Writers have two modes and they are "i haven't written in three weeks and i am rotting from the inside and everything feels wrong and i don't know who i am anymore" and "i wrote for four hours straight and forgot to eat and it's dark outside and when did that happen and i feel like a god" and there is nothing in between. no chill. no medium setting. just famine or feast and a very confused nervous system.
omg thank you so much for opening your requests! i have a request for max and y/n who is max’s best friend she is with someone else and pregnant with his baby but he is a guy who does not want one. y/n hides this news from everyone especially max as she wants to not distract him. but then she falls sick and he finds out and he really supports her through the journey as something more than a friend this was such a long request sorry
All Three of Us
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: Faced with an unexpected pregnancy, you find support in the one person who has always known you best.
3k words / Masterlist
The first time you throw up at the factory you blame the coffee.
It's not the coffee, you know it's not the coffee, but it's June, the simulator schedule is packed, and Red Bull's hospitality kitchen has a habit of burning the espresso so it's an easy enough lie to tell the PR girl who knocks on the bathroom door asking if you're alright.
"Fine," you call back, voice scraped thin. "Bad coffee."
You press your forehead to the cool tile wall and breathe until the room stops tilting.
Eight weeks. You've known for eight weeks now, ever since you sat on your own bathroom floor at two in the morning with a stick in your hand and your whole life rearranging itself around two pink lines. Eight weeks of long sleeves and baggy clothes in June. Eight weeks of pretending the smell of jet fuel doesn't make your stomach lurch when you walk the paddock. Eight weeks of being the only person who knows.
Tom doesn't count. Tom knew for exactly four days before he very calmly explained that he wasn't ready, that they were young, that he had a tour starting in the autumn and a life that didn't have room in it for diapers and 3 a.m. feeds, and that he hoped you'd understand. He'd said it like he was declining a second helping at dinner, already halfway out the door before he'd even finished the sentence.
You haven't told anyone yet, your mum or your siblings, not your friends not even you best friend which infuriatingly happens to be one of the most photographed men in the world, a fact that has made hiding a pregnancy from him feel like trying to hide a fire from a smoke detector.
Max Verstappen notices everything, it's one of the most maddening and most comforting things about him.
You met him six years ago, doing data analysis for a sponsor activation within the sim racing commuinty that quickly turned into a real job that turned into something you never expected, being one of the handful of people Max actually trusts to tell him the truth, paddock politics and PR spin be damned. He started texting you about things that had nothing to do with work. You started being the person he called after bad qualifying sessions, before the team got to him, before he had to put the press face on. Somewhere in six years of garage benches and late-night flights and him falling asleep on your shoulder on the team plane, best friend became too small a word, even if neither of you had ever said so out loud.
So when you straighten up from the bathroom sink and find him leaning against the corridor wall outside, arms crossed, eyes already narrowed at you, you know you're in trouble.
"Bad coffee," you say before he can ask.
"You've said that three times this week." His voice is light, but his eyes aren't. "You hate the coffee here. You've hated it for years. You've never once thrown up over it."
"Maybe it's extra bad this week."
"Maybe." He doesn't believe you. He's too polite or too scared of the answer to push further right now, but you see it somewhere behind his eyes, a little flicker of something filing itself away. Max doesn't forget things, he just waits for the right moment to bring them back up, usually when you're least prepared for it.
You think you've gotten away with it.
It happens properly three days later in Barcelona, in the kind of heat that makes the tarmac shimmer and turns the garage into an oven. You're standing at the back wall with a tablet in your hand trying to focus on lap times when the world tips sideways and goes white at the edges.
You don't remember deciding to sit down. You remember the floor coming up faster than you expected and a hand catching your arm hard enough to bruise and Max's voice very close to your ear saying your name like it's the only word he knows.
When the garage swims back into focus you're sitting on an upturned tyre with your head between your knees and Max is crouched in front of you, one hand still gripping your arm, the other hovering like he doesn't know where it's allowed to land.
"Hey. Hey, look at me." His voice is low, urgent, stripped of all its usual easy charm. "What's going on and don’t bullshit me."
"I'm fine, I just—"
"Don't." It comes out sharper than you've ever heard him say anything to you, he catches himself and softens. "Please don't tell me you're fine, you went white as a sheet and I had to catch you before you hit concrete, something is wrong and you've been hiding it for weeks and I’m done pretending."
The garage is loud around you, impact wrenches, radio chatter, someone laughing two bays down, but right here in the small space between the two of you it's gone very quiet.
You could lie again. You've gotten good at lying these past two months, but looking at him at the genuine fear carved into his face, at the way his thumb is moving in small unconscious circles against your wrist like he's trying to keep you tethered to the ground you find you don't have it in you anymore.
"Not here," you whisper.
He doesn't argue, he just stands and pulls you up gently by the hand he refuses to let go of and walks you straight past his engineers, past a PR exec who opens her mouth to ask something and gets a look from Max that closes it again, out through the garage doors and into the motorhome, into his driver's room and shuts the door behind you both.
The silence stretches, you sit on the edge of the small sofa and he crouches in front of you again, exactly like before, except this time there's no test sitting face-down between you. This time it's just you and him and the truth sitting heavy in your throat.
"I'm pregnant," you say.
You watch it land on him in stages. The flicker of shock. The fast, involuntary glance down, like he's checking, like some part of him needs to see it to believe it. Then something that looks almost like relief, because at least now he has an answer and then fast on its heels something that looks like hurt.
"How long have you known?"
"Eight weeks."
"Eight weeks." He sits back on his heels, dragging a hand through his hair. "Eight weeks and you didn't—" He stops himself, exhales hard through his nose. When he looks back at you, the hurt is still there, but he's pushed it down replaced by concern. "Okay. Okay. Does Tom know?"
You laugh, but it isn't really a laugh. "Tom knew for four days and then… then… he told me he wasn't ready to be a father and that he hoped I'd understand and then he left." You rush through the end.
Max goes very still.
"He left?"
"There wasn't a scene if that's what you're picturing. He didn't even raise his voice. He was completely reasonable about the whole thing. Just—" Your throat tightens, tears threatening to break the surface and you hate how much it still costs you to say it out loud. "Just decided I wasn't worth staying for.” You looked down at your stomach. “Neither of us was."
Something moves across Max's face that you've only seen once before. A controlled, simmering anger, banked low because he refuses to let it run him.
"I’m going to need a minute before I say anything about him," he says tightly, "because right now everything I want to say isn't something you need to right now."
"I'm not going to fall apart."
"You don't have to be strong in front of me." He reaches up, and his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together with a gentleness that doesn't match the tension still sitting in his jaw.
That's the thing that finally breaks something loose in your chest, the loneliness of two months carrying this on your own hurts, but the fact that he said it like it was true, like it had always been true, like there had never been a version of your friendship where you were supposed to perform for his benefit.
You cry, for the first time since the bathroom floor in April. Max doesn't say anything clever or comforting, he just moves to sit beside you, pulls you against his chest and holds on, one hand splayed warm against your back his chin resting on the top of your head letting you shake apart in the quiet of his driver's room while somewhere outside an entire Formula 1 paddock carries on without either of you in it.
He doesn't ask you to explain anything else that day, he just asks, quietly into your hair, "What do you need?"
"I don't know yet."
"Okay." His arms tighten slightly. "Then we'll figure it out together, starting now."
Together. It's such a small word for the size of what it does to you.
The weeks that follow rearrange themselves around that word.
Max starts showing up later to things, leaving earlier, finding excuses to be wherever you are for how ever long he can. He learns with the focus he usually reserves for braking points and tyre windows, which smells make you sick (jet fuel, the factory coffee, weirdly his usual deodorant, which he switches without complaint or explanation) and which foods you can actually keep down (plain crackers, ginger tea he starts carrying in his backpack like contraband, the bland pasta from the catering truck that nobody else will touch). He starts parking himself between you and the worst of the garage noise during the bad mornings, an unspoken human buffer, and develops a low, particular tone of voice he only uses on you, the one that says I see you, I'm not going anywhere, you don't have to ask.
You tell your mum first, then your friends, both of who cry and hug you and ask with the same raised eyebrow exactly what Max's role in all this is. You don't have an answer yet. You're not sure you're allowed to want one.
You don't tell the wider paddock yet, work, pregnancy, and formula 1 don't usually share a sentence, and the thought of cameras and questions and the mix of yours, Max’s, and Tom’s names dragged into headlines makes your stomach turn worse than the morning sickness does. Max doesn't push you he simply absorbs the burden of secrecy alongside you, covering for you in team meetings, redirecting a curious journalist's question at a press conference with the kind of smooth deflection that makes you suspect he's been practicing in the mirror.
What he won't let you do is go to appointments alone.
"You don't have to come to this one," you tell him before the twelve-week scan, the words coming out more uncertain than you mean them to. "It's just a scan. I can text you after."
"I'm coming." He says it the way he says things about race strategy he’s already decided on, not up for discussion, simply decided. "Unless you don't want me there. If you don't want me there that's different I'll respect that, but if the only reason you're trying to talk me out of it is because you think you're supposed to spare me the inconvenience don't… I'm not inconvenienced. I want to be there."
You don't try to talk him out of it again. He holds your hand in the small white ultrasound room, and when the technician turns the screen and there's suddenly a heartbeat filling the speakers, fast and fluttering and real, you feel his fingers tighten around yours, hard enough that you glance over and find him with his jaw locked tight, eyes glassy, trying and failing to look like a man who is simply being supportive of his friend.
"Max."
"I'm fine," he says, in almost exactly the tone you used on him in the corridor weeks ago and you both hear it at the same time, and something that isn't quite a laugh and isn't quite a sob escapes you both at once.
It's a slow, careful thing, what grows between you over the following months there’s no lightning-strike moment but a hundred small ones stacked on top of each other. The way he starts resting a hand low on your back without seeming to notice he's doing it. The nursery furniture he "happens" to be browsing online one night when you fall asleep on his sofa and wake to find the laptop tilted carefully away from you, like he's embarrassed to be caught wanting this as much as he apparently does. The night you wake from a nightmare about being left again, about doing this all alone and call him at 2 a.m. without really meaning to and he doesn't ask a single question just says "I'm coming over," and is at your door eleven minutes later eyes still half-asleep and folds you against his chest in the doorway until your heart stops trying to climb out of your throat.
You don't talk about what it is. There's an unspoken agreement to let it exist in the undefined space between friendship and something more, both of you too careful or too scared to be the one who names it first and risks shattering this fragile, good thing you've built.
It's Tom in the end, who forces the conversation neither of you have had the courage to start.
He resurfaces near the end of your second trimester a single message out of nowhere asking if you're "doing okay" with a casualness that makes your hands shake with something closer to fury than grief. You don't reply. Max is there when it comes through, sees your face change, and reads the message over your shoulder.
His expression doesn't do the controlled, banked-anger thing this time, it just goes hard and flat.
"He doesn't get to do that," Max says. "He doesn't get to disappear for months and then text you like he's checking in on a colleague."
"I know."
"Does he get to know anything? About this baby? About you?"
"I don't know," you admit. "I think… I think I'm allowed to decide that later, not today."
Max nods, jaw working, and then, "Can I say something, and you don't have to answer right away?"
Your pulse picks up. "Okay."
"I'm not telling you this because of him." He sets the phone down on the table between you like he wants nothing not even a screen between you both for what he's about to say. "I've felt this way for a long time, before Tom, before any of this. I told myself it didn't matter, because you were happy and what kind of person makes that about himself." He exhales. "But I'm not in this because I feel sorry for you and I need you to know that because I think some part of you might be scared that's what this is."
"Max—"
"I love you." He says it simply, the way he says true things, without performance, without flourish. "I think I have for a long time. This isn't me filling a gap Tom left, this is just… this is what I already felt and I had to tell you."
The room goes very quiet, outside, you can hear the ordinary sounds of an ordinary evening, a car passing, someone's television through a thin wall and none of it touches the small, suspended space the two of you are sitting in.
"I'm scared," you say, because it's true, and because he's earned the truth from you a hundred times over by now. "Of… of doing this again. Trusting someone with this and being wrong. You’ve given me no reason to, you’ve been everything I could ask for, now and even before everything… but I am scared, thats the truth."
He reaches over, careful, slow, and brushes a strand of hair back from your face, his palm settling against your cheek the way it did once before. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here when it's hard, when it's three in the morning and the baby's crying and neither of us has slept. I've had months, years of proof that this is what I want and I will keep proving it for as long as you need me to."
You don't surge forward this time, the way you might have once in some other version of this story. You move deliberately, giving yourself the time to be sure and when your lips finally meet his it isn't desperate, it's quiet, like something settling into the place it was always going to end up.
He kisses you like he's been waiting a long time and is in no hurry now that he doesn't have to wait anymore. One hand stays gentle against your cheek; the other finds your waist, careful of the small swell of you that wasn't there when this friendship started, that has somehow become the reason it didn't stay just a friendship after all.
When you finally pull back, foreheads resting together, both of you a little breathless he laughs, disbelieving and joyful in a way you've rarely heard from him.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing. Just—" He shakes his head slightly, eyes not leaving yours. "I used to think I'd have to wait for some perfect moment to tell you, I never expected it’d be like this… but it always going to be you."
You press your hand over his, where it still rests against the curve of your stomach and for the first time since you saw those pink lines on a stick at two in the morning the fear that has lived in your chest for months finally lets go.
Summary : Lando wears one stupid shirt in a club without thinking about the consequences. But when Y/N, the girl he has been unsuccessfully flirting with for years, finally notices him, maybe the chaos is worth it.
Pairing : Lando Norris x reader
Genre : suggestive, smau
Face claim : Madelyne Cline
Main Masterlist
@_f1 gossip:
📹 Lando Norris was out last night, taking one of his friends shirt that says: “EAT PUSSY IT’S VEGAN.”
user1: sir??? the shirt says what ???
user2: not him wearing it like he’d been waiting his entire life for that exact shirt
user3: whoever filmed this needs an award 😭
user4: he knew. HE KNEW what he was doing.
user5: his pr team is currently drafting a resignation letter
user6: he needs to get on his knees and prove it
user7: don't ask me the color of anything
user8: well we like men who are ready to give heads
yourusername: god he is so unserious
liked by @_lando
user9: NOT THE LIKE????
user10: y/n, babe, you have approximately thirty seconds before he slides into your dms.
user11: wait...THE y/n? as in the girl he has been liking every single photo of since 2023??
user12: girl go get your man
Instagram DMs
lando:
unserious?
yourusername:
you swapped shirts with a stranger in a club because you thought the slogan was funny
lando:
not just funny
it suited me
yourusername:
that is exactly why you’re unserious
lando:
i have talents, you know
yourusername:
being a menace is not a talent
lando:
i’m more talking about being talented at eating stuff
yourusername:
lando.
lando:
what?
it's true, you don't belived me?
yourusername:
you are genuinely terrible at flirting
lando:
was that flirting?
yourusername:
you tell me
lando:
fine.
wanna go eat dinner with me?
yourusername:
no. for the fith time this month, no.
lando:
no to dinner or no to me?
yourusername:
yes.
lando:
that is not an answer
yourusername:
it is the only answer you deserve after that line
lando:
harsh.
yourusername:
accurate.
lando:
so there’s no chance?
yourusername:
there is a chance you learn how to flirt before trying again
lando:
cruel. but fair
yourusername:
goodnight, lando
lando:
goodnight, future dinner date
yourusername:
you're delusional
@_yourusername
Too spicy for you 🌶️
❤️ 186,492 likes
liked by lando and others
user1: OH MY GOD. they’re communicating exclusively through shirt slogans now.
lando: I like spicy food
user3: this is the worst flirting I have ever witnessed and I need it framed in a museum.
user4: he took one look at that shirt and forgot how to act normal.
user5: “I like spicy food” sir this is a public comment section, please behave.
user6: no because they are having an entire conversation through clothing and captions 😭
user7 the way he said that like he has not already been rejected twice this week.
user8: someone confiscate his phone before he says something worse.
Instagram DMs
lando:
wdym you’re too spicy for meeee?
yourusername:
couldn’t handle me. it’s all norris
lando:
whyyy?
yourusername:
because.
lando:
that is not an answer
yourusername:
it’s the only one you’re getting
lando:
please. just one date.
just to show you i’m nice and funny
lando
and then maybe more, eventually, to show you why i wore that shirt the other day…it’s a true passion
yourusername:
what is, lando?
wearing terrible shirts?
lando:
no, you know what i mean
yourusername:
if this is your attempt to imply you’re very talented at whatever that shirt was suggesting, this is actually terrible flirting
lando:
why? you don’t you believe me?
yourusername:
i don’t, actually
lando
just so you know, i’ve had girls coming in seconds just from that
yourusername:
they were just too polite to tell you it was shit, lando
lando:
their legs shaking tell me otherwise darling
yourusername:
most boys genuinely don’t have a clue what they’re doing
lando:
not me, then
yourusername:
you’re way too confident, lando
lando:
confidence is attractive
yourusername:
not when it’s completely unearned
lando:
one date.
i’ll prove it to you
yourusername:
this is still a no
lando:
you’re impossible
yourusername:
keep dreaming, club-shirt thief
@_lando
Refuelling properly before the next one 🍓✈️
@onflightinternational
❤️ 942,817 likes
liked by yourusername and others
user: not the pr-approved fruit post two days after the shirt incident 😭
user2: his team definitely said, “post something wholesome. make people forget the club video.”
user3: this is so aggressively out of character after seeing him take his shirt off for a man wearing that slogan
user4: lando norris promoting healthy eating while the entire internet remembers a very different definition of “vegan.”
user5: someone needs to tell him the fruit isn’t going to distract us. we saw the video, babe
user6: he’s trying way too hard to look innocent here
user7: “refuelling properly” SIR. after that week, you cannot use words like that casually
user8: i suddenly understand why y/n said he was unserious
yourusername: since when do you eat fruit?
lando: told you i’m vegan now 😉
user9: HE DID NOT
user10: they are still having their whole relationship through public comments. someone confiscate both their phones
user11: y/n walked directly into that one and he has been waiting for his chance all day
user12: lando, one normal post. that’s all we asked for
@_yourusername
The light was good so obviously i had to do a photoshoot
❤️ 241,883 likes
liked by lando and others
user1: this is genuinely the most beautiful set of photos i have ever seen
user2: she saw a camera flash and turned it into a magazine cover. iconic behavior
user3: you were meant to be photographed forever, actually
user4: no because she is so effortlessly pretty it makes me angry
user5: the way she can make lying on a TV console look like high fashion???
user6: someone get this woman on the cover of vogue immediately
user7: oh she knew exactly what she was doing with these
lando: I wish I was this TV console btw
user8: LANDO????
user9: somebody take his phone. immediately.
user10: he is not even pretending to be subtle anymore 😭
user11: “btw” as if he did not just throw himself directly into the comment section
user12: lando norris has officially entered his public embarrassment era
user13: THEY ARE FLIRTING IN FRONT OF US AGAIN
Instagram DMs
yourusername:
stop commenting stuff like that under my posts
lando:
what? it’s true.
yourusername:
lando.
lando:
you look good
just though you'll look even better under me
yourusername:
please if we ever do it, I'm on top
lando:
i'd love to see that, does that mean you wanna go out for a drink?
yourusername:
no.
lando:
oh directly going for the sex part, ok, i'm in for that as well
yourusername:
you’re dreaming
lando:
of you?
yes. but you don't wanna know what sort of dream they are
yourusername:
i have the image lando thank you very much
lando:
good, you could think about it next time you touch yourself, goodnight love
yourusername:
goodnight, lando...
@_yourusername Instagram Story
Out with friends tonight ✨
Instagram DMs
lando:
which club are you going to?
yourusername:
why?
lando:
just curious
yourusername:
you are never “just curious.”
lando:
answer the question
yourusername:
twiga
lando:
what a surprise
yourusername:
what?
lando:
i’m there as well
yourusername:
you are lying
lando:
look to your left
yourusername:
that is actually terrifying
lando:
you look happy to see me
yourusername:
i look concerned
lando:
same thing, basically
lando:
maybe you’ll see me later then
yourusername:
i have seen you already. unfortunately
lando:
hope you’re thirsty
yourusername:
why?
lando:
because i’m totally buying you a drink, or if you're thristy for something else, ask me...
yourusername:
are you actually talking about sex?
lando:
only if you want it to be
yourusername:
lando...
lando:
relax. we could have a drink first
i’ll be charming and completely normal
yourusername:
you have never been completely normal a day in your life
lando:
but you’re still coming over?
yourusername:
maybe.
lando:
that’s basically a yes
yourusername:
do not get ahead of yoursel
@_lando private Instagram Story
Your drink is waiting for you 🍸
Instagram DMs
yourusername:
stop flirting.
lando:
i’m not flirting
i’m just saying facts
lando:
wanna go get dessert then?
yourusername:
why would i have dessert, lando?
lando:
you are the dessert, darling
yourusername:
god, again with that?
lando:
i’m one hundred percent sure that if you let me show you how good i am with my mouth, you’d stop calling me insufferable
yourusername:
i just don’t believe you. that’s all
lando:
yeah?
want me to prove it?
yourusername:
you don’t have the guts to get on your knees for me in a club bathroom, lando
lando:
oh, you think?
lando:
just to remind you, i was shirtless in front of half of monaco wearing that ridiculous shirt a few days ago
i’m not scared of this
lando:
are you?
yourusername:
you’re an idiot. what if people see?
lando:
then they see
i don’t care
yourusername:
this is not me being interested, okay?
i’m just tipsy and it’s been a long time
lando:
don’t worry, sweetheart
i’ll change your mind
yourusername:
so sure of yourself, huh?
lando:
oh, yeah
lando:
seeing me between your legs will make you rethink every single mean things you’ve ever told me, baby.
yourusername:
stop saying stuff like this.
lando:
why?
does it turn you on?
yourusername:
we are in public, lando.
lando:
then let’s go somewhere private
lando:
unless you want me to eat you out on the table in the middle of the club's dancefloor
yourusername:
stop.
lando:
make me.
yourusername:
bathroom. now.
lando:
as you wish, ma’am
lando:
i like when you give me orders
yourusername:
just stop talking.
lando:
already on my way
@_f1 gossip:
📸 Lando Norris and Y/N were spotted arriving at the same Monaco club separately, disappearing toward the bathrooms together, and leaving not long after.
user1: FINALLY HE SUCCEEDED 😭
user2: he spent years embarrassing himself in her comments and it actually worked???
user3: they went to the bathroom together and left twenty minutes later. i am choosing not to ask questions
user4: what the hell happened in that bathroom
user5: this man has been asking her out since the dawn of time. let him have this
user6: the way they left so soon after is sending me. like neither of them even tried to pretend
user7: i need everyone to remember that shirt from a few days ago because suddenly it feels less like a joke
user8: lando saw her saying “too spicy for you” and made it his life’s mission to prove her wrong
user9: the quickie in the batheroom must have been good for them to leave this fast
user10: the pr team is going to wake up, see these photos, and immediately regret letting him out
user11: i just know he is unbearably smug today
@_yourusername
He wasn’t wrong, he actually knows what he’s doing.
