. A small mark beside your name on the championship table that proved, at least for one weekend, that you belonged there.
Max had disappeared shortly after the podium ceremony.
You found him slumped into the corner of one of the black leather sofas, still wearing his team kit, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. His phone was in his hand, but he didn’t appear to be reading anything. His thumb moved aimlessly over the screen, his expression distant in a way that made you think he'd come there precisely because he didn’t want to be found.
He looked up when you entered.
“Congratulations,” he said, his voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him. “Your first points.”
You stopped a few feet from the sofa. “Thanks.”
Max studied you for a moment. “You don’t look very happy about it.”
“It’s not really enough still.” You shifted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, reluctant to let yourself feel proud of a result that had fallen short of what you wanted.
“You scored your first points,” Max continued. “That should be celebrated. It isn’t easy and you shouldn’t act like eighth means nothing just because you wanted the podium.”
“I wasn’t planning on celebrating eighth.”
“No?” The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “That’s disappointing. I was hoping I might finally get a smile out of you.”
Your eyes met his, and the warmth in them caught you off guard. “You’re not that charming.”
“I didn’t say I was.” His gaze dipped briefly down before returning to your eyes. “But you’re still trying not to smile.”
You looked away before he could see that he was right.
“You drove well,” he added, the teasing fading. “You stayed out of trouble, managed the tyres and took every chance when it came.”
The praise should have felt good, but it left a strange pressure beneath your ribs because you could still remember when his opinion had been the one you cared about most, before his words had hollowed you out and taught you not to look for his approval.
You nodded, unsure what else to offer him. “The changes helped.”
Max understood what you meant, the hours spent studying telemetry, the late evenings dissecting corners and the coffees left beside your laptop before early briefings.
His mouth tightened faintly. “They helped,” he agreed. “But you still had to drive the car.”
You could hear the muffled celebration below you, bursts of laughter rising through the floor whenever the doors opened. You considered leaving. You'd already started to turn when Max placed his phone face down on the cushion beside him.
“Wait.”
You stopped.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere near your feet. There was tension in the movement, as though the words had been sitting inside him for weeks and he still hadn’t worked out how to say them.
“I meant what I said that day,” he began.
Your entire body went still.
“Not like that,” he corrected quickly. “Not in the way it sounded.”
A humourless laugh escaped you. “Is there another way to interpret ‘maybe this isn’t the place for you’?”
He looked up then.
There was no anger in his expression and none of the defensiveness you'd expected. He looked exhausted in the way someone looked when they'd been carrying the same regret for too long and had finally realised there was no painless way to put it down.
“No,” he admitted. “There isn’t.”
You folded your arms over your chest, more to protect yourself than anything else.
“I was frustrated,” he continued. “With the car, with the team, with myself. Everything had gone wrong that day and then you walked into the garage looking so…” His voice faltered, and he glanced away. “You looked completely crushed.”
The memory returned with painful clarity, the heat beneath your race suit and the silence from the engineers. Max’s voice following you through the garage.
“And so you decided to make it worse?”
“I knew that feeling,” he said. “I knew exactly what was going through your head because I’ve been there. I know what it feels like when everyone is watching, when one bad session becomes proof that you’re not good enough and when every person around you has an opinion about whether you deserve to be here.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. His hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles had begun to pale.
“I knew how much you were already blaming yourself and instead of helping you I gave you another reason to.”
You looked down because holding his gaze had become too difficult.
“I told myself I was trying to warn you,” he continued. “That maybe you needed to understand how brutal this place could be before it swallowed you but that isn’t what I did. It isn’t how it came out.”
“Why?” you whispered.
Max inhaled slowly.
“Because I was scared for you.”
You looked at him again.
His gaze remained fixed on his hands. “I know what this place does to people. I know what it did to me when I was your age, everyone tells you that pressure makes you stronger, but sometimes it just makes you believe you’re only worth something when you’re winning.”
His jaw tightened, the words becoming more difficult with every sentence.
“I could see you starting to disappear into it, every mistake or headline, every time someone questioned you—like it proved something. I wanted to tell you that it didn’t. I wanted to say that you’re allowed to struggle and that one bad session doesn’t mean you don’t belong here, you’re allowed to question whether you want to be here and that doesn’t mean you don’t care.”
A broken breath left him.
“But I didn’t know how to say that… in fact I said the exact opposite.”
The tears came before you could stop them, stinging at the corners of your eyes. You blinked quickly, but one escaped anyway, slipping down your cheek before you could turn away. His expression crumpled so briefly you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching him. He swallowed hard, eyes shining as he looked down at the floor again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice shook now, stripped of every trace of the certainty he carried in front of cameras. “I know saying it doesn’t undo anything. I know helping with the car doesn’t make it better, but I am so fucking sorry for making you feel like that.”
You stood there for a long moment. Part of you had imagined this apology countless times. In some versions, you shouted at him. In others, you told him exactly what his words had done to you and walked away before he had the chance to answer, but now that the moment had arrived, anger wasn’t the strongest thing you felt.
It was relief. Relief that he understood. That he hadn’t forgotten it the moment the words left his mouth, that every evening he had spent beside you had meant something more than obligation.
You crossed the room before you could overthink it and lowered yourself onto the sofa beside him. Max watched you carefully, almost warily, as though he didn’t trust himself to hope.
You shifted closer and gently rested your head against his shoulder.
For several seconds, Max didn’t move. Then his body softened beside yours, and he released a long, unsteady breath as though he'd been holding it since that first Friday afternoon.
His head tipped carefully against yours.
You never said the words I forgive you, but when Max’s hand settled beside yours on the sofa, his little finger brushing tentatively against your own you didn’t pull away.
By the time the paddock reached Austria Max had become woven so thoroughly into your routine that neither of you seemed capable of remembering when it had happened.
He was there during the quiet hours before briefings, leaning against the counter in hospitality while you waited for your drink, and again late in the evening when the garages began to empty and the conversations around you softened into the tired murmur of engineers preparing for the following day. What had begun as Max helping you understand an unpredictable car had become something far less structured. Some evenings you still spent hours studying telemetry and comparing onboard footage and on others the laptop remained open and almost entirely forgotten while he told you stories about his early years in the sport or tried to convince you that his terrible movie recommendations were somehow your fault for listening to him.
Whenever you climbed out of the car after a session your eyes would drift instinctively towards his garage. At dinner you saved the seat beside you before you had consciously decided to do it. When something went well Max had somehow become the first person you wanted to tell, even when he had already been watching the entire thing unfold.
The team had started to notice and the reporters had certainly noticed, but neither of you acknowledged it.
After qualifying seventh in Austria you found Max near the back of the garage, studying the final timing screen. He'd claimed pole by less than a tenth and should have been preparing for the media pen, but his attention shifted towards you the moment you approached.
You stopped beside him and folded your arms, allowing a deliberately smug smile to form.
“You’re welcome.”
Max glanced towards the screen and then back at you. “For what?”
“Pole.”
His eyebrows lifted. “My pole?”
“You were losing time through Turn 6 yesterday. I told you the wind was pushing the rear around on entry.”
“You said it felt like it ‘might be windy tomorrow’.”
“And then you went faster.”
A smile spread slowly across his face. “So now you are taking credit for my qualifying?”
“Only the successful parts.”
“What about the rest of the lap?”
“That was acceptable too.”
Max laughed, a warm sound that caught the attention of one of the nearby mechanics. A few months earlier you would never have spoken to him like this, you would have analysed every word before saying it and waited anxiously for some indication that he approved. Now you simply enjoyed the way his eyes brightened whenever you surprised him.
“Well,” he said, turning his body fully towards you, “thank you for securing my pole position.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“And congrats on seventh.”
Your smile softened. “Thank you.”
There was no joking qualification attached to it. Max did not point out where you had lost time or suggest that you might have placed higher with a cleaner final sector. He had never treated your progress like something he'd created, even after all the hours he'd spent helping you, when you did well the achievement remained entirely yours.
“You looked confident out there,” he said.
“I felt better.”
“I could tell.”
Something in his tone made warmth rise beneath your skin. “Were you watching?”
“I’d finished my lap.” Max’s gaze travelled over your face, amusement softening into something more intent. “You make it very difficult not to watch you.”
Your press officer called your name from the entrance to the garage before you could decide how to answer. You glanced towards her and then back at him, reluctant to let the moment end.
“I have to go.”
“I know.”
Neither of you moved immediately.
“Try not to lose the lead tomorrow. I would hate for all my coaching to be wasted.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You should, I have a reputation to protect now.”
Max shook his head, still smiling as you turned away and you could feel his eyes following you until you disappeared into the corridor.
The race unfolded more perfectly than anything you'd allowed yourself to imagine.
You gained a place before the first corner and emerged from the opening lap in sixth, the car balanced beneath you in a way it rarely had been at the beginning of the season. Max led several seconds ahead, but for once you weren't thinking about him or the expectations attached to being part of the same programme. Your focus narrowed to the car in front, the gap on your steering wheel and the calm instructions coming through your radio.
During the first stint you remained close enough to fifth to force the driver ahead into using more of his tyres than he wanted. Your engineer suggested extending the stint, trusting that you could maintain the pace while the others began to struggle.
It worked. You emerged from the pits later with clear air and tyres fresh enough to attack. By the time the strategy settled you were running fifth with fourth place less than three seconds ahead.
There had been a point earlier in the season when fifth would have felt too valuable to risk, you would have protected the result, terrified that wanting more might cost you everything. That instinct still whispered at the edge of your concentration, but it no longer controlled you.
With eight laps remaining you began closing the gap. The car ahead defended into Turn 3, forcing you to abandon the first attempt, but you stayed close through the middle sector. On the following lap, you positioned the car more carefully through the final two corners and pulled alongside before the braking zone.
For a fraction of a second your front-left threatened to lock.
You kept your foot in and trusted the car to hold.
The two of you swept through the corner together, but you had the inside line for the next turn. By the time you accelerated fourth place was yours.
Your engineer’s voice erupted through the radio.
“That’s P4! Great move. Absolutely fantastic.”
A breathless laugh escaped you inside your helmet. “That was close.”
You crossed the line three laps later in fourth, with Max taking the victory several seconds ahead.
The result registered slowly as you completed the cooldown lap. It wasn’t a podium, although you could almost touch one now, only three drivers had finished ahead of you and for the first time that knowledge felt exciting rather than cruel. You hadn't inherited the position through retirements or luck. You had raced for it and taken it.
When you returned to parc fermé your team were waiting against the barriers. Hands reached towards you as you climbed from the car, mechanics cheering loudly enough to be heard over the engines still arriving behind you.
You'd barely removed your helmet when someone caught you around the waist.
A startled laugh left you as your feet lifted briefly from the ground. You knew who it was before Max could set you down, his arms still loose around you and a victorious grin covering his face.
“Fourth,” he said.
“First,” you replied, looking up at him. “I suppose you managed without too much trouble.”
“I had excellent coaching.”
His hands remained at your waist and yours had settled instinctively against his shoulders. Around you cameras clicked continuously, but Max appeared entirely unconcerned by the attention.
“That overtake was brilliant” he said.
“Wha-How?”
“Because I was watching.”
“You were leading.”
“I had a gap.”
“You used it to watch my race?”
Max’s eyes moved over your face, his voice lowering despite the noise surrounding you. “I told you. You make it difficult not to.”
In the garage you had been able to blame the electricity between you on adrenaline from qualifying. Here, with his hands still resting against your waist and his attention fixed entirely on you there was nowhere for either of you to hide.
A member of the podium crew called for Max, he glanced reluctantly towards the stage and then back at you.
“You need to go,” you told him.
“Stay for the podium.”
“I usually do.”
“Stay where I can see you.”
Your heart stumbled, you tried to cover it with a smile. “Planning to dedicate the win to your coach?”
“Maybe.”
Max gave your waist one final squeeze before stepping away. The absence of him felt immediate although his gaze remained on you until someone placed a cap in his hands and steered him towards the podium.
When Max lifted the trophy he found you beneath the stage almost instantly. Champagne had dampened his hair and darkened the shoulders of his race suit, but his attention settled on you with such certainty that several photographers turned to follow his line of sight.
You raised your eyebrows and mouthed, You’re welcome.
Even from a distance you saw him laugh.
It was much later before the two of you managed to escape the celebrations.
The paddock had begun to quiet when you found Max on the terrace behind the motorhome, he'd changed into a clean team shirt although his hair was still damp from the champagne. His trophy sat on the table beside two bottles of beer, catching the last of the evening sunlight.
“You abandoned your own party,” you said as you stepped outside.
Max turned towards you. “I was waiting for someone.”
“Your coach?”
“She’s becoming very demanding.”
You walked towards him and accepted the bottle he offered. “Success changes people.”
“So does finishing fourth apparently.”
You leaned beside him against the railing. “I was delightful before.”
“You barely spoke to me.”
“You deserved it.”
“I did.”
The ease with which he accepted it removed any sting from the exchange, he looked out over the paddock for a moment, his shoulder resting against yours before turning his bottle slowly between his hands.
“You should be proud of today.”
“I am.”
Max glanced sideways at you, checking for any sign that you were only saying it for his benefit.
You smiled. “I really am.”
His expression warmed. “Good.”
“I wanted the podium.”
“I know.”
“But I didn’t leave feeling like fourth was a failure.” You looked down at the bottle in your hands. “That’s new.”
“You’ll get one soon.”
The certainty in his voice made you laugh. “You sound very sure.”
“I am.”
“What happens when I do?”
Max’s gaze shifted towards you. “When you do what?”
“Get a podium.”
He considered the question with exaggerated seriousness. “You stand on the stage. They give you a trophy. Usually there’s champagne.”
You turned until your hip rested against the railing, facing him properly. “I meant what happens afterwards.”
Understanding flickered across his face.
“Are you asking me to plan your celebration?”
“I’m asking whether you intend to be there.”
Max’s smile became more private replacing the teasing expression he'd worn moments earlier. “I intend to be there for all of them.”
The answer caught you off guard.
“All of them?” you repeated.
“Your first podium. Your first win.” His eyes remained on yours. “Whatever comes after that.”
The future opened quietly between you, carried in words that could still have been about racing if either of you needed them to be.
“You’re planning quite far ahead,” you murmured.
“I spend a lot of time looking at data. I can recognise a trend.”
“And what trend is that?”
“You keep getting closer.”
“To the podium?”
Max stepped nearer, leaving only a narrow space between you. “That too.”
Warmth climbed into your cheeks, but you resisted the instinct to look away. The confidence you had found in the car seemed to follow you here allowing you to hold his gaze and enjoy the rare moment in which Max appeared to be the less certain one.
“So,” you said, stepping slightly closer, “when I get my podium how exactly are we celebrating?”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re still pretending you don’t know what I want.”
Your pulse quickened, but you managed to keep your expression composed. “Perhaps you should explain it to me.”
Max laughed under his breath. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“This was much easier when you were nervous around me.”
“You hated it when I was nervous around you.”
His expression sobered. “I do like this version better.”
Months earlier his opinion had shattered something in you. Now he looked at you as though your growing confidence was not merely something he'd witnessed, but something he treasured.
“You helped.”
“You did the difficult part.”
He moved closer until his shoulder brushed yours and lowered his voice.
“Get the podium.”
“And then?”
“Then you won’t have to ask whether I’ll be there.”
You smiled. “Still avoiding the question about the celebration.”
“I already told you. It depends.”
“On whether I know what you want?”
“Yes.”
You tilted your face towards his, leaving so little distance that you felt his breath catch. “I think I’m beginning to work it out.”
For one suspended moment you thought he might kiss you.
Instead Max reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips trailing lightly along your cheek. The restraint in the gesture made it feel more intimate than rushing forward would have done.
“You drove beautifully today,” he said.
There was no joke to hide behind now, you let the praise settle without dismissing it.
“Thank you.”
His hand lingered against your cheek before falling slowly.
When you eventually returned inside Max placed his palm against the small of your back and guided you through the doorway. Several team members looked up, one of them smiled knowingly before returning to his conversation.
SUMMARY: Lando has a seven-year-old son from a previous relationship and they co-parent him. Lando's girlfriend of three years has seen him grow and tries her best with him, but sometimes it just seems like she cant to anything right.
WORDS: 1452
_____
When I started dating Lando three years ago I didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't a four-year kid, the racing and being famous part and Lando managing to juggle all of it. In the beginning, Finn was “Lando's son” a title he just held, because how else was I supposed to approach the fact that the person I am newly dating is co-parenting a child he had pretty early in his life and who is kind of part of my life now as well. Lando was pretty careful at first and I didn't meet his son until we were absolutely sure and deeply into a relationship and so "Lando's son” became just Finn over time.
Three years have gone by so quickly and watching Finn grow was something so special. As well as the first time he held my hand in a scary situation or fell asleep on my shoulder during a movie. And somewhere between bedtime stories, scraped knees and watching cartoons in the morning, Finn has become an important part in this relationship.
And still Finn has a mom, a wonderful woman he calls mama and she is absolutely fire in her job and taking care of Finn. Figuring out the co-parenting with Lando was long done before I entered the picture and they both always manage to put Finn first. Still, I learned a lot of things in the last three years. Dinosaur facts, playing endless rounds of Uno and that children somehow manage to survive on apple juice, chicken nuggets and laughter.
Of course it was never my intention to replace his mama, I just want to be someone Finn can count on, someone else in his corner, but sometimes this just feels harder than I thought it would be.
One time, while Finn was still practising tying his shoes, he insisted on doing it himself, but just couldn't get it. “I don't know how anymore.” He told me and I knelt in front of him. Slowly showed him how to make the loops and tie them together. Finn watched my movements, but then just shook his head.