❤️ 518,204 likes
liked by @_lando and others
user1: Y/N????? you cannot post this after disappearing into a club bathroom with him
user2: did she just publicly give him a five-star review???
user3: sooo it was that good huh? good for you honestly
user4: not the mysterious bathroom trip, the car make-out photos, and now THIS caption. i need a minute
user5: he was acting so confident with that shirt on and apparently he had a reason for it
user6: he 100% eat her out in that toilet cabin
user7: so what happened after she went home with him anyway?? the plot is plotting
user8: the club bathroom was apparently only the beginning because they left together SO fast
lando: could do it again anytime soon, baby 😉
liked by yourusername
user9: LANDO. THERE ARE PEOPLE HERE.
user9: he is never beating the allegations now
user10: at least we know what they did in that club bathroom
user11: he did went on his knees and prove it
user12: the smugness in this comment is actually outrageous
yourusername: you’re insufferable
lando: and yet you still let me prove my point
user13: I AM LOOKING AWAY RESPECTFULLY BUT ALSO NOT AT ALL
Hi!! Love your writing 🫶🏼 was wondering if you could maybe write about Lando and reader, Lando looking after her after she has wisdom teeth removed. Thank you!!!!!
You’re So Pretty, Lan’o
Lando Norris x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: Loopy after her wisdom‑teeth removal, the reader clings to Lando while he gently takes care of her. She’s sweet and unfiltered; he’s patient and protective; the day leaves him even more in love.
Moonlight Radio: hi! tysm, this was so adorable! I hope u like it! - also side note: my sleep schedule is completely fucked, like why am I still wide awake until 6am..
Lando had been dramatic about many things in life — losing a sock, missing a delivery, Oscar beating him at padel — but nothing compared to the way he paced the waiting room while you were in surgery.
He kept checking the time. Then his phone. Then the door. Then the time again.
“She’s fine,” the nurse had told him twice. “Routine procedure.”
He knew that. He did. But knowing didn’t stop the restless tapping of his foot or the way he kept imagining you waking up scared or uncomfortable without him there.
So when the nurse finally came out and said, “You can come back now,” he practically tripped over his own feet getting to you.
You were sitting up in the recovery chair, cheeks puffed, eyes half‑open, blanket tucked around you like a burrito. And the second you saw him, your whole face lit up.
“LAN’O!” you squealed, except it came out more like “YANNNOOO,” muffled by gauze.
His heart melted instantly.
“Hi, baby,” he laughed, crouching beside you. “How’re you feeling?”
You blinked at him. Slowly. Dramatically. Then reached out and poked his cheek.
“You’re so… so… pretty,” you whispered, as if confessing a state secret.
Lando burst out laughing. “Pretty? That’s new.”
“You’re like… like a little… little…” You squinted, searching for the word. “A little sunshine hamster.”
“A what?”
You nodded, very serious. “A sunshine hamster. Because you’re small and cute and I love you.”
The nurse snorted behind him.
Lando pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Alright, sunshine hamster’s gonna take you home.”
“’Kay,” you mumbled, already trying to stand even though your legs were wobbling like cooked spaghetti.
He caught you instantly, arms around your waist. “Woah, woah, slow down. I’ve got you.”
“You always got me,” you said dreamily, leaning your entire body weight onto him.
And he didn’t even care that his back nearly snapped — he just held you tighter.
---
THE CAR RIDE
You sat in the passenger seat, bundled in a blanket he’d brought from home, head lolling to the side as you stared at him.
Not the road.
Not the window.
Just him.
“Baby, seatbelt,” he reminded gently.
You gasped. “I forgot! I’m so sorry! I’m a criminal!”
“You’re not a criminal,” he laughed, buckling it for you.
You grabbed his face with both hands. “You’re so good at that.”
“At buckling a seatbelt?”
“Yes. You’re so talented.”
He kissed your knuckles. “Thank you, my love.”
Halfway home, you started crying.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, panicked.
“I swallowed my spit.”
“…Okay?”
“What if it was my tooth?”
“It wasn’t your tooth.”
“But what if—”
“Baby, I promise, your teeth are still in the bag.”
You sniffled. “You kept them?”
“You asked me to.”
You gasped again. “You’re the best boyfriend ever.”
He grinned. “I try.”
---
AT HOME
Lando carried you inside because you insisted your legs “didn’t remember how to leg anymore.”
He set you on the couch, tucked the blanket around you, and brushed your hair out of your face.
“You comfy?”
You nodded, then immediately reached for him again. “Come cuddle.”
“I will, but I need to get your meds first.”
You pouted so hard he almost gave in.
Almost.
He returned with water, painkillers, and a little bowl of ice cream.
Your eyes widened. “Is that… for me?”
“Yes, baby.”
You gasped like he’d handed you a diamond ring. “LAN’O. You’re spoiling me.”
“You just had surgery.”
“I love you.”
He froze for a second — not because you hadn’t said it before, but because you said it with such raw, unfiltered softness that it hit him straight in the chest.
“I love you too,” he murmured, kissing your temple.
You took the medicine like a champ… then immediately tried to drink the water while lying down.
“No, no, sit up,” he laughed, guiding you upright.
“You’re bossy.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
“I do.”
---
THE CUDDLES (AND CHAOS)
Once you were settled, Lando finally climbed onto the couch beside you. You instantly curled into him, head on his chest, fingers gripping his hoodie like he might disappear.
“You smell like… like… like warm bread,” you mumbled.
“That’s a new one.”
“I like bread.”
“I know.”
You looked up at him with the softest, dopiest smile. “I like you more.”
He kissed your forehead again, lingering. “Good.”
For a few minutes, you were quiet. Peaceful. Sleepy.
Then—
“Lan’o?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Do you think penguins have feelings?”
He blinked. “Uh… probably?”
“Good. I want them to be happy.”
He laughed so hard he shook the couch. “You’re unbelievable.”
You poked his chest. “You’re my boyfriend.”
“I am.”
“My handsome boyfriend.”
“Keep going.”
“My sunshine hamster.”
He groaned. “Please don’t let that stick.”
“It’s too late,” you whispered dramatically. “It’s your destiny.”
---
LATER
You eventually fell asleep on him, drooling slightly onto his hoodie. He didn’t move. Not even when his arm went numb. Not even when his phone buzzed with messages from the team.
He just watched you — soft, puffy‑cheeked, mouth slightly open, blanket tangled around your legs — and felt something warm and overwhelming settle in his chest.
He loved you on normal days.
But like this?
Vulnerable, clingy, unfiltered, trusting him completely?
He felt protective in a way that made his throat tighten.
When you stirred awake an hour later, blinking up at him, you whispered, “Lan’o?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for taking care of me.”
He brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Always.”
“You promise?”
He leaned down, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to your lips — careful, soft, full of everything he felt.
“I promise,” he murmured against your mouth. “Forever.”
You smiled, sleepy and sweet. “Good. ’Cause I think I wanna marry you.”
His heart stopped.
Then restarted.
Then sprinted.
“You’re high on anaesthetic,” he whispered, laughing softly.
“But I mean it.”
He kissed your forehead again, holding you close. “I know.”
And he did.
Because even if you didn’t remember saying it tomorrow…
dad’s best friend au | part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6
pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (no y/n)
warnings: age gap, power imbalance, forbidden relationship, MINORS DNI, p in v, oral sex (fem and male receiving), degradation, condescension, praise, daddy kink, unprotected sex, slight pussy pronouns…?, PLEASE MAKE SURE HANDS ARE CLEAN BEFORE YOU GET FINGERED YOU WILL GET A UTI, i think i’m missing smth lmk
wc: 5k
summary: Lando’s easy with you in a way James can’t always manage: teasing without being cruel, knows just when to knock on the door and when to leave you be, can get you to come down for dinner with a joke instead of a threat. Sometimes James listens to Lando’s laugh echoing down the stairs, and he feels a kind of relief that is close to shame. Like he has handed off something heavy and forgotten he was carrying it.
He’s trusted Lando with his kid more than he’s trusted himself. Which is why, when the doubts begin, they sting like a bitch.
ale's note: sorry i’ve kept you all waiting !! i’ve had this finished for a while but i really hated the ending so it’s just been sitting in drafts… but i decided i was probably never going to come back to edit so it would be better to just post it now than never.
ps. yes i saw all you begging for daddy kink, yes i delivered 😝
enjoyyyy 🧡
JAMES HAS NEVER CONSIDERED HIMSELF A NAIVE MAN. He’d seen enough shit in his life—a failed marriage, raising a daughter mostly on his own—to know that people, even the ones you loved, were capable of ugly, surprising things. But he also believed in trust. Trust was what let him sleep at night when his daughter was out with friends, what let him hand over keys to his mates, what made him offer a room when Lando had called from his waterlogged London flat.
He likes having Lando here, they’ve been mates since childhood, and he’s a constant in James’ life. The house is too big and empty, and besides, it’s good for his daughter to have someone around who is not him. Lando’s easy with you in a way James can’t always manage: teasing without being cruel, knows just when to knock on the door and when to leave you be, can get you to come down for dinner with a joke instead of a threat. Sometimes James listens to Lando’s laugh echoing down the stairs, and he feels a kind of relief that is close to shame. Like he has handed off something heavy and forgotten he was carrying it.
He’s trusted Lando with his kid more than he’s trusted himself. Which is why, when the doubts begin, they sting like a bitch.
It starts off as little things: he’s carrying a load of Lando’s freshly washed clothes up to the guest room when a splash of pink catches his eye. He frowns, extracts the culprit, and finds a lacy bra.
Dirty bastard. Lando must’ve snuck some woman in, and James hadn't even noticed. Good for him. He would chide him for doing this shit in his house, but he knows Lando’s been in a bit of a state recently. Probably a bit of loneliness. James isn’t jealous—he doesn’t have that in him, not about this—but there’s a pang of something like nostalgia, or maybe just the reminder that people are still out there doing things he’s given up.
The door’s open, and he can hear Lando pottering about inside, so he steps in, twirling the bra around his finger with a knowing look. Lando turns, his smile drops.
“James,” Lando says slowly, face white.
“Didn’t think pink was your colour, mate,” James shakes his head, laughing. “She someone I know?”
Lando’s face is blank for a moment, before he laughs. “Fuck off.”
James forgets about it until a few days later.
He’s in the kitchen making tea when you come down the stairs.
James glances over, and that’s when he sees it: pink bra straps peeking out from under a tank top, the exact colour, the same thin lace edge. He feels a weird jolt, like missing a step in the dark. He almost says something... but what? Where did you get that? Is that yours? But he knows he’s being ridiculous, pink’s just another colour, so files it away.
James prides himself on not being naive, but he’s starting to wonder if that’s just another word for denial.
꩜
You and Lando quickly devolve into animals.
You fuck everywhere. Sometimes it’s sweet and slow on lazy afternoons, sunlight painting stripes across his back as he moves inside you with a tenderness that makes your throat ache. He kisses you like he’s memorising the taste of you, his hands gentle on your face, whispering praise against your skin. But sometimes he’s a bit of an arsehole, pushing your face into a pillow while he pounds you from behind, calling you a slut, a cock-hungry whore, a little bitch who needs to be bred.
You fuck in the kitchen, in the shower with soap and lube running down your thighs, in the pool. You want him constantly, in every way, and he gives it to you every time, like he’s just as helpless. Sometimes he pushes his cock against your ass, letting you feel how hard he is for you. Sometimes you have to tease him for it, sitting in his lap, grinding on him until he breaks and drags you off to the nearest room with a door. You don’t have a word for how needy you get for him. It’s a wanting so dense and unyielding it blots out everything else. You’re so hungry for him you make yourself sick.
Some nights, you sneak into his bed. Sometimes he sneaks into yours. The first time he does, you’re engrossed in your book, and you almost die of shock when his hand lands on your bare knee. You nearly scream, but he just grins, holds a finger to his lips, and climbs on top of you, hard through his shorts.
“You little brat,” he whispers. “Didn’t I tell you to go to bed?”
You nod. He pulls your head back by your hair and says, “Then why are you still awake, hmm?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” you breathe, melting under his touch.
“Couldn’t sleep, or didn’t want to?” He squeezes your face in his hand, thumb pressing into your cheek. “You waiting for me, baby?”
You don’t answer, but the way you whimper is answer enough.
He kisses you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue in your mouth, his hand wrapped around the side of your neck, thumb stroking your jaw. He makes you feel small, not in a way that scares you, but in the way you’ve always wanted. You love the way he manhandles you, the way he moves you around like you’re made of nothing. He shifts you onto your back, pulls your top over your head, sucks at your tits until you’re squirming.
“Quiet,” he warns, mouth hot on your nipple.
You can barely keep the moans in. He leaves a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach, biting and licking, until you can feel his breath hot and heavy against your pussy. He takes one look at you, soaked and puffy, and just laughs, “so fucking easy, aren’t you?”
You flush, but all you can do is nod needily.
His tongue is flat and rough, licking you like he’s desperate. The sounds are loud and lewd, and you want to protest at all the filthy things he’s saying to you, but you can’t because you’re already grabbing his hair and grinding your hips up into his face. He fucks you with his tongue and two thick fingers, curling them up and making you see stars.
You cum embarrassingly fast, and he doesn’t stop. He just keeps going, lips locked around your clit, one hand spreading you wide open. He holds you down and licks you through it until you cum again and again, till you’re crying. He presses soothing kisses against your thigh, then crawls up your body to kiss you, lining his cock up. He groans against your ear as he pushes in slow. It’s too big, too much, but that’s how you like it. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust, just fucks into you, fast and deep, his hands under your knees, spreading you wide so he can watch the whole thing.
“Look at me,” he says, and you do. You can’t look away. He watches you while he’s inside you, watches your tits bounce and your mouth hang open and your eyes roll back. He likes when you watch him, too. Likes when you can’t help it, when you’re transfixed by his body, by the way his abs flex when he snaps his hips forward, by the way his arms cage you in.
Lando fucks you deeper, tilting your hips up. You’re so full you feel dizzy, like your brain’s gone somewhere outside your body and left you to melt into the mattress. The feeling is thick and syrupy, all the edges blurred.
“Such a good little slut for me,” he says, voice right at your ear. He yanks your head up by the hair, arching your back deeper. “Wanna cum, baby?”
“Yes,” you sob, “please, please, I—”
“Fuck, you’re so needy,” he coos, “all you want is a cock in this cunt, isn’t it? Say it.”
You swallow, humiliated, and mumble, “Want your cock.”
“What was that?”
“Want your cock!” you cry out, desperate and honest.
“Good girl,” he says, and he slaps your pussy, the wet sound obscene. The pain flashes through you, sharp and sweet, making your clit throb.
You cum from that, cunt spasming and milking him, and he hisses through his teeth, hips stuttering, “jesus christ, keep squeezing me like that and I’ll fucking lose it.”
You do it again, on purpose this time, clenching as hard as you can, and he buries his face in your neck, biting down until you squeal.
He doesn’t pull out. He just holds himself inside you, grinding down, filling you up, like he wants to make sure every last drop stays in there. You love the way it feels, the way it drips out of you after, and the way he always pushes it back inside your abused cunt.
You’re starting to think he could make you do anything. That you’d let him.
You try to tell yourself it’s just sex, that one day you’re going to graduate uni, meet a guy your age, and settle down with kids—but you know it’s a lie. You want him. You want all of him. You want him forever, and the thought terrifies you.
You know how much of your obsession with him is rooted in what your mum did, how much you crave security and stability, how much you want someone to see you and never, ever leave. You think about it constantly. You lie awake at night and wonder if he’s using you, or if you’re using him.
Sometimes, when Lando's feeling sentimental, he holds you for hours, stroking your back, whispering stories about his childhood, about your dad, about all the things he never told anyone else. But most of the time, it’s just raw, desperate need.
You love it. Not Lando the childhood crush, nor the idol, but Lando the person. You love him.
꩜
One afternoon, your dad is out buying car parts, and Lando is working in the garage, tinkering with the old Aston. You bring him lemonade, barefoot, wearing nothing but a t shirt and panties. He’s got his shirt off, grease streaked up his arms, sweat glistening on his neck.
You watch him work for a bit, the way his back muscles shift under his skin, the way his veins stand out in his forearms. He looks up and catches you staring.
“Can I help you, sweetheart?” he smirks, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Thirsty?” you ask, holding the glass out.
He straightens up and steps close enough that you can smell engine oil, sweat, and that warm, masculine scent that always makes your brain go fuzzy. Instead of taking the lemonade, he puts it aside and lifts you up, setting you down on the workbench. His palm is rough, callused, and it makes you shiver. You lean in and lick a line up his neck, tasting his sweat.
“Fuck,” he mutters, seeing your bare thighs. “You do this on purpose, don’t you?”
You giggle. He yanks your shirt up and off, tossing it aside, then hooks his fingers in your panties and drags them down your legs, leaving them dangling from one ankle.
“Fuck, look at this,” he breathes, eyes locked between your spread thighs. “She’s dripping, baby. This little pussy gets needy the second your dad leaves the house, doesn’t she?”
He doesn't bother cleaning his hands. He just pushes two thick fingers inside you, curling them, stretching you open. You know it's a bit gross, but the thrill of it makes your cunt pulse with need. He noses your neck, sucking bruises down to your collarbone, and you whimper, digging your heels into his hips to pull him closer.
“Such a good girl, baby,” his voice is rough and condescending, “you gonna cum for daddy?”
You jolt. A violent, electric shock rips through you, followed by a flood of heat so intense it’s shameful. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and a broken moan tears from your throat. No. No—you're not into… that. But your body betrays you utterly, lighting up at the words and the dark, possessive tone. You just nod desperately into his chest, your hips rocking back against him. Your thighs clamp around his hand and you cry out.
“Ohh?” Lando’s grinning, his face a mix of amusement and arousal, “She likes that, huh?”
You’re flushed and trembling, the shame only making you wetter. He pulls his fingers out slowly, shiny with your cum, and licks them clean.
You slide off the bench onto your knees in front of him, the floor rough under your skin. His cock is already straining against his jeans. You tug them down and wrap your hand around the thick, heavy length, feeling it throb.
You look up at him, lips hovering just over the flushed head, breathing warm against his skin. He smooths a hand gently over the crown of your head. His voice drops, softer now. “You want to, sweetheart?”
You just nod, looking up at him wide-eyed.
“Let daddy show you,” he says quietly. “Open your mouth. Tongue out.”
You do it immediately. Your jaw relaxes, lips parting wide, eyes big and trusting as you stare up at him. The sight makes his cock twitch hard in your hand.
He feeds you the head first, sliding just the tip past your lips. The warmth and wetness of your mouth make him hiss. He pushes in another inch, then another, slow and careful, eyes locked on yours the whole time. When he pulls back you whine softly around him, already wanting more.
“That feel good, baby?” he asks, voice low and strained, thumb stroking your cheek. “Nice having me in your mouth?”
You hum obediently around his cock, tongue flattening underneath him. He slides back in deeper, filling more of your mouth, the thick shaft gliding over your tongue. You take as much as you can, spit already starting to pool and drip from the corners of your stretched lips.
“Sweet fuckin’ girl,” he breathes, watching strings of saliva connect your lips to his glistening cock every time he pulls back. “Takin’ me so well. Look at you… all messy and pretty for daddy.”
You whimper at the praise, the sound vibrating around his length. He cups your face with both hands, thumbs gently coaxing your lips even wider. He starts guiding you with slow, shallow thrusts, feeding you more each time, grazing the back of your throat before easing out again. Your eyes are glazed and you look deliriously content, spit running down your chin and dripping onto your tits.
He’s breathing harder now, clearly fighting to stay in control, but his touch stays surprisingly gentle even as he fucks your mouth. You shift on your knees to rub your thighs together. He notices and lets out a low groan.
Eventually he pulls you off with a wet pop, strings of spit still connecting you. He kisses you deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue, then turns you around and bends you over the workbench. Your tits press against the cool wood, ass up and presented to him. He kicks your feet wider apart, grips your hip with one hand, and lines his cock up to your soaked entrance.
He pushes in slow, inch by inch, letting you feel every vein and the way he stretches your sensitive walls. Once he’s buried deep he starts fucking you with deep thrusts, the bench creaknig under you.
He keeps one hand on your hip, the other reaching around to rub your clit again, drawing it out. You’re moaning helplessly into your arm, drooling on the workbench, pussy creaming around his thick cock with every punishing thrust.
“God, you’re fucking disgusting,” he says, his words are mean but his face is adoring, “letting me do this to you.”
Your pussy clenches violently around his cock as another powerful orgasm rips through you. You sob against the wood, thighs shaking around him. He fucks you through it, whispering praises against your skin. Only then does he let go. He buries himself, hips jerking as he fills you with hot pulses of cum, groaning against your neck.
When he finally pulls out, you stay sprawled there, legs spread obscenely. His cum leaks slowly from your swollen, puffy pussy, dripping in thick white streaks down your ass and onto the workbench. The sight is raw and filthy.
Lando catches his breath, then grabs a rag and starts gently cleaning the mess off your thighs and stomach. His touch is careful now. He brushes sweaty hair from your face and looks at you.
“You good?” he asks, voice still a little rough.
You nod, legs still shaky. He kisses you slow and soft, then helps you sit up while he tucks himself away and wipes the grease off his arms. You sit there naked, his cum still slowly leaking out of you, watching him move around the garage like nothing happened. The shame and need twist together in your chest, but you already know you’d let him do it all over again.
꩜
James comes back to the house loaded down with car parts and a sandwich. The garage is all the way at the edge of the property, the old roller door opening onto a patch of overgrown grass and the half-finished driveway that’s still mostly gravel and potholes. In summer they always leave the roller door open because it gets stuffy, but today it’s closed. Odd.
James walks up to it and knocks. He waits, hand already on the latch, but there’s no response. He tries again, louder. There’s a scuffling noise inside, the sound of metal clanging, then footsteps and Lando’s voice.
“Hang on, mate. Give me a sec.”
James waits, sweat itching under his collar. There’s a long, strange pause, and then the roller door rises. Lando stands inside, grease up to his wrists, shirtless but not smiling. For a split second his eyes look wild, unfocused.
“What’s with the door?” James says.
Lando shrugs, wipes his hands on his jeans. “Had it closed to keep the bugs out.”
“Suit yourself,” James says, stepping inside. The air is boiling hot and thick.
He sets the parts on the bench and tries to ignore the weird tension. “You get anything done?”
Lando nods, but he’s not really listening. “Got the head off. You bring the parts?”
James gestures to the bag. “Crankshaft, filter, sandwich if you’re hungry.”
“Legend,” Lando says, and for a second his old smile flickers back, but it seems forced.
“I’m gonna head in and shower. You want a beer?”
“Yeah. Give me a minute. I’ll finish up here.”
James leaves him to it and goes back up to the house. He sees you inside, standing at the kitchen sink washing your hands. James watches as the water runs dark, then grey, then clean.
“Working on something?” he asks, casual.
You don’t look up. “Just helping Lando. He needed someone to hold the light.”
There are faint smudges of black on your wrists, a streak at the inside of your knee. James feels something in his chest twist, a tight, sour ache. He opens his mouth to ask, to say something, but the words catch in his throat.
That night, he can’t sleep. He turns it over in his mind, all the little things, the laughter from behind closed doors, the looks that lingered too long, the way Lando never quite meets his eye anymore. It’s stupid, he tells himself. Paranoia. He’s not naive, he’s just tired.
The next day, James comes home early. The house is quiet, except for a faint, muffled noise from the living room, maybe the telly. He walks toward the noise. And there it is.
Lando is there, on the couch, but he’s not alone. You’re curled into his side, head on his chest, clearly asleep. Lando’s arm is around your shoulders, hand in your hair, and you are so close, so tangled, that for a moment James thinks he must be hallucinating.
James stands in the doorway. The pink bra, her grease-stained thighs... the world seems to tilt, the familiar contours of his home distorting. He feels a wave of emotions so violent it leaves him breathless: betrayal, sharp and acidic; cold disgust, confusion, and beneath it all, a profound, crushing sense of defeat. He missed this. He’d let this happen under his roof.
He must have made a sound because Lando’s eyes fly open. He sees James. For a split second, raw panic flashes across his face before it’s replaced by a grim, resigned acceptance. He gently shakes you awake.
You blink, disoriented, then follow Lando’s gaze. The blood drains from your face. You scramble upright, pulling away from Lando as if it could undo what your dad had just seen.
“Dad—” you start, voice thin with terror.
“Get out,” James says to you, his voice dangerously calm. “Go to your room. Now.”
You run up the stairs two steps at a time. The door slams upstairs.
Lando stands up, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “James, listen—”
James says nothing. He turns and goes to the kitchen, hands shaking so badly he almost drops the glass when he pours water.
James doesn’t look at him. “How long?”
Lando hesitates. “Around two weeks.”
James laughs, a hollow, bitter sound. “You couldn’t keep your fucking hands to yourself for a month, could you?”
Lando’s voice is quiet. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Is it not!?” James snaps, and he doesn't even recognise his own voice. “Because I reckon I can work it out, mate. Been working it out for a while now.”
“James, I’m sorry—”
James throws the glass at the sink. “Sorry?” He lets out a bark of hysterical laughter. His voice is icy. “You’re sorry? You’ve been fucking my little girl in my house and you’re sorry? Get out. Get your shit and get out of my house. Now. If I see you near her again, I swear to God I will kill you.”
He means it. He’s never meant anything more in his life. Lando stands there for a moment, absorbing the hatred in his best friend’s eyes, then he nods once, and turns.
꩜
You’re in your room with the lights off, face pressed into the pillow. You’re trying not to cry, and suddenly you’re seven again, listening to your mum and dad.
Downstairs, the argument rages on. Your dad’s voice—furious and sharp. Lando’s is lower, monotone. You try to block it out, but every word carries up through the floor.
“She’s a kid, you absolute prick—”
“She’s not a kid, James, and you know it—”
“Get out of my house—”
You flinch at the last one, even though you expected it. Eventually, it goes quiet. You hear the front door slam.
And then you start crying for real, the kind of crying that feels like dry heaving. You want to never, ever be this person again, this person who needs people who don’t need you back.
You can’t remember how long you stay there, but when you next lift your head it’s because there’s a knock at your door. You freeze.
“It’s me. Your dad’s gone outside,” Lando’s voice says, soft, barely above a whisper. “Can I come in?”
You don’t answer. But after a moment, the door opens anyway. You stay facedown on the bed, hands twisted into the sheets.
He says, “I’m sorry.”
You roll onto your back. He looks awful. His eyes are puffy.
"Are you going to leave me too?" The question falls from your lips, small and pathetic. It sounds childish. You don't care. "Because I can take it if you just—I can take it if you just tell me now. I'd rather know."
He flinches like you’vd struck him. He drops the bag and crosses the room in two strides, kneeling in front of you. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs wiping away tears you didn’t realise were falling. “Oh, baby. No. No, it’s not like that.”
“It feels like that,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “She said she'd be back. My mum. She said—she said she was just going for a bit.”
"I know that." His eyes are on yours, steady. "I'm not her. I have never been her. I have shown up for you—" He stops, jaw working. "I have shown up for you your whole life. Have I ever—once—not shown up."
You think about it. All the times, all the years. You shake your head.
Lando looks utterly heartbroken. “I have to go. You know I do. This… what I did, staying here, letting this happen… it was wrong. I fucked up. I hurt your dad, I put you in this awful position.” His own eyes are glazed. “Going back to London is the only thing I can do that’s right for you now.”
You want to ask him to stay. You want to beg. But you know it wouldn’t work. And that’s worse than anything.
“Will you call me?” you ask, and you can feel how pathetic it sounds, how much it echoes the way you used to beg your mum to phone after she left.
He closes his eyes. “If you want me to. But maybe… maybe you should try and forget I exist, for a while.”
You start crying again, silently. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. He says, “I’m sorry,” one more time, then stands. He picks up the bag, and moves to the door.
The click of the latch is the quietest thing you’ve ever heard.
꩜
The house is quiet now. Your dad barely talks to you.
Sometimes you find him just standing in the kitchen, hand on the counter, not doing anything. Once you caught him looking at an old photo on his phone too long and he put it away fast when he saw you in the doorway.
The necklace Lando gave you sits on the bedside table. You take it out sometimes, but you can’t bring yourself to put it on so you put it away before you can start crying again.
Days bleed into weeks, but Lando texts you every day. Simple things at first.
Lando
I’m home. Flat’s fine.
Thinking of you.
Are you okay?
And you reply. It hurts, but you reply.
You
im ok. dads not speaking to me
i miss you.
In September, when the holidays end, you go back to uni. You laugh with your friends, you have meaningless hookups, you talk to your dad now, too. But you still think about Lando every day. You think about how it felt to belong to someone, how it felt to be truly seen. You still want him.
Between Saudi and Australia, you learn more about Max than you have in all the months before put together.
Not because he suddenly sits down and tells you things. Max is still Max. Still private in that clipped, matter-of-fact way that makes every personal detail feel less like something you’re given and more like something you happen to trip over if you are in the right place at the right time. You assume some of it is culture, but you also think it might just be… the way Max is. But over the course of those two weeks- dinners, flights, the odd stop back at his place- the shape of his life starts to fill in around the edges.
You learn he has two cats.
The first announces himself by jumping onto the stool at the island while you are cooking and scaring the absolute shit out of you. You jerk so hard you nearly drop the spatula, then whirl around to find a cat where there absolutely was not a cat two seconds ago- all long, sleek gold body and dark markings and bright, assessing eyes.
Jimmy and Sassy. Bengals. Max admits he had shut them in his bedroom the first time you came over because “they’re not really into people.”
Sassy is the worse of the two. She hasn’t hissed at you, yet, but she’s got this bitchy little look on her face whenever she’s observing you from across the room that says try me, ho. If you so much as shift like you might approach her, she is gone.
Jimmy, though, is curious despite himself. Not enough to come over and be sweet about it, but enough to keep winding up in the same room, then a little closer, then on the stool beside the island like he has not chosen that spot entirely because you are slicing chicken there.
He does not want to be pet, exactly. Or maybe he does and refuses to admit it. Hard to say. Either way, you learn quickly that respect and a little bit of food go a long way with him. It takes two visits and a few sacrificed bits of protein, but eventually Jimmy lies down next to you on the floor while you cook, all casual about it, like this is not a major breakthrough for you.
It is, unfortunately, a little amusing, because the whole thing feels familiar in a way you do not say out loud. The aloofness. The watching from a distance. The suspicion giving way, inch by inch, once you prove you are not completely annoying and might occasionally be useful. Jimmy is softer than Max, obviously. Smaller, prettier, and much less likely to insult you. But still- the general philosophy feels shared.
Max learns things too. Because you talk- and to be fair, it’s less than he thought you would- but also because he is observant and you are around enough now that patterns start to reveal themselves. He learns that your phone has two groups. One for work and everything else- team people, unknown numbers, logistics, the endless administrative parade of Formula One. Always on vibrate or DND entirely. Easy to ignore until it becomes impossible.
And one for your people. Family, friends, whatever. The small circle that lives on the other side of whatever wall you keep between yourself and the rest of the world. Ringtone on when he would expect it to be silenced. On vibrate in your pocket when it probably should be off entirely.
He notices it the second time it happens, then starts noticing it every time after. The subtle lift in your face before you even look at the screen. The way you excuse yourself almost immediately. He has never seen you ignore one from home. Never seen you screen it, send it off, glance at it and decide later. If it is your family, you answer.
You learn that his building has a system for regulars. Frequent fliers get an RFID tag for the elevator instead of having to be escorted up every time, which you only find out because one evening Max presses a little fob into your hand on your way out the door like it is the most obvious thing in the world.
“So you can just come up next time,” he says. No acknowledgment that this is, in fact, a thing. That there’s the implication of enough next times to justify getting you your own access key. You dug around in your junk drawer, looking for a lanyard, or a piece of ribbon, or anything to keep you from having to look Max Verstappen in the eyeballs and tell him you misplaced access to his super-secret-rich-and-famous-people building under the gum wrappers at the bottom of your purse-
-the car. The keychain Max left behind on the night you’ve done a great job ignoring for three months now. You turned the little silver figure over in your fingers once.
And, fuck it. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Max’s keychain can go on Max’s fob. So you threaded them together right there over the counter, the silver car and the black fob clicking into a single little object that is somehow more useful and more loaded than either one was on its own. Then you dropped the whole thing back into your purse, where it is now at least large enough to find by feel.
You learn the apartment better too, mostly by repetition.
Three bedrooms. Two baths.
His room, obviously. The room across the hall- the one you walked into by mistake that first night, the one that still sits mostly empty in a way you have both mutually agreed not to never speak of again. And then the third room, which is less bedroom now than shrine: his sim room, his trophy room, the place where the intensity in him becomes visible in objects. Hardware. Screens. Shelving. Helmets. Trophies.
And all of it settles into you in pieces, naturally, without any one revelation feeling especially large at the time. But by the end of those two weeks, something has shifted. His life is no longer just the abstract one you glimpse in paddocks and hotels and borrowed moments between obligations. It has a heartbeat now. Cats. Habits. Elevator access. The strange, quiet intimacy of knowing which door is his and which one leads to something you should not touch.
You make up with Danny, too. Kind of. You get the impression he’s not really an apologies guy, and you’re sure as fuck not going to apologize first, purely out of principle. You can admit you were snappy. Even mean, maybe, but he’s a grown fucking man and should know better than to push on you when steam is blowing out your ears- so if he’s not saying it out loud, you won’t either.
There’s no actual words exchanged, but you start acting normal-ish again, and it’s almost a relief. He drops by Max’s for two of the four dinners you cook there, cracks jokes while you plate food, and everyone laughs like nothing strange ever happened. He sits between you and Charles when some of the group goes out for drinks over the free weekend, and the chatter is exactly what it used to be. It feels good, honestly, to have that familiar warmth humming around you again.
He’s still the perfect person to burn up the eighteen hours of flying to Melbourne with, even if it’s nothing of sustenance. He’s got jokes. He’s got new music. He’s got stories that are exactly enough truth to be believable and exactly enough bullshit to be hysterical. It’s almost like nothing happened at all.
Which is good, because Melbourne is about to run both of you half to death. They’ve sent you both early. Danny, obviously, because he is Australian and the PR machine wants to run every possible ounce of the hometown hero through a juicer. Every sponsor, every broadcaster that can get their hands on him stick him in front of a camera. He is everywhere immediately, getting passed around like a beloved communal object.
And you- well. Australia is the first western culture country on the calendar. The team can finally do what they have been dying to do with you since you signed your contract. Suddenly the girl-forward marketing gets turned all the way up. More polished content. More sponsor asks. More “women in motorsport”. More carefully styled appearances and behind-the-scenes clips and press people trying to act casual about the fact that you are young and talented and photogenic and therefore, in their minds, capable of personally solving both gender parity and quarterly brand engagement.
You are a little bit of a circus- not because anyone is being gross about it, exactly. At least not openly. More because there is a specific kind of energy that attaches itself to a weekend like this- the first one where everyone feels they can market you at full volume without worrying quite so much about tone, optics, or local conservatism. The leash comes off.
It is cool, in flashes. Genuinely cool. Real shoots with proper sets, proper lighting, hair and makeup that makes you look like a version of yourself that belongs on a billboard instead of in a debrief room with tyre rubber smeared all over your fingers. Interviews in slots that actually matter. Brand engagement deals that feel like doors opening, not chores. Free product kits that make you laugh when you get back to your room- bags of skincare and sunglasses and luxury athleisure, all addressed to you, like you’re already an established thing instead of a rookie still trying to prove you won’t implode.
Part of it is not cool at all.
Because every “quick” shoot is two hours. Every reel is three takes at bare minimum. Every “just grab a few candid moments” is a marketer hovering with a phone and a smile that never drops, gently steering you into better light, better angles, better sound bites. The content never ends. You finish one thing and there is already another thing waiting, another check-in, another hallway walk you have to redo because somebody didn’t get it in focus the first time.
It’s only been two days and you already feel like you live on someone else’s schedule, someone else’s idea of who you are. It is exhausting, in this specific, maddening way- being grateful and resentful at the same time. Because you know every opportunity is real. You know every opportunity is good for the team. You know every opportunity is good for you. You also know you are tired enough that every extra ask lands like a weight, and you are already carrying too much.
Everyone wants a little more.
Just one more reel. One more answer. One more “quick” interview. One more walk-and-talk down the paddock. One more photo of you holding the product and looking like you love it. One more sponsor handshake. One more fan clip. One more “you’re so inspiring, can we just- ”
A little more.
A little more.
A little more.
And each request, on its own, is small enough to be reasonable. Small enough that saying no feels petty. Small enough that you hear yourself agreeing automatically before your body catches up and screams.
But when forty people are each trying to scrape out a little more, there is nothing left.
It is not that you don’t want to be generous. You do. You like being kind. You like being easy to work with. You like making people feel good. You like the part of this job where you can give something- time, attention, a moment of warmth- and watch it matter to someone. But by Wednesday afternoon you can feel yourself getting “off” in small, involuntary ways- answers going clipped, patience thinning, your face tightening when someone calls your name for the third time in five minutes. You catch it happening and try to correct, try to pull yourself back into the version of you they want, and the effort of that correction is almost its own kind of fatigue.
On normal weeks- on less demanding schedules- you are accommodating in this almost effortless way. You answer the extra question. You do the extra photo. You stay five more minutes. You sign the thing, you take the selfie, you laugh at the joke even if it’s not funny. You give freely enough that it has become a baseline people expect without ever meaning to.
So when you are tired, when you are short, when you say “not right now” or “I can’t” or “I need ten minutes,” it lands wrong. Like you have changed the rules mid-game. Like you are being difficult instead of depleted.
You can feel it in the micro-reactions. The quick flicker of disappointment. The handler’s smile tightening. The little pause before someone says, “Oh- okay,” in a tone that makes it sound like you’re somehow being difficult for wanting to sit down while you eat dinner. People try not to show it, but there’s this faint frustration that keeps skimming the surface, like they can’t quite reconcile the fact that you are not endlessly available.
They don’t mean to be entitled. I mean, really, this is your own damn fault for training them all that access to you is usually easy.
On Wednesday evening, you finally see Max in the bright, polished middle of a fancy cocktail hour- one of those events that, three weeks ago, would’ve felt exciting just on principle, and is now just starting to feel… familiar. Like you’re realizing these things exist in every city, on every calendar: a room full of local sponsors and government faces and “high-value clients” who need to be made to feel special, which means you put on a dress and do the chatting and smile until your cheeks ache. You’re not naïve; you know why it exists. You’re just newly disillusioned by how copy-paste it is. Different skyline outside the windows, same lighting, same tray of champagne flutes, same cluster of people performing importance at each other.
You know you’re being cynical.
You do.
If you had slept well- which you haven’t. If you’d eaten a real meal today- which you haven’t. If you’d had ten uninterrupted minutes to call your mom back- which you haven’t- this would probably feel like a privilege again. You’d be grateful. You’d network like a normal ambitious person and maybe even enjoy it.
Instead you are leaned up against a wall, pretending to be absorbed in something on your phone. You’re not even reading anything, just scrolling. Dragging your thumb down the screen so you look occupied. So you look like you’re waiting on something important. So nobody thinks to approach you with their drink in hand and their practiced little introduction and their expectation that you will turn on like a fucking lightswitch.
You can feel the performative part of you waiting behind your ribs, ready to step forward the second you force yourself off the wall. You know once you start moving it will be fine. It always is. You’ll find your smile, your voice, your rhythm. You’ll be warm. You’ll be funny. You’ll make people feel like they had a meaningful moment with you.
You just… can’t start. There’s a weird paralysis to it. Like your body has decided it has done enough outward-facing interaction for one lifetime and is refusing to stand up and walk back into the crowd unless you physically drag it there.
“Hey.” You jump so hard your stomach drops, and you jerk your head up, wide-eyed, ready to be annoyed-
And it’s Max.
He’s in a sport jacket. He looks nice. Of course he does. His expression is neutral, but there’s something faintly curious in it too, like he clocked your posture from across the room and decided to check on the situation. And before you really comprehend who it is, you accidentally bark-
“What?”
It comes out kind of bitchy. Sharp. Just enough edge on it that the second you look up and see Max, your stomach drops. You blink, already wincing. “Sorry. I thought you were- ” You make a helpless little gesture with your phone. “Someone else.”
He is looking at you with that faintly amused, slightly sharpened expression that means he has noticed something. “You’re spicy.”
It should annoy you, him- Max- king of anti-social- calling you out like that. Instead, it’s kind of relieving, because there it is. Finally. Someone saying it out loud. Not that you are tired, exactly, or overwhelmed, or stretched thin- but close enough. Someone seeing the edge on you and not trying to smooth it over or politely ignore it. It makes the whole thing feel suddenly, weirdly real. Like maybe you are not imagining how hard this week has been. Like maybe you actually are wound too tight and not just a complete failure at being grateful.
You are still half apologizing when the rest of it starts spilling out. “I’m not trying to be,” you say. “I’m just-” You exhale, annoyed with yourself all over again. “I’m tired. And I know I’m being bad at this, I just-” Another little useless motion with your hand. “I really wish I didn’t have to be here tonight.”
Max looks at you for about half a second, then says, “So… don’t be.”
You stare at him with a complete deadpan expression. “Max. I can’t just not be here.”
“Why not?”
You actually laugh, once, because the question is so ridiculous. “Because this is my job?”
He nods, like he has heard you. “Watch this.”
Before you can stop him, he sets his drink down on a little tray table by the wall and starts walking across the foyer toward the exit. You just stand there for a second, staring after him. Then he stops halfway, turns, and looks at you. “You coming?”
You blink. “Max, I can’t just- ” He waits. You look back at the room, all warm light and polite laughter and glasses catching the chandeliers, then back at him standing there like this is the simplest thing in the world. “I can’t believe you would just leave,” you hiss, crossing half the distance toward him anyway. He gives you a look that says and yet.
“I can’t just go,” you try again, lower now, because the fact that you are still moving toward him is not helping your argument. Max turns and keeps walking. And because apparently your body has decided before your brain does, you follow him.
Out through the foyer. Past the staff at the front, who do not stop either of you because of course they do not. They’re hired to keep people out, not keep people in. Through the doors. And then suddenly you are outside in the night air, cool and clean against your skin after the heat and perfume and chatter of the room.
You stop on the pavement and take a breath. The whole thing hits you all at once- the audacity of it, the relief of it, the fact that you actually did just walk out of a work event in the middle of the evening because Max said watch this and apparently that was enough.
A laugh jumps out of you before you can stop it, light and a little disbelieving and just this side of giddy.
Max glances over, catching it immediately. He is enjoying himself far too much now, hands in his pockets, tie slightly loosened, looking deeply pleased with both the outcome and your reaction to it. “The world didn’t end,” he says. “No one died.”
“Give it a minute.” You shake your head, but you are smiling now in spite of yourself, the tightness in your chest finally easing by increments.
He sees that too, obviously, which only makes him more insufferable. “You’re welcome,” he says.
That gets a look out of you. “For corrupting me?”
“For improving your evening.” You lean back against the cool stone near the entrance and let the night air move over your bare arms, still a little stunned, still a little exhilarated, like your body does not quite know what to do with the sudden absence of expectation. Standing there next to him, slightly breathless and a little bit wicked with relief, you have the distinct, disorienting sense that Max has just done something small and stupid and somehow incredibly kind.
Max lets you stand there in the night air for another few seconds, watching the last of the tension bleed out of your shoulders. Then he says, “What now?”
You turn to him. “What do you mean, what now? This was your idea,” you remind him.
One corner of his mouth moves. “We could call a car,” he says.