“My mama is better at that.” He says with an honesty only kids have, but I still smiled. “That’s why I am practising getting better at this.” I just told him because I never taught someone how to tie shoes before and Finn accepted that explanation with a thoughtful nod.
A few weeks later, Finn and I were decorating cupcakes, colourful sugar bombs for the next family gathering. And well, maybe Finn was more content about decorating anything but the cupcakes with the icing. His cheeks covered, my sleeves as well, and I am pretty sure that one of the dogs got a splash of pink as well. When he gets bored, Finn takes a look at my cupcakes.
“Mama does this differently.” He announced and I looked at my swirls of icing which cover the tops of the cupcakes. “Better or just different?” I ask Finn, because just because those cupcakes look different like he is used to doesn’t mean they don’t look good.
“They look better.” Finn decided with a tilted head, before hopping off the barstool again. I laughed, startled by the honesty, but just said “I suppose I still have to practice then.”
On the next rainy Sunday, it happens again. We were building a blanket fort that barely held out ten minutes, before collapsing on top of us. Finn crawled back out of it, holding one of his favourite blankets, looking at me thoughtfully.
“Can you do this like mama does?” He asks me, before doing some complicated folding technique that leaves me with question marks. “Nope.” I said and he giggled. “We can figure something out together.” I then told him and apparently that was fine. We got every pillow in the house and when Lando returned from getting some takeout, he found us on something that was more of a pillow mountain than a blanket fort. He laughed loudly and served us lunch on top of the pillows.
Finn's comparisons never stopped, but they were never meant to be cruel. He is simply living in a world where his mama does things one way and I do them differently. Still, his comparisons are leaving tiny bruises on my inside and they kind of pile up by now.
I wait until Finn is in bed that day before I finally say something to Lando, who is currently loading the dishwasher, while I just stare at the towel in my hands.
“Do you think that I am bad at acting as a mother figure to him?” I ask him and Lando freezes in his movements, plate just halfway in the dishwasher, when he turns around. “Why? Has somebody said something?” He quickly asks and I slowly shake my head.
“He compares me to his mama, which is fine, but sometimes it hurts.” I explain how those thoughts came to my mind and Lando sets the plate aside and takes two steps in my direction. He takes the towel out of my hands and tosses it on the counter before taking my hands in his instead.
“Love…” He mumbles that thumb brushing over the back of my hand. “Finn loves to compare everything.” Lando says before adding. “My cooking to his grandmas, my driving to Oscar's, his football shoes to his friends and most importantly, ice cream flavours.” A tiny smile tugs on my lips before Lando continues.
“And you know why?” He says, not even waiting for an answer “Because he is an annoying little seven-year-old.” I laugh over the lump in my throat and Lando lifts my chin so that I look at him.
“He doesn't compare you because he wishes for you to be different. He compares you because it is normal for him.” Lando explains and I sigh, somehow knowing that, but it still stings. “You are not there to replace his mama.” He gently says and I answer, “I know” Because that’s not what I want to do, but Lando just mumbles “But you are becoming another safe place for him.” And while a tear rolls down my cheek, I lean against Lando's chest, listening to his reassuring “You are perfect with him.”
A month later I feel better when Finn compares me to his Mama and just try to see it as Lando explained it. It is normal for someone his age to do so. I am just making breakfast when Finn tiredly enters the kitchen but has a determined look on his face. He doesn't greet me, just shuffles from one foot to the other, before he just blurts out.
“Can I call you mom?”
Everything inside me stops, before my heart and head start racing. Setting the knife aside to turn to Finn, crouching down to his height. “If you really want to and if your mama is okay with it.” I say, because I don't want to overstep any boundaries here, but Finn just nods quickly.
“I talked with her about it.” He says and I blink once, twice, before reassuring myself that I heard him right. “You did?” And Finn enthusiastically nods again. “She said families don't have to be blood they just have to be loved ones.” And at this, I have to blink quickly, fighting back the tears.
“Then I am fine with it.” I give him my okay and the biggest grin spreads on Finn's lips. “Thanks, mom.” He says that, arms wrapping around my neck and just when I hug him back, I see Lando entering the kitchen, eyeing us with a tilted head. Finn leans into me for another moment and I just feel warmth in that moment. Then he lets go and runs off to the living room, like he hasn't just changed everything.
Lando looks after his son, then back to me, before softly asking. “Did he just call you mom?” I laugh, but sniffle slightly, getting back onto my feet. “Yeah, asked me if I was fine with it before.” Lando comes closer, wrapping his arms around me and kisses the top of my head.
“You can cry if you want to.” He tells me, because he obviously seen the tears and heard me sniffle and I don't hold back those happy tears anymore, letting them wet Lando's shirt while he just holds me.
After a moment, he leans back, hand tilting up my chin to look at me, still the softest smile on his lips. “See, he loves you.” Lando tells me and while listening to Finn's laughter coming from the living room, I know that I am exactly where I want to be.
how about when asked "who are the top 3 most handsome drivers" she always said lewis first and then the latters were different from time to time depended on her "well-behaved" list of the week so ppl knew who pissed her off around the time said question was asked?
YESSSS. lewis stays in her heart. the other two? yeah, that depends on how the week goes.
more about driver!yn
She didn’t mean to start a trend.
It was a Thursday media day in Spain, heat shimmering off the asphalt and a dozen microphones shoved in her face before she’d even unzipped her team hoodie. One reporter asked, casually, off-script, in the middle of a light-hearted segment:
“Okay, YN, settle this for us — who are the top 3 most handsome drivers on the grid?”
She blinked. Sipped her iced coffee. Looked at the camera.
“Lewis, obviously,” she said immediately, like she had it locked and loaded.
“Then… mmh. Depends. Let me check my ‘well-behaved list’ of the week.”
Cue chaos.
WEEK ONE — PEACE IN THE PADDOCK
No one’s crashed into her. No dumb tweets. No teammate sabotage.
When the same question comes up again in Monaco, she flashes a smug smile.
“Lewis. Charles. George.”
Charles fist-pumps when he hears it replayed in the hospitality. George posts it on his story with a sparkly filter and a “she has taste” caption.
Lewis, of course, doesn’t acknowledge it publicly. Just gives her a wink when they pass in the paddock. She pretends she’s not grinning.
WEEK TWO — Oscar cuts her off at Turn 5
There’s video evidence. She’s mid-overtake. Oscar shuts the door with the emotional detachment of a tax collector.
The next day, the media ask the question again.
YN raises an eyebrow.
“Lewis.”
“Alex.”
She pauses, “…Fernando.”
Fernando, hears about it via Twitter and smirks.
Oscar hears about it from Lando, who is howling with laughter.
“Bro, she sent you to the shadow realm,” he says between wheezes.
“Fernando? She put Fernando above you??”
Oscar shrugs, deadpan. “At least I wasn’t replaced by Esteban again.”
WEEK THREE — Carlos steals her last protein bar
It’s not even a full-on fight. Just her walking into the Ferrari motorhome ready to spill gossip and finding him mid-chew, mouth full, eyes guilty. He tries to claim it was his.
It absolutely wasn’t.
She says nothing. Until the media asks the question again.
“Lewis.”
“Pierre.”
“Zhou.”
Carlos watches the clip on his phone, jaw slack.
“You’re joking,” he mutters. Charles is in the corner wheezing.
“She put Pierre and Zhou over me. Over me.”
“Maybe don’t steal food, man.”
WEEK FOUR — Lando throws her into the pool post-podium
She’s dripping, still in her race suit, as she storms into the Mercedes hospitality swearing vengeance.
The next day?
“Lewis.”
“Esteban.”
“Hülkenberg.”
Everyone is stunned.
Esteban blushes like it’s his first day of school.
Hülkenberg fist-bumps her in the paddock like it’s a victory.
Lando? Just stands there with his arms crossed and the most offended “I was there when you need me” face imaginable.
“Oh, come on.”
“Should’ve thought about that before you launched me into chlorine, Norris.”
WEEK FIVE — George breathes wrong during press
She’s asked a serious question. George interrupts to mansplain tire degradation like she’s new here.
She turns to him slowly. “You done?”
He stammers. She smiles. The internet eats it alive.
Next day:
“Lewis.”
“Alex again, because he hasn’t annoyed me once.”
“Yuki. Just to make George nervous.”
George sees the clip and immediately texts her:
You’re insufferable.
Through it all — Lewis stays at 1.
Always. No matter the week. No matter the drama.
One journalist finally asks why. On air.
YN blinks, slow and smug.
“Because he is the most handsome. And the rest of you should be grateful you’re even ranked.”
Lewis, watching from the sidelines, just smiles. Doesn’t say a word. But later that day, he walks past her in the paddock, leans in, and whispers:
“You’ve got good taste.”
She just smirks. “Obviously.”
user: she uses the handsome list as a threat. queen behavior
user: notice how lewis is always number one? girl’s in love and in denial
user: lando falling off the list after one pool push and esteban ascending into the top three is SENDING ME
user: current week leaderboard:
✅ lewis (locked)
✅ alex (playing the long game)
✅ ??? depends who didn’t annoy her
notes: last chap for driver!yn's mercedes lore!!! her next one will give her wings 👀
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
f1 ✔
liked by yourinstagram, lando, and 18,329,034 others
f1 ✔ BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton will leave Mercedes at the end of the season and join Ferrari on a multi-year deal.
After seasons with Mercedes, Lewis Hamilton will begin a new chapter in red. The move marks one of the biggest driver transfers in Formula One history.
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scuderiaferrari ✔ Welcome to the family!
lando ✔ i woke up to WHAT
user89 chat is this real
user9 unfortunately yes
user60 i've refreshed this post 14 times hoping it'd disappear
user7 somebody check on toto
user3 nah somebody check on YN
user4 this notification ruined my lunch
user74 imagine being the dude who had to schedule this post
user63 Y/N HAS BEEN SO QUIET WRU GIRL
yourinstagram ✔
liked by lewishamilton, oscarpiastri, and 14,238,498 others
yourinstagram ✔ i'll miss having you on the other side of the garage more than words can explain. go make history in red.
i love you always, lew ❤️
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lewishamilton ✔ So proud of the person you've become. Keep making them believe. I love you forever.
user74 can't be crying over people i've never met
user6 i don't even watch f1 like that and i'm crying???
user72 i know lewis saw this and had to sit down for a second
user80 this is what closure looks like ig??????
user23 "go make history in red" STOP SHE KNEW EXACTLY WHAT SHE WAS DOING
alex_albon someone get me tissues this is too much
LEWIS HAMILTON TO LEAVE MERCEDES.
Inside your pocket, your phone was vibrating relentlessly. You didn't need to pull it out to look. You already knew exactly what every single notification said.
George. Lando. Alex. Charles. Oscar. Your parents. Friends you hadn't spoken to in months, suddenly resurrected.
Hundreds of mentions. Thousands of notifications. The entire motorsport world was screaming into a void, looking for answers, for confirmation, for a sign of life.
Across the crowded garage, cutting through the sea of mechanics an engineers who were trying very hard to look busy, you spotted them. Lewis was standing near the back of the tire racks, speaking quietly to Toto.
Neither of them looked surprised. They didn't look angry, either. They just looked profoundly tired. As if the announcement hadn't actually exploded this morning.
Toto said something, gesturing faintly with his hand. Lewis nodded, his eyes scanning the floor before lifting.
That's when he caught your eye.
For a fraction of a second, the overwhelming noise of the garage completely disappeared. The chaos faded into static. Lewis offered you a small smile. It was a heavy look that asked a single question:
You alright?
You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and answered with a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
I'm okay.
It was the biggest lie of the weekend. Neither of you believed it.
mercedesamgf1 ✔
liked by georgerussell63, yourinstagram, and 10,329,582 others
mercedesamgf1 ✔ The end of an era, but the bond remains forever. Catch the ultimate trio before the paddock dynamics change forever! 🏎️👑
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georgerussell63 ✔ Gonna miss the chaotic energy. And don't worry, I'll look after her. 👊
user6 GEORGE PLEASE I AM ALREADY CRYING DO NOT START
user51 "i'll look after her" oh he's taking the older brother role offically
user9 NO MORE TIKTOKS OF GEORGE AND Y/N PRANKING LEWIS. NO MORE MATCHING FITS. I AM SICK
user76 standardly deleting instagram for the rest of the year because this press will take ten years off my life
The press conference room had never been this suffocatingly full.
Normally, it attracted a healthy, predictable crowd. Today, there wasn't an empty seat left. People lined the back walls three rows deep, camera operators stood shoulder to shoulder, and late arrivals lingered helplessly in the doorway.
The moderator leaned into the microphone, he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us. I think we all know where this is going."
The room erupted into a wave of intense, knowing laughter just as the side door opened.
Lewis entered first, still wearing his team kit, still smiling, and still impossibly composed. Yet, there was something undeniably different about him - he looked lighter, as though the crushing weight of carrying the secret had finally lifted.
Behind him came you, your hands tucked into your pockets to hide the slight tremor in your fingers. George brought up the rear, already looking resigned to his his role as a spectator at his own team's press conference.
As the three Mercedes drivers settled into their chairs, the wall of cameras exploded into a deafening roar of shutters.
Lewis adjusted his microphone. You reached for your water bottle, taking a slow sip just to give your hands something to do. The moderator barely finished introducing the panel before the first hand shot into the air like a rocket.
"Lewis," a journalist stood, gripping his notepad. "Why Ferrari?"
Lewis smiled softly, his eyes lingering briefly on the iconic logo across his chest. "I've achieved things with Mercedes that I'll sped the rest of my life being profoundly grateful for. This team made me who I am. But every driver dreams of wearing red at least once in their career. This isn't about leaving something behind because it's broken. It's about challenging myself one more time. I wanted a brand-new chapter."
The room fell completely quiet. "You don't make a decision like this lightly," Lewis added, his tone lowering. "I've thought about it for a long time. And now... it just feels right."
The moderator turned his gaze toward another raised hand. "Question for you."
Every single head in the room pivoted toward your side of the table. The journalist offered you an apologetic smile. "I imagine this is going to be the question you've been asked most frequently today, but... when exactly did you find out?"
"...Earlier than everyone else."
Another immediate wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. "Were you surprised?" the reporter pressed.
"I think the entire world was surprised. I just happened to have had a little more time to process the shock than the rest of you."
Immediately, another hand went up. "There's been an immense amount of speculation surrounding a private conversation you and Lewis had on the grid after qualifying a couple of weeks ago. Were you two discussing this specific announcement?"
Lewis glanced sideways at you, a subtle tilt of his head. He was giving you the floor, giving the choice of how much to reveal.
You nodded once, leaning into your mic. "We were. He trusted me with something incredibly important, and I was deeply, deeply honored that he felt he could do that."
Another journalist immediately jumped on the answer. "Was it difficult keeping a secret like that?"
You let out a breathless laugh. "Oh, it was unbelievably difficult. I'm not exactly known for having the most impressive poker face in the world."
"She's being modest," Lewis interjected, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "She was fantastic."
Even George couldn't stay silent anymore. "There were a few morning briefings where she looked like she desperately wanted to blurt something out just to stop her brain from exploding."
"I absolutely did," you agreed, throwing your hands up in mock defeat.
The laughter eased the weight in the room for a fleeting moment, until an older, sharp reporter stood up from the front row, holding your gaze.
"This is for you. Mercedes has just lost arguably the greatest, most successful driver in the entire history of the sport. In your honest opinion... can Lewis ever truly be replaced?"
You didn't answer immediately. Instead of looking at the journalist, you looked to your left. You looked at Lewis. Really looked at him. This was the man who had become an irreplaceable mentor from the moment you joined the team, a supportive teammate, and a genuine friend.
You turned back to the microphone. "No," you said. "You don't replace Lewis Hamilton. You simply learn how to continue after him."
The silence that followed your words somehow felt louder, more resonant, than the deafening applause after a victory. Several journalists slowly lowered their pens.
Lewis blinked once, looking down at the table for a long second, his jaw working as he swallowed down the sudden wave of raw emotion creeping into his throat.
George, sensing the gravity of the moment, reached over without looking and gave Lewis's shoulder a quick, firm nudge.
The moderator cleared his throat, his own voice a bit tighter. "Next question, please."
A journalist stood up, a vibrant energy back in his voice. "Lewis, what do you think the future of Mercedes looks like without you leading the charge?"
Lewis managed a warm smile. "I think the future of this team is in very good hands, very capable hands." He gestured openly toward George, and then turned his hand toward you.
"They are both extraordinary, fiercely talented drivers. I've watched them grow over the races. I've watched them make mistakes, take their knocks, and come back infinitely stronger every single time. I don't think Mercedes needs to search for another me. They don't need a copy. They need this next generation to fully become themselves."
You looked down at your hands, a sudden swell of pride and bittersweet gratitude warming your chest.
"A question for both of you," another reporter chimed in. "What are you two going to miss the most about working alongside each other as teammates?"
Lewis took the lead, a nostalgic laugh bubbling up. "Oh, definitely the completely random, unhinged conversations we have. We'll spend forty-five minutes intensely analyzing strategy..." He grinned, looking over at you. "...and somehow, we'll end up debating whether penguins have knees."
George leaned over his microphone, his face a picture of deadpan comedy. "I'd just like everyone in this room to know... I walked into that exact room halfway through that debate, and neither of them even acknowledged my existence."
The laughter lingered longer this time, filling the press room with a comfortable warmth. It felt exactly like watching a tight-knit family teasing one another at a dinner table.
Eventually, a journalist stood up near the back of the room.
"This question is specifically for Lewis," the man said. "If you could leave your teammate with just one piece of advice before you put on the red racing suit and move to Ferrari... what would it be?"