You look down the street, then back at him. The night is mild, the city bright in that clean, expensive way places like this always are after dark. You are not quite ready to go back to the hotel, and you are definitely not ready to go back into that room and pretend it isn’t liberating to be standing out here instead- so you start walking.
Not with any real plan. Just away from the venue, somewhere, anywhere. Max falls into step beside you without comment, hands in his pockets, nonchalant in a way that makes it feel less like you are escaping and more like you have simply decided, together, to be somewhere else.
For a while you just walk. Then, because you are physically incapable of shutting the fuck up, and you are glad to see him,and because the relief is still fizzing lightly through you and the silence between you does not feel demanding but inviting- the conversation comes easily. “Did you manage not to starve while I was gone?”
He snorts. “Barely. I ordered delivery both nights I was home,” he says. “And made one sandwich.”
You laugh. “That is so bleak.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “You weren’t there.” The words land light, almost like a joke, but they hit somewhere a little more serious than that. You ignore it.
“Well,” you say, “I’ve been busy becoming a product.”
That gets his attention. “I noticed,” he says. “You’ve been all over the algorithm.”
You groan immediately. “Oh my god.”
“It’s true.”
“No, I know, it’s just awful to hear said out loud.”
He looks at you sidelong. “You’ve done, what, twelve interviews?”
“Feels like a hundred.” You start counting on your fingers without meaning to. “Interviews, photoshoots, more interviews, behind-the-scenes content, our admin had me do one of those ‘day in the life’ videos where there is absolutely no life left by the time they film it, and about six thousand short formats.You think you’re done and then someone says, ‘while we have you, can we just grab one more quick thing?’ and then suddenly you’re fucked and they already put away lunch.”
Max makes a small sound that might be amusement, or maybe pity. He’s far more familiar with the business end of a camera than he wants to be, too. “That sounds horrible.”
“It is horrible.” A beat. “Some of it is cool, though.”
He glances over.
“The free products are cool,” you admit. “I mean, the ones that aren’t entirely useless. And I’m going on the cover of two minor magazines this month. Not even motorsport ones.”
That makes him look at you properly. “Really?”
You nod, trying and failing to play it cooler than you feel about it. “Minor ones. Very minor. But still.”
Max’s mouth shifts, something a little warmer than his usual dry amusement. “That’s good.”
“It is good,” you say quickly, because it is. “It’s really cool. It just…” You blow out a breath. “It’s also exhausting. Like, cool and exhausting at the same time. Which feels ungrateful, but it’s true.”
He does’nt argue with that, which makes it easier for you to keep talking, not really because you have been waiting all week to unload consciously, but because once you start, the last few days come out of you in a rush- the makeup chairs, the handler battles, the sponsor denim, the endless little asks, the weirdness of seeing your own face pushed into your feeds over and over like the internet is trying to convince you that you are a person you should aspire to be.
And Max listens, drops the occasional question in at the right place, the right amount, enough that the walk turns into something loose and easy and oddly restorative. By the time you loop onto a quieter street, your feet are starting to hurt less, your shoulders are lower, and the whole week feels a tiny bit more survivable now that it has been said out loud to someone who does not immediately try to fix it or sell it back to you as gratitude.
You are halfway through some story about your team refusing to let you open the pink box in hospitality until Friday when you hit a side street, stop dead, and turn your head like a hunting dog.
Max almost walks a full step past you before he notices. “What?”
You don’t answer right away. You are too busy sniffing the air, eyes narrowed toward the glow of a little storefront halfway down the block. Before he can say anything else, you pivot and start walking toward it with absolute conviction.
Max makes a quiet, disbelieving sound and falls in behind you. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hungry.”
“It’s not even on a real street.”
“Exactly. Best possible place for food.”
He exhales through his nose. “Why not get room service?”
That makes you snort so hard you nearly trip in your heels. “Yeah, that’s not happening.” you say, glancing back at him. The smell gets stronger as you head down the little side street, warm and spiced and deeply persuasive, and by now there is absolutely no chance of stopping you. He would have an easier time dragging a hound off a scent trail. Max clearly sees that too, because his attempts to talk you out of it start thinning.
By the time you get to the place, he has more or less accepted that you are doing this with or without him, and the only remaining question is whether he would like to stand outside looking lost or come inside and look lost.
It is a tiny little Middle Eastern place wedged into the row of shops. Bright menu board. Warm light. Two tables outside, one occupied by a guy in a tracksuit and sneakers absolutely demolishing what looks like a wrap the size of his forearm. The whole place smells like grilled meat, garlic, cumin, toasted bread.
You are in love instantly. If it’s half as good as the cart you ate at with Dan, you’ll be happy. You turn to the guy behind the counter and order with zero hesitation, suddenly energized in a way you have not been all evening. Max listens with that same expression on his face- not disapproving, exactly. Just….suspicous.
When you finish, you look at him expectantly. “What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
You stare at him. “Max.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m fine.”
You study him for a second, then narrow your eyes a little. “This isn’t a calories thing, is it?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Max glances at the counter, the grill, the rotating spit, all of it. “I just don’t know what’s in it.” You stare at him. “It’s street food,” he says, like this is a complete defense.
You laugh. “Oh my god. You’re such a princess. You are not above this, just so you know.” He says nothing to that, which is basically an admission.
You turn back to the guy at the counter. “Actually, make that double.”
Max looks at you immediately. “I said I didn’t want one.”
“Well, that’s good, because it’s for me,” you say, perfectly serious. “All of it.”
That makes the corner of his mouth twitch, despite himself. “All of it.”
“Yes.” You accept the bag and immediately start rearranging things in Max’s hands.
“Hold these.” Max stares at you for a second, but he takes the bag. “Thank you,” you say as you dig through and pull out a giant wad of tinfoil, like he had any real choice in the matter. And maybe he says something funny or witty or snarky in response, you genuinely do not hear him, because you’ve shouldered through the door and peeled back the layer of foil and are staring at what you already know is going to be a god-tier meal.
The wrap is enormous and warm and already leaking sauce at one end. It smells so good it makes your whole body feel a brief sensation that’s dangerously close to sexual- garlic and spiced meat and toasted flatbread and something sharp and pickled cutting through it all. You take one bite while you’re still stepping off the curb, and the noise you make is not elegant. You close your eyes for half a second. “Oh, that’s good.”
He huffs a laugh and falls into step beside you, carrying the containers like some unwilling assistant while you absolutely demolish a wrap with your bare hands.
He can admit it does look good. Smells good too, irritatingly. The sort of food he is suspicious of on principle because he doesn’t know where it’s been or what kind of oil they use or whether there’s more vegetables in it than he bargained for, but you’re making quite the case for it.
You are still in the dress from the event. Full makeup. Hair done. Earrings catching the streetlights every time you turn your head. You look like you should be holding champagne in a private room somewhere, smiling nicely for people with money like the good little PR pet you are.
Instead, you are walking down the sidewalk barehanding a kebab wrap like your only mission in life is to make it disappear as fast as possible. No fork. No shame. No delicate little bites. Just full commitment, cheeks slightly rounded, eyes half closing every time you get a particularly good mouthful. A little sauce catches near your thumb and you lick it off without breaking stride.
It is not the female energy he is used to- not in a bad way… just not what he expects from women who show up in dresses like that, looking like that, at events like the one you just walked out of. Usually there is a kind of carefulness. A maintained quality. Even hunger is managed prettily, if it shows up at all. Everything measured, dabbed, laughed off.
There is something very funny about it. Very you, he is starting to realize, though he is not sure when he collected enough evidence to make that assessment and have absolute confidence in it. Polished and yet feral. Sponsor-friendly and yet absolutely uncivilized.
He finds it a little impressive. A lot entertaining.
The hotel is still a few blocks away, the night air cool against your bare arms, the city noise thin and scattered around you. You keep walking, eating like you are replenishing a blood debt, while Max carries the rest of the food and tries very hard not to seem as amused as he is.
Between bites, you glance over at him. “What are you doing with the rest of your evening?”
Max looks at you like the question is odd, which is stupid, because it is a normal question. People ask it to other people all the time. He just has a way of making normal things feel like you’ve asked him to reveal state secrets.
“Probably sim,” he says.
You chew. “Practicing for Sunday?”
“No. Enduro race this weekend.”
You stop walking for half a step. “You have sim races during an actual race weekend?”
“Yes.”
“They just let you do that?”
Max’s mouth twitches. “They haven’t stopped me yet.”
You stare at him. “So,” he continues, “I’ll probably log some hours. Make sure everything is set up before tomorrow.”
You take another bite, eyes narrowing slightly as you think it through. All the redline clips you’ve watched from the other side of the screen, all the conversations over chopped onions that turned him from stoic to animated with enough conversational massaging. You swallow. “Can I watch?”
Max glances at you, and there’s a small pause. “Watch?”
“Yeah.”
He looks ahead again. “It’s not very exciting.” For a few steps, he does not answer beyond that. You keep eating, trying not to look too interested, which is difficult because you are interested. Maybe because of the sim stuff itself. Maybe because the night has already become strange enough that following him back to his room to watch him do something he actually cares about feels less outrageous than it probably should.
Maybe because you are not ready to go back to the hotel and be alone with that giant bed you can’t manage to sleep in.
“If you want,” he says finally.
You split off in the hotel lobby with the loose, unspoken understanding that neither of you is going straight to bed. You are quick about it. Quick by necessity, really. It’s going to be a bit of a production to dress down, so the makeup stays. The hair stays. You just trade the dress and shoes for something a little more comfortable- a modest little pair of shorts and the slightly oversized wool sweater you found in a thrift shop in California back in your IndyCar days, the one that somehow manages to feel beachy and cozy at the same time.
Your hair has a little frizz at the edges where the polish has given up. The makeup is smudging faintly at the eyes. Your lipstick has long since disappeared somewhere between the cocktail hour and the kebab. What is left is not exactly natural, but no longer event-ready either.
When you knock on Max’s door a few minutes later, you are still tucking one sleeve up your forearm. He opens it almost immediately, and there is a small, stupid hitch.
Not enough to count as a pause. Barely enough to count as anything at all, but it’s still the tiniest interruption in the natural flow of the moment, there and gone so quickly it would be easy to miss if you were not standing inside it.
Max is also in his cozy clothes, and that should be nothing. A fitted athletic shirt, branded navy sweats, bare feet on hotel carpet. Normal. Comfortable. Entirely unremarkable.
It is, unfortunately, not unremarkable.
The shirt is the problem. Skin-tight in that absentminded, athletic-man way that makes it impossible not to register the actual shape of him beneath it- shoulders, chest, arms, all of it outlined too clearly for your liking. The kind of hot that doesn’t seem to know it’s hot, which is worse.
You try to skip over the observation.
Honestly, you do.
And because you are looking at him, you become dimly aware that he is looking at you too.
Not enough to make anything of it. Not enough to accuse him of staring. Just enough to catch the changed outline of you- bare legs under the sweater hem, face softened by the long day, the less-armored version of you that only really appears after hours. Something in his expression shifts by half a degree and settles before you can pin it down.
You both move past whatever that was with real commitment as he steps aside and lets you in.
The room smells faintly like clean laundry and hotel air-conditioning, and for a moment it is so ordinary- you in your sweater, him in sweats, the late hour of it all pressing quietly around the edges- that the strange little hitch at the door could easily feel imagined. Misread. Easy enough to file away and keep walking.
So that is what you do.
You slip past him into the room, already asking where he wants you, whether he is actually racing tonight or just setting things up, whether the cats at home are judging his absence, and he answers in that same dry, steady cadence as he closes the door behind you.
Whatever was there at the threshold gets tucked neatly away.
Or seems to.
Once you are both settled, Max more or less stops paying attention to you.
He crosses to the rig, drops into the seat, and puts his headphones on like that is the real beginning of the evening. From there, everything narrows. He calibrates something on the wheel, checks pedal input, adjusts a few settings with the clipped efficiency of someone who has done this a thousand times and still takes it seriously every single one. You watch from the couch, curled into one corner, following it with the kind of interest you always have when someone competent is doing a thing they care about.
After a minute, he glances over and says, “I’m streaming.”
You look up.
“So you should be in or out.”
It takes you half a second to understand what he means, and then you lie down lengthwise on the couch, phone in hand, tucking one arm under your head.
“There’s nothing,” you say, “I would love to do right now more than pretend I don’t exist.”
That gets the faintest movement at the corner of his mouth. “Alright,” he says, and turns back to the screens.
And then that is that. He drives. You scroll. The low murmur of his stream in your peripheral hearing, the occasional sharper line from him into the headset, the muted sounds of the rig, the soft blue-white wash of screens over the room. Every so often you glance up from TikTok to watch a stint or a setup change or the shape of his hands on the wheel, then drift back down into the mindless comfort of your phone.
It’s one of the most relaxing parts of your week. Not because anything is happening, exactly, but because nothing is being asked of you.
Max is not trying to cheer you up. He is not trying to draw you out. He is not mining you for a better mood or a prettier version of yourself. He is barely interacting with you at all. Just letting you be there. Letting you take up space on his couch and soften into the cushions and go half-liquid with exhaustion while he does his own thing a few feet away.
You have spent days being handled. Styled. steered. Asked for one more thing, one more smile, one more answer, one more small usable piece of yourself. Even the people who love you best can still want something from you- warmth, attention, reassurance, performance, ease.
Max, apparently, wants absolutely nothing. Or at least he gives that impression so well it amounts to the same thing. He borderline ignores you, and it feels incredible. No demand that you sparkle. No disappointment if you don’t. You can lie there with your frizzing hair and smudged eyes and dead phone-face, saying nothing for forty straight minutes, and the room does not tighten around it.
You can just… hang around.
You do not realize how starved you are for that until you have it, so you stay there on the couch in your thrifted sweater, lazily scrolling through nonsense while Max disappears into his sim race, and let the quiet anonymity of it soak into your bones. Every now and then he says something dry into the mic or mutters under his breath at the screens, and you smile faintly to yourself without looking up.
And then eventually, not too late, you slip out.
You don’t make a thing of it. You don’t make him pause his stream or wait for a clean break in whatever he’s doing. You just sit up quietly, gather your things, and move toward the door with the same low-impact presence you’ve kept all night.
You’re fairly certain he sees you go.
He doesn’t say anything.
You don’t either.
The hallway feels bright and empty after the lowlight of his room. You take the lift back down to your floor, the quiet pressing in again the second you’re alone, and by the time you get to your room the soft, borrowed calm of the evening has already started to thin.
Sleep doesn’t come cleanly. It hasn’t, all week. All month. All season, so far.
You fall into it in pieces, surface out of it in pieces. Dreams that don’t quite form into anything you can name, just the feeling of being held down, stuck, unable to move. You wake up with your heart racing, then drift again, then wake again. By the third or fourth time, you’re lying there staring at the ceiling with that familiar, hollow frustration settling in your chest.
This is getting old.
Around five, you give up, because there’s no point fighting it. You get up, move through your training on autopilot- stretching, calisthenics, the quiet physical routine that at least gives your body something solid to hold onto. It helps a little. By the time you’re done, the sky is just starting to lighten, and you can feel the relief coming not from the workout, but from what’s next.
Breakfast with Yuki. That, at least, is always easy. He talks too much, laughs too fast, and treats eating like a full-contact sport. Which is perfect, really, because you never end up in some shit little athlete buffet picking at eggs. He always finds somewhere good. Somewhere worth leaving the hotel for.
He talks the whole walk there- about some video he saw, about the place itself, about one specific dish he read about and absolutely cannot pronounce but is convinced will change his life. You let it wash over you, answering when it makes sense, laughing when he earns it, grateful for the simplicity of it.
No handlers. No cameras. No one asking for anything.
Just breakfast. And for a little bit, that’s enough… and then the AlphaTauri shoot starts, and by the second hour you can already feel your patience thinning.
It is your team’s headline sponsor, which means you have to bend over bakwatds whether you want to or not.. The boys get directed. You get… arranged. They get to stand there and be guys who happen to be wearing the clothes. You get picked apart by inches- chin, shoulders, legs, height, expression- while some photographer who clearly signed on expecting four Formula One drivers and one professional model keeps finding new ways to make that your problem.
By the time they call a break, you are running hot in a way that has nothing to do with the lights.
You keep it together through the last few shots- hit your marks, hold the expressions, adjust when asked- but the second they say “five,” you step off set and exhale hard, rolling your shoulders once like you’re trying to shake the whole morning off your skin, but doesn’t work, because the others are already peeling away. Jealousy is the simplest word for it, because they're done. They’re free.
You’re not.
You and Yuki are supposed to stay for the fragrance campaign. Another set. Another look. Another round of standing under lights and “like this?”-ing your way through the scrutineering of people who are apparently trained to see everything wrong with you.
It is, objectively, part of the job. It still feels like a punishment. You drop into the chair by the edge of the set, arms folded loosely, trying to cool off enough not to carry the irritation into the next round, when a shadow crosses in front of you. “Hey- sorry- can I just- ?”
You look up. The videographer. You’d seen him earlier- younger, a bit quieter than the rest, moving around the set with a kind of careful attention that reads as respectful instead of tentative. He’s holding his camera low, not in your face, not assuming anything. “Just want to check some things,” he adds, already stepping in a little closer. “If that’s okay.”
You nod. He doesn’t touch you right away. Just looks. Tilts his head slightly. Then, gentle, two fingers under your chin- “Left, a bit- ” and then “-look at me, please- yeah- hold that- ” He steps around you in a small circle.
You brace, because at this point you’re expecting it. The comment. The small correction dressed up as feedback. The thing that lands wrong and makes you want to bite back.
Instead-
“You have a very striking expression when you’re relaxed,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I mean, your eyes just cut right through, don’t they?” He doesn’t linger on it. Just steps back like he’s said something obvious, then walks away to murmur something to the photographer across the set.
It catches you off guard enough that you sit there for a second, but you don’t have long to linger on it before someone else’s presence is behind you. A hand rests on the back of your chair- but you don’t even have to look. It’s Max. It’s always Max, lately. “Stuck here?” he says.
You tilt your head back to look up at him.Obviously, you want to say, but you know he’s just here to rub it in.
He glances around the set, takes in the lights, the racks, the slow reset happening for the next campaign, and his mouth shifts into a private little smirk. “Unlucky. You know, if you drive faster they typically let you do less of this.” It’s warm, not unkind.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Some of us are freeloaders,” you shoot back. “Some of us are assets.”
He snorts. “Right.”
You shift in the chair, leaning back into it, looking up at him with a kind of tired, pointed amusement. The photographer quietly lifts a camera from across the set. Click click click.
The videographer glances at the screen after the shot, then back up at the two of you- Max standing there, one hand braced casually on your chair, you tipped back looking up at him, expression sharp and alive in a way it hasn’t been on set all morning.
They look at each other. Then back at you. “Max,” the videographer calls.
Max turns his head slightly. “Yeah?”
“You have a tux with you?”
There’s a small pause before Max frowns faintly. “Yeah. Why?”
Another glance between the two of them. “We’re thinking of swapping you in.”
“For what?”
“The fragrance spot.”
Max looks at them, and then at you. You stare back for exactly half a second before it hits, and then you instantly laugh like your life depends on it. “Wow,” you say, sitting up. “Karma is unbelievable.”
He looks between the videographer, the photographer, and then back at you- who is now very comfortably reclined in your chair like this has become a spectator sport- and you can actually see him start to build the argument in real time.
“I mean,” he says, measured, already backing away half a step, “I’d have to go get it. Get changed. That’s going to take a while.”
“That’s fine,” the videographer says easily. “We’re resetting anyway.”
Max nods once, like that was expected. Tries again. “And I’m not sure it’s in my contract.”
“It is,” the photographer says, without even checking anything. “You’ve got five hours of unscheduled content with us per season- we’ll just bill it to that.” You have to hide another giggle at that. He’s trying. He is really trying. Calm, logical, not making a scene, just quietly attempting to slide out of this with the least amount of fuss possible.
And it’s not working.
He exhales through his nose, glances back toward you like maybe you’ll offer him something- sympathy, an out, a shred of solidarity. You give him absolutely nothing- if anything, you look more pleased by the second.
You see the exact moment he realizes he’s not going to talk his way out of this, and you are openly grinning now. “Don’t,” he says.
You lift your brows, all innocence. “Don’t what?”
You watch him walk off set with a little grumble, then lean back in your chair with a quiet little sigh of satisfaction.
Yes. Suffer alongside you. The idea of Max being just as pissed off to be here- it doesn’t undo the morning or the photographer being kind of a dick or the slow, grinding exhaustion of the last few days- but it does improve your mood a bit. The chair is nice, too.
Sitting still while someone else fixes you is, at this point, a form of rest. You let them pull your hair back apart, rebuild it, touch up your face, and you don’t have to do anything except sit there and exist. No smiling on cue. No answering questions. Just the soft brush of hands and the low hum of people working around you.
But most of your newfound levity comes from Max.
Or, more specifically, the knowledge that Max is currently being inconvenienced on your behalf. You can picture it a little too clearly: the slight annoyance, the quiet resignation, the fact that he is now locked into this with you whether he likes it or not.
Karma, bitch. It brings you more satisfaction than it probably should.
A shadow falls across your mirror. The videographer. Director. Whatever he is. “Hey,” he says, easy. “Just wanted to give you a quick rundown before we start. This set’s mine,” he adds, almost as reassurance. “We’re just going to have some fun with it. Short clips, stills, promo stuff to support the full-length commercial. We will use actors for that bit. This is all just extra, so there’s no pressure whatsoever.”
Relief, immediate and unfiltered. “Great,” you say.
He smiles a little. “Do you know the premise?”
You hesitate. “Kind of.” He waits, clearly wanting your take. You shrug slightly in the chair. “Fragrance set. Alpha and Tauri. Male and female.” You make a small, vague gesture with your hand. “Yin and yang. Aggressive versus pretty. Dominant versus submissive. The usual.”
You’ve seen enough campaigns, enough branding language, enough mood boards to know how this story usually goes. The strong men’s scent. The soft, floral, quiet perfume. The contrast sells. It’s not your favorite storyline in the world, but it’s a couple clips for your headline sponsor- if you’re selling yourself out, it better be to them.
There’s a small pause, and the videographer tilts his head slightly, like you’ve said something stupid. “That’s… not what we’re doing.”
You frown, just a little. “It’s not?”
“No.” He gestures vaguely upward, like the answer is somewhere in the name itself. “Alpha Tauri. Brightest star in the Taurus constellation. It’s not about contrast like that. It’s about… mutual power.” You go still in the chair. He nods toward you. “Have you seen yourself?”
The makeup artist makes a small noise of protest. “I’m not finished- ”
“Show her,” he says, gentle but firm. A hand mirror is angled just enough that you can see.
And- huh. It’s not soft.
It’s not delicate or floral or anything resembling the quiet, submissive version of femininity you’d already braced yourself to play. The lines are sharper. The eyes darker, more defined. There’s something almost severe in the way the makeup frames your face now- still beautiful, but not in a passive way. In a way that feels… deliberate. Controlled. A little dangerous, if you’re being honest. You stare at this version of yourself for a second longer than you mean to.
The videographer watches your reaction, then gives a small, satisfied nod like you’ve just caught up to something he already knew. “Does that look like submissive to you?” he asks, not unkindly.
You huff a quiet breath through your nose. “No.”
“Good.” He doesn’t linger. Doesn’t over-explain. Just pats your leg lightly, a quick, grounding gesture that somehow doesn’t feel patronizing, and says, “Get dressed. It’ll be fun. I promise.”
Then he’s gone, already moving back toward the set. The makeup artist resumes, muttering faintly about interruptions, and you wait quietly for him to release you to dressing.
And when you get there, the dress- My God. The dress is… everything. Heavy in your hands when they pass it to you. It has weight to it, like it knows exactly what it’s doing. The fabric catches the light in a way that feels almost indecent, deep and dark and glossy in places, matte in others, cut to sharpen you instead of soften you. When you step into it, it slides up your legs and the slit settles high- higher than anything you would ever choose for yourself in a work environment- , the line is flirting dangerously close to inappropriate.
It is obscene.
It is perfect.
For a second- just a second- you forget you’re exhausted, because it feels like being sixteen again, stepping into a prom dress for the first time, only this one costs more than your first car and fits like it was designed specifically to make you a Bond girl. It cinches where it should, leaves bare what it wants, accentuates everything. You turn once in the mirror without meaning to, catching the way it moves, the way it holds.
You wouldn’t even know how to source something this nice, much less have the stomach to buy it. This is not your world, not really. But damn if it isn’t fun to visit. You step out onto set with a little more awareness of yourself than you’d like to admit, the fabric whispering against your skin with every step.
And then you see the car. You stop, because…. that is not a prop. That is… something else entirely.
It sits under the lights like it belongs there- low, long, clean lines and vintage in a way that feels intentional rather than dated. The badge is gone, stripped for the campaign, but the shape is familiar in a way you can’t quite place.
It looks like a Mustang. You’re an American motorsports professional- you can pick out the body lines of arguably the country’s most iconic car in your sleep. And the lines are there- but… it’s not a Mustang. It’s sleeker. European, somehow. Like someone took the idea of an American muscle car and refined it until it spoke a different language.
You approach it slowly, instinctively careful. The kind of careful you get around things that are clearly expensive and clearly not yours. Your hand hovers before you touch the door, then you open it with the lightest possible grip, like you might offend it if you’re too rough.
The interior is immaculate.
Of course it is.
You lean in, bracing one hand on the frame, peering at the dash, the stitching, the layout. It’s familiar, but not. Your brain starts trying to piece it together- this line, that curve, the proportions of it- when you pick up on the logo on the floor mats.
“Aston Martin?” you murmur, mostly to yourself, trying to reconcile it. “Why does it- ”
“It’s built by Ford.”
You spin around and are face to face with Max, and for a second, you don’t say anything.
You’ve never seen him like this. Not… in person, at least. No fuss, no flash- no spectacular buttons or jewelry on the cuffs. The tailoring doesn’t wildly deviate from any other tux- just sharp lines and dark fabric sitting exactly where it should. The white shirt breaks it up just enough, the collar crisp, the jacket cut close through the shoulders.
And still, it just… works. Wide lapels that make his shoulders look a mile broad. His bowtie is a bit larger than normal, and it looks good, and still you have to bite back a little smile because it’s a fun choice, but Max and tuxes and fun aren’t exactly three things you’ve been able to consolidate as related quite yet.
He cleans up nice, and that’s fucking annoying.
You’re aware of it in the same quiet, off-axis way you were at the door last night- like your brain registers something before you’ve decided whether it’s relevant. It makes you hesitate, just a fraction. Makes you feel a little… out of position. Not outmatched, exactly. Just not entirely settled in your own skin for a second.
Which is also, annoying. You are wearing this dress. There’s not a dman thing you should feel insecure about. Still, the feeling is there.
“Don’t do that,” you say instead, defaulting to irritation because it’s easier. “You scared the shit out of me.” Max doesn’t answer right away, you realize, because he’s looking at you.
Not leering, or even really staring, but he is taking stock in that direct way he has when he’s making observations about something and not really bothering to pretend that he’s not or hide it behind politeness. There’s the faintest hitch in his posture as his gaze tracks once, briefly- your face, your shoulders, the line of the dress where it cuts high at your leg- then comes back up like nothing happened.
He resets, looks past you, back at the car, like he’s chosen the safer topic without making it obvious. “Eighties Aston. When Ford owned most of the company. Helped them manufacture.” You turn halfway back toward the car, following his lead without commenting on the shift. “That’s why it’s so…” he trails off, searching for the word.
“Sexy?” you offer with a little laugh.
He scoffs gently. “I was going to say American.”
You glance at the lines again- the weight of it, the stance, the way it sits under the lights. “Same thing,” you say, almost absent, like it’s just a fact.
There’s a small pause. “Yeah,” he says.
Neither of you looks at the other again until they’re placing you in frame, and of course, the first setup goes strangely. Not a complete disaster- at least it’s better than getting nitpicked during the photography session. Nobody’s frustrated or openly uncomfortable, but there’s a stiffness to it that wasn’t there earlier when you and Max were beside the car and accidentally giving the videographer exactly what he wanted.
Now there are marks. Weird pauses when they’re adjusting the lighting. Direction. People watching you exist, the way you move your shoulders or tilt your head or-
You feel… off. You don’t know why.
You step into position beside the Aston while someone adjusts the train of your dress and another person dabs at the inside corner of your eye with a makeup sponge. Max settles opposite you, one hand braced on the roof of the car while the assistant checks framing.
“Okay,” the videographer says. “Just look at each other for me.”
That’s easy. Correction- should be easy. You look at Max all the time. Instead, the second your eyes actually land on Max’s, something in your body misfires.
A sharp, humming sort of awareness you can’t seem to switch off. The tux. The way he’s standing. The fact that he smells good when you’re this close. The heat of the lights. The dress against your skin. Your own pulse, suddenly noticeable for no reason whatsoever.
You look away too fast. “Sorry,” you say immediately, embarrassed by your own weirdness. “Hang on.”
It’s plain as day to the set that Max is off too. He keeps adjusting his cuffs. Looking at the car, then you, then away again. There’s a strange over-correction happening and the videographer considers calling it out. Decides against it as he watches you stumble through another setup. Better to just keep things moving and let you two settle into it naturally. “Totally fine,” he says easily instead. “Let’s just loosen it up. New plan. Max, stay standing.”
Max glances up from where he’d been adjusting his cuff again. “Alright.”
“You,” he says to you, gentler, “sit.” Someone pulls a stool in near the car, angled toward camera. You settle onto it automatically, smoothing the dress beneath you while the lighting team reworks the frame around the new height difference.
And immediately- better. Because Max is no longer directly in front of you. He’s at your back now, standing slightly behind and beside the chair, broad shoulders cutting into frame while the focus stays entirely on you. His face barely appears at all in the monitor test. Just the clean line of the tux, the shape of him, one hand loose near the back of the chair.
The effect is… striking.
The facelessness of it somehow makes him feel bigger. The dark silhouette of him behind you makes you look smaller in comparison, softer physically without actually diminishing you. You’re still the center of the image. If anything, more so now.
The videographer nods slowly at the monitor.
“There it is.”
And because you don’t have to fully deal with Max’s face anymore, your body starts settling back into itself.
You can ignore him better when he’s behind you.
You stop thinking so hard about where your eyes are going. Your shoulders loosen. The strange static under your skin eases enough that you can finally slip into the rhythm of the thing- slow turns toward camera, a hand against your own collarbone, the sharp line of the makeup finally making sense under the lights.
The videographer starts moving faster now.
“Beautiful.”
“Hold that.”
“Yes- chin down slightly- perfect.”
You breathe easier. Until-
“Okay,” he says casually, “give me one hand back on his jacket.”
And instantly, the weirdness comes roaring back. You lift your hand carefully toward Max’s lapel like you’re approaching a nervous animal. “Is this… okay?” you ask quietly, glancing up at him instead of the camera.
Max blinks once. “What?”
“Like- ” Your fingers hover uncertainly against the jacket. “This isn’t weird?”
His mouth twitches faintly. “No.”
The videographer watches this exchange over the monitor with growing fascination. “Great,” he says smoothly before either of you can overthink yourselves into another spiral. “Now keep that and look at camera.”
You do, even if you’re still too aware. Not visibly enough for anyone outside the set to pick up it, probably. You hope. You’re hitting the poses. Holding eye lines. Giving the camera what it wants. But under your skin, everything feels just slightly over-wound. Like every nerve ending got turned up one setting too high.
Your hand stays carefully against Max’s jacket, but your shoulders are getting tight. Your breathing shallow in that unconscious way that happens when you’re trying too hard not to do something wrong. You can physically feel yourself overthinking again. Whether your hand placement looks natural. Whether your body angle is weird. Whether Max secretly hates this and is just being polite because there are cameras and twenty people watching.
Then-
Warmth. A hand settles into the space between your shoulder and neck.
Max.
He bends slightly, close enough now that his voice doesn’t need to be loud. “You need to relax,” he says quietly. There’s amusement under it. Something dry and steady and annoyingly calm. “I won’t bite. I swear.”
Your first instinct is to tense harder, because now you are extremely aware of the fact that Max Verstappen is touching you. But then… you relax.
Because he’s right.
What the fuck are you so worried about?
It’s Max. You know Max. You’ve fought with him. Cooked for him. Fallen asleep on his couch. Drunk-walked home with him at midnight. He is not some terrifying stranger. He’s just… Max.
Your hand softens naturally against his jacket. Your posture… loosens… and suddenly the whole thing stops looking staged. One second you’re stiff and overthinking where your fingers go, and the next something clicks into place and suddenly you feel like you might actually deserve to get paid for this.
The videographer sees it immediately. His eyes flick once to the monitor, then brighten almost imperceptibly, keeps rolling while Max straightens again behind you, his hand slipping away from your shoulder like it had been nothing at all.
Objectively, he already has more than enough footage for the digital campaign. More than enough for short cuts and promo clips and still pulls. But every time he thinks he’s got it, something else happens- another glance, another bit of dialogue, another tiny interaction that feels weirdly alive on camera in a way these things almost never do.
At first it had just been chemistry in the abstract sense- good visual balance, easy banter, two attractive people photographed well together. But somewhere over the last hour it’s become something sharper than that.
You and Max keep ending up closer. It just… happens. A hand lingers a little longer on his chest while they reset the lighting. His hand settles lower against your waist during another setup “just to see how it looks” and never really leaves. You lean into him more naturally now when they place you together instead of holding yourself stiffly apart. He bends down to hear your muttered comments between takes and doesn’t move back immediately after. Every adjustment gets smaller because eventually there’s nothing left to correct. You both start instinctively finding each other in the frame.
You and Max are hiding behind the same explanation: It’s work. This is literally the assignment. The campaign is built around tension and magnetism and mutual gravity, so of course you’re touching more. Of course you’re leaning into each other. Of course your bodies are starting to move together more fluidly after hours on set. That’s professionalism. That’s being marketable. That’s you being good at your job.That’s all this is.
The fact that the air feels a little heavier every time Max steps close is irrelevant. The fact that your pulse occasionally jumps when his hand lands on you unexpectedly is reflex. Or touch deprivation. Or self-consciousness. And then finally, after entirely too many setups and entirely too much footage, the videographer claps his hands lightly once and says, “Okay. One left.”
The crew starts shifting toward the car again. “This one’s a driving shot,” he says, already sounding apologetic before he’s even explained it. “And, we wrote it for actors, not…- look- I know it’s kind of pushing it.”
That immediately gets your attention, because what do you mean, ‘pushing it?’
The videographer steps in almost at once, clearly already preparing alternatives. “We can modify it a hundred ways,” he says quickly. “Or skip it entirely. Seriously. Totally fine. You’ve both done great, but, um- the original concept,” he says carefully, “was the actor driving, actress kind of…. kind of in his lap…” He makes another helpless little gesture. “You know, feet out the window. Intimate. Expensive. Dangerous. Fragrance-commercial bullshit.” He waves it off like it’s very much not a big deal.
You blink once. Um. Oh. The guy is already walking it back in real time. “But we absolutely do not have to do that,” he says immediately. “We can just do standard interior shots. Or split coverage. Or whatever. It’s okay, really.” Because there is no fucking way they’re going to agree to this.
You glance at Max automatically.
He looks unsurprised by the suggestion, at least, like this isn’t even the first time he’s been used as a prop. Slightly resigned, maybe. Like this tracks with the trajectory of the day.
The director continues, still cautious. “No pressure at all. I just wanted to be clear before we moved on.”
There’s a small pause. You think about it. And honestly…
you don’t have anyone to answer to. No boyfriend waiting back at the hote to get pissy about thisl. No complicated personal life that’s going to explode because you sat in somebody’s lap for ten seconds on a commercial set.
So you chew on your nail, glance at Max again and say, cautiously, “I mean…” everybody on set goes quiet, “...as long as,” you continue, looking at Max now instead of the crew, because that’s honestly what matters here, “there’s not some socialite somewhere that’s going to pour a drink over my head later…”
Max stares at you for half a second, then huffs a laugh. “No,” he says.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
You lift one shoulder. “I can at least try it.” The silence that follows is almost comical. The videographer looks between the two of you like he cannot believe this is working. “Only if you’re comfortable,” you add quickly to Max, because despite everything, that still matters more to you than the shot does. “Like, actually.”
Max looks at you for a second longer than necessary, and there’s something strange in his expression again, but he says, calmly, “It’s fine.” The videographer practically lights up.
“Great,” he says immediately, before either of you can reconsider. “Amazing. Perfect. We’ll keep it quick.”
The crew starts moving at once, and getting into the car is, unfortunately, hilarious. Not sexy, and not even a little bit smooth. Hilarious, because the dress is approximately one engineering failure away from becoming a public indecency charge, and the Aston was clearly not designed with two people behind the wheel in mind.
“Okay, butt first,” somebody says helpfully as you’re already backing into the car.
“Thank you for the insight,” you deadpan.
Max is already behind the wheel by then, one arm hooked over the seat while he watches you attempt to back yourself into the space between him and the steering wheel without flashing the entire crew. You get one knee out the window. Then get stuck. Then start laughing because the situation is such a clusterfuck that there’s nothing else to do. Eventually you manage it with assistance from four people.
Someone gathers the train of the dress out the window to make it look more dramatic, and someone else carefully lifts your legs and angles them. Another assistant tucks fabric under your knees while apologizing every three seconds.
By the time they’re done, you’re basically reclined against Max’s chest, one arm braced lightly around his shoulders so you don’t slide. You trust them when they tell you it looks incredible. Unfortunately, it also means you are now very aware of Max.
Like so extremely aware.
Your entire side is against his chest. One of his hands is resting low near your hip because there’s literally nowhere else for it to go in the cramped interior. His face is close enough that if either of you moved wrong you’d probably knock foreheads.
And there’s downtime now. Lighting adjustments. Lens swaps. People fussing with the train of the dress outside the car. Which means you’re just… sitting here. In his lap.
Which is… a lot.
The interior of the car feels smaller now that everyone has stepped back a little. Warmer. The smell of leather and expensive cologne and hairspray trapped together under the lights. You shift slightly to get comfortable and accidentally end up even closer. Your face turns toward his automatically and- for one sharp, stupid second-
Christmas Eve flashes through your head.
The twin bed. The dark. His face close to yours exactly like this, eyes half-lidded and serious and the way he looked when he finally stopped trying to be so fucking insufferable for once.
You glance at him slightly, suddenly self-conscious in a very specific way, and your brain apparently panics by rerouting into nonsense, so you blurt quietly:“You would tell me if I smelled bad, right?”
And even though it’s word vomit, you become acutely conscious of the fact that you have been on set for hours- under hot lights, in heavy makeup. Max blinks once. “What?”
“I’m serious.” You lower your voice automatically, because there are still people moving around outside the car. “Like if I smelled sweaty or weird or something.”
For a second he just stares at you like the question itself has caught him completely off guard. Then his mouth twitches. “You smell fine.”
“You would tell me, though, right? You didn’t even check.” He huffs a quiet laugh, looking down briefly like he’s trying not to smile too obviously about the fact that this is apparently your concern right now.
“You’ve smelled like hairspray all day,” he says.
You narrow your eyes slightly. “That’s not an answer.”
“You smell nice, okay? Relax.” You make a face and try not to think about that too hard. The space inside the car feels strangely small and warm and private despite the cameras pointed directly at you.
The crew keeps fussing around the outside of the car while you try not to move too much and ruin whatever precarious geometry they’ve created. Your legs are out the driver’s side window, the train of the dress spilling dramatically over the door and down the side of the Aston. One arm is looped loosely around Max’s shoulders to keep yourself balanced as he slips it into gear.
They get the rollers.
A few slow passes with the camera car tracking alongside the Aston, catching ever reflection of light off of the glossy paint. You stay folded against Max while the extra fabric spills dramatically across the side, one hand looped loosely around his shoulders while the other braces against the seat whenever he corners and turns it back for another pass.
The awkwardness is mostly gone by the time the crew finally starts wrapping- people peeling away from the convoy and lowering cameras and talking over each other about footage and pickups and schedules. And just when you’d expect him to pull it in, to let you out- Max says, casually, “We should get to have a little fun after this.”
You blink at him. “What?”
He glances over once. “Hang on.”
Your stomach drops instantly. “Max- ”
Too late. The Aston snarls, and then the world whips sideways. You shriek before you can stop yourself as Max throws the car into a brutal donut, tires screaming against pavement while the whole car spins hard enough to slam you sideways into him.
“OH MY GOD- ” You grab him on instinct. Not a cute grab. Your arms lock tight around his neck while laughter bursts out of you at the exact same time as the panic, the sound high and breathless and completely unprofessional.
Because you are basically unsecured. Your legs are still half out the fucking window. The only things keeping you from getting launched around the interior are your grip around Max’s shoulders and the fact that every few seconds his free hand comes off the shifter to catch your waist and brace you back against him.
The landscape becomes streaks of light and motion while your dress and hair whip everywhere and you’re laughing so hard now you can barely breathe. “MAX!”
He’s laughing too. One hand on the wheel, completely at ease while the Aston rotates violently around the empty stretch of pavement like he’s been waiting all day for an excuse to do something interesting.
When the car straightens, the set snaps back into motion. Crew come jogging in, someone opens your door and within minutes the whole illusion is being peeled off of both of you. By the time you’re back in your own clothes and walking out through the last of the lights and cables, it almost feels like it happened to somebody else.
“My sim race starts this afternoon,” Max says after a bit, hands in his pockets like it’s nothing.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly before Gavin can even start. “I don’t know. Maybe I just- maybe I need more laps here. The track’s weird and- ”
You feel maybe six years old. You sit at the end of the table with your head bowed slightly, elbows on your knees, still half in your fireproofs while the monitors around the room cycle through telemetry and sector comparisons. The adrenaline from FP1 has already curdled into something uglier- frustration, embarrassment, the hot little knot of defensiveness building in your chest.
Yuki beat you. Not enough for anyone outside the garage to really care, but for the first time in your entire career, he was definitively faster across the session for no apparent reason except that you were fucking slow.
“No,” Gavin says. He’s leaning against the opposite side of the table, arms folded, expression tired more than angry. Paternal, almost. Which somehow makes the shame worse. “We’re not doing that.”
Your jaw tightens a little automatically.
Because part of you does want to do that. You want to blame the track evolution or the setup or the learning curve or literally anything else because you have been trying so fucking hard this week and it feels unfair that trying hard apparently still isn’t enough.
Gavin must see it happen across your face because his expression softens a fraction before he reaches for the tablet beside him. “Well,” he says dryly, “let’s start with you being up all fucking night on Max Verstappen’s livestream.”
Your head lifts immediately. “Oh, come on- ”
Well, he’s not wrong. You were. On camera and everything. You had told yourself it didn’t matter because you weren’t sleeping anyway. Because the nightmares were bad and the adrenaline from the campaign had you buzzing and sitting behind Max’s sim rig and letting him teach you about iRacing felt easier than lying in the dark staring at hotel ceilings until sunrise.
But hearing it out loud like this- hearing it framed as a professional failure- makes shame crawl hot up your neck. “I wasn’t- ” you start weakly, then stop because there’s nothing useful to say.
Gavin is already pulling up your biometric data. “In fact,” he continues, calm enough to be terrifying, “you’ve barely slept all week.” The monitors change. Graphs. Numbers. Your resting heart rate trending higher every day. Sleep debt climbing. “You are so fucking negative on calories right now it’s not even funny,” he says.
You close your eyes briefly. “And,” Gavin continues, tapping the screen once, “you’ve lost seven pounds since Bahrain.”
That one surprises you enough that your head lifts. “What?”
“We have to rebalance ballast. That's why your car felt so bad today.”
Oh. Oh, that’s bad. Ballast means the car noticed. You stare at the numbers on the screen while something slow and horrible starts settling in your chest. You really had thought this was just… a couple corners cut here and there. Some missed sleep. Some missed meals.
“I’m trying,” you say quietly. You’re eating when you can. Sleeping when you can. Smiling when you’re supposed to. Doing the sponsor work and the interviews and the prep and the sim and the travel and the driving and all of it while your body slowly starts waving little white flags you keep pretending not to see, and now you’re starting to fail your team.
Gavin’s expression softens slightly at the look on your face. “I know you are,” he says.
Which almost makes you cry from sheer relief because at least he believes you’re not intentionally self-destructing. He pushes away from the table and comes around beside you now instead of standing across from you like an authority figure delivering judgment.
“This is a lot,” he says. “I know it is.” You stare down at your hands.