The room went dead silent again. Lewis didn't answer right away. He folded his hands together on the table, staring at his knuckles, taking a moment to choose his words carefully. When he lifted his head and spoke, his voice was quieter, stripped of any performance.
"Don't become the driver everyone else expects you to be." He looked up, his eyes locking onto yours. "Become the driver you promised yourself you'd become when you were just a kid."
Your throat tightened instantly, a sudden, sharp prickle of tears threatening to blur your vision. You had to look away, focusing intently on a random spot on the floor before anyone could notice the crack in your composure.
The moderator checked the time and signaled to the room. "We have time for one final question."
A journalist stood up near the back. "This one if for both of you. When this final, long season eventually comes to an end... what do you hope people remember about this partnership?"
Lewis leaned in first. "The victories are nice, of course. The trophies, the poles, the championships - they're incredible milestones. But when I walk away, I just hope people remember that I tried to leave this sport a little bit better, a little more inclusive, than I found it."
Then, it was your turn.
"I hope..." you started, searching for the right words. "...I just hope people remember that I got to spend my years here racing alongside one of my absolute heroes."
Lewis looked away almost immediately, his jaw clenching tightly as he fought back his own reaction to your words.
"And I hope they know," you continue, your voice steady and clear, "that I never took a single lap, or a single day of it, for granted."
For the first time all afternoon, the press room didn't erupt into frantic typing. Instead, a wave of applause broke out.
The moderator officially closed the session, thanking everyone for attending. As you turned to walk off the stage, Lewis reached out, resting a hand briefly against your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Neither of you spoke a word as you walked down the steps and back toward the garage. You didn't need to.
lh44archive
liked by user and 4,390 others
lh44archive i'm genuinely so sick to my stomach just looking at these photos knowing we're never getting this dynamic back. mercedes colors belonged to them and them only. goodbye to the greatest era to ever do it!!!
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user15 please delete this it hurts too bad
user89 "mercedes colors belong to them" pull the trigger why would you say that
user4 oh! i was planning to keep my sanity today but i guess not
user12 looking at these pics you cannot convince me he wanted to leave. ferrari threw a bag at him and he threw away the love of his life i'm sick
user62 they really used to match their fits every single week and now we're just supposed to accept him wearing red??? 😭😭
Canada, Circuit Gilles-Villeneuve
Everywhere Lewis went, fans stood three rows deep behind the barriers. They held up handmade signs that read: THANK YOU, LEWIS! ONCE A SILVER ARROW, ALWAYS A SILVER ARROW!
Lewis stopped for nearly every single one of them, signing caps, mini helmets, and faded merch that looked older than the fans holding them. You waited patiently nearby, having learned long ago never to rush him during a fan walk.
"You know," you said playfully once the crowd finally began to thin, "at this rate, you're going to miss FP1 entirely."
Lewis looked over, uncapping yet another marker with a grin. "Worth it."
You smiled, shaking your head. "Knew you'd say that."
The media was relentless. Every broadcaster wanted one last feature. It became almost comical - Sky Sports, ESPN, and even high-fashion lifestyle magazines that had never previously uttered the word 'motorsport.'
Lewis took every interview with infinite patience, and whenever he grew visibly exhausted, you found ways to break the tension between takes.
One afternoon, halfway through recording a particularly serious segment, you slipped behind the camera operator and held up increasingly ridiculous cue cards. BLINK TWICE IF U NEED SAVING!!!
Lewis almost choked mid-answer, causing the producer to call a halt to the recording. Lewis pointed a finger directly at you.
You widened your eyes, trying to look completely innocent. "What?"
"You know exactly what."
"I have no exactly what you're talking about." You smiled broadly. You knew exactly what.
@/user tweeted!
lewis arriving at canada and stopping for every single person even when the crowd is three rows deep is just the sweetest.
@/user tweeted!
i am literally sobbing right now 😭 lewis is an actual angel. y/n joked he was going to miss fp1 and he just smiled and said "worth it"
Mexico City, Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez
After media obligations finally wrapped up, Lewis disappeared from the hospitality suite. Knowing his habits, you tracked him down and found him sitting alone on the pit wall.
You didn't ask for permission. You simply hopped up and sat down right next to him.
Neither of you spoke for a long time. The paddock behind you hummed at a low, quiet frequency as the garages slowly locked up for the night.
Lewis broke the silence. "You know... I've probably spent more time sitting on pit walls in my life than on my own sofa."
You let out a quiet laugh. "I actually believe that."
Another peaceful minute passed before he spoke again. "You'll miss this."
"The racing?"
He shook his head. "No. The quiet. When it's just you... and the circuit."
You let yourself really look at the environment - the empty grandstands, the low hum of the lights overhead, and the faint smell of scorched rubber still lingering in the cool evening air.
"I already do," you admitted softly.
Lewis offered a small smile. "So did I."
@/user tweeted!
oh my god look at them ☹️ someone snapped a pic of lewis and y/n in the dark. it's giving such core memory energy
@/user tweeted!
finding out lewis skipped the post-media chaos just to go sit with his favorite person is doing things to me.
Brazil, Interlagos
Sprinting from the hospitality building toward the safety of the garage, your boots caught on the slick concrete and you immediately lost your footing.
You barely managed to catch yourself before taking a full dive. A firm hand shot out, grabbing the back of your jacket and hoisting you back upright.
"You've driven open-wheel cars at three hundred kilometers an hour," Lewis teased, letting out a loud laugh, "but walking across a flat floor completely defeats you?"
"The floor attacked me," you shot back, adjusting your jacket.
George walked past the two of you without even slowing his pace, staring straight ahead. "I saw absolutely nothing."
"Traitor!" you called out after him. "You were never going to help me anyway!"
"I support your rights," George shouted over his shoulder, disappearing into the engineering office, "...and your wrongs."
Lewis doubled over, laughing so hard he had to lean back against the tire stacks. "So that's what we're doing now? Is that the new line?"
"He spends way too much time with Alex," you muttered, though you were laughing too.
@/user tweeted!
LEWIS'S LOUD GIGGLE IS AN INSTANT SEROTONIN PLS THE WAY HE DOUBLED OVER
@/user tweeted!
honestly this trio has zero brain cells when they get together the mercedes garage is just a massive sitcom at this point
Abu Dhabi, Yas Marina Circuit
Abu Dhabi approached far too quickly. Nobody wanted to admit it, but the reality was settling into everyone's bones. The final weekends had stopped being entirely about championship points and had become entirely about preserving memories.
One evening, after a particularly long meeting, one of the mechanics wheeled a karaoke machine into the lounge.
Lewis backed away immediately, raising his hands. "No. Absolutely not. I am not singing."
"Oh, you are absolutely singing," you replied, grabbing a microphone from the table and stepping into his path.
"No."
"Yes!"
"I have a choice, and I choose no."
You thrust the microphone toward him as the surrounding mechanics erupted into a chant. "Le-wis! Le-wis! Le-wis!"
Lewis looked around the room at the sea of grinning faces. Traitors. Every single one of them.
Five minutes later, he was standing right beside you on a makeshift stage, singing hopelessly off-queen to Queen's Don't Stop Me Now.
Half the lyrics you both sang were completely wrong, but neither of you cared. The garage crew cheered louder than they had for actual podium finishes.
The final races blurred together, not because they didn't matter, but because everyone was trying to so desperately hold onto them before they slipped away.
Every autograph took a few seconds longer. Every walk through the paddock slowed down. Every post-race conversation stretched out for an extra twenty minutes
Nobody wanted to be the first to say a definitive goodbye - not while there was still one more race on the calendar, not while Lewis was still dressed in Mercedes black, and not while this chapter hadn't quite reached its final paged.
So instead of mourning the end, you all laughed. More than you ever had before. As if laughter alone could somehow convince the clock to wait.
@/user tweeted!
yeah that's family right there. nobody wants this chapter to end i can't handle the abu dhabi vibes this year, it's too heavy for me 💔
@/user tweeted!
the chaotic energy of forcing a multi world champion onto a karaoke stage is insane behavior LMAOOO his team doesn't care about boundaries, look at his face when they started chanting his name 😭
That afternoon, the FIA organized one final, special media session dedicated entirely to Lewis. Unliked the highly clinical press conferences from earlier in the season, this one wasn't an interrogation about contracts.
It wasn't about Maranello, and it wasn't even strictly about the mechanics of Mercedes. It was simply... about Lewis.
As the interview progressed, various drivers from the across the grid began wandering into the media pen. Some appearances were planned, but many were completely spontaneous.
Fernando stopped by first. "I've raced against three different generations of drivers now," he told the room, prompting a wave of laughter from the journalists.
He smiled, looking directly at Lewis. "I raced Michael. I raced Sebastian. And I raced Lewis. Every great era eventually comes to an end, but that doesn't make it any easier to watch it happen."
A little while later, Lando wandered past the pen holding a coffee. Spotting the live interview, he immediately froze and tried walking backwards out of the camera frame.
It was entirely too late.
"Lando!" the presenter called out, laughing. "You might as well come over."
Lando sighed dramatically, stepping onto the small stage. "I knew making eye contact was a massive mistake."
"What's one thing you're genuinely going to miss about Lewis being at Mercedes?" the presenter asked him.
Lando didn't even have to think about it. "The black race suit."
Lewis frowned playfully. "...Really? That's it?"
"No," Lando’s smile softened, his voice turning genuine. "I’ll miss looking across the grid before a formation lap and just... expecting you to be there in that car. You’ve always been there since I started. It's going to be weird not seeing it."
The guarded media smile on Lewis's face melted into something deeply touched. "Thanks, mate."
Then came Charles. The atmosphere in the media pen shifted instantly. It wasn't awkward or tense, but it was undeniably surreal.
Because everyone in that room knew what was coming next season: teammates, wearing the same iconic red overalls. Charles stepped up, shaking Lewis's hand firmly before pulling him into a brief hug.
"I am incredibly excited," Charles admitted openly to the cameras, before his eyes drifted to the Mercedes garage across the pit lane. "But... I understand this isn't an easy transition for anyone here."
Lewis nodded quietly. "It isn't."
Charles offered a warm, reassuring smile. "We'll take care of you over there, don't worry."
Standing just behind the main cluster of television cameras, you smiled to yourself. You completely believed him.
georgerussell63 ✔
liked by lewishamilton, yourinstagram, and 6,328,563 others
georgerussell63 ✔ Sharing a garage with you has been the privilege of a lifetime. Proud of what we've built together. 🫡
lando
liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, and 7,329,681 others
lando grew up cheering for this guy, and now i get to share a track with him. enjoy the next chapter (just don't be too quick in that red car)
charles_leclerc ✔
liked by alex_albon, arvid.lindblad, and 9,810,049 others
charles_leclerc ✔ It is an absolute honor to welcome you to the family. Let's make some history together. 🐎
The rest of the weekend passed in what felt like a matter of minutes. Free practice dissolved into qualifying, and qualifying bled directly into race day. And then, just like that... it was over.
The chequered flag waved one final time on Lewis Hamilton’s legendary Mercedes career. The actual race result barely even mattered; not today.
The cooldown lap took an eternity as Lewis drove slowly around the Yas Marina circuit, letting the moment breathe. In the grandstands, thousands of fans remained standing long after the cars had filed into the pit lane. Many were applauding loudly, while others were crying openly into their team flags.
When Lewis finally climbed out of the cockpit for the last time wearing his Mercedes race suit, the garage crew was already waiting for him.
He hugged the first mechanic he reached, then another, and then another. Someone near the front of the circle started crying, and like a domino effect, the emotion caught on. Soon enough, almost everyone was tearing up.
You stood a few paces back, quietly watching the scene unfold. You knew this specific moment belonged to the people who had spent a decade building his championship cars, and you wanted to give them their space. Eventually, through the sea of people, Lewis reached you.
Neither of you spoke. He simply opened his arms, and you stepped forward immediately.
The hug lasted much longer than either of you had anticipated. When you finally pulled apart, Lewis looked down at you, his eyes searching your face. "You alright?"
You let out a breathless laugh, blinking back suspiciously glassy eyes. "You ask me that every five minutes, Lewis."
"Because I know you."
"I'm perfectly fine."
"Liar," he whispered gently.
You rolled your eyes, sniffing slightly. "Takes one to know one."
He chuckled, a sound of pure relief. "Fair point."
The two of you stood there on the grease-stained garage floor for another long second, neither wanting to be the one to officially walk away first.
Finally, Lewis reached out and gave your shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. "I'm incredibly proud of you."
The weight of those words landed much harder in your chest than you expected. You swallowed hard. "You know, you don't actually have to say goodbye."
He smiled, shaking his head. "I'm not saying goodbye. I'm just changing garages. I'm only going to be a few doors down the pit lane."
You nodded, trying to match his optimism. "I know."
But looking around at the empty tire blankets and the settling dust of the season, it still felt unmistakably like goodbye.
That evening, Mercedes hosted one final, strictly private celebration in the hospitality building. There were no media passes allowed, no television cameras, and no corporate sponsors. It was just the team. It was designed as a celebration, but it carried the undeniable weight of a farewell.
Toto stood up first, raising a champagne glass. The low chatter in the room gradually quieted down until you could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning. He looked around at the hundreds of familiar faces before him, his gaze finally resting on Lewis.
"I’ve spent the better part of two decades trying to find the right words to describe what you mean to this team," Toto began, his deep voice echoing slightly. A small laugh rippled through the crowded room. "And honestly, I still haven't found them."
More laughter broke out, easing the tension.
"So instead, I will just say... thank you," Toto said, his expression turning entirely serious. "Thank you for every single lap. For every historic victory. For every heated disagreement in the briefing rooms. For every seemingly impossible engineering idea. For every world championship. And most importantly, thank you for making every single person in this room believe that 'impossible' wasn't actually a word that applied to us."
Silence held the room for a beat, and then the applause broke out. It was long, deafening, and completely relentless.
When the noise finally subsided, Lewis stood up to speak. His own speech was notably shorter, and visibly much harder for him to get through. He didn't focus on his own trophies; instead, he thanked every single department individually.
Halfway through thanking the garage crew, his voice cracked completely. Nobody in the room pretended not to notice. By the time he lowered the microphone and sat back down, there wasn't a dry eye left in the room. Not even Toto's.
You caught yourself looking around the brightly lit room, consciously trying to memorize every single detail. You memorized the sound of the laughter, the background music, the silver race suits hanging decoratively in the corner, and the sight of Lewis smiling warmly despite the tears still shining in his eyes.
You didn't entirely know why, but you had an overwhelming, distinct feeling that you needed to remember this exact moment. Every single second of it. Because a quiet, heavy intuition told you that this wouldn't be the last difficult goodbye you'd have to survive in this sport.
lewishamilton ✔
liked by carlossainz55, maxverstappen1, and 8,419,610 others
lewishamilton ✔ How do you sum up years of magic in a single night?
Last night was full of tears, entirely too much laughter, and some absolutely horrific karaoke that I will be erasing from the internet permanently.
Thank you for letting me be exactly who I am. I might be changing colors next year, but a piece of my heart will always stay black and silver.
view all comments
yourinstagram ✔ thank you for the wildest ride of my life :(
user5 lewis and y/n screaming their lungs out is literally the definition of "instead of mourning we're making it everyone's problem" and honestly i support it
user90 okay cool cool cool i'm just gonna go lie down on the highway
user8 can someone PLEASE leak the unedited audio of the don't stop me now cover i am literally begging on my hands and knees i need to hear how off-key they were
The morning after Abu Dhabi felt disorienting. It wasn’t a dramatic, cinematic ending; it just felt like the world had failed to update itself overnight. The trucks were being packed, and engineers reviewed data out of habit, but Lewis’s side of the garage already felt hollow.
You noticed it first in a tiny detail: his name strip above the workstation had been half-peeled away, like even the building itself wasn't ready to let go.
You stood there, fingers resting lightly on the desk, as Lewis appeared a few minutes later carrying a travel bag. No helmet, no headset, just a man ready to set down a life he’d carried for over a decade.
He caught your eye and walked over. "Flight’s this afternoon," he said quietly.
You nodded. Even goodbyes had logistics.
Lewis exhaled softly, looking around the dismantling garage. "You know what's weird? I've left plenty of circuits before. But this is the first time it feels like the garage is leaving me, too."
You let out a faint laugh. "I get what you mean."
Toto appeared at the far end of the garage, his calm demeanor carrying the weight of something important. “Hey,” he called out quietly, gesturing toward his office. “Can I have a word?”
Lewis gave you a subtle nod.
You followed Toto down the corridor, the door closing with a heavy click. Neither of you sat.
“We’ve made a decision about next season,” Toto began, his tone measured. “We’re bringing Kimi in.”
You nodded, your brain instantly shifting into professional driver mode. “Okay. That’s great for the team. I’m sure he’ll adapt quickly—”
Toto gently cut you off. “He’s not taking Lewis’s seat.”
You frowned slightly. “…George’s?”
Toto shook his head. The silence stretched for a brutal half-second before he said it: “He’s taking yours.”
The words hung in the air. Your expression stayed perfectly composed for exactly one more heartbeat before going entirely still. “So… I’m being replaced.”
“Yes. It’s a long-term strategic decision. It’s not a reflection of your performance.”
It was the standard corporate cushion, but it didn't make the ground any softer. You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat, tightened your jaw, and extended your hand. “Thank you for telling me directly.”
He shook it—firm, respectful, and entirely final. You turned and walked out before the silence could break you.
Back in the garage, life continued exactly as it should. Mechanics were still working, and screens were still running. But when you reappeared, Lewis noticed the subtle shift in your pace immediately.
“You alright?” he asked.
You opened your mouth to give the automatic response, then stopped. “…I think so.”
He studied you for a second, not pushing for details. “Come on. Walk with me.”
You moved through the half-empty paddock together, past the closed hospitality suites and packed-up banners, until you reached the concrete pit wall. The track ahead was silent, almost unrecognizable without the roar of the engines.
“You didn’t look surprised,” Lewis finally said, breaking the quiet.
You gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’m getting good at that, apparently.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Those words caused your shoulders to finally drop. “I just didn’t think it would feel like this,” you admitted softly.
Lewis nodded slowly. He understood completely. “You know they’ll come for you,” he said, looking out at the empty asphalt.
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
A faint, knowing smile touched his face. “Other teams. They always do.”
You didn’t answer right away, because for the first time all day, that didn't feel like a theory. It felt like an inevitability.
In your pocket, your phone buzzed. Once. Then again. You didn’t look at it yet, but you already knew exactly what it meant. Somewhere in the silence behind you, the rest of the grid had already started to move.
The first message came from an unknown number.
Red Bull Racing.
You stared at the screen for longer than you intended. Not because you didn't understand what it meant, but because you understood it perfectly.
Your thumb hovered over the phone. Then, another notification popped up. Ferrari. Then Aston Martin. Then McLaren.
You let out a short, sharp breath through your nose, almost amused by the brutal timing of it all. Lewis was right. They always came. Not when you were available—but when you were vulnerable.
You locked your phone without replying. For now.
An hour later, you found yourself back in the Mercedes motorhome. It was emptier than it had ever been.
Lewis sat opposite you, his elbows resting on his knees and an untouched bottle of water gripped in his hand.
“You saw it,” he said quietly.
You didn’t ask what. You didn’t need to.
He nodded, and a heavy silence settled between you. You gave a small, casual shrug. “Apparently, I’m popular now.”
That earned a faint, genuine smile from him. “About time.”
You glanced up, locking eyes with him. “You’re not going to tell me what to do, are you?”
He shook his head immediately. “No.” He paused, his voice dropping. “I learned a long time ago that advice only works if someone is still in the same chapter as you.”
Lewis broke the silence again. “I meant what I said yesterday. You’re not done.”
You let out a faint exhale. “That’s not really up to me, is it?”
“It never is,” he said. "But it’s also never decided by a single garage."
The words landed heavily. You didn't respond right away because you knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t trying to persuade you; he was reframing the entire geometry of your situation.
This wasn't about Mercedes, or Toto, or one sudden boardroom decision. This was a grid. A market. A system. A sport that moved on ruthlessly fast when it realized it could profit from a new narrative.
You stood up slowly and walked over to the window. The pit lane was mostly deserted. In the distance, a transport truck idled, ready to head to the airport.
Without turning around, you spoke your mind. “They replaced you within a day in their heads, Lewis.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Then, softly: “They didn’t replace me.” A beat. “I left.”
The distinction hung between you, sharp and impossible to ignore. You turned back to face him. “That’s different.”
He nodded once. “It is. But not as much as you think.”
Later that evening, Mercedes held its final debrief of the year. There were no formalities, no technical slides—just a room full of exhausted people trying to summarize a season that no longer needed summarizing.
You sat at the very edge of the table, trapped in a strange, liminal space. You were no longer fully a part of the team, yet not entirely outside it either.
Toto spoke for most of the meeting, running through strategic notes, areas for improvement, and the outlook for next season. Kimi’s arrival was mentioned briefly and casually, as if it were just another data point on a telemetry sheet.
You listened professionally, but your mind kept drifting. You didn't feel anger, or even sadness. You just felt a profound, quiet clarity. Something had shifted irreversibly.
When the meeting finally ended, chairs scraped against the floor and laptops clicked shut. Routine goodbyes were exchanged—the usual, temporary 'see you next week.' Except you wouldn’t. Not in this garage. Not in this jacket.
Lewis caught your eye as the room emptied out. He waited until the last of the engineers filtered through the door before walking over.
“You coming?” he asked.
You nodded, then hesitated. “Yeah. I think I just need a minute first.”
He understood instantly. “Okay.” He didn’t press, giving you a supportive nod before stepping out into the corridor.
You stayed alone in the debrief room for a long time, listening to the distant, mechanical sounds of the paddock shutting down. Finally, you pulled out your phone. The notifications had piled up. More messages, some longer and carefully worded by PR agents, others blunt and direct. All of them saying the exact same thing: Opportunity. Future. Seat. Discussion.
You opened the Red Bull message again.
Laurent Mekies: We should talk.
You stared at the text. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, and you typed out a short, controlled reply.
There are many things Charles Leclerc expects to find around the Formula One paddock. Red Bull cans in Ferrari hospitality are not one of them. Unfortunately for him, you seem physically incapable of existing without one.
warnings: fluff
note: hello! ♡ this is request by @madiexuberant heavily inspired by my Lando Norris fic Yuzu Melon, except apparently we've traded melons for approximately enough caffeine to power a small city. please do not use this fic as medical advice. drink some water. unlike reader. enjoy! - dean.
The first time Charles makes note of your Red Bull addiction, he assumes it's an isolated incident. You're leaning against the Ferrari hospitality counter, quietly talking to one of the PR coordinators, a bright blue can balanced casually in your hand.
He doesn't think much of it, people drink energy drinks especially around Formula One. The weekends are long. The schedules are brutal. It's understandable. He promptly forgets about it until the next morning.
You're walking through the paddock. Same tote bag, same sunglasses, different outfit, same Red Bull. Charles blinks - coincidence, probably.
By Saturday afternoon, he has counted four separate cans, not flavours, cans consumed by the same person. You. He finds himself watching in mild horror as you effortlessly crack open yet another one while scrolling through your phone. He looks towards Carlos' old race engineer.
"Has she..." A pause. "...been drinking those all day?"
The engineer barely glances up.
"Since yesterday."
Charles laughs.
"No, seriously."
"I'm serious."
"...Oh."
Sunday morning, Ferrari hospitality. Charles walks in determined to prove to himself that he's exaggerating. You smile politely as he passes.
"Morning."
"Morning."
His eyes immediately drift towards your hand, Red Bull, again.
"You know..." He begins carefully. "...they do sell water."
You look down at the can. Then back at him.
"They do?"
"Yes."
"Interesting
."
"You've... never considered it?"
"I have."
"And?"
"I preferred this."
You take another sip. Charles watches you with the exact expression of a man witnessing a horrific crime.
"How many have you had today?"
You think.
"...Including this one?"
"There are others?"
"Three."
"It is only nine in the morning."
You shrug.
"I woke up early."
Charles closes his eyes for a brief moment. Somewhere behind him, Fred walks into hospitality. He takes one look at the can in your hand, then at Charles.
"No."
You blink.
"What?"
"Not in Ferrari hospitality."
You glance around innocently.
"I don't see a rule."
"There is one now."
"You've just made it up."
"I have."
"You can't do that."
"I literally own the team."
"...Good point."
Charles has known Fred for years. He has never seen him look quite so personally offended by a beverage.
Charles' intervention begins approximately twenty minutes later. He corners you outside hospitality. You are, unsurprisingly, holding another can. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Listen."
"Hm?"
"I have accepted that I cannot stop you."
"Very mature of you."
"I'm not finished."
You raise an eyebrow.
"We are Ferrari."
"I know."
"We are not associated with Red Bull."
"I also know."
"So..." He gestures towards the can. "...could you maybe not drink those so... publicly?"
You look down at it, then back at him.
"So the problem isn't that I'm drinking it."
"The problem is where you're drinking it."
"Exactly."
"That seems manageable."
Charles leaves that conversation feeling strangely victorious.
The following morning, he cannot find you anywhere, which, in hindsight, should've worried him. Instead, he assumes you've listened. He should know better. He rounds the corner beside the Ferrari garage. There you are, crouched behind a tire trolley, drinking a Red Bull through a metal reusable straw.
"Y/N..."
You freeze.
"...Hi."
"What are you doing?"
"Hiding."
"I can see that."
"So can you really call it hiding?"
Charles sighs.
By the afternoon, you've evolved. This time, you've poured the Red Bull into an entirely unlabelled reusable bottle. Charles almost walks straight past you, then he watches you take a sip. Your face immediately does the tiny little wince it always does after the first mouthful.
"You decanted it?"
"I adapted."
Saturday. You somehow acquire an iced coffee cup, Ferrari branding, lid, straw. Charles smiles. Finally, progress. Then you take a sip.
"That isn't coffee."
"No."
"You put Red Bull in a coffee cup."
"I wanted to blend in."
"You've become a criminal."
By Sunday, the situation has spiralled completely out of control. You are sitting beside Lewis, happily sipping from what appears to be a water bottle. Charles is almost proud.
Until Lewis quietly says, "You know that looks like piss, right?"
You both look down. The Red Bull is, in fact, visible through the clear plastic.
"...I forgot bottles were transparent."
That evening, Charles gathers you, Fred and two very confused Ferrari engineers around one of the empty meeting tables. Fred folds his arms.
"This is an intervention."
You look genuinely touched.
"For me?"
"Yes."
"I've never had one before."
Charles slides an entire case of bottled water across the table.
"We've made alternatives."
You stare at it.
"...Where's the Red Bull?"
"There isn't any."
"I don't understand."
Fred sighs.
"I'll be honest."
"We've tried."
Charles nods.
"We've really tried."
"You've hidden them."
"Yes."
"You've replaced them with water."
"Yes."
"You even made Carlos check my bag."
Charles looks mildly embarrassed.
"...Yes."
You smile sweetly.
"I had another bag."
Fred slowly turns towards Charles.
"I'm beginning to understand why you've looked so tired this weekend."
Charles drops his head onto the table.
"I can't win."
You reach over, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
"You can't."
Finally, Charles lifts his head.
"Fine."
Your eyes light up.
"Really?"
"Drink your Red Bull."
"I will."
"But."
You stop.
"You are no longer allowed to drink it in Ferrari hospitality."
"Fair."
"Or within sight of Fred."
"Also fair."
"Or where photographers can see you."
"Reasonable."
"And preferably..." He points accusingly at you. "...not behind our tire trolleys."
You grin.
"No promises."
Charles groans. Fred simply stands.
"I'm going home."
As he walks away, he mutters just loudly enough for the two of you to hear, "At least she's not drinking Monster."
You beam.
"See?" You turn towards Charles. "It could be worse."
Charles looks at the can you've somehow produced from absolutely nowhere.
"...Please tell me you didn't have that in your pocket."
You crack it open with a satisfied hiss.
"A magician never reveals her secrets."
Charles sighs dramatically.
"I'm dating an energy drink smuggler."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
He watches you take another sip. Then, despite himself, smiles.
Summary: At barely nineteen, you had to not only support your boyfriend in F1 but also survive a man who kept trying to get to you.
Your relationship with Kimi never had the chance to be private. Your first kiss got filmed and went viral on social media for weeks after. Barely seventeen, you and Kimi just accepted that you could not be a secret, and that privacy was not a luxury you could afford.
Without a PR team to help you out, you were stuck fighting every false rumor yourself to try and protect whatever dignity you still had and the effort didn’t go unnoticed by Kimi who always tried to cheer you up whenever it got too much.
So imagine the shock when Kimi got his contract into F1 and you got called into a meeting without your boyfriend.
A meeting full of expensive suits and shiny shoes while you were freshly eighteen and in your boyfriend hoodie. They set out strict rules on what you could say or post and whatever else that was strictly off limits.
They spoke about your security and the fact that you couldn’t walk alone anywhere anymore. You needed guidance and help which only made you feel like a child over again. You didn’t need a bodyguard yet but they said it was coming quickly. You didn’t know if you liked it or if it just gave more reason to your anxiety.
—--
The first time you entered the F1 paddock was a nightmare for you.
Walking hand in hand with Kimi was usually peaceful but it felt more like putting on a show for millions to watch.
“You need to breathe, it’s just cameras.” Kimi said, circling his thumb on your hand. Trying to find a way to calm you down.
“I know, I just need some adaptation Kimi.” You say, looking ahead to avoid his eyes wishing he wouldn't notice.
He didn’t.
—--
You only felt relief when his first season ended but kept that to yourself. You didn’t want to be a problem, you weren’t the important one, the driver. You were just a teenage girl.
The end meant staying in Monaco for a while, avoiding any camera and paparazzi which Kimi did without questioning you once.
The start of the 2026 season came with excitement but a ton of anxiety. Australia went very well and a podium was worth celebrating. The sudden joy almost made you excited for the rest. Maybe the hyped around you had finally calmed down ?
Until you opened your Instagram DM’s and saw hundreds of photos of you in the paddock from the same account. All were slightly different, some normal, some clearly focusing on your body and looks.
You stared at them for so long, Kimi took your phone frustrated you didn’t give him attention anymore.
“Just lay your head on me, Bella, I’ll take care of you.” He said, pushing your head down so you could sleep.
You hummed softly and closed your eyes but your brain never stopped working.
—--
The practice and sprint in China went very well, you watched Kimi drive beside Toto and dined with George and Carmen. You were starting to settle in with the fame, the attention but also the Mercedes family.
Your mind forgot about the pictures for a while, until you saw the man. You saw him between Q1 and Q2, you were strolling around looking for food when you stopped dead in your tracks.
You slowly turned around and your eyes immediately found the unfamiliar yet terrifying face. The man didn’t move, didn’t speak but just smiled at you.
You turned and ran back to the Mercedes garage, arriving out of breath from the speed you had trying to escape the vision you had.
“Everything okay ?” Toto asks you as he walks closer to you and your now red face.
“Just saw someone I knew and didn’t like much, you know.” You say, trying to create a genuine laugh that wasn’t full of anxiety. “The usual.”
“Well if you see him again, come to me.” He says with that protective fatherly voice that always brought you so much comfort. “I’ll take care of it.”
You nodded because even when you were terrified, Toto had a way to calm your nerve the way your father did during your childhood.
—--
The Japan Grand Prix went for the better. A win for your boyfriend and no sign of the mystery man for you. You were both watching a movie while laying on the hotel bed.
Your legs were tangled in his, seeking his comfort more than usual. Seeking his touch anytime you could.
“Are you okay ?” He asks, looking at you with his doe eyes. “You’re not usually this quiet.”
“Hmm, I’m good.” You say sitting up a little more so you could properly see his face. “I think the constant attention is getting to me a little.”
He nods quietly as his hand finds your hair, slowly scratching your head in a way that makes your eyes roll. “Well if you need a break, tell me baby, I’ll take care of it no question asked.”
“I know you would.”
You fall asleep a few minutes later and Kimi contemplates opening your phone to understand what’s going on in your mind but doesn’t.
You would tell him if anything was happening, right ?
—--
The heat in Miami finally made you tan a little but also smile a little as you arrived early for the Grand Prix this weekend. Your boyfriend went early to the paddock for race day but you were shopping a little before.
Passing security was easy and you walked around with your pass around your neck like it belonged there. You were speedwalking through the first few garages, not caring to look for anyone other than Kimi as your body collided with someone else.
You stumbled back a few steps before a hand steadied you by the waist.
You blushed crimson red. “Oh ! I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you there.” You spoke, and lifted your eyes up to see his face.
Your smile never drops so fast as you see the mystery man. The man who keeps trying to call your personal number. The man who keeps sending you pictures of you walking around the paddock or even your house. The man who now had his filthy hands on your waist.
You never turned around so fast as you ran, never looking back. The man didn’t follow you but his presence did and people noticed.
Toto asked you if you were sick or Carmen forcing you to drink water. Kimi didn’t notice. He was so happy about his win, so proud to be leading the championship in points that he didn’t notice you were drowning.
You weren’t better, never speaking of your issue with anyone. Scared to look dumb, scared to be taken unseriously. You kept your mouth shut and Kimi never noticed you had a problem in the first place.
You thought it would pass, you thought the man would give up.
—--
Canada was your favorite Grand Prix. You loved Montreal city and you knew Kimi would be able to perform well.
Practice went well, qualifications went better. Kimi would start P2 and you couldn’t be prouder. As soon as he came back in the garage, you ran to him and hug him.
“Kimi, baby, I’m so so proud of you.” You say, kissing his cheek to try and keep some intimacy for you.
“Thank you for being here, amore.” He whispers in your ear and cups your face to properly kiss you. He didn’t care about the media, he needed his girl.
You giggle in the kiss, as your cheeks become bright red. “Always.”
You celebrated in your own ways back at the hotel. You felt safer now, you had not seen the mystery man at all in Canada.
The next morning, you arrived at the paddock earlier than usual and sadly, you had to walk in alone. You had a beautiful long white skirt with Kimi’s Mercedes jacket.
The Canadian fans always had some respect when it came to drivers and WAGS which was the only reason you had the guts to drive over there alone.
You were barely able to see Kimi before the race since he had so many meetings and last minute check ups. You kissed his helmet before he entered the car and you went to sit down next to Toto and Carmen as you put the headset on your head.
“Ready to watch him race ?” Toto asks you as you turn to face him and nod your head.
“I hope he wins.” You explain. “He puts so much pressure on him.”
“I know, don’t worry though. He can drive.”
—--
Kimi won and you hugged every engineer you knew as your smile reached your eyes. Seeing your boyfriend being successful healed something in you that you didn’t know was broken.
You slowly walked across the paddock to find a nice spot to watch the podium ceremony and take cute pictures. You tried to short cut through the Mercedes office but got stopped when a hand grabbed your wrist.
The hand was too big to be Kimi’s and you tried to push it away because if it wasn’t Kimi, no one is supposed to grip your wrist.
“Stop moving you little girl” He said, gripping your wrist so tightly, you were sure it would bruise.
“Let me go !” You screamed, trashing around. You were too young to die, you thought.
His free hand clamped your mouth to shut you up quickly. Your back was pressed against his chest but he quickly pressed you against the wall violently which made you bang your head on the wall.