“The training load alone would be a lot. Then add travel. Add the sponsor obligations. Add moving countries every five fucking days. Add learning an F1 car while everybody in the world watches you do it.” He exhales quietly. “This is not normal.”
You huff a tiny laugh at that. “No?”
“No.” Gavin shakes his head once. “And pretending you should just magically absorb it without support is stupid.” The knot in your chest loosens a little bit, because nobody has really said that out loud yet. Mostly everyone just keeps telling you how exciting this all is.
Gavin gestures vaguely toward the telemetry screens. “But we need to problem solve this shit as a team, yeah? There are solutions for this.” He shrugs. “If you need a fucking puppy, we’ll figure out how to get you a puppy.”
That startles a laugh out of you.
“I’m serious. If a good night’s sleep is the difference between you scoring even one extra point or having one less part made this season, it is fiscally beneficial for this team to solve your sleep problem. We’ll buy you a custom mattress and drag it around the world if we have to,” he says. “I don’t care.”
Then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a company credit card. “For right now,” he says, holding it out, “I need you to go buy something with an offensive amount of calories.”
“And then,” Gavin continues, pointing toward the hallway, “you are going to go lie down in your drivers room.”
You make a face automatically. “Gavin- ”
“I mean it,” he says again, softer this time but no less firm. “I don’t care if you sleep. I don’t care if you stare at the ceiling. But you better be horizontal, off your phone, in the dark until I come get you.”
Your mouth opens slightly, but he points at you before you can argue. “And if I walk in there and catch you watching TikTok edits of yourself or answering emails, I will take your phone, so help me God.”
“You sound like my dad.”
“Perfect,” Gavin says dryly, and it hits somewhere tender enough that you look away immediately.
You buy the food. You turn out the lights. You lie down.
And there’s only one thing that chaps your ass more than a man telling you what to do with your body, and that’s a man telling you what to do with your body and being right, but… Gavin is right.
FP2 is better. Measurably, annoyingly, undeniably better. You feel it in the car immediately- not perfection or magic or some cinematic return to form where the world rights itself and you suddenly become invincible again. Just… clean. Quiet. Your hands stop chasing the wheel so much. The car stops feeling like it’s happening half a beat ahead of you. The entries are sharper. The exits less messy. The little hesitations that had infected FP1 have mostly burned off.
The team, of course, says nothing useful to the press about why, because they’re fucking G’s and have your back. Publicly, they frame it around data runs and sensible setup changes and a strong response to the first session. They would never throw you under the bus. Never say, yes, our rookie was running on fumes and then ate a giant sandwich and took a nap like an overtired toddler and magically found three tenths.
But inside the garage, the improvement is total enough that nobody has to say it out loud.
You hate that Gavin was right. You hate it even more because part of you is also relieved. Relieved you’re doing better. Relieved you were able to take a nap. Relieved someone is looking out for you. Relieved they’ve eased up your schedule. Relieved that your success no longer feels, entirely, like a you problem and more like a team effort. It’s like you are drowning in yourself, a little bit, and for the first time in forever someone has walked by and said “do you want a fucking lifejacket? Some swimming lessons?”
So when evening comes and you find yourself with the strange, disorienting reward of actual free time, it feels vaguely insulting. Like you’ve been given a reward for sucking. Who knew being worse would earn you a curfew and a schedule and a better lap time.
You’re under strict instructions now: get food, go back to your room, go to bed. No cocktails. No wandering. No getting “distracted” by anything that even looks like an email. Gavin had delivered the orders with such paternal finality that arguing would’ve felt embarrassing.
So you end up leaning against the hotel bar in clean clothes with your hair mostly brushed out and your phone face down beside the menu, waiting on your steak chimichurri sliders. The bar is warm and low-lit, that international-hotel design that makes every city feel faintly interchangeable after a while. Glass clinks softly somewhere to your left. Someone laughs too loudly behind you. You ignore all of it and keep scanning for steak, potatoes, bread, something salty.
Then a man comes up to the hostess stand beside the bar and says, “Can I get a fork?”
You know that voice anywhere. Max turns at almost the same moment, a paper bag in one hand and two foil-wrapped kebab orders tucked against his side. For one beautiful second, he is caught completely red handed. You look down at the bag again, deliberately. Then back at him. “Well, well.”
Max’s expression goes flat immediately, which only makes it funnier. “Hi,” he says.
“Did someone eat their kebab after all?” He says nothing. You push off the bar a little, menu forgotten entirely now. “Not just eat it,” you add, eyes flicking meaningfully to the second order. “But liked it enough to go back for seconds.”
You are delighted.
Because of course he ate it after you left. Of course the extra order mysteriously disappeared. And of course this man, who had acted like your street food was one step removed from biohazardous waste, has now snuck off to get more under cover of darkness like a criminal.
“I knew it,” you say, fully grinning now. “Oh my god.”
“It’s not- ”
You laugh. “No, no, no. Don’t cheapen this. You were wrong. Was the terrifying little restaurant okay for your delicate constitution?”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “It was fine.”
“Fine?”
You stare at him. He stares back for one beat, then relents by inches. “Good.”
You clap one hand lightly over your heart. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted.”
The hostess slips your take-out across the marble counter, steam curling from the vents in the clamshell. You thank her, shift the bag into one hand, and fall back in beside Max as you both aim for the elevators, still volleying little insults about kebabs and delicate constitutions.
The lift arrives. You step in first and scan the panel, thumb poised over floor number 15 while Max leans against the opposite wall with his kebab bag rustling. The doors start to glide shut and you both pointedly pretend you don’t hear the person down the call calling to hold the door.
“So,” he says, eyebrow flicking up, “you’re really just going to go eat by yourself?”
You tap the close button, like an asshole, but you’re really not keen on sharing a lift with a fan currently. “That was the assignment.”
“Come up,” he says. “Just for a bit.”
The lift smooths upward without a jolt. You should refuse. Gavin will murder you and then hang your head on the wall to scare his next rookie into listening. And yet, you shrug, your thumb slides to 30, and the elevator climbs the extra floors.
He lets you both in, and you toe off sneakers at the door, drop cross-legged onto the couch, and set your take-out between you like a peace offering. He kicks off his own shoes, tosses kebabs onto the low coffee table, and disappears long enough to return with paper napkins and two bottles of water.
“What did you get?” he asks, opening one kebab parcel.
“Steak sliders,” you say around a shrug, already peeling open the cardboard clamshell. “Doctor’s orders.” The smell, rich and herby, makes your stomach tighten with instant, reflexive hunger. You pluck a slider, tear a neat bite, and catch him sneaking a longer look than necessary.
In trade, you lean over, pinch a single seared chunk of lamb from his kebab wrap. “Research,” you declare, popping it in your mouth before he can object.
He scoffs but tilts the foil toward you in silent permission. Soon you’re trading without commentary- one of his perfectly charred gyro strips for some of your truffle fries, a swipe of yogurt sauce across the edge of his naan traded for the last bite of a slider. Conversation drifts- practice sectors, the cats, Max talks about wanting to sponsor an enduro car next year.
When he finally starts to get up, Max doesn’t say stay, but he also doesn’t say go. He just flicks on a lamp, toes the kebab bags toward the trash, and starts powering up his travel sim rig in the corner like this is the most natural progression in the world. Screens hum awake, the wheel calibrates with its little whir-click-whir, and the LED strip under the wheel washes the carpet in soft blue.
Halfway through logging into his stream account, he turns, routine as ever. “You want in?”
You shake your head, mouth quirking. “Gavin will literally murder me if I’m not horizontal in the next twenty minutes.”
Max shrugs, already adjusting the wheel angle. “So”- he vaguely motions toward the king-size bed twelve feet away- “lie down.”
Just that. As if the bed in his room is no different from a spare chair.
You glance at it. Crisp white duvet, navy throw folded neat at the foot. Clean and inviting- and also identical to your own bed two floors down. This is a terrible idea.
Max is already fitting his headphones on, attention sliding back to the monitor, unconcerned whether you accept the offer or not. It isn’t possessive; it isn’t even expectant. Simply matter-of-fact, like he’s offered you a spare towel.
“…Just for a little bit,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him.
Max’s stream intro music starts- low synth, his teammates’ voices bubbling through. You kick off your sneakers near the couch and wander towards the bed. The duvet gives under you with that hotel-fluffed loft you never can quite manage at home. You lie on your side with your arms folded up by your chin and blearily watch Max’s wheel turn.
You close your eyes, telling yourself this is just a pit stop. Twenty minutes, you promise yourself. The pillow is cool beneath your cheek. You catch one last fragment of Max telling chat he’s running a short program tonight, then nothing at all.
Twenty minutes.
____________________________________
“Hey.” Soft. Low. Almost a whisper. A gentle pressure on your shoulder, warm but careful.
You fight your way up from somewhere thick and dark, eyes gritty, limbs heavy as sandbags. For a second you don’t know where you are- just the shape of sleep still wrapped around your throat- until the low lamp comes into focus and, with it, Max.
He has left one light on- not so much as to make your eyes burn, but exactly enough that you can see his face clearly when your eyes finally catch on it. Enough that the room doesn’t feel wrong. He’s a little farther back than he needs to be, hand already retreating from your shoulder, giving you space before you even ask for it.
“How long- ?”
“Couple hours,” he murmurs. His voice stays quiet, steady. The duvet shifts lightly where he gives it a small tug back and sits on the other side. “Didn’t want you waking up confused.”
“If you want to stay,” he offers, voice casual, “it’s fine. I was just giving you the option to go back to your own room if you’d rather.” He’s in an old race-team T-shirt, shorts, nothing showy. You search yourself for alarm, or concern, or danger. Find none. Just exhaustion and the dim comfort of not having to think another step ahead.
“Too tired,” you mumble, sliding down under the duvet this time and pulling it to your collarbone.
“Okay.” He reaches over you, clicks the bedside lamp to its lowest amber glow. “I’ll kill the lights.” A last faint click, and darkness settles. Mattress shifts as he stretches out beside you, not touching, but close enough that warmth seeps through the space between.
Your body is already falling. Walls you usually keep up- noise about nightmares, safety, boundaries, what things might look like- stay down. You trust him to be safe. You trust him not to make it weird. You trust him to not blab about it.
“‘Night,” you breathe, words slurring.
Max’s reply is little more than a rumble in the half-light.
Marbles tack up on the tyres as you nose the car into the box- engine finally quiet, hot air hissing up the wheel wells. Five-minute turnaround to Q3. Mechanics swarm, tyre blankets on, nose cone wiped, fluid temps checked. You crack the visor and it’s like the world resumes- brake dust and burnt rubber pour in with the noise of the garage and the hard thud of your own heartbeat. You feel like you could chew through sheet metal.
Gavin is there before the jack drops, tablet in hand, practically vibrating.
“You’re on it,” he says, eyes shining behind the visor strip. “Green all the way through your last two laps- keep that up and you’re in the fight with the big three, yeah?”
You nod once, quick. Sweat soaks into your braids. The numbers feel good- feel right again- clean entries, precise exits, aggression without the over-steer twitch that ruined Saudi. The car breathes under you instead of wrestling.
Gavin scrolls. “Options: banker on scrubbed soft, bolt the second set for one or two flyers. Or we can go straight to your new set, but all your softs are pretty chewed up. Probably best to try to take care of our extras, yeah?”
“Scrubbed first,” you say, throat raw. “Then new.”
He grins- an actual grin- and taps the note through to the pit wall. You’ve seen him pleased before; you’ve never seen him buzz like this in a real race, practically hopping in place while the crew re-torques the wheels. It hits you that everyone’s skating the edge of disbelief. Yesterday you were fading. Today you’re snarling on the heels of the Ferrari’s like you're waiting to bite their ankles. They’re all trying to figure out where it came from. Calories and a power nap, that’s what everyone thinks.
But you know better.
You’d slept- really slept- nearly ten straight hours. Knocked out cold on a hotel mattress under someone else’s name, lulled by Max’s steady breathing a forearm’s width away. No nightmares. No 3 a.m. lurch to the floor. Just dark, deep, unbroken rest that settled your hands and sharpened your eyes like a reset button the sport science people can’t quantify.
Crew chief clears you. Jack drops. Engine fires violent and alive. You squeeze Gavin’s forearm through the gap in the halo and flip your visor down. “Let’s finish it,” you say.
He pats the top of your helmet twice before he steps back, and as you roll down pit-lane and past Max’s empty bay, you briefly wonder if he felt the same strange calm when he woke to find you still breathing beside him.
The pit lane spits you out slow at first, all leash and no freedom, engine straining under the limiter while the whole car vibrates with withheld intent. You keep your hands light on the wheel. Keep your breathing even. The tyres underneath you are not fresh, not eager, not new enough to trust without a little coaxing, but that’s fine. You know how to ask nicely before you start making demands.
The line opens up, limiter off, and the car surges forward like it has been insulted.
You don’t attack the lap yet. You wake it up. A little weave, then another, broad and deliberate, feeling the old rubber load and roll and start to come back to you. You lean on the brakes harder than you need to, just to get some heat in everything, then release and let it run.
You are keyed all the way up, but it’s not frantic, you’re not overcooked. You’re ready. There’s a difference.
End of the back straight a flash of navy and yellow explodes from the mirrors- Max is on his flyer. You stay flat out right up into the corner before you peel a meter off, do a little swap into the turn that gives him the line so nicely it might as well be choreographed. Nice little tow he never asked for. You flick back onto the racing line, knit the wheel straight, feed throttle. Your lap is coming up.
It’s a racehorse-at-the-gate kind of feeling: nostrils flared, reins shaking. Up through eighth, speed blur lifting the front-wing tips. Brake at the 75-board, body braced against the belts. The car is on rails- old rubber, sure, but balanced- front end knifing in, rear settling just long enough for rotation before you smash curb exit.
You breathe through six, feather seven, flat-saw eight. Your helmet feels like a fucking kiln; sweat stings your eyes and dries before you can blink it away. Lance’s delta pings green ahead- P6 for him, smug little Aston badges on the timing tower. Not for long.
Into the hairpin you hold off on the downshift just a heartbeat later, shove the nose inside the darker groove, tyres shuffling but staying firm. The DRS makes your blood sing- all this seat time and there’s still moments where the sheer speed is mind-bending. This is your fucking car screaming 200 mph down the straits. Brake late, roll apex, throttle out earlier than sanity tells you to. The rear wiggles, but catches, and you make a note to adjust your timing.
Across the stripe, you sit P7, three hundredths off Stroll, trading punches with Carlos and Charles in the live timings.
“Okay, you’re in it. A new set should help you out,” Gavin warns in your ear. “Box, box this lap.”
Box. You mind your procedures, because you refuse to lose this momentum to a penalty. On the timing screen, Max punches provisional pole for the third lap in a row. Shocking. Whatever. You’re hunting green cars right now, not blue rocketships.
Out you go again- rubber glossy and virgin- but not for long. Turn 1, you brake later than before- and these fresh tyres laugh at the load, ask for more. Full power exit, and it’s just green, green, green. You're getting faster with every sector, and you’re pure instinct: a raw animal slamming on those inputs, feeling that world-class suspension punch you in the spine.
The fresh tyres deliver you, lap after lap, and the tower turns into a fist-fight of nameplates for the ‘best of the rest.’ Charles keeps looking like he has it one second, and then dying off the next. Lance throws everything at the Aston, slides wide,, and his delta bleeds red. They’ve already given their best today, and at some point it’s apparent they’re going to stay frozen beneath you on the timing stack, locked out.
But Carlos- Carlos keeps coming. P5 flashes to Ferrari, and well, that’s just fucking unacceptable for you. You respond- shove two wheels over the exit kerb of the chicane, engine screaming- and it flips to your number.
Next tour he steals it back by nineteen thousandths.
Heat builds under the helmet, a wild, metallic taste in your throat. Every time the screen changes you feel it in your pulse, hot and sharp- prove it, prove it, prove it. Gavin’s voice is a distant drone: “Reset, kid- take a beat and prep for one more if you want it- ” but you’re already ripping through S-curves, chasing green bars.
You nail the hairpin apex, rocket down the straight, perfect shift lights- and the delta glows +0.015. Not enough. You cross the stripe and reclaim P5, and your heart has either exploded or stopped altogether, but which you’re not sure. Two minutes left.
Carlos answers with a lap that is all scarlet aggression, Ferrari clipping every apex by millimetres. P5 flips red at the split screen and sticks: –0.007.
Chequered flag falls. Oh, fuck all the way off.
You coast into pit-lane ahead of him, visor cracked heat pulsing up the cockpit sides. The Ferrari idles past your box, and for one ridiculous second you picture leaping from your car onto his engine cover and throttling him like some cartoon bandit- just keyed-up racer brain, nothing personal, but God you wanted that fifth.
Instead you guide the car to the weight bridge, kill the engine, and sit there while the silence howls in your ears. Sixth on merit, Ferrari in sight. The garage erupts anyway when you pull it in- your best grid slot yet in a midfield car- and part of you does smile about it. But the other part files that achy, injustice feeling away, hot and bright, to use as fuel for tomorrow’s lights.
The media-zone gauntlet spits you out into late-afternoon glare and the arms of the junior press, but eventually, the reporters and influencers do peel away, cameras drift to the next driver, and you step aside to un-Velcro your suit collar, lungs still tasting rubber smoke. When you look up, Max is there- no planned reunion, just inevitable- shouldering his way past every interview that he’s not contractually obligated to give. You meet in the slack space between backdrops, helmets dangling from opposite hands. The grin hits both of you at the same time.
“Nice session,” he says, tapping a knuckle against the very edge of your shoulder. “Clean.”
“Likewise,” you answer, a little breathless, more from adrenaline than exertion. “Pole by four tenths? Must’ve been that tow.”
He snorts. “Thank God for that, no?”
“Oh, absolutely,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “That draft down the back straight- whole half second right there, you’re welcome. It’s like cheating.”
He shakes his head. You elbow him lightly as your turn; he bumps you back. The exchange is easy, charged only by leftover adrenaline and shared relief. For a second there’s no history- no last-season animosity, no awkward sponsor dinners, no exhausting fathers, no weird photoshoots- just two drivers who both had a good quali.
“You looked quick,” he adds, more genuine now. “Balanced.”
“Feel quick,” you say, and you realise it’s true. “They fiddled with a few things. The new tyres helped. Team’s over the moon.”
“Well, feel free to give a tow again tomorrow when I start lapping the midfield."
“Shut up,” you mutter, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. The warmth lingers; people move around you, mechanics hustling tyres, journalists calling names, but you and Max hold the centre of a small, accidental orbit.
The two of you drift out of the mixed zone and head toward hospitality, and conversation jogs from sector deltas to tyre drop-off, then meanders into nothing in particular- easy filler you don’t have to think about, which thank God, because meanwhile your brain is sprinting laps of its own.
Say it. Just ask. It’s one night.
You nod along to something Max says about front-wing damage, only half hearing him, and immediately forget your reply. Because every time you open your mouth to suggest staying again- “Hey, about tonight…”- the words tangle. You’ve shared a flight, shared a couch, shared a bed, shared ten hours of unconscious proximity, but somehow asking for a repeat feels bigger when it’s deliberate.
Luck, superstition, whatever. After today’s quali you’d sleep in the pitlane if it guaranteed tomorrow’s pace. And you know the difference was ten solid hours beside him. You just have to explain that without sounding…odd.
“You want to do dinner after briefing?” he asks as you step onto the paddock footbridge.
Your pulse jumps. Opening.
“Actually.” You clear your throat, glance at the walkway’s steel grating. “I was thinking- uh- about sleep.” He frowns slightly, confused and obviously waiting fr you to elaborate.. “I drove better today,” you rush on. “The sleep. I haven’t been sleeping well and- it worked. So… I wondered if maybe- just tonight- ”
Just a blank blink from Max. “You want to hang out still, right?”
“No. I mean, yes, yes, but- ” Your face heats under the sun visor. “I mean… if I could crash in your room again. After we… hang out.”
Max’s eyebrows lift, not in surprise so much as calculation. You can see him sorting variables: his own sleep, his own start, but somewhere beneath that the faint crease that says he does understand performance nerves.
“You think it’ll help.” Statement, not question.
“It will.” It comes out small but certain. “Just this once- Baku’s weeks away, I’ll get myself sorted before then. I’m just- ” You shrug, helpless. “Desperate.”
He’s silent long enough that your stomach knots, but when he looks over he isn’t skeptical, just… shy, almost, in a way you’ve never seen on his face.
“Okay,” he says. “My room?”
Air whooshes from your lungs. “Um, sure. If that’s okay?” Neither of you knows what to do with the sudden quiet, and you both laugh at the exact same time, which only makes it worse- better- something.
“So,” he offers, scratching at the base of his neck, “briefing, dinner, sleep. That’s the plan?”
“That’s the plan,” you echo, nodding too fast.
And somehow that’s the arrangement: purposeful, mutually agreed, startlingly innocent for all the potential undercurrent. You walk the rest of the way shoulder-to-shoulder, each of you a little pink about the ears, each pretending the other can’t see.
Danny catches the both of you right at the edge of the paddock flow, that loose end-of-day moment where everybody’s still keeping up the facade like they’re not trying to get the hell off of the track as soon as possible.
“Chef’s table at Collins tonight,” he says, like he’s announcing a pub stop. “I forgot I booked it. You guys in? Lando, Carlos- I think Charles and his new lady, we’ll see.”
You say yes without really thinking, because Max does, and agreeing feels easier than doing social calculus in public, and because you’re already moving, already buoyed by the good day. And then you’re on the cart back to the hotel, shoulder against the b-pillar, phone in hand, doing what you always do when something costs money: checking the math. Not spiraling about it, at least not yet- but you need to know what you’ve gotten yourself into. If you need to back out now.
Collins’ menu pulls up, and it’s a nice place, obviously. But it’s not insane. There are mains for normal people with normal people budgets. There are also things that look like they’re priced for people who don’t know what a per diem is, but you can just… not order those. Easy.
You run it through your head: entrée, maybe a side, maybe one drink if you feel like it. Tip, maybe. Is that a thing here? Taxi, if needed. All fine. It’ll sting a little on principle- because you’ve been weirdly disciplined since moving, not really buying things, not really “going out” unless it’s on the company’s dime- but it won’t wreck anything.
And it’s slightly odd to be doing it at all- to be able to do it- sitting at a chef’s table with your friends like you didn’t spend most of your life eating trackside sandwiches and counting gas money, but the oddness is more observational than emotional. Like coming to your house one day and seeing that yes, it’s still your house, but someone’s built luxury condos all over your neighborhood without telling you and your property’s tripled in value without you seemingly doing anything.