You tried to bite his hand which didn’t work, and your tears were falling with no shame down your face. He started choking you against the wall and your hands flew to his arms, trying to lower them down.
Both of his hands were now pressing your throat as you tried to breathe through your nose. “Please, I I didn’t do anything.” Your words were barely hearable as you were coughing intensely.
Your eyes closed and your body felt weaker than ever before.
“Hey ! Stop that right now.”
You would've normally recognized the voice but you were far too deep into death for your brain to function.
Your body crumbled on the floor when his hands dropped and you immediately started coughing blood all over the floor.
Toto didn’t hesitate to kneel by your side as his shaking hands went to the phone and called Kimi who didn’t answer. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m here now.”
You simply kept coughing blood all over the place, apologizing over and over for the drama, the mess you just created.
Your breathing was uneven, filled with anxiety. You simply tried to find comfort anywhere and right now, that was by hiding your face in Toto’s shirt and crying.
He pulled you in, not caring for the fact that you were wetting his shirt. He rubbed your back until you passed out of exhaustion. The bruises on your neck were bright red, turning purple quickly and his eyes filled with water.
The teenage girl he protected like his daughter was passed out in his arms, body full of bruises and marks.
He very carefully lifted you up in his arms, as he walked silently until he entered Kimi driver’s room and laid you down on the couch.
He called Kimi again without ever removing his eyes from you in some kind of fear that you would disappear.
“Kimi, please come to your room.” He said, trying to keep a neutral tone to not scare the teenage boy. “Something happened to Y/N.”
Kimi hung up and ran directly to the room and entered it in full panic. “Where is she ? Oh god.”
His eyes went to your bruised neck and your marked wrist. Toto hugged Kimi who was now crying. “We’ll protect her from now on, okay ?”
And Kimi nodded his head, feeling as if he had failed you completely. He slower lower himself to cuddle you, trying to bring comfort and heat to your sleeping body.
Toto watched the whole scene knowing something had to change in the Mercedes garage and its security.
—--
The physical pain was gone in a couple of weeks and your bruises were finally invisible. The story didn’t go public by incredible effort from Toto and Kimi but people still talked.
Kimi got you a bodyguard that followed you everywhere even when you already had friends around. You didn’t love the idea but since the accident, Kimi had been restless on you and if a bodyguard following you around would ease up his mind, you could tolerate it.
No one spoke directly to you about it even if fans asked questions about the bruises on your neck and the way that Kimi bolted away from the podium celebration.
The only interview in which it was mentioned was a question thrown at Toto in Monaco.
“The security in the Mercedes garage got upgraded and people can’t help but notice how you are always protecting Kimi’s girlfriend. Has anything happened to her lately ?”
The journalist was clearly feeling proud of himself but people were judging him. It was like a silent rule to not ask questions about the partner of a driver and even more to their bosses.
Toto Wolff's smile dropped as he stared ahead. “Yeah, something really dangerous happened and we are just trying to protect her right now.”
His tone was distant and his eyes were speaking for him saying don’t ask me anymore questions.
“But she’s not a driver or an employee, spending money on her is just wasting it.” Everyone looked shocked at the journalist who still had a grin on his face.
“Spending money to protect a teenager who I see and treat like my daughter is never a waste. And I don’t want other questions about her, the subject is close.” He says, rising up from his chair to leave the room even if the interview was not done yet.
—--
The next day, Toto walked into his office way too early and saw the pink gift on top of his desk.
He slowly opened it to reveal chocolate chip cookies with blue cupcakes. His eyes found the note quickly as he read it outloud.
Thanks Toto for the help and then for defending me and Kimi honor in front of everyone. I hope those sweets will ease your mind after all the stress I’ve given you. Love, Y/N.
He smiled and immediately bit into his favorite cookies.
Y/N's French bulldog falls in love with a stranger outside a bookstore. Unfortunately for her, the stranger turns out to be Lando Norris, and her dog seems determined to choose him over her at every possible opportunity.
warnings: fluff, y/n!reader
note: hello ♡ i fear every Lando fic eventually turns into golden retriever meets golden retriever. this one just happens to include an actual dog. enjoy. - dean
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The betrayal occurs on a Wednesday afternoon.
This particular act of treachery comes in the form of a nine-kilogram French bulldog named Marcel. Marcel is charcoal grey, stubborn beyond reason, and the undisputed love of your life. You are not, unfortunately, the love of his.
You realize this while standing outside a small bookstore in London, waiting for a friend who is twenty minutes late and counting. One hand holds an iced coffee. The other grips Marcel's leash. Or at least it does until Marcel decides otherwise. Without warning, he lunges forward. The leash jerks violently. Your coffee nearly becomes one with the pavement.
"Marcel!"
The dog ignores you. As always.
He barrels toward a man crouched beside the bookstore window, tail wagging so hard his entire body seems to vibrate. The stranger laughs.
"Hello, mate."
Marcel emits a noise that can only be described as ecstatic. The stranger scratches beneath his chin. You stop a few feet away, utterly horrified.
"Wow."
The man glances up.
"What?"
"I've raised him for three years."
Marcel rolls onto his back. The traitor.
"And?"
"And he's never looked at me like that."
The stranger grins.
"You seem jealous."
"I am jealous."
Marcel chooses this exact moment to climb into the stranger's lap. You stare. The stranger stares. Marcel stares at neither of you because he's busy living his best life.
"Wow," the man says.
"Don't."
"What?"
"Don't encourage him."
The grin widens.
"You know, I think he likes me."
You narrow your eyes.
"He's confused."
The stranger laughs again. Marcel's tail wags harder. You briefly consider giving the dog away.
"What's his name?"
"Marcel."
The stranger nods thoughtfully.
"Good name."
"Thank you."
"Very French."
"He judges people if they mispronounce croissant."
The stranger looks down at Marcel. Marcel immediately sneezes.
"Fair enough."
You study the man properly for the first time; brown hair, hazel eyes, a baseball cap pulled low. It clicks.
"Oh."
The stranger raises an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"You're Lando Norris."
He winces.
"Unfortunately."
Marcel seems delighted by this information and wags his tail at speeds that can rival that of any one Formula 1 car.
"You're famous."
"So I've been told."
"And my dog prefers you."
"Also true."
You look at Marcel. Marcel is far too invested in his new friend. You assume that will be the end of it - London is large, people disappear into it every day. Lando Norris would surely be no exception.
Then three days later you see him again. Or rather, Marcel does. The dog spots Lando before you do. One second he's trotting peacefully beside you, the next he's dragging you across an entire street.
"Marcel!"
No response.
At this point you're fairly certain the dog only acknowledges commands when they benefit him. Lando looks up from his phone just in time to be nearly flattened by a French bulldog.
"Oh, hello."
Marcel loses his mind. You don't know whether to laugh or cry.
"You're joking."
Lando looks delighted.
"I think he missed me."
"You met once."
"He seems pretty committed."
Marcel chooses that exact moment to sit directly on Lando's shoe. The man looks unbearably pleased with himself.
You sigh.
"This is becoming a problem."
"It seems fine to me."
"Of course it does."
The encounters continue. Not intentionally, of course. Who could have known that the daily route you take when you are walking your dog, is apparently marked with all the spots Lando likes to go to, as well? You run into each other at the park, in front of coffee shops, by the grocery shop.
Once it's outside a bakery where Marcel abandons an expensive pastry in favor of greeting Lando. That one hurts. You paid four pounds for the pastry. Marcel's loyalty, apparently, costs less.
Each time the routine remains the same.
Marcel spots Lando. Marcel loses his mind. You endure the humiliation. Lando enjoys every second.
"You know," he says one afternoon, scratching behind Marcel's ears, "I think he loves me."
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time."
Marcel places both paws on Lando's knee. You look paler than usual.
"God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers."
Lando nearly chokes laughing.
The problem begins sometime around the fifth encounter, not because Marcel likes Lando. That problem has long since established itself. No. The issue is that you're beginning to look forward to seeing him.
Very unfortunate, because Lando is easy to talk to. The conversations start small - coffee, books, films, travel - anything to kill the awkwardness from him crouching to play with Marcel. Then somehow become larger - dreams, childhood, the strange pressure of growing older and realizing nobody actually knows what they're doing.
One afternoon you spend nearly an hour sitting on a park bench talking while Marcel sleeps across both your laps. Neither of you notices how much time has passed. And when you do you don't mention it.
Then one Tuesday Marcel has a vet appointment, which means you walk through the park alone. You miss the sound of paws against pavement, the weight of the leash in your hand. You miss Marcel. A little.
You definitely do not miss somebody else, which is why you're surprised when you hear your name. You turn. Lando.
For a second he looks confused. Then disappointed. Then embarrassed for looking disappointed.
"Where's the tiny traitor?"
You smile despite yourself.
"Vet."
"Oh."
The answer arrives far too quickly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You sound disappointed."
"I liked seeing him."
"Sure."
Lando studies you.
"I liked seeing you too."
The words land softly, yet somehow feel heavier than they should. Your heart does something that can only be described as a jump. Lando looks away first.
"You know," he says, "without Marcel around, I might actually have to talk to you."
You laugh.
"Terrifying."
"Absolutely."
Yet neither of you leaves.
Two days later Marcel receives a clean bill of health. To celebrate, you take him to the park.
You spot Lando immediately. He spots you too. Marcel spots him first and tears forward. Lando crouches, but halfway there Marcel slows. Then stops.
Instead of launching himself at Lando, he returns to you. You stare. Lando stares.
Marcel settles comfortably against your leg. For a moment nobody speaks.
"Wow," Lando says.
"Wow."
"This is new."
"It is."
Marcel glances between the two of you. Then wanders over to the empty space between and settles onto the grass, completely satisfied with himself. A diplomatic genius.
Lando laughs first. You follow.
"You know," Lando says quietly, "I think he finally likes you."
You gasp.
"That's unbelievable."
"He had to think about it."
"I fed him."
"He needed time."
You shake your head. Then he asks,
"Would it be weird if I asked for your number?"
You look down at Marcel. Marcel looks up at you. Then at Lando. Then back at you. The little traitor. You smile.
"Only slightly."
Lando grins.
"I can work with slightly."
And somewhere between a bookstore, a park bench, and one very disloyal French bulldog, things begin.
p.s. Marcel was not sorry. Marcel had excellent taste and would absolutely do it again.
Toto Wolff x fakegirlfriend!engineer!reader
George Russell x engineer!reader — one-sided crush
Summary: The PR campaign has worked. Toto’s image is warmer, George is interested, and Bradley gives you both permission to stop pretending. Perfect result. Terrible timing. Because you got what you wanted, and somehow your heart still keeps looking for Toto.
Warnings: fake dating ending, jealousy, emotional angst, sweet!George, heartbroken!Toto.
Word count: 4.5k
After the kiss, Toto becomes perfect.
That is the worst part. He does everything right.
In public, his hand still finds your back. His smile still appears when you tease him. His voice still softens when he calls you Liebling in front of cameras, sponsors, and one mechanic who has started looking like he is emotionally invested enough to need a support group.
To everyone else, nothing changes. To you, everything does. Because in private, Toto disappears. No more lingering in your hotel doorway after meetings. No more quiet dinners in his office while he pretends he does not need feeding. No more dry little comments sent by text at midnight. No more thumb brushing your knuckles when nobody is watching.
He is polite, professional, controlled.
Painfully controlled. So controlled that makes you want to throw a croissant at his head and demand the real Toto back.
Unfortunately, you are a grown woman and George Russell’s race engineer, so you do not throw baked goods at your boss.
The Monza weekend begins under bright sun, loud fans, red grandstands, and Ferrari flags everywhere.
You arrive in the garage with your headset around your neck and coffee in hand. One coffee. Just yours.
A week ago, you would have brought one for Toto too.
You almost do. You stand outside the hospitality coffee station for thirty seconds staring at his usual order like it has betrayed you personally.
Then you walk away. Very mature. Very adult. Very miserable.
Toto is already in the garage when you arrive.
He looks up. His eyes flick to your hand. One coffee.
Something moves across his face. Gone instantly.
“Good morning,” you say.
“Morning.”
That is it. Morning.
As if he did not have you on the edge of your hotel desk days ago, kissing you like he had finally lost a war with himself. As if he did not tell you it was a mistake. As if he did not look at George’s name on your phone like it cut him.
George appears beside you before the silence can swallow you whole.
“Morning,” he says, smiling.
Your body tries to react the way it used to. Butterflies. Excitement. Panic. George-shaped sunshine.
You get… warmth. Gentle. Pleasant. Easy. Nothing like the storm Toto leaves behind even when he says nothing at all.
“Morning, race winner,” you say.
George grins. “You’re going to keep calling me that?”
“For at least two race weekends.”
“Fair.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “Dinner after the race? There’s a little Italian place near the hotel. Good pasta. No cameras. No Bradley.”
You laugh despite yourself. “No Bradley is a strong selling point.”
Across the garage, Toto is close enough to hear. You know he hears because his hand stills on the pit wall.
George glances toward him, then back at you. “So?”
You swallow. “Yeah. Dinner sounds nice.”
George smiles fully. “Good.”
Toto turns away. No reaction. No tightening jaw. No sarcastic comment. No protective hand at your back.
Nothing.
That hurts more than jealousy. You would take jealousy. Jealousy means he cares.
This cold silence feels like he has locked the door from inside and left you standing outside with all your stupid feelings and a very inconvenient memory of his mouth.
Bradley walks past with Amara and Jules, sees you, sees George, sees Toto’s back, and slows down.
For once, he says nothing. That should worry everyone.
Qualifying at Monza is sharp, loud, and stressful enough to make your eye twitch.
George qualifies second. Kimi third. A good result. Strong. Promising.
The garage celebrates in that focused Mercedes way: satisfied nods, claps on shoulders, people already thinking about tyre strategy before the helmets are fully off.
George pulls you into a quick hug after he gets out of the car.
It catches you off guard. His arms are warm. His laugh is breathless.
“P2,” he says near your ear. “Not bad?”
“Not bad?” you repeat. “You nearly gave me heart failure in sector two.”
“I recovered.”
“You owe me emotional compensation.”
“So, dinner?”
You smile. “Fine. Pasta counts.”
Toto is watching. You feel it. When you look over, his face is calm. Too calm.
Then Bradley calls both of you into a small meeting room behind hospitality.
You know immediately something is wrong. Not bad wrong. PR wrong.
Bradley stands at the head of the room with Amara and Jules beside him. Toto leans near the wall, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
You sit opposite him. That alone feels wrong.
A month ago, you would have sat beside him.
Bradley clasps his hands. “First, excellent work.”
You blink. “On qualifying?”
“On everything.”
Toto’s face does not move.
Bradley continues, a little softer now. “The campaign has achieved what we needed. More than achieved it.”
You look at him.
Amara opens her tablet. “Sentiment around Toto has shifted significantly. Fans love seeing him warmer, more relaxed, more open. Sponsor feedback is excellent. The team dynamic reads beautifully.”
Jules adds, “And speculation around you two is at peak visibility.”
You swallow. “Peak visibility sounds like something that requires antibiotics.”
Bradley almost smiles. Then his expression turns careful. “We don’t want to keep you in something longer than necessary.”
Your stomach drops. Toto looks at the floor.
Bradley speaks gently now. “You did what we needed. More than that. And George is clearly interested in you.”
The room goes quiet. You cannot look at Toto. So, of course, you look at Toto.
He says nothing. Nothing.
Bradley keeps going, because apparently silence has never stopped a PR man in his life.
“We can start easing the story down. No big statement. No drama. Just less public closeness. People will assume you and Toto ended things quietly, respectfully. Then you have a free hand to see where things go with George.”
A free hand.
You look at your own hands in your lap. One of them still remembers Toto’s fingers. Stupid hand.
“That makes sense,” you say.
Your voice sounds very normal. You deserve an award.
Toto says nothing.
Bradley looks at him. “Toto?”
Toto lifts his head. His face is perfect. Boardroom perfect. Painfully perfect.
“If that is what she wants.”
She.
Not you. She.
Your chest tightens.
Bradley glances between you both. “And you?”
Toto’s jaw moves once. “It was always the plan.”
There it is. The knife, polished and professional.
You nod quickly. “Right. Yes. The plan.”
Amara looks like she wants to say something. Jules looks like he wants to leave and take the oxygen with him.
Bradley, for the first time in history, appears to regret his own success. “Well,” he says quietly, “then we’ll begin easing it down.”
Toto pushes off the wall. “I have a strategy meeting.”
He leaves before anyone can answer.
You stare at the door after him.
Bradley says your name softly.
You stand. “I should check George’s long-run notes.”
“You okay?”
You smile. Bright. Fake. PR would be proud.
“Of course.”
The race is good. That is the irritating thing about life.
It keeps happening even when your heart is behaving like a badly updated software package.
George finishes second. Kimi third.
Mercedes is loud and happy, Monza is louder, Ferrari fans are dramatic about existing, and the podium is all champagne, sun, and noise.
George looks beautiful up there. Happy. Glowing. He points at you from the podium again, and this time you wave back with a smile that should feel lighter than it does.
Toto stands beside the garage crowd. He does not touch you. He does not lean close. He does not whisper that you did well. He claps for George. Smiles for the team. Looks proud. Looks sad.
You hate that you can tell.
You hate that George is on a podium and all you can think is that Toto looks like something has been taken from him.
After the celebrations, George finds you near the hospitality exit, hair still damp from champagne, shirt sticking slightly to his shoulders.
“Still on for dinner?” he asks.
You should say yes without thinking. You do say yes. But you think first. And the thinking scares you.
Dinner with George is lovely.
He chooses a small Italian restaurant tucked away from the main street, with warm lights and old wooden tables and pasta so good you almost forgive Monza for being emotionally inconvenient.
George is kind. Funny. Attentive.
He asks about you. Not the car. Not the data. You.
Your family. Your studies. Why engineering. Why Mercedes. Whether you always talk this fast when nervous.
You laugh. He smiles.
It should be perfect. It almost is. That is the problem. Almost.
At some point, over tiramisu, George looks at you and says, “I heard you and Toto… ended things.”
Your spoon pauses. You look down at the plate.
“That was quick.”
“The paddock is quick.”
“The paddock needs hobbies.”
He smiles gently. “You okay?”
The question is kind. Too kind.
You nod. “Yes. We’re fine. It was… mutual.”
Mutual. A useful word. A coward’s word.
George watches you for a moment. “I don’t want to rush you.”
“You’re not.”
“Good.”
He reaches across the table and touches your hand. His fingers are warm. Nice and gentle.
You look at his hand on yours and try not to compare. Comparing is cruel. To him. To you. To everyone.
But your stupid heart does it anyway.
George’s touch is soft. Toto’s touch was steady. George looks at you like he wants to know you. Toto looked at you like he already did and it terrified him.
After dinner, George walks you back to the hotel.
The night air is warm. Monza still hums somewhere around you, full of engines, fans, and late-night celebration.
At the elevator, he stops. “I had a good time,” he says.
“So did I.”
You mean it. That is the unfair part.
He steps closer. Slowly. Giving you time.
You know what is coming. You waited months for this. George Russell, looking at you like you matter. Like you are wanted. Like he has finally seen you.
His hand touches your waist. He leans in.
You let him kiss you. It is soft. Sweet. Careful. The kind of kiss you imagined once. The kind of kiss that should make everything click into place.
It does not. There is no lightning. No breath stolen from your lungs. No desk edge under your thighs. No rough whisper asking you to tell him to stop. No feeling that the whole world has gone dangerously quiet.
There is just George. Kind, lovely but wrong.
He pulls back and smiles. You smile too. You hope it looks real.
“Goodnight,” he says.
“Goodnight.”
You walk into your room and close the door. Then you stand there in the dark. Silent. Still.
Your lips still warm from George. But your heart aching for Toto.
“Oh,” you whisper to yourself.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You got what you wanted. And now you know you do not want it anymore.
You do not sleep. You try. You fail.
You turn onto your left side. Then right. Then back. Then you stare at the ceiling like it might produce a technical solution to romantic stupidity.
It does not. Very poor performance from the ceiling.
At 6:42 a.m., your phone buzzes.
George: Morning. Last night was lovely. Breakfast?
You stare at the message.
Lovely. It was lovely. That is exactly the problem.
You type, delete, type again.
You: Morning. Yes, breakfast sounds good.
Coward.
You shower. Dress. Fix your hair. Look at yourself in the mirror and wonder when your life became a strategy call with no winning option.
At breakfast, George is waiting with coffee.
Your usual order. He remembered. That should make you melt. Instead, it makes you feel worse.
“Morning,” he says, smiling.
“Morning.”
You sit with him near the window. It is nice. Again. Everything with George is nice.
He asks if you slept well. You lie.
He tells you about something Kimi said at the gym that morning and makes you laugh.
Then the door of the hotel restaurant opens. Toto walks in. Alone. No Bradley. No Amara. No Jules. Just Toto in a black polo, looking tired in a way he usually hides better.
He sees you. Then George. Then the coffee in front of you. Then George’s hand resting near yours on the table.
His expression does not crack. But his eyes do. Just a little.
He gives you a small smile. Sad. So sad it hits harder than anger.
“Morning,” he says.
George looks up. “Morning, Toto.”
You try to speak. Nothing comes.
Toto nods once and walks to the coffee station.
He does not take his usual seat. He does not look back.
You stare after him. George sees.
“You’re still in love with him,” he says quietly.
You turn back too quickly. “What?”
George’s face is soft. Not accusing. That makes it worse.
“I think you are.”
You open your mouth. Close it. “I don’t know what I am.”
George nods slowly. “That is an answer.”
You look at your coffee. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry for being confused.”
“I kissed you.”
“I kissed you too.”
“You’re being too nice.”
He smiles a little. “I can be rude if it helps.”
You laugh once, helplessly. Then he reaches across the table and squeezes your hand.
This time, you do not feel butterflies. You feel gratitude. And guilt.
Which tells you everything.
The next days are gentle torture.
George is sweet. You hate that.
It would be easier if he were arrogant. Pushy. Careless. Anything.
But he is George. He brings you coffee. He walks with you through the paddock. He texts goodnight. He touches your shoulder when he passes behind you in the garage. He makes you laugh. And every time he does, you think: this would have been enough once.
Once, before Toto held your hand in a factory corridor. Before Toto kissed your forehead in a garage full of people and made you feel safe. Before Toto looked at you across a ballroom like jealousy was eating him alive. Before Toto kissed you in your hotel room like restraint had finally failed. Before Toto called it a mistake with hurt in his eyes.
You are not stupid.
Slowly, painfully, you understand. You did not fall for the fake boyfriend. You fell for the man who remembered how you take your tea after one late-night debrief. The man who let you steal his fries and acted offended because it made you laugh. The man who looked terrifying to everyone else and impossibly gentle with you. The man who made dry jokes about budget caps and still pressed a folder into your hands when he knew you were nervous, just so you had something to hold.
The man who was not scary. Not to you. Never to you.
And now he treats you like air. Polite air. Professional air. Air he refuses to breathe too deeply.
By the time you return to Brackley, you know.
It takes you three more days to do something about it. Because apparently courage is easier at 300 kilometres per hour than in an office hallway.
The data gives you an excuse. A legitimate one.
You have performance notes from Monza, simulator correlation numbers, and a question about rear tyre warm-up that genuinely needs Toto’s input.
You repeat this to yourself outside his office. This is work. This is professional. This is not you walking toward a cliff with a laptop.
You knock.
“Come in.”
His voice.
You open the door.
Toto is behind his desk, glasses on, laptop open, a stack of papers beside him. He looks up.
For one second, something flashes across his face. Longing. Then it is gone.
“Do you have the data?”
Of course. Straight to work.
You step inside and close the door. “Yes.”
You put the tablet on his desk.
He gestures for you to sit. You do.
You talk about car balance. Tyres. Race pace. Simulation discrepancies. You both sound normal. Very impressive. Award-winning emotional repression.
At one point, he leans forward to study a graph, and his shoulder nearly brushes yours.
You stop breathing. He notices. He moves back.
That hurts.
You finish the technical review in twenty minutes. There is nothing left. No reason to stay. No reason except the one sitting between you like an exposed nerve.
You start gathering your tablet.
Toto speaks first. “Are you happy?”
Your hands still. You look up. “What?”
“With George.”
His voice is quiet. Careful. Too careful.
You stare at him. He looks down at the papers on his desk, not at you.
“Is he good to you?”
Your throat tightens. “Yes.”
Toto nods once. “Good.”
You wait but he says nothing else. And something in you breaks. “Stop doing that.”
His eyes lift. “Doing what?”
“Treating me like I’m air.”
His face tightens. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am giving you space.”
“No. You’re punishing yourself and pretending it’s noble.”
His jaw moves. “You got what you wanted.”
The words are calm. They still hit.
“Did I?”
His eyes sharpen. “You wanted George to notice you.”
“Yes.”
“He did.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted a date.”
“I thought I did.”
Toto stands abruptly and turns toward the window.
There. There it is again. The wall. The back. The refusal to let you see his face.
You stand too. “I’m talking to you.”
“I heard you.”
“Then look at me.”
He does not.
“Toto.”
His shoulders tense. “Do not.”
“Do not what?”
“Say my name like that.”
You laugh softly, hurt and frustrated.
“You said that before.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe because I keep trying to reach you and you keep running away.”
He turns then. Fast. “I am not running away.”
“You are.”
“I am doing what I should have done from the beginning.”
“What, pretending I mean nothing?”
His face changes. Pain. “You do not mean nothing.”
The room goes quiet. Your heart pounds. Toto looks like he regrets saying it.
You step closer.
“Then why did you say the kiss was a mistake?”
“Because I had no right to kiss you.”
“I kissed you back.”
“You were confused.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His eyes flash. “You were in love with George.”
“I thought I was.”
“That is not better.”
“It is the truth.”
He laughs once, bitter and quiet. “The truth is that I agreed to help you get another man’s attention and then behaved like a jealous fool when you got it.”
“You were jealous?”
He looks at you like the question is absurd.
“Yes.”
The single word hits the room hard.
Your breath catches.
Toto’s control finally starts to crack.
“I saw him with you. I heard him ask you to dinner. I should have let you answer. That was the plan. Instead I interrupted because I could not stand the thought of him having that moment with you.”
Your eyes burn. “Toto…”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You need to understand. I knew this was wrong. I am your boss. I am older. I was coming out of a divorce. You were looking at George like he was the sun.”
“He wasn’t.”
“He was to you.”
“Maybe once.”
His expression falters.
You take another step closer. Now there is only the desk corner between you.
“I wanted George to see me,” you say, voice shaking despite your best effort. “And then he did. He was kind and sweet and exactly what I thought I wanted.”
Toto says nothing.
You keep going because if you stop now, you might never start again. “He took me to dinner. He kissed me.”
Toto closes his eyes. It hurts to watch.
You continue, softer. “And all I could think was that it didn’t feel like you.”
His eyes open. The room stills.
You can hear your own breathing. You can hear his.
“I tried,” you whisper. “I really tried to be happy. Because this was the plan. Because Bradley said we could stop pretending and I’d be free to date George and everything would make sense.”
Toto’s face is unreadable now, but his eyes are bright. Too bright.
“And?” he asks.
One word. Barely there.
You step around the desk.
“I’m not in love with George.”
Toto does not move.
You are close enough to see his breath change. Close enough to see hope terrify him.
You swallow. “I fell in love with you.”
The words leave your mouth. Simple and clear.
Toto goes completely still.
For one second, you think you have destroyed him. Then his expression changes. The wall falls. Not all at once. Piece by piece.
His mouth parts slightly. His eyes soften. His face looks younger and older at the same time, like relief and pain have collided somewhere behind his ribs.
“What did you say?” he asks.
Your heart twists. “You heard me.”
“Say it again.”
“Toto…”
“Please.”
The please is quiet. Raw.
You breathe in. “I fell in love with you.”
He closes the distance in two steps.
Then stops. Because he is Toto. Because even now, when his whole face looks like he is barely holding himself together, he still gives you the choice.
His hand lifts but does not touch you.
“Again,” he whispers.
You almost laugh through the ache in your chest. “You are very demanding for a man who ignored me for a week.”
His mouth trembles. There is almost a smile.
“Liebling...”
Oh. That word. Soft. Broken. Yours.
Your eyes sting. “Then say it back,” you whisper.
His hand cups your cheek. Warm, soft.
“And I am in love with you,” he says. “Completely. Terribly. Inconveniently.”
A laugh escapes you, shaky and wet. “Inconveniently?”
“Deeply inconvenient.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You chose me.”
“I did.”
His thumb brushes your cheekbone. “You are sure?”
“Yes.”
“George?”
“I need to talk to him. Properly. Kindly. But I don’t want him like this. I don’t want anyone like this.”
Toto’s eyes search yours. “Like what?”
You step closer, until your hands rest against his chest. “Like I want you.”
That does it. His restraint finally gives way.
He kisses you. No cameras. No George. No PR. No strategy. Just Toto’s mouth on yours, warm and certain, his hand at your cheek, the other settling carefully at your waist as if he still cannot quite believe he is allowed to touch you for real.
You kiss him back with everything you have been holding in.
All the confusion. All the longing. All the stupid late nights staring at your phone. All the moments you looked for him across rooms and pretended it meant nothing.
He draws you closer. You go gladly.
His forehead rests against yours when the kiss breaks. Both of you breathe too fast.
“This is real,” he says, like he needs to hear it.
You smile.
“For real purposes only.”
His laugh is low and rough and beautiful.
Then the door opens. Without a knock. Of course. Because the universe has a sense of humour and that sense of humour works in PR.
Bradley steps in with a folder. “Toto, I just need—”
He stops.
You are standing in Toto’s arms. Your hands are on his chest. His hand is at your waist. Your lips are probably swollen.
Toto looks at Bradley. Bradley looks at you. Then at Toto. Then back at you.
The silence lasts exactly three seconds.
Bradley’s face slowly transforms. “Oh,” he says.
You hide your face against Toto’s chest.
Toto’s arm tightens around you. “Bradley.”
Bradley points at the two of you with the folder. “You are kissing.”
“Very observant.”
“In your office.”
“Yes.”
“With no cameras.”
Toto gives him a flat look. “That is traditionally how privacy works.”
Bradley’s eyes shine with absolute, unbearable joy. “So…” he says slowly. “We are no longer pretending?”
You lift your face from Toto’s chest.
Toto looks down at you. His expression softens in front of Bradley, in front of the whole world if needed.
“No,” Toto says. “We are not.”
Bradley closes his eyes. Takes one breath. Then whispers, “I am a genius.”
Toto immediately says, “Get out.”
Bradley opens his eyes. “I brought this family together.”
“You created a workplace crisis.”
“I created love.”
“You created paperwork.”
“Romantic paperwork.”
You start laughing. You cannot help it.
Toto looks at you, and all the sadness from breakfast, all the distance, all the cold control is gone.
Smiling Toto is back. For real this time.
Bradley clutches his folder to his chest. “Amara owes me twenty euros.”
Toto points at the door. “Out.”
Bradley backs away, still grinning. “Should I prepare a statement?”
He closes the door. Two seconds later, you hear him outside shout-whisper:
“AMARA. THEY’RE REAL.”
Toto sighs. You laugh harder.
He looks at the ceiling like he is asking for patience from every god, engineer, and legal counsel available.
“I will fire him.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
“You love him.”
“I tolerate him under protest.”
“You love me.”
His eyes drop to yours. The annoyance fades. Everything fades.
“Yes,” he says.
Just that. Yes.
Your heart softens so quickly it almost hurts.
You reach up and fix his collar. It is not crooked. You just want to touch him. And he knows. His hands settle at your waist.
“You realize,” he says, “that George deserves honesty.”
“I know.”
“And the team will talk.”
“They already talk.”
“And Bradley will become unbearable.”
“He was born unbearable.”
Toto smiles. You smile back. For the first time in weeks, it is easy. No pretending. No strategy. No calculated glances across the garage.
Just you, standing in Toto Wolff’s office, finally choosing the man you were never supposed to fall for.
You take his hand. His fingers close around yours. Perfectly. Like they knew the way all along.
“So,” you say, “what now?”
Toto looks at your joined hands. Then at you.
“Now,” he says, voice low and warm, “I take you to dinner.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you asking me on a date, Herr Wolff?”
“Yes.”
“No PR?”
“No PR.”
“No George jealousy strategy?”
“No.”
“No Bradley deck?”
“I will burn every deck he makes.”
You grin. “Sounds serious.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “It is.”
Your smile softens. “Good.”
He leans in and kisses your forehead. This time, no one is watching. This time, it is not for George. It is not for fans. It is not for cameras. It is not for Toto’s image.
It is for you. Only you.
And when you leave his office later, hand in hand, Bradley is waiting down the hallway with Amara and Jules, all three pretending very badly to be casual.
Amara looks delighted. Jules looks relieved. Bradley looks like a man who has personally won a championship.
Toto stops. “Do not say anything.”
Bradley lifts both hands. “I would never.”
You walk past him.
Bradley waits exactly two seconds. Then whispers, “For real purposes only.”
Toto turns. Bradley runs.
You laugh so hard you have to hold onto Toto’s arm.
And Toto?
Toto smiles. Fully. Openly. Like he has finally remembered how. Like maybe you brought him back after all. Like maybe the fans were right. Like maybe the best PR strategy Bradley ever made was the one that stopped being fake.
THE END
a/n: As I wrote before, I had so much fun writing this story. And of course, the best ones are always the ones with a happy ending 😉
Thank you for reading, commenting, and experiencing this story with me. You’re the best! ❤️
everyone in the paddock knows kimi antonelli. very few know he has an older sister, and even fewer know that max verstappen has been hopelessly in love with her since the moment she asked him if he'd eaten.
warnings: fluff, smau
note: hello ♡ this was written for an absolutely lovely request by @ateliefloresdaprimavera i hope i did your idea justice! i took a few creative liberties to flesh the story out while keeping the heart of your request the same. enjoy!! - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 14,565 others
yn.antonelli i raised him better than this!!!! @.kimi.antonelli
kimi.antonelli: delete this.
yn.antonelli: no ❤️
georgerussell: 😭😭😭😭
kimi.anotnelli: mate HELP ME
landonorris: kimi blink twice if you need help
yn.antonelli: he absolutely does not.
user1: WAIT KIMI HAS A SISTER!?
user2: HOLD ON
user3: new paddock sibling duo unlocked
max.verstappen: 😂
liked by author
The Mercedes hospitality is already buzzing by the time you arrive. Mechanics move between garages carrying equipment, journalists rehearse questions into voice recorders, camera shutters click every few seconds. You instinctively slow your pace, letting Kimi walk half a step ahead, because you'd learned years ago that being his sister meant allowing him to take the lead here. This was his world.
"You'll meet everyone eventually," Kimi says, adjusting the strap of his backpack.
"I don't have to."
"You do."
"I came to spend time with my little brother."
"You also came to see where I work."
"I've seen enough already."
"You've been here for... six minutes."
"Exactly."
He laughs.
"You'll like them."
"I work in an emergency department."
"So?"
"I've met every personality imaginable."
Kimi considers that.