It won’t touch the money you still feel like you owe your parents, either, which is the real line in the sand. You split off upstairs at the hotel with direction to meet in the upper lounge at 7, which gives you roughly 35 minutes to get yourself sorted out.
You do not wash your hair- no chance. It would take a century to dry and you’d end up going to dinner with that weird moist scalp feeling that leaves the roots of your hair feeling gross and heavy and makes you irrationally irritated. So you rinse down fast- body only- hot water, quick soap, enough to get the day off your skin.
Then you stand in front of your open suitcase, throw a bunch of shit onto the bed, and make a decision you didn’t realize you’d been delaying: what the fuck do you wear?
Because it is a nicer place. Upscale dinner at an upscale restaurant. And every time you’ve ever been somewhere like that, it’s been for an occasion. An anniversary. A birthday. A promotion. A “this matters, so look like it matters.” You don’t know how to go to a place like that without at least trying a little.
You pull on a long black slip dress- simple, clean, the kind of thing that looks intentional without being flashy. Hair down, because it’s the quickest way to look finished, even if the waves are not intentional but actually from your sweaty braids. Simple earrings. Low block heels that are friendly enough you could do gymnastics in them. You keep the makeup minimal on purpose: mascara, lip gloss, nothing that requires precision or time.
You stare at yourself once in the mirror, head tilted slightly. You feel… underdressed, somehow.
Which is ridiculous, because you’re wearing a dress and heels. But the place is nice, and your brain runs on old rules: nice place means you should look nice, and your options are either this or the things you packed that are even more casual- or one dress you packed for the gala events that are so formal it would make you look like you misunderstood the assignment entirely.
So. This. You grab your clutch, check the time, and head for the elevator. You get there exactly when you said you would. And-
Lando is in jeans. Max is in jeans and a T-shirt. Daniel is in jeans and a T-shirt. Lando is still wearing his team polo, for fuck’s sake, like dinner is just an extension of paddock hours.
You stop short for half a beat- these- these- these fucking fuckers. Women would never do this shit to you. Then you keep walking, because what else are you going to do- turn around and sprint back to your room in heels?
They are all looking at you.
It’s not in a mean way, but it's not in a flattering way, either. They’re looking at you more like you’ve walked out in costume. Like you’ve accidentally raised the formality of the entire group by two levels without warning anyone. Like you’re about to tell them there’s a dress code they missed.
“Hi,” you say, forcing it light.
“Hey,” Danny says. Lando’s mouth opens like he’s about to say something that he thinks is funny, then closes again. Max’s eyes flick over you once and then he stares at the elevator panel like it suddenly requires intense concentration. Nobody says a word about your outfit. Which, in some ways, is worse than if they did.
The elevator doors slide shut and the ride down feels longer than it should, and the silence feels like a spotlight in itself. You can feel your own skin. The sleek fabric of the dress against your thighs. The way your hair falls. The ridiculous awareness of being the only one who obviously gave any effort at all.
You keep your face neutral and stare at the numbers as they tick down, trying not to let your initial embarrassment flare into anger.
They’re millionaires. They can wear whatever they want. They live in a world where nice dinners happen all the time, unremarkable enough to show up in a polo and still be treated like royalty. Of course they don’t feel the need to dress up.
It’s about you, and the fact that you did. It feels exposed to be the only one who tried. Like you’ve accidentally admitted something terribly immature by revealing that you still think places like this are special.
You swallow it down and tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself you look fine. You tell yourself you’re not going to spend the entire dinner mad at yourself just because these men don’t respect a dress code that doesn’t exist.
The elevator dings. Doors open, and you get ready step out first, chin up, heels clicking confidently like you meant to do this all along. And then Alexandra is right there.
Properly done up. Flashy little cocktail dress in a bright, unapologetic baby pink. Hair smooth. Makeup finished. Matching shoes, matching purse, the whole look calibrated in a way that says yes, this is dinner and yes, I meant it.
It’s like spotting a lifeboat in pink.
You practically fall the rest of the way out of the elevator trying to go stand next to her.
“Alexandra- hi,” you say, too bright, too grateful, closing the distance like you’ve known her longer than the ten minutes you actually have. You have met her once- briefly, on the yacht, before things got too crazy- just enough to exchange a polite chitchat and then drift apart in the churn of other people. She’s basically a stranger.
But right now she feels like an ally. A silent permission slip that you weren’t insane for dressing like this. She looks up, surprised for half a beat by your enthusiasm, then smiles- warm, a little amused, immediately receptive. “Hi,” she says, and her accent softens it. “You look… very nice.”
You could kiss her.
Instead you laugh, a little breathless, and dip your head. “Thank you. I- ” you glance back toward the elevator where Max and Lando and Danny are stepping out behind you like they’ve just come from a team briefing, “I thought I overdressed for a second.”
Alexandra’s eyes flick to the boys, take in the jeans and polos, and something sympathetic flashes across her face. She makes a tiny, elegant shrug. “They are just underdressed.”
You make a conscious decision to sit with her. Alexandra is bright and composed and clearly operating on the same social frequency you are tonight, and you latch onto that like it’s strategy. For both of your sakes. Because you do not feel like doing another hour of being the only woman in a room full of jeans and testosterone, and she probably doesn’t either.
You set your clutch down, smooth the slip dress at your thighs, angle your knees neatly under the table. For the first time since the elevator, you feel like you’re not sticking out.
You don’t really think about what’s going to happen with the chair on your other side.
Why would you? It’s not your job to manage the seating chart. You have no enemies here. Nobody worth avoiding. You got yourself next to the one other person in the room who understands heels, and that’s plenty of work for one night.
Behind you, chairs scrape.
Lando’s voice is close- he’s mid-joke about something, light and easy- and it’s clear to the rest of the room he’s drifting toward the chair beside you, like it’s natural, like that’s where he would like to be this evening. He’s already half reaching for it.
And then Max is there. He doesn’t shoulder Lando out or say anything sharp. He just steps in first, just a little quicker, like the space was always his to occupy. Like there isn’t even a decision being made. It’s almost polite in its rebuke, like Lando was the one stepping out of line for trying to sit there.
“Mate- ” Lando starts, amused more than anything, like he’s about to tease him for it. Max doesn’t even look up properly. He pulls the chair out and sits, unbothered, brooking absolutely no argument while pretending he’s not doing anything at all.
Lando pauses, recalibrates, and swings around to another seat with a shrug that says fine, whatever, like it doesn’t matter. It does, a little. But that’s their business.
You don’t notice any of it. You’re already leaning slightly toward Alexandra, asking her something small- how she’s finding it, if she’s been to Melbourne before, what she thinks looks good.
Max settles beside you like he never thought about sitting anywhere else. You only notice him once he’s already seated, when his elbow brushes lightly past yours as he reaches for the water.
You glance over, casual, half expecting Lando. “Oh- hi.”
He huffs a little laugh, like yes, hello, I’ve been right next to you all weekend, and says, “Hi.”
The appetizers keep coming and going in waves, little plates sliding through the middle of the table and getting picked at by whoever’s closest. You take things when offered, just enough to keep in the rhythm of the meal, but not enough to put a dent in any of the plates. You order swordfish- fun and exotic enough to feel special without actually being all that expensive. It’s gorgeous.
Dinner is perfect. Nothing outrageous happens. Nobody gets drunk or confesses anything or starts a fight. It is perfect in a normal way. Alex is lovely. Sharp without trying too hard, sweet and kind and more than happy to share her art studies with you. Talking to her feels easy almost immediately, and you find yourself leaning her way more than once, laughing softly into your glassless hand, pleased every time she laughs back.
And Max is funny.
That shouldn’t still surprise you, but it does a little, especially outside of his apartment. He sits beside you all loose shoulders and low commentary, dropping little lines into the table at exactly the right moment to send the guys on a new conversational tangent. The whole thing feels fluid and warm and lived-in. No awkwardness. No stiffness.
The boys needle you, of course.
About Carlos nicking P5 in the last lap. About being overdressed. About something stupid you said that last time at Jimmy’Z. About being a -“how you say”- hillbilly that talks with a mouth full of marbles.
You give it right back. It comes easily tonight. Nothing lands too hard. Nothing catches under your skin. You’re quick and warm and a little bit mean in the fun way, and they meet you there. Even Danny, who has finally fully recovered from his weird little wobble in Saudi, is back in his proper category- easy, familiar, all grin and good timing.
It is such a relief to feel this good that it almost makes you dizzy. You haven’t even had a drink.
Neither has anyone else, really- not properly. Danny and Alex have wine because they can. The rest of you are driving tomorrow. It’s just water and food and jokes and the weird, almost holy pleasure of feeling like you might have friend(s). Multiple. Plural.
By the end of the meal you feel… bright, and when the night finally loosens enough for people to peel off in directions that make sense, you split from the group in the elevator with some vague, soft goodbyes. Nobody questions it. Nobody should.
But you know exactly what you’re doing.
Throwing the scent off the trail.
Because you would rather die than let any of the boys realize you are not actually going to your own room. The idea of Lando discovering it, of Danny finding out, of anyone putting together that you and Max are somehow, inexplicably, doing sleepovers now- absolutely not. Death before dishonor.
And all the while, underneath the ordinary motions, there is this strange, buoyant feeling in you. Like your feet are not entirely touching the carpet. Like you are walking half an inch above yourself. You feel like you’re glowing. Or levitating, maybe. It’s stupid. Embarrassing, even- because it’s so much harder to pretend you don’t have any basic needs until they’re suddenly all checked off and you’re suddenly operating on a new level entirely.
Your belly is full of food. Your phone is full of new contacts- people who might want to make plans in the daylight, in Monaco, for no other reason than that you mutually enjoy each other’s company. Your body feels steadier than it has in days. Your head is clear in that way it only gets when you can actually fucking sleep. And under all of that, coiled hot and clean, is the fire of tomorrow.
Race day.
You can feel it waiting for you now without dread attached. Without the weight of depletion or the frantic fear that you’re already behind before the lights even go out. Tonight, for the first time in a long time, the prospect feels good. Exciting. Like something you want to sink your teeth into rather than pray to survive. You feel like a hunter- not hunted.
By the time you leave your room again, keycard tucked away and your steps careful in the hall, you feel almost absurdly ready. For sleep, sure, but also just for all of it. For the race. For the start. For the first lap. For whatever version of yourself shows up in the car tomorrow, because for once you trust that she’ll be there when you need her.
When you get to Max’s room, it feels… a little weird.
Not… wrong, per se, but a bit strange in the very plain sense of showing up at a man’s hotel door on purpose with your overnight things in your arms and the specific intention of sleeping in his bed.
With him.
It’s not anything dramagtic, though. He opens the door in socks and a T-shirt, says hi like you’ve come by to borrow a charger, and steps back to let you in. The TV is on. FIFA, from the look of it. All good. Fine. Normal.
So you put your pajamas on. They are not cute, and that is on purpose. They do not match. Big dark T-shirt with some California car meet printed across the back. Sleep shorts that are not indecent, exactly, but definitely not long either. You leave your bra on while the lights are still up because that feels easier, less self-conscious, like a line. Max barely looks up from the game when you come back out, which is nice of him.
You sit on the edge of the bed with your laptop for a while, answering the last few things you can’t quite let go unanswered, no matter what Gavin says. He finishes one match, starts another, swears once under his breath at the screen. The room settles around both of you in that low, companionable way you’ve somehow found with him.
Eventually, though, the night has to end. You close the laptop. At almost the same time, Max sets the controller down and decides he’s done too.
And all at once the room gets a little shy. Nobody says anything awkward. Nobody fumbles a joke. But the energy shifts anyway, softening into something more uncertain as the practical business of actually getting into bed, on purpose, begins. You slide under the covers first, careful and very aware of yourself, arranging the blanket and your limbs like there might be an unembarrassing way to do this and you are determined to find it. Max kills the TV, the room dimming down to the bedside lamp, and walks around to his side.
The mattress dips. He gets in. The bed settles.
You lie there on your side, facing outward, pulse a little too noticeable in your own throat. It is not bad. It is just… there. The awareness of him a foot away. The awareness of the dim room. The awareness that you are here on purpose this time, not half asleep on a couch, not collapsed by accident or necessity, but here because you asked and he said yes and now this is happening. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him almost turn. Almost take a breath. Like he is maybe thinking about saying something.
And that thought hits a wire in you immediately, because the last time Max spoke to you in a bed- really spoke, with that low rough tone and too little space between you- you ended up making out with him on Christmas Eve like a complete idiot.
God. The memory flashes bright and unwanted and you are instantly horrified with yourself for even thinking it. So you simply don’t let him say anything.
“Goodnight,” you say, quick but not rude, like a book set down firmly to end a conversation before it begins. Then you reach out, click off the lamp, and let darkness rush in.
In the cover of it, you pull one hand under your shirt, unhook your bra, wriggle it free through a sleeve with the practiced secrecy of womanhood, and shove it somewhere near your pillow. Then you pull the blanket up to your chin like that might protect you from your own thoughts, squeeze your eyes closed, and will yourself toward sleep before your brain can think of any other creative thoughts.
The mattress shifts once beside you. And then, in the dark, very quietly, Max says,
“Night.”
_______________________________________________
I am still, technically, alive.
⸻A WORD OF CAUTION mafia boss!lando norris x fem leclerc mafia!reader, 4,3k words, no warnings really... maybe a little fighting at the end? a lil angst?
MASTERLIST
lando and you drive off into the beginning night. the car is silent but not necessarily an uncomfortable one. your head is turned and your attention is out the window. the passing golden lights of monaco getting ready for a resting evening don’t mirror the emotions running through you. the bouquet is heavy on your lap, landos presence a solid one right beside you in the small space.
lando on the other hand is not agitated. not one bit. it’s rather an emotion that looks like it bores him but deep down he too, isn’t quite indifferent to how tonight might go. he booked monaco’s best restaurant. high end, dimmed lights, expensive candles and the best food money can buy. fine liquors served on ice and secrets and you know this is 99% to show off. yes, he brings a girl around. yes, it’s an expensive place. and yet he couldn’t care less about anything else that is not you.
once you arrive, lando doesn’t miss out one chance on being a gentleman. he opens your car door, hand on your lower back to guide you into the restaurant. a waiter expects you, no questions asked, no words received. she just nods, guiding you to the table that stands alone by the grand window. the harbor shining, the water mirroring every motion and it's artistic in a way.
you haven’t decided yet if you want to keep giving him the silent treatment or if you should call him out. tell him how stupid it is that his hair looks so perfect or how his scent is so tart in that way you want to snuggle up to someone in hope that it rubs off. no… not yet. you would have plenty of time to complain. you like to stretch the silence. only to prove a point of pride.
sitting opposite of him you study the menu like it’s the most interesting thing in this place. and lando studies his menu… sitting there, small scold on your face, eyebrows slightly drawn together in such concentration. the excessive chandeliers are nice too, yeah… the view, the white cotton table cloths that feel expensive alone at one touch. but nothing compares to his view.
another waiter comes and bows slightly, keeping himself professional but you can see the slight tightness in his shoulders "what will you be having tonight?" he asks patiently, waiting with the small pad in his hand.
you feel landos eyes on you, and as soon as he wants to say something you cut in. "i haven’t decided yet," you say with an arrogance, not looking up but keeping your eyes on the menu. your attitude makes the brit smirk, and he nods to the waiter politely, waving him off.
"a bottle of dom perigean 2013. chilled."
you roll your eyes at the order. of course he is ordering the most expensive one on the menu. closing it you toss it on the table and lean back in your seat. your eyes are on him. unyielding and attempting to assert dominance.
"trying to impress me?"
lando tilts his head to the side, studying you for the remaining moment. it’s clear as day that you’re provoking him. trying to get a reaction out of him with your words and your leclerc temperament. it’s kind of hot how you want to prove a point so bad. you’re strong headed, that for sure, he thinks.
"impressing you?" he repeats calmly, folding his hands in his lap and leaning back as well. "i don’t need to impress you."
he's so cold. so calculated. like every word he says is measured by his opponents reaction already. he knows exactly what to say and with his stance he makes it awfully challenging to stay unbothered by it. there is a silence that stretches, and lando knows that this is about something else. this is not a random meeting, neither is it a small chat. it’s business. and it’s still about a marriage.
"stop being difficult and talk to me."
lando is calling you out. he has the nerve to call you out? does he really hate your silence that much or does he always feel the need to command people around.
"talk to you?" you huff an unamused laugh. "about what?"
it’s the first eye roll you receive from him. but even that is so subtle you wouldn’t catch on it if your senses for finding out every emotion in one look wouldn’t be that heightened. was that really a reaction?
"about anything," he prompts, then shrugging slightly. "our families, the wedding, how this is going to work." meanwhile the waiter returns with the champagne, opening the bottle and pouring two glasses. you accept one, studying the lanky guy for a moment, but landos eyes stay on you. "we’re getting married in three months. we’ll live together. people will expect us to act like husband and wife."
it’s nothing you didn’t know before. apparently these were the most obvious facts to it, yet it just didn’t rub you the right way. and maybe it never would because it still hasn't sunken in that this will be the standard from now on.
"i am guessing you planned everything out already…? so why do you bother asking me? i do realise i am a political peace offer. if you want to act fancy for the public eye then we do it if we must… but i’m not interested in a display just for your ego-"
there is a certain dismissal in your tone. like you have already accepted your faith. like you don't want to accept his bullshit and just get it over with as soon as possible. but that's not what lando wants. not how he perceives it.
"because," he interrupts slowly, but his voice is firm. and you hate how it halts you. "this marriage isn’t just about politics. i could have forced this through without ever seeing you. we could have only met at the altar, then i have my right hand man drive you to your penthouse and we call it a day. your father would have signed the papers anyways and thats it."
lando takes a slow deliberate sip of his champagne, looking so comfortable in this scene. like it’s everyday he negotiates something that is supposed to be emotions and an important act. it’s just politics. or is it more…?
"this is supposed to be a unity. a symbol of peace between our families…" you can make out his voice drops lower. almost like this is a sensitive topic. and it might be a progress. but it has it's price. then, without flinching, he opens the bigger package. "… and unity starts with trust."
you almost scoff, no, scratch that. you almost laugh. out loud, right here in the middle of the restaurant. is lando norris, the family enemy, really telling you about trust? are these words just basic negotiation terms for him? does these words even have a weight for him at all?
"trust? you want to tell me about trust? trust is earned," you correct, still sitting there so beautifully stubborn and trying to explain him the world. it’s sweet actually. but he’s sure he has talked to more partners and had more deals go south because of broken trust than you have broken your brothers ones by constantly sneaking out. but he won’t say that. no, he’s trying to get to a common ground with you right now.
"you’re right. trust is earned," lando nods, finishing his champagne before pouring himself another glass. he didn’t miss that you haven’t touched yours yet. "so i’m not asking for trust tonight. i’m asking for a conversation."
another stillness settles above you two. just there. thick and heavy. because for the first time you are speechless. it’s that moment you take the champagne and drink it all in one go. the chilled liquid cooling your throat and nerves, and you have to take a glance out the harbor to collect your thoughts. then you swallow, and turn back to look at him.
"alright then… talk," it’s your willingness to cooperate that makes his lips twitch. subtly, because you finally engage rather than giving him a mood. and he takes that as a plus point.
"first," lando starts, voice calm but direct. "we need to settle some things. this marriage means alignment. we’re not going to be enemies anymore, we will be allies. the norris’ and the leclecrs will not be at blood war anymore. business will be handled smoothly and we work as a unit towards a common goal."
"explain common goal," you request the moment he stops talking. it’s sharp and he knows he doesn’t have you 100%. you are a hard nut to crack, that was inevitable, but lando stays cooly calm. never bothered.
"our common goal is control. power. dominance over the city," lando is just as straight forward as you want him to be. and it does surprise you that he goes straight to business talk. like you actually got an answer for what you asked. "we both have territories, operations, plans. but we’ve been wasting resources fighting each other for years."
he makes a pause. like he deliberately thinks about what to say. how to say it. something you were maybe catching on already and it’s lingering. he won’t talk to you about it. not yet. not when you’re still believing every of your brothers words. he has to make a different approach.
"now we merge forces. your families connections in shipping and finance… mine in security and underground networks."
"why marriage?" lando has to recall your voice to make sure he got it right. but it almost sounds like it is lacking your usual heat. a question that isn’t fueled by background venom. but by your genuine curiosity to why marriage. why him. why you. "you and father could have signed a truce… would have been easier for all."
the brits expression shifts just slightly and he realizes. he will meet you there, and he himself doesn’t know if he does it on purpose, or if something inside him is warming up to you. just slowly. but something is there. something that is curious. maybe it’s your the nuance of vulnerability your words hold.
"because paper doesn’t bind families like this." a truce signed on a document would be easy to break. even easier to betray. but a marriage? thats blood, honor and old school mafia rules. something no one would dare to break. it’s not just a rule. it’s a law. a promise for safety and trust. the trust that will be built on this exact foundation.
"your father and i could’ve had ten peace treaties written," lando continues. "they mean nothing unless it’s sealed by family unity. this is the only way our people will believe it and act on it. the leclercs will respect you too much to hurt what’s mine and the other way around."
’what’s mine’. it’s always about ownership and even if it makes sense there is so much you want to know. so much you want to ask. yet you don’t know how much he will reveal. how ready he is to let you in. or maybe even consider it. he sounds so smart, so well spoken and you absolutely hate how real he is right now. and how easy it is suddenly to explain these things to you. it’s not you who never understood after all…
"what is it you expect from me?"
"from you?" landos face remains neutral and he thinks for a second. only a short one. because he knows exactly what he wants. and what he expects. "i expect you to play your role. you’re the leclerc princess… the daughter of one of the most powerful men in this city. your marriage to me sends a message. and that's what you should know."
he sees your lips curl slightly in disgust and he genuinely has to keep himself from a smirk again. he knows and he didn't predicted anything else. "look, i don’t expect blind obedience, or love, or anything fake like that. in fact, i want you to live your life. spend everyday however you like it. but i have conditions…"
now it’s your turn to halt. he doesn’t want…. any of that? and if playing your part means just on occasions, does it mean you don't even have to see him in the times… in between? like? freedom? or will his conditions cage you in?