"...fair."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 19,529 others
yn.antonelli apparently i survive outside the emergency department too
kimi.antonelli: debatable
kimi.antonelli: you do know i have pictures to show too -_-
yn.antonelli: do you dare?
georgerussell: welcome to the paddock!
yn.antonelli: thank you!
landonorris: guys, she is already threatening to make me drink water
yn.antonelli: because you need it
oscarpiastri: she has a point
yn.antonelli: @.landonorris listen to your boyfriend
max.verstappen: Hope you enjoy the weekend.
yn.antonelli: thank you! 😊
The paddock is quieter away from the garages, not silent, never silent. Just... calmer. The steady hum of conversations blends with distant engines and the occasional burst of laughter. You find the coffee station tucked into the corner of one of the hospitality units, perfect, until you realise someone else got there first.
Max Verstappen stands with one hand resting against the counter, waiting for the machine to finish pouring. He glances over as you approach.
"Hi."
"Hi."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then you point towards the coffee machine.
"Are you trying to blow the coffee machine up with your mind?"
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
"No."
"It looked like it."
"I think it's ignoring me."
"It does that."
"You've been here before?"
"My brother has worked here for months."
"Fair point."
He steps aside without another word, giving you enough room to reach the machine.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
The machine lets out an unimpressed hiss before finally beginning to pour. You watch it for a moment.
"So..."
Max breaks the silence first.
"Emergency nurse?"
You glance at him.
"I've been exposed."
"Oscar mentioned it."
"I'll have to have a word."
"He seemed frightened."
"He should be."
That earns another smile, one that softens his entire face. You hadn't expected Max Verstappen to smile like that. It suits him.
The coffee finishes pouring. You reach for the paper cup just as he notices the faint pink line across the back of your hand.
"You cut yourself."
Looking down, you shrug.
"Paper."
"Paper?"
"I lost."
He lets out an amused breath.
"I didn't know that was possible."
"You've clearly never worked in a hospital."
"I haven't."
"You'd be amazed what stationery is capable of."
He chuckles quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, you notice the split skin across his right knuckles. Old enough not to be bleeding, but fresh enough to still look angry.
"What happened to your hand?"
His eyes follow yours.
"This?"
He flexes it once.
"Nothing."
You give him a look.
"The universal male diagnosis."
"It's fine."
"Mhm."
"It is."
You take a sip of your coffee before speaking again.
"I'll believe you when you clean it."
He looks at you, then at his hand, then back at you.
"It's only a scratch."
"So was mine."
"You noticed."
"I notice everything."
The words leave your mouth so casually that you don't think twice about them. Max does, because nobody has ever looked at him the way you just did - not as a world champion or a rival, just... as someone with a cut that should probably be cleaned before it gets infected. It's strangely refreshing.
"You always this bossy?"
You smile into your coffee.
"Occupational hazard."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You should."
Before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice echoes across the paddock.
"There you are!"
Kimi. He stops beside you, looking between the two of you.
"Am I interrupting?"
You shake your head.
"I was just telling Max to clean his hand."
Kimi doesn't even hesitate.
"Oh, yeah. You should listen."
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You too?"
"I've been listening to her for nineteen years."
"And?"
"It's easier."
You grin triumphantly.
"See?"
Max looks between the two of you before letting out a quiet laugh.
"I don't think I've got much of a choice."
"No," you say warmly "You really don't."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1paddock
kimi antonelli's sister has been in the paddock for approximately three hours and she's already become everyone's older sister.
@.papayafiles
apparently yn told lando to drink water 😭
@.landonorris
i was HYDRATED.
@.oscarpiastri
you weren't.
@.f1tea
according to people in the paddock kimi's sister told max verstappen to clean a cut on his hand 😭
@.verstappenupdates
imagine being told off by max verstappen
❌️
imagine max verstappen being told off
✅️
@.formulafiles
not max smiling while talking to yn...
@.maxieschamp
can we PLEASE remember yn is literally kimi's sister and leave her alone 😭
@.gridgossip
no because why did max walk over to mercedes hospitality FOUR TIMES today
@.redbullracing
max: "i was looking for coffee."
@.f1fan247
oooh redbull admin is MESSY today
@.f1memes
coffee machine at mercedes after seeing max every twenty minutes:
"bro just admit you have a crush."
@.kimiupdates
kimi has absolutely no idea what's happening around him 😭
@.papayafiles
antonelli sister nation we're up.
@.gridgirlies
she has no clue twitter is shipping them and honestly let's keep it that way for now 😭🤍
By the time Max wanders back towards the Mercedes hospitality later that afternoon, he's managed to convince himself he's there for an entirely reasonable reason. The reason being... coffee... again. Never mind the fact that the paper cup in his hand is still half full. He steps inside just as you finish reorganising the contents of your tote bag.
"You know," you say without looking up, "I don't think anyone drinks as much coffee around here as you do."
Max glances down at his cup.
"...Probably not."
"You're proving my point."
"I like coffee."
"So do I."
You zip your bag shut before your eyes drift almost absentmindedly towards his right hand. You pause.
"Did you clean it?"
He looks down.
"The cut?"
"Mhm."
"I did."
You narrow your eyes.
"Can I see?"
For a split second, Max genuinely considers saying no, not because he minds, but because he suddenly becomes acutely aware that you want to hold his hand, which is an entirely ridiculous thing to think. You're a nurse. This is your job. Still...
He holds it out. You take it without hesitation. Your fingers are warm. You turn his hand over, studying the split skin across his knuckles with the same concentration he imagines you give every patient. For a moment, the noise of the paddock fades into the background.
"Hm."
That single syllable immediately worries him.
"What?"
"You cleaned it."
"I told you."
"You also put one tiny plaster over it."
"..."
"Which accomplished approximately nothing."
"I tried."
"I can tell."
You look up at him.
"It's a very... enthusiastic attempt."
"I feel judged."
"You are."
You release his hand for only a second before reaching into your tote. Max watches, mildly fascinated, as you produce what appears to be an entire miniature first-aid kit. Alcohol wipes, sterile gauze, bandages, medical tape, a tiny bottle of antiseptic. He blinks.
"You carry all of that around?"
You look at him as though he's asked why the sky is blue.
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"Right."
"What if someone gets hurt?"
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You're assuming people just... injure themselves around you?"
"They usually do."
"That's oddly concerning."
"It's usually men."
"I don't know whether to be offended."
"You shouldn't."
You tear open an antiseptic wipe.
"Give me your hand."
He does, again. Without thinking. You dab gently across the cut.
"This might sting."
"It already-"
The antiseptic touches the wound. He winces.
"Oh."
"There it is."
"I take it back."
You can't help smiling.
"You racing drivers are all the same."
"We are?"
"So dramatic."
"I wasn't dramatic."
"You flinched."
"It stung."
"It barely touched you."
"It absolutely did."
You laugh quietly, shaking your head before carefully pressing fresh gauze over the cut. Your movements are practised like you've done this a thousand times before. Maybe ten thousand.
"You've done this a lot."
You don't look up.
"A few times."
"A few?"
"I work in A&E."
"Right."
"Trust me," you murmur, smoothing the edge of the bandage into place, "this doesn't even make the top thousand."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I'll try harder next time."
Your head snaps up.
"You'll do no such thing."
"I'm joking."
"I know."
You point a finger at him anyway.
"But if you come back with another split knuckle tomorrow, I'm charging you."
"For medical treatment?"
"For being stubborn."
Before he can reply, another voice cuts through the room.
"There you are."
Kimi walks in carrying two bottles of water. His eyes immediately land on the two of you. More specifically, on the fact that you're holding Max's hand.
"Oh," he says simply.
"You got him."
Max looks between the two of you.
"...Got me?"
Kimi nods sympathetically.
"She'll look after the cut."
He lifts one of the water bottles.
"Then she'll tell you you're dehydrated."
"I was literally about to."
"I know."
He hands you the bottle before passing the other to Max.
"You should drink that."
Max glances down at the bottle. Then at Kimi.
"You planned this."
Kimi shrugs.
"I've had plenty years to learn how she works."
You smile sweetly.
"And yet he still forgets to drink water."
"I don't forget."
"You do."
"I choose not to."
Max laughs a proper laugh. It makes both you and Kimi look at him. He rubs the back of his neck.
"What?"
"Nothing," you say, fastening the last strip of tape across the bandage.
"There."
You finally let go of his hand.
"All done."
He looks down at the neat dressing. It looks professional - far better than the crooked plaster he'd attempted earlier.
"Thank you."
The words come genuinely. You offer him a smile that reaches your eyes.
"Occupational hazard."
He smiles back. Neither of you notices Lando walking past the open hospitality entrance. He slows just enough to glance inside. Takes one look at you carefully bandaging Max Verstappen's hand. Grins to himself.
"Oh," he mutters under his breath. "So that's what's happening."
Then, wisely deciding not to interrupt, he keeps walking.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ PADDOCK GROUP CHAT
Lando
boys
Lando
i've seen something today
Charles
that sounds ominous.
Oscar
is it another labubu? better keep it away from kimi
Lando
worse
George
Impossible.
Lando
verstappen smiled
Max
?
Lando
TWICE
Oscar
can confirm
Charles
i refuse to believe this.
George
At who?
Lando
oh you know exactly at who...
Max
i don't.
Oscar
kimi's sister
Seen by Max.
Seen by Charles.
Seen by George.
Seen by Lando.
Max
she fixed my hand.
Lando
mate
Charles
...
George
Did you deliberately injure yourself?
Max
no.
Oscar
that's not actually an answer
Lando
i give it until tomorrow before he develops another mysterious cut
Max
i hate all of you.
Charles
have you considered asking for her number?
Max
no.
George
Coward.
Lando
MASSIVE coward
Charles
it's alright max, i hear nurses like stubborn patients.
Lando
throw yourself down some stairs
Oscar
don't encourage workplace injuries!
Charles
paper cuts seem to be enough.
George
Or you could just tell her she's pretty?
Max
absolutely not.
Lando
he's gone
George
He's finished.
Charles
finished.
Kimi
can everyone stop trying to set my sister up?
Lando
...
George
...
Charles
...
Oscar
i forgot you were here
Kimi
clearlyy
Charles
to be fair...
George
Your sister is lovely.
Lando
yeah we're big fans
Kimi
that's worse!!!!
Max
i didn't say anything.
Lando
you didn't have to
By the time the afternoon settles into its familiar rhythm, you've reclaimed the small sofa tucked into the corner of the Mercedes hospitality. One leg is crossed beneath you, a paperback rests in your lap.
You barely make it through two pages before someone dramatically clears their throat. You don't even bother looking up.
"Yes, Lando."
"...How did you know it was me?"
"You sigh louder than everyone else."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Only then do you lift your eyes from the page. Lando is standing in front of you with the most exaggerated pout you've ever seen.
"What happened?"
"I've suffered a workplace injury."
You slowly close your book.
"Oh no."
"I know."
"What happened?"
He holds up his wrist, as though presenting evidence in court.
"I hit it."
"On what?"
"..."
"Lando?"
"...a door."
Oscar walks past behind him carrying a bottle of water.
"You walked into the door."
Lando turns immediately.
"The door moved."
Oscar doesn't even break stride.
"The door was stationary."
"It came out of nowhere."
"It has been attached to the wall since Thursday."
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself laughing.
"So..." You reach out, gently taking Lando's wrist into your hand. "Can you move it?"
He rotates it dramatically.
"Like this?"
"Yes."
"It hurts."
"On a scale of one to ten?"
"...Three."
You nod thoughtfully.
"So you're not dying."
"I thought I was."
"You thought wrong."
He gasps.
"I came here for sympathy."
"You came to the wrong person."
You stand, crossing over to your tote bag before rummaging inside. A moment later, you pull out a reusable ice pack. Lando blinks.
"You just... carry those?"
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"You carry emergency ice?"
"I do." You press it into his hand. "There."
He looks between the ice pack and you.
"...That's actually really nice."
"I know."
The interaction lasts perhaps two minutes. Long enough for George to wander in. He spots the ice pack and Lando, who looks like he has just given birth at the least.
"What happened?"
"He fought a door."
"I lost."
George nods solemnly.
"Happens to the best of us."
"It really doesn't," Oscar mutters from somewhere nearby.
George laughs before rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his neck.
"You don't happen to have another one, do you?"
You don't ask why. You simply kneel beside your bag again.
"Blue or green?"
He stares.
"...You have options?"
"I like to be prepared."
He accepts the blue one with an expression somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Max arrives just in time to witness Charles wandering over.
"I have a question."
You don't even look up.
"Second pocket."
Charles pauses.
"...What?"
"Second pocket in the tote."
Curiosity gets the better of him. He reaches inside and pulls out a packet of plasters.
"...How did you know?"
You finally glance up.
"You've been picking at that cut on your finger since lunch."
Charles looks down.
"...Oh."
"Stop doing that."
"I'll try."
"You won't."
"...Probably not."
Max finds himself smiling. He doesn't even realise he's doing it.
Lewis is next. Not because he's injured, but because he's looking for painkillers after a headache starts creeping in.
"Left pocket," you say before he can finish asking.
"You've got a frightening system."
"I've had years to perfect it."
"I can tell."
Eventually, the room settles again. Lando is happily holding his ice pack against his wrist, George has one draped across the back of his neck, Charles has stopped absentmindedly picking at his finger, Lewis has disappeared with a bottle of water and two painkillers. You simply reopen your book as though none of it had happened. Max watches you for another moment before walking over.
"You really don't mind?"
You glance up.
"Mind what?"
"People," He gestures vaguely towards the room. "Coming to you."
You consider the question for a second. Then shrug.
"Not really."
"They interrupt you."
"They need something."
"They're capable adults."
You smile.
"Debatable."
He laughs quietly.
"I suppose."
You mark your page with a finger.
"My job isn't really about fixing people."
"No?"
"It's about making things a little easier."
He doesn't say anything.
"So..." You continue. "If someone trusts me enough to ask for help, why would I make them feel bad for asking?"
Max looks at you differently after that, not because you'd bandaged his hand or because you'd remembered his cut, but because you'd just revealed something about yourself so effortlessly. Kindness wasn't something you performed - it was simply the way you moved through the world.
"...That's a nice way of looking at it," he says quietly.
You smile.
"I think so too."
Before either of you can say anything else, Kimi pushes through the hospitality doors. He stops. Looks around the room at Lando, George, Charles. Then at you. He sighs.
"I leave for half an hour." Nobody says anything. "And somehow..." His eyes drift towards the collection of first-aid supplies spread neatly across the coffee table. "...you've opened another emergency department."
You grin innocently.
"They came to me."
"I know." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "They always do."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🔵 kimi.antonelli
liked by yn.antonelli, max.verstappen and 568,798 others
kimi.antonelli happy nurses appreciation day to the one that somehow opened another emergency department in mercedes hospitality. thanks for looking after us. ❤️ @.yn.antonelli
yn.antonelli: you all would've survived without me… probably <3
landonorris: debatable
georgerussell: still got the ice pack 👍
yn.antonelli: i am glad i could help!
charlesleclerc: finger has stopped bleeding thank you doctor
yn.antonelli: *nurse
lewishamilton: thank you for keeping everyone in one piece 🖤
yn.antonelli: that's my job! <3
oscarpiastri: especially lando!
landonorris: why am i catching strays?
max.verstappen: Thank you. My hand's much better.
yn.antonelli: glad to hear it 😊
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Max
Hi.
Thank you again.
Y/N
max you already thanked me in person 😭
Max
I know.
I just...
Wanted to again.
Y/N
then you're welcome again :)
Max
Would you let me repay you somehow?
Y/N
that's really not necessary
Max
Coffee?
Y/N
only if you promise not to injure yourself this time.
Max
I'll try.
Y/N
emphasis on try?
Max
No promises. :)
You almost don't notice the bouquet. It's only as you step through the café door that your eyes land on Max, already waiting by the window, standing as soon as he sees you... And holding flowers. Your pace falters.
"Oh."
He suddenly looks far less confident.
"I-"
His grip tightens around the bouquet.
"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I asked the florist to pick something that reminded them of summer."
You stare at the flowers, then at him.
"They're for me?"
He smiles, just barely.
"I don't see anyone else here."
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
"That's... incredibly sweet."
You accept the bouquet carefully, almost as though you're afraid you'll crush it.
"No one's ever brought me flowers on a coffee run before."
Max's eyebrows lift ever so slightly.
"A coffee run?"
You nod.
"You said you wanted to thank me."
"...Right."
He can't bring himself to correct you. Instead, he pulls out your chair. You blink.
"You're making me feel terribly underdressed."
"You look lovely."
The compliment slips out before he can think better of it. For the first time all afternoon, you seem genuinely caught off guard. A faint smile spreads across your face.
"Thank you."
The conversation comes surprisingly easily after that. It begins with work. You tell him about overnight shifts, impossible patients, and the elderly woman who insists on bringing homemade biscuits for the entire emergency department every Christmas.
He tells you about growing up around racing circuits, about travelling more than staying still, about how strange it feels to call so many airports familiar. At one point, you laugh so hard you have to wipe a tear from the corner of your eye. At another, the café around you fades into little more than background noise.
Hours pass unnoticed. Neither of you is in any hurry to leave. As you finally step back out onto the street, bouquet tucked safely in one arm and coffee still warming your hands, you smile at him.
"Thank you."
"For the flowers?"
"For today."
He smiles back.
"It was my pleasure."
You tilt your head.
"We should do this again sometime."
His heart practically stops.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
Completely oblivious to the fact that, somewhere across the street, a photographer has already taken three pictures of the two of you walking side by side. And even more oblivious to the fact that, to Max Verstappen, this had never been a coffee run. It had always been a date.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1gossip
BREAKING: Max Verstappen spotted leaving a café in Milan with Kimi Antonelli's sister.
@.gridupdates
DID YOU SEE HE GOT HER FLOWERS???
@.papayafiles
MAX VERSTAPPEN BOUGHT HER FLOWERS??????
@.f1tea
mind you... HE was carrying the flowers when he arrived. this wasn't a "thank you for coming" bouquet.
@.maxnation
oh. OH.
@.formulaobsessed
she looks so happy 😭🤍
@.verstappenfiles
need everyone to remember max does NOT do public dates.
@.landonorris
💐
@.oscarpiastri
...
@.landonorris
don't act surprised.
@.oscarpiastri
i'm not.
@.charles_leclerc
finally.
@.georgerussell63
about time.
@.f1girlies
WHO SAID FINALLY??? WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW???
@.kimiupdates
kimi antonelli has liked absolutely none of these tweets 😭
@.gridgossip
imagine introducing your sister to your coworkers and accidentally creating the paddock's newest couple.
@.f1memes
kimi watching the internet discover what he witnessed two days ago: 🧍🏼
@.f1tea
calling it now. they're either dating already... or they'll be dating by the end of the season.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Lando
are you busy
Y/N
just got home
Lando
how was your date
Y/N
what date?
Lando
😐
Y/N
?
Lando
with max.
Y/N
it wasn't a date
Lando
...
he brought you flowers.
Y/N
yes?
Lando
Y/N.
sweetheart.
gorgeous.
Y/N
😭
Lando
MEN DON'T BRING FLOWERS TO THANK-YOU COFFEES.
Y/N
maybe max does
Lando
MAX VERSTAPPEN ESPECIALLY DOESN'T.
Y/N
...
Lando
how long were you there
Y/N
about three hours?
Lando
THREE???
Y/N
time flew by
Lando
because it was a date.
Y/N
no because we were talking.
Lando
...
what did you talk about
Y/N
work
childhood
family
travelling
books
music
painting
he asked if we'd do it again
Lando
i'm going to need you to read that message again.
Y/N
...
oh.
The next race weekend feels... different, not because anything has changed. At least, not visibly. The paddock still hums with the same familiar energy. Mechanics hurry between garages. Engineers carry tablets tucked beneath their arms. Media personnel weave through the crowds.
And yet, somehow, you feel oddly aware of yourself. Aware of every time your phone buzzes. Aware of the flowers still sitting in a vase back at your apartment. Aware of one particularly smug British racing driver who has not let you forget, even once, that your "thank-you coffee" had very much been a date.
You find refuge in the hotel lobby while Kimi disappears into a team meeting. Book in hand, coffee beside you. It feels almost comforting. Almost.
"You really do always have a book with you."
The familiar voice makes you glance up. Max stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, smiling in that quiet way you've quickly come to recognise. You smile back before you can stop yourself.
"I do."
"Mind if I join you?"
"Only if you've managed to avoid injuring yourself since last week."
He laughs.
"I've been very careful."
"I'm proud of you."
He settles into the chair opposite yours. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Not because it's awkward, strangely enough... It isn't.
"So," Max says eventually.
"So."
"I heard Lando finally told you."
You let out a groan dramatic enough to rival Lando himself.
"He was unbearably pleased with himself."
"I can imagine."
"I think he considered it one of his greatest achievements."
"He probably does."
You shake your head, laughing softly.
"He hasn't stopped reminding me."
Max smiles.
"I suppose that means..."
He hesitates.
"...you know."
"I know."
The words come quieter than you expected. You close your book carefully before placing it on the table.
"I owe you an apology."
His brows knit together immediately.
"For what?"
"I genuinely didn't realise."
"I know."
"I wasn't pretending."
"I know."
"I just..."
You rub the back of your neck, suddenly finding the coffee cup fascinating.
"I thought you were being really nice."
"I was."
"No, I mean..."
You laugh at yourself.
"I thought you were just... an unusually thoughtful person."
"I'd like to think I am."
"You are."
You look back up at him.
"But I didn't realise you were asking me on a date."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I was trying to."
"You were?"
"I thought the flowers might've helped."
"They did."
"They did?"
"I just thought they were a thank-you present."
He drops his head for a moment, laughing properly now.
"You really had no idea."
"None."
"I was convinced I'd made it obvious."
"I was convinced you were just the nicest Dutch man I'd ever met."
"I'm afraid I'm only one of those things."
You smile.
"I know."
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. The silence settles comfortably between you. You reach into your tote bag absentmindedly. Max watches as you pull out a small bookmark tucked between the pages of your novel. Only it isn't a bookmark. It's one of the pressed flowers from the bouquet he'd given you. His eyes linger on it.
"I kept them."
Your voice is almost shy.
"I thought they were too pretty to throw away."
Something in his expression softens.
"So..."
You twirl the pressed flower carefully between your fingers.
"I've been thinking." You smile. "I'd quite like to fix something."
He tilts his head.
"What?"
"Our first date."
He blinks.
"You mean..."
"I'd quite like to be aware I'm on the second one."
For perhaps the first time in his Formula One career, Max Verstappen is completely speechless. Then, slowly- A grin spreads across his face.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
He stands, offering you his hand.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise."
You pretend to think about it.
"Hm."
"You don't trust me?"
"Oh, I trust you."
You slip your hand into his.
"I just hope there aren't any flowers."
He laughs.
"There are definitely flowers."
You groan dramatically.
"This is going to make Lando insufferable."
"I think that ship has already sailed."
Hand in hand, the two of you leave the hotel lobby. Neither of you notices the photographer across the street lowering his camera with a very satisfied smile.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 23,529 others
yn.antonelli turns out… it really was a date after all. 🤍
max.verstappen: Best first date I've ever accidentally been on. ❤️
yn.antonelli: ❤️
landonorris: I HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS FROM DAY ONE.
oscarpiastri: finally.
charlesleclerc: about time 🤍
georgerussell: knew we'd get here eventually.
lewishamilton: Happy for you both 🖤
kimi.antonelli: i suppose he's alright.
landonorris: THIS IS KIMI'S VERSION OF A BLESSING EVERYBODY STAY CALM.
max.verstappen: I'll take it.
yn.antonelli: @.max.verstappen don't let it get to your head.
maxverstappen1: Too late.
landonorris: disgusting.
oscarpiastri: says the one who played cupid.
landonorris: you're welcome.
a/n: another late-night continuation. hope you all enjoy 🤗
amore = love, mia bella = my darling/beautiful.
ଓ english is not my first language, be kind.
The Monaco paddock was no place for people like you. If the other circuits were corporate showcases, Monte Carlo was a lavish court laid bare for all to see. It was an aquarium of opulence, where the sun glinted off the white hulls of the millionaires’ yachts moored in the harbour and off the heavy jewellery of people who had never known what it meant to be invisible. There, the light seemed deliberately more intense, more aggressive, like a spotlight trained on you, ready to lay bare every pore of your pale skin, every flaw in your armour and every second of your introspective hesitation.
As you walked alongside Kimi, you felt exactly like a splash of India ink falling onto immaculate white linen. You marred Monaco’s golden aesthetic. And the world hated it when the symmetry of its futility was disrupted.
Kimi, on the other hand, seemed to have been born for that spotlight. He carried himself with a relaxed air, the very embodiment of the charisma and radiant energy that Formula 1 so coveted. He was Mercedes’ golden boy, the Italian prodigy who smiled at the photographers with disconcerting ease, waved to the VIPs peering out from the balconies of their multi-million-dollar apartments, and exuded a vitality that made his stomach churn — not with envy, but with a profound sense of strangeness. How was it possible for someone to contain so much brilliance without getting burnt?
You shrank back slightly inside your dark coat, the large black headphones covering your ears like a physical barrier against the outside world. You didn’t need the sound to know what people were doing. You could feel the vibration of camera lenses swivelling in your direction, mobile phones pointed at you from low angles, the sidelong glances of the designer-clad guests parading about in their exorbitantly expensive sunglasses.
"My God, the sun's blazing and she's dressed in black from head to toe. She looks like she's just come from a funeral." The words of a group of fans by the barrier pierced through your headphones, their voices laced with a biting mockery that scraped painfully against your mind.
"Why did he bring that parasite with him to Monaco?" Another comment came from closer by, this one from two girls clutching team caps.
You didn't stop. You didn't even hesitate. Your dull eyes remained fixed on the tarmac beneath your feet, but you felt Kimi's hand slide from the small of your back to your waist, his fingers gripping the fabric of your clothes with an almost painful firmness. He had heard them. His jaw was clenched, the charismatic smile he'd been wearing mere seconds earlier faltering for a split second. Kimi absorbed their venom for you, and seeing the sunshine boy tense with a mysterious sort of pain hurt far more than any insult ever directed at your pallor.
The Mercedes hospitality suite appeared ahead, a monument to modern luxury. Walking inside felt like being stripped bare beneath fluorescent lights. The air conditioning was freezing, while the scent of expensive espresso and designer perfume filled the room. You noticed the looks from the team's guests: glances that began on Kimi with admiration and ended on you with puzzled disdain. They couldn't understand why Mercedes' golden jewel carried a burden as motionless as you.
You slipped away from him with a gentle, almost imperceptible movement and retreated to the furthest corner of the room, where the shadows seemed to respect your presence. Sitting down in a leather armchair, you crossed your legs and fixed your lifeless eyes on an invisible point in the glass wall.
While Kimi was pulled into conversations with engineers and sponsors, you closed your eyes for a brief moment. Your mind, forever introspective, perceived the world as a collection of frequencies. Theirs were fast, loud, clamorous. Yours was a constant hum, a low, steady note that no one else seemed capable of hearing.
For the thousandth time, you wondered why you subjected yourself to all of this. The noise, the judgement, the invisible weight of being the parasite in the life of someone who only knew how to shine. But then you opened your eyes and caught Kimi's reflection in the Mercedes glass. He was looking at you over the shoulders of guests, sending you a sweet smile.
And in that moment, you remembered: he was the reason you were here. You only had to focus on him, not on anyone else.
♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡
The private Mercedes motorhome was the only place where the air seemed less stifling. Inside, far from the glass walls of the hospitality area, the muffled noise of the paddock sounded like a distant radio broadcast. Kimi stepped inside, giving the door a gentle kick to close it, his arms laden with a black canvas bag full of gifts that the press office had collected from reception.
There was a bit of everything: letters in colourful envelopes, caps, a t-shirt, chocolates that he probably wasn’t allowed to eat, and so many plushies. Kimi dumped it all onto the leather sofa with the typical enthusiasm of someone who was still in awe of the public’s love.
But then, his eyes fell on the bottom of the bag.
"Hey... wait a second." he said, his voice shifting, taking on a note of genuine surprise. He pulled out a black box made of sturdy cardboard, tied with a dark satin ribbon. On the tag, written by hand in shaky letters, was your name. Not his. Yours.
The smile on Kimi’s face widened instantly – that broad, radiant smile that disarmed any journalist at press conferences. His eyes sparkled with an almost childlike optimism.
"Look at this, amore." He turned to you, holding out the box as though he were presenting a trophy. "It's for you. I told you... I told you they'd start seeing who you really are. Someone's finally done something for you."
You looked at the black box in his hands. Your dull eyes, accustomed to seeing the world through its gothic, grey undertones, did not share his excitement. You knew the paddock. You knew the internet. The public wouldn't waste their time sending black boxes tied with dark ribbons to the "Corpse Bride" out of pure affection.
"Open it," Kimi encouraged, sitting on the arm of the chair you occupied, his body leaning forwards, taut with hopeful anticipation. He wanted so badly for you to be loved by his world. He desperately needed that validation to ease the weight of the comments you'd both overheard at the entrance.
You pulled on the end of the satin ribbon. The knot came undone without a struggle. Your hands, pale against the dark cardboard, lifted the lid.
The silence that followed in the motorhome was piercing.
Kimi's smile didn't simply vanish; it collapsed. His eyes, once filled with anticipation, fixed on the porcelain creature lying amidst the torn tissue paper. It was an antique doll, but one that had been subjected to meticulous cruelty. Its porcelain skin had been painted a morbid grey, almost bluish in hue, mimicking a corpse. Its eyes, once bright, had been scratched out and gouged with some sort of blade, leaving behind two black, hollow, lifeless sockets. A white dress stained with fake blood had been attached to the top of its head, while a piece of old, filthy lace had been arranged to resemble a bridal veil.
A literal portrayal. A physical joke. Corpse Bride. The Haunted Doll.
"What the fuck is this?" Kimi's voice came out low and rough, completely unlike the tone he usually used.
The atmosphere shifted in an instant. The well of charisma and sweetness vanished, replaced by a violent urgency. Kimi shot to his feet, his face flushing with a mixture of rage and humiliation.
You, on the other hand, looked at the doll and didn't feel nearly as disturbed as you probably should have. For someone who lived inside her own gothic, introspective mind, the vandalism inflicted upon the piece didn't frighten you.
He reached out to snatch the box from your lap. "Give me that. I'm throwing this shit in the bin right now." He hissed, fists clenched at his sides, chest heaving beneath his Mercedes shirt.
"Kimi, no." You said in your usual calm voice, hugging the box against your chest.
"No, no... I'll... I'll speak to PR. I'll make a public statement right now. I'll post something on social media. They can't do this to you, you haven't done anything to anyone!" He paced back and forth in the confined space of the motorhome like a caged animal, fury consuming the golden boy. He wanted to break something. He wanted to protect you with his own body if necessary.
"Kimi. Listen to me." You spoke again, trying to catch his attention.
Kimi stopped pacing. He looked at you, eyes bloodshot with anger, lips trembling.
"Don't do it." You continued, speaking slowly, keeping your dull eyes fixed on his. With him, you didn't need armour. "If you make a statement, if you shout at the world, they win. They'll know their poison worked. They'll see that they managed to hurt you through me. And the last thing Mercedes needs before a race is a destabilised driver."
"But... look at what they did, amore." He stepped forward, dropping to his knees in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs. His anger began to wilt, giving way to something far worse: deep pain, devastating guilt. "They're cruel. They attack you just because you don't want to smile for their cameras. Just because you're... you."
He lowered his head, pressing his forehead against your knees.
"It's my fault." He whispered, his voice muffled by the fabric of your trousers. "If you weren't with me, if you weren't in this hell of a paddock, nobody would be calling you those names. Nobody would be sending you... this. I brought you into this aquarium, and now they're trying to drown you in it. I'm so sorry... I'm so, so sorry."
You reached out, pale, cool fingers stroking the curls in his hair. You didn't feel like a victim. The outside world simply didn't matter enough to hurt you.
"They're not destroying me, and it isn't your fault." You said with all the sincerity your introspective soul could gather.
He lifted his face, damp eyes meeting your dull, empty ones—which, to him, were the safest place in the universe.
You looked away from him for a moment and reached into the black box, carefully taking out the vandalised porcelain doll. You held it gently, your fingers tracing the scratches carved into its face.
"I'll take her home when the weekend is over." You said, an almost imperceptible softness crossing your features. "I'll try to remove the paint, disguise the scratches, give her a new dress, and she'll be perfect again."
Kimi remained kneeling in front of you, hands spread across your thighs, watching the calm way your pale fingers traced the contours of the ruined porcelain doll. The contrast between the world's aggression and your gentleness seemed to short-circuit his mind. His chest still rose and fell with indignation, but your quiet, controlled voice acted like a sedative.
"How do you do it?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on yours. There was such profound admiration in his gaze, a love that bordered on the sacred. "How do you stay so indifferent to them? They call you horrible names, they throw all this poison at you… and you're sitting here planning to fix this stupid doll. I wish I had half your strength. I wish it didn't hurt me so much to see what they do to you."
You let out a short breath, the closest thing you ever came to a laugh, and placed the doll in the corner beside his helmet. Then you turned your full attention back to the driver. Your hands left the damaged toy and moved to his face, cold fingers shaping the line of his jaw that was still rigid with tension.
"It's easy to be indifferent to them, Kimi." You said, keeping your dull eyes locked on his, allowing him to see the truth you hid from the rest of the world. "They don't know me. To the paddock, the media, the people at the barriers… I'm just a blur of black, a ghost they've invented. They hate the character they've created in their heads, not me."
You leaned forwards slightly, bringing your face closer to his, feeling the warmth of the Italian's breath.
"My parents know me. My friends know me. And, above all… you know me. You know every line of my silence. What the rest of the world thinks is just background noise."
Kimi's eyes softened completely, shining with an intensity that almost made you look away. He couldn't bear the distance any longer. He pressed his lips to yours in a calm, deep kiss, one that seemed to draw all the dust and harshness of that Monaco paddock away from you. It was a kiss that carried a silent promise. One kiss at the corner of your mouth, another against your forehead, followed by a trail of affection across your pale cheek.
"I love you so much," he murmured against your skin, hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer as though he wanted to merge you into him. "I love you, I love you, mia bella. Never forget that."
"I love you too." You replied, and the tiny smile that appeared on your lips was enough to make him smile back, the sunshine boy returning to life within the isolation of that motorhome.
The anger Kimi had felt in that room didn't disappear; it transformed into fuel.
After securing a stunning pole position and winning the Monaco Grand Prix, there you were beside his father. Before you could retreat into the safety of the shadows, his gloved hands cupped your face. He pulled you towards him and kissed you. A passionate, needy kiss in front of the entire world. The deafening clicks of hundreds of cameras went off at once, capturing the perfect contrast of the victorious driver covered in sweat holding his pale, gothic girlfriend.
When he pulled away slightly, still breathing hard, he kept his forehead pressed against yours, ignoring everyone around him.
"That one was for you." He whispered loudly enough for those nearby to hear, his voice firm and edged with pride. "I told you I'd win for you."
ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː ː
divider by @dollywons
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