"what conditions?"
lando nods, smoothing a hand over his jaw, and blinking out into the distance. then his eyes find yours again, and something in your tummy jumps. it’s brief. subtle even. barely there so it doesn’t count.
"three conditions i care about. first off, i want you to live in my mansion. share the home with me. i don’t prefer us to be separated, we’re not trying to hide from each other. we're adults, we can get along. you get your own room, your own bathroom, whatever you like."
in that big of a mansion? you could get lose in that too, might as well not see him for a whole day. you haven’t seen the mansion yet, but you can imagine it’s a huge one. just as huge as his ego. first condition is alright.
"second, you won’t publicly disrespect me or my family. i don’t think that is such a big thing to ask. and lastly i don’t want to hear about any secret alliances without my knowledge. if you meet a rival i get told.“
everything he said sounds very valid. but it’s almost like… you’re missing something? where is the part where he tells you what to do? how to dress, when to come back home and how to talk? where is the part where he puts a tracker on you and monitors you throughout the day? you’re almost sure he will keep the best for the end.
"i know you don’t have any reasons to trust me… i get that," lando continues. "but i’m not asking for blind faith. i’m saying over time. like you said, it’s earned, and i agree." he studies your face and it speaks. but more so he sees confusion and it's almost like you’re hearing things for the first time. he won’t ask you about it. but could it be that the leclercs kept you in the dark about a lot of things? and if so, is that the reason you’ve been so unruly only because you wanted more of life?
"this marriage isn’t just about politics or symbolism," he adds. "it’s real now. we’re getting married in two months time and will be husband and wife. i want you to feel safe and to know you matter. you’re going to have everything you need, i personally will make sure of it. you’ll live in my mansion, you get your own money, you can go out as long as i know about it. take classes, go and have fun in your hobbies. i don’t care…"
all these words, promises and things told make you realise he is serious. he does mean every word he says and he does want to keep them all. and you? you sit there, expression soft like he just single handedly tamed the wildfire that was burning hotly in your eyes with one single promise. a life beside the deal.
and for the moment lando doesn’t rush to fill the silence that settles. when the waiter comes, he orders. watching you go silent suddenly. think. ponder about his words and it’s just… surreal? can you even believe him? but fuck it, the way he is sitting there, all handsome and business. how can a man like him not keep his word? a man that honors your… own space so much. and even thinking about it feels foreign.
"are you sure you want this? i’m expensive. i’m needy. i am no mans peace. if you give me freedom i will call you at three in the morning, drunk and complain to you for years and ends of how much i will hate this marriage."
it’s that moment when lando finally chuckles, lips stretching and he finds it highly amusing how you try to negotiate a deal that is seemingly flawless. and the bizarre thing about it is, how he doesn’t care. he likes that you always question things. that you have your own mind and you will use it at the end of the day.
"good," he says simply. "call me at three in the morning, drunk. scream at me about hating this marriage if thats what you do. i don’t want peace and quiet with an obedient doll for a wife. i want you. loud, messy and unapologetic."
lando then pulls out a small satin box from his suit jackets pocket. royal blue, expensive. he opens it slowly, and places it right before you. a silver engagement ring, crowned with a dazzling emerald cut diamond looks back at you. the ring was impossible to miss, impeccable and perfect. resting right there on the cushioned insides and glinting in the chandelier lights.
your mouth goes dry at the sight. it’s an arranged marriage. a paper. an alliance. it’s rare to buy an engagement ring, let alone only two months before the marriage. but lando knows why he did it. why he bought it. and what it really means to you. and now beside the big rose bouquet that is resting in the mclaren outside, this is the second time he surprised you with something like that. something meaningful.
.☘︎ ݁˖
dinner goes by and is filled with chatter. about the marriage, about the socialising, about your family negotiations. your mind screams at you. everything you’ve been taught and everything you have grown up to believe is shattered by one simple evening that mostly changed your view of things. you find yourself looking more and more at the ring all night. it’s heavy, it’s there, and it’s definitely claiming. you don’t know what kind of spell he put on it, but your heart feels right with everything happening tonight. and somehow, thats enough.
"my mom is planning an engagement party in our mansion… you should know about this," you tell lando as you're on the way home from the restaurant. your posture is a little more relaxed now that it turned out he’s actually very easy to talk to once you give him the chance.
he keeps his eyes on the road, but nods. "your mom already texted mine about it. they’re planning something big. my family will be there too. you know... uncles and cousins." 'not relatives you’d want to meet'. most of them are cold mafia royalty. old money with even older grudges. but that’s not something he tells you. you will probably make yourself a picture soon enough. "i’m not going to make it weird for you, i promise. you don’t have to be introduced to them all… did you think about how you want the wedding to be? small? big?"
you don’t miss the way he’s switching topics as soon as it’s about his family. but you won’t push either. however, you’re rather taken aback when he asks about your opinion.
"m-me? like what do you mean think about it? i mean... the arrangement had been on my mind ever since…" you say, realizing you sound a little pathetic once you start to stutter. but... it’s new. everything tonight is new territory of some kind. and you can’t help it.
"no. i mean, do you have ideas for the party? the dress code, the flowers, the venue?" lando realizes you don't answers and turns his head briefly to look at you. he meets your gaze and it clenches something untouched in his heart. it’s the simple things, yet something huge for someone who’s never had a say in anything really. "i don’t care what you decide on. i want you to feel comfortable with the decisions. whatever you like. and if you need anything you give me a call. i got it handled."
he leaves it at that, coming to the conclusion that he won’t get an answer. not yet at least. and fuck it, it’s adorable. and not because you're rude. but because your mind already wanders to the venues you saw on the internet. to rose arrangements and to dresses you'd think would fit you...
once you arrive home, the golden garden lights illuminate the old champagne colored mansion and the ivy running up the aged facade. lando kills the engine, and turns slightly to look at you. and one more time this night, he catches you looking at the bouquet. fingers tracing over the petals like they’re something unique. something precious, ring glinting just above them and the sight has to be fucking perfect. his beautiful fiancée, awe struck by the most simplest gestures from him.
"i hope you don't expect me to fall to my knees and say thank you… this dinner was the bare minimum…" you roll your eyes, and lando realizes that it is getting easier for him to be delighted by your dry way of explaining emotions. it doesn’t matter. your eyes say more than your words.
"i won’t," he nods curtly. "dinner was a start. i want you to make a list of the things you want for the wedding, send it to me. the planning is yours."
you have to bite your inner cheek when you meet his eyes again or you too, will smile like a stupid weak school girl in love with her crush. no, you’re not there yet. so what? he brought you flowers and chose a pricey ring? but he also showed you that there is freedom to a world that feels like a cage. and absolutely nothing can compete with that.
without a word you grab your bag and flowers and leave the car. without looking back, you hear him leave the courtyard, and only then do you look over your shoulder and that's when you smile. it’s new. it’s refreshing. and it’s something that takes up all your mind space and attention.
despite that, trouble was just waiting around the corner when you walked inside, and entered the kitchen. your smile dropped immediately into an annoyed expression when charles was moving agitated, and arthur had a seat at the kitchen island. pairs of eyes right on you, and just like they had agreed to it, gaze snapping to the flowers, then to your ring, then to your face. you look… delighted?
"so? you’re engaged now?" charles voice is sharp. challenging. meant to get a rise out of you the moment he saw you walk in with that sheepish dreamy look in your eyes, coming right from their fucking enemy. marriage or not.
your glare meets him ice cold, roses heavy on the counter just like the ring on your finger. "dinner was nice, the food was great and the view was pretty. we discussed several things that had absolutely nothing to do with you idiots for once, and nothing you have to worry about."
your brothers knew that it wasn’t easy to talk to you. but talking back like that when you are this dismissive about such topic? yeah it just felt unnatural for charles. he watches you walk over to the fridge, grabbing yourself a water with a calm that itches him wrong. "you look fucking stupid. almost like you fell for his words and charm. like every other-"
"watch your mouth, charlie!" you slam the fridge door shut and point a finger at him. and it’s uncanny, yes. the childhood nickname so weighty on your tongue and in the air. but you can't keep it in. not when you look happy, had a nice evening and the first thing you’re met with is judgement again. slowly but surely you do start to think that maybe it was never lando who was the bad guy…
"you’re defending him? seriously? you just turned even more brainless after he brought you roses and a big diamond? is this how easy you are?"
his words are so bitter they could come back and haunt you in another life. laced with venom in every syllable, although you were about to choose peace tonight. arthur hasn’t said a thing. too much of a wimp. just sitting and watching his siblings fight about the same topics over and over again.
pinning charles with a slow glare he gets uneasy. silence? not like you. he can see the cogs turning in you head, and the few steps you take towards him are really not helping the situation.
"it must be so fucking easy to be a man huh…" you start, voice low and eyes staying loyal to him in a dark way. "you just take and take and take… you have stupid cock fights and you make wars. you assert dominance and then you use the weaker to bund promises you can never keep."
charles stiffens at your words. is this what confrontation feels like? akin to a blow to his chest. the turf wars, the blood feuds over pride and ego? yeah thats leclerc style. arthur shits uncomfortably too. because this? it’s too accurate.
"you don’t know what you’re talking about," the older brother defends, but it lacks every believe he’s probably ever had. "we do what we have to do! this marriage is politics. not some fucking fairy tale bullshit you made up in your head."
"right," you nod. "you always tell me i don’t know anything… yet all i ever do is trying to adapt to a world you built for me… all men in this family did. all men in this world did. what do you expect me to do, charles? fight an arranged marriage? you’re just as much of a coward as father is… and you don't want peace. you just always want the things you cant have."
the announcement stings and hits right where it’s meant to. and it’s charles turn to shut up. he doesn’t have a right to say anything. doesn’t feel like he does anymore. because you’re undoubtedly and utterly right. it’s something he cant argue about. the kitchen is dead soundless, no humming, no breathing. just a stare down and a silent battle you just won.
grabbing the flowers, you don't spare them even one more glance before leaving him right there standing. walking up the stairs and slamming your bedroom door loud enough to making it echo in his memory. it’s final, after all. you are done with their bullshit. and honestly, they cant blame you.
☆ warnings: references to prev parts so its better if u read, pregnancy, girl dad!lando, exes to lovers, lando being down bad, coparenting, unprotected p in v, oral, breeding kink, praise kink, dirty talk, implied abortion mention, conflict, angst/emotional cliffhanger lol ⋆ inspo: (x)(x)(x)(x)
⋆ ‧ ⋅ ☾ ‧ ⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ‧ ⋅
two pink lines.
your fingers are shaking when you pick it up. your brain is spiraling. the texts. the clumsy, boyish ego about carrying his next kid. it was supposed to be a joke. a little flirting. a bit of late night dumb filth from your ex husband. your ex husband who is still desperately down bad.
but biology doesn't do jokes. it doesn't care about your worries, either.
you hear the heavy thud of the front door.
"mummy! i did a slide tackle and coach ben said it was proper textbook!" her voice bounces off the walls. so sweet, so innocent. pure adrenaline.
you quickly shove the test deep into your pocket, stepping out onto the kitchen. you hear them walk in. lando must have used his key. the key he was only meant to use for emergencies.
he's quietly testing. pushing.
lando is right behind your daughter. carrying her muddy kit bag. he doesn't walk further into the kitchen, his feet are planted firmly on the doormat. respecting the boundaries he knows you set. picking and choosing which boundaries to push, which to keep.
you look at him. he looks exactly like the man you fell in love with many years ago. curls damp from the drizzle, cheeks slightly flushed. and that stupid grin. he keeps his distance.
"she’s exaggerating." lando teases, with that cheeky grin on his lips. "it was seventy percent a foul. total menace."
"am not!" she protests, kicking her trainers off. "daddy, you have to read me the space book! you have to tuck me in, pleaseeeee."
lando doesn't just say yes. he knows the rules.
he looks up the stairs. then at you. strategic.
"you gotta ask mummy. if mummy says it’s okay, then yeah. but you gotta ask her first."
she turns her big eyes to you. god, they're just like lando's.
"can he, mummy? pretty please?"
fucker. he’s doing it on purpose again. using her so you can't say no. you swallow down the massive lump of nerves in your throat. your hand curls around the plastic stick in your pocket.
"yeah it's fine, lan. just… make sure she actually brushes her teeth."
"on it." he says softly. a small, grateful nod.
an hour later, the house goes completely still.
you’re sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at a cup of tea you haven't touched. you hear footsteps down the stairs. soft. lando stops at the entrance of the kitchen. he rubs the back of his neck, and looks at you.
"out cold." lando murmurs with a gentle smile. "didn't even get to finish the page about jupiter. training must have tired her out."
"thanks." your voice sounds fragile.
lando walks over, leaning opposite you. there's a quiet, grounded energy.
"no need to thank me, i'm her dad. and…i like being here. even if i'm technically on good behaviour."
cheeky. he pauses.
he notices that his usual banter doesn't land as usual. his eyes drop to your hands. he notices a slight tremor.
"hey. you alright? you’ve been proper quiet."
you don't speak. your heart is slamming against your ribs. it hurts. you reach into your pocket and pull out the plastic stick. you set it on the marble table between you. a soft click. you slide it a few inches toward him.
lando’s gaze drops.
total stillness. nothing. he doesn't blink. for a long, agonising ten seconds. his eyes are simply locked onto the two pink lines of the test stick.
"oh."
he clears his throat, his voice cracking slightly. he looks up. brow furrowed, eyes almost blank.
"is this… are you serious?"
"i'm serious, lan."
he lets out a short, breathless laugh. he sounds overwhelmed. his hands fidget his pockets. lando takes a step closer, his eyes darting from the stick to your face.
"is it… from our last time? at my flat?"
your posture stiffens. your jaw tightens. that ugly, defensive thought flashes through your mind.
is this dickhead asking if it’s his?
"what do you mean by that, lando? who the fuck else would it be?"
lando notices the shift instantly.
the gears click in his head. his face goes completely pale with panic. he reaches out, his broad hands instantly wrapping around your wrists. he pulls you closer so you have to look at him.
"fuck. no, look at me. that’s not what i meant," he stammers, his words tumbling over each other. "i swear to god, that’s not what i meant. it’s mine. i know it’s mine. i just meant the timing. just trying to figure out the weeks. when it happened. i’m sorry. please, you know i know it’s mine."
you look up at him, chest feeling heavy. but the defensive wall is crumbling at the sincerity in his eyes. he looks so vulnerable. almost in awe.
"okay." you whisper, your voice shaking.
lando lets out a breathless sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. his forehead drops against your shoulder. he stays there for a second. breathing you in. he hasn't let go of your hands.
"what does this mean?" he whispers against your skin. "for us? what do we do?"
"i really don't know." you say, your voice cracking. "we're divorced, lan. supposed to be taking it slow. fixing the mess, not making it fucking worse."
your words sting.
he pulls back, looking at you. his thumb trace your skin. "is it a mess? to you?"
"it's terrifying. i can't- i don't know how to navigate this. with you. with everything. the schedule, the traveling. everything that broke us before. it's all still there."
"i know." he steps closer, his thighs brushing against yours. "but i want it. fuck, i want it so bad. i want all of it. with you. us three… well, us four."
his hand drops. flat against your stomach. pressing through the layers of your pjs.
damn. your heart flutters a bit.
"lan, it's only a few weeks. it’s tiny. barely anything."
"i don't care," he mutters, his fingers spreading wide. "it’s there. i know it’s there. god… imagine if it's another girl. two of them. you all would absolutely destroy me. i wouldn't stand a chance. i’d just be the taxi driver who carries the bags."
it all sends a sudden liquid heat straight down to your core. there is something so boyish about his excitement. so sweet. that raw, genuine enthusiasm. for a moment, the divorce papers feel like just papers. the boundaries feel like just words.
but, fuck. it's scary.
"lando…"
"i'm serious." he says, his eyes locked onto yours. "the second i saw those pink lines, my brain just… i didn't panic. i just thought about having another one. with you. continuing again. i want this baby. i want it all back. i want you."
hearing him say it so clearly, so blunt without any of the childish banter. it does something to your heart. something to your core, too.
but it's a massive deal. fucking huge. the weight of it settles in the air between you. heavy and thick.
"i want it too." you whisper.
lando lets out a low groan. before you can breathe it all in, he pulls you into his chest. a tight, heavy hug. pure comfort, relief. a small unspoken celebration. you feel his heart beat so fucking fast under his hoodie. you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. he smells so good. the both of you just hold onto each other.
he wants it. you can see the absolute certainty in his face.
fuck, it turns you on.
he's been hard since he walked into the kitchen. he's always hard when he's anywhere near you. and now, you can feel the prominent thickness of his cock straining against his sweatpants.
this should be a sweet moment. pure. but you're both a fucking mess.
he kisses you. not really gentle, but still so affectionate. deep, filled with a sudden overwhelming craving. his tongue slides against yours. you let out a ragged gasp into his mouth. his hands move down to your waist, gripping you hard. he pulls your hips forward until you're grinding against him. he groans into your mouth. the friction is unbearable. he rocks his hips against yours, matching your pace. a heavy, desperate pressure.
you're whimpering. your core pulsing into the cotton of your underwear.
"lannn, we're gonna wake her up." you giggle against his lips, your hands clutching at his shoulders.
"bedroom." he mutters, his hands sliding down your back. "come on, i fucking missed you."
──── ☆☆☆
the bedroom door clicks shut in the dim light.
every movement is quiet, intentional. his hoodie is off. his bare chest presses against your skin as he takes your pjs off. he handles you like you’re something precious. delicate. but something still so filthy. so his.
lando lays you flat on your back. his eyes are completely blown out. his knees slide between yours, opening you up completely. he supports his weight on his forearms, a conscious effort in keeping his chest just above yours so your tummy isn't squashed. as if any pressure would damage the love you built, the life you're both looking forward to again.
he's trying to play it off, act cool about it. but you notice it. it makes your heart warm. it makes your core throb.
"look at me," he whispers, long fingers cupping your chin. "i've got you. always will."
he wants you to feel everything.
lando reaches down, his fingers warm as they find your clit with terrifying accuracy. he knows your body so fucking well. he teases you with heavy, rhythmic circles. slow delicious movements until you’re sobbing quietly into the pillow. until your hips buck helplessly against his hand. so fucking desperate for more.
he slides his fingers down, teasing your entrance. finding out how soaked you are. how much you need him. how much you need his cock.
"fuck, you're so wet." he mutters, his voice low and raspy. "prettiest girl. always so good for me."
and with that, he presses two fingers inside. gentle, but certain. that blunt and accommodating stretch as he teases your sweet spot over and over again. fucking his fingers in and out of you. his thumb brushes on your clit. tingles run through your spine. his mouth presses against your throat. open, soft kisses. you’re completely at his mercy, and he barely fucking started.
lando shifts his weight.
"keep quiet for me, baby. keep it nice and quiet, okay?"
he leans down to bury his face between your thighs. his fingers are still drowning in your soaked cunt. his tongue is broad, wet. lando is suddenly eating you out with a fierce, heavy pressure. the sweet fullness of his fingers and his wet attention on your clit has you breaking within moments. you shake under him, his fingers still fucking into you. his tongue lapping at your entrance. the sounds are obscene. filthy.
suddenly, your quiet and muffled orgasm ripples through your core. your walls spasm violently around his fingers. your thighs clamp around his head.
fuck.
lando looks up at you. so proud, so drenched in your slick. he pulls his fingers out and kisses your forehead. all sticky, and sweet.
he doesn't wait for long.
he lines his cock against your cunt. no condom. clearly, no fucking use for it anyways. the thick, blunt head of his cock presses against your wet cunt. but lando doesn't push in yet. you whimper, a desperate little plea for more. he grins, cheeky fucker, before finally pushing his thick cock inside you.
one slow, devastating thrust. completely filling you up. making your eyes roll back, and your brain instantly melt.
your hands fly to his thick shoulder blades. your nails press into his skin. your cunt stretches around his thickness. completely welcomes him. he bottoms out, burying himself entirely. he doesn't move again yet. he's panting. throaty sounds escape him. his hips are pinned hard against yours. your walls clamp down on him. tightly squeezing his cock. completely desperate for more.
he moves. slow and deep thrusts that grind right against your sweet spot. slowly kissing your cervix each time he fucks into you. each time he whimpers into you.
lando is fully focused on you. his gaze is locked onto your face, watching your mouth part with every thrust. god, he loves seeing you like this. all pretty, all fucked out. no thoughts in your head, just the sweet delicious feeling of his cock stretching you out.
he leans down, his mouth catching onto your chest. his tongue swirls around your nipple before he sucks it deep into his mouth. his teeth graze the sensitive skin until you're clawing at his back. possessive. fucking marking him, the same way he marked you with his cum. lando keeps playing with your tits. his cock keeps drilling inside you. tingles run down your spine again.
"lan, fuck." you gasp.
your ankles lock behind his knees. pulling him deeper. you need more. more of his cock. more of lando.
he pulls off from your chest. takes one good look at the gorgeous sight, and slides his hand between your bodies. his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing it rougher this time. his hips pick up the pace. a relentless, heavy rhythm. his cock is bruising your cervix now, properly fucking you and using you. taking all of you.
his eyes shift to your tits again, softly moving with the impact of his thrusts. so hot. lando remembers. how full they get when you're pregnant. how sensitive and fucking pretty they get. the raw knowledge that he bred you. that he got to do it all over again. all because you wanted to be full of him.
fuck. lando feels like he's going insane.
"i'm gonna fill you up again," his voice low, vulgar. almost vibrating against your ear. "so many times, baby. for months. every single fucking day. just filling you up until you're completely full of me. dripping. i want all of you. every part of you. all fucking mine."
the utter unapologetic filth of it. the raw claim. the obscene control. it all snaps. lando starts to ram even harder in you. short, bruising thrusts. desperate for relief. the headboard bangs quietly against the wall. he buries his face into your neck, nibbling at your skin.
he cums inside you. a deep, heavy release.
──── ☆☆☆ 4.30am
morning light hasn't even broken through the curtains. lando shifts carefully, pulling his hoodie back over his head.
he’s trying not to disturb the heavy stillness of the house. your home.
you had both agreed on this. she always wakes up early, and you don't want to be messy in front of her. no sleeping over. no confusion. no waking up and asking why dad is still at home.
he leans over the mattress and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. his thumb grazes your jaw. you shift a bit.
"i have to go for training and a sim session. but i'm coming back later. family movie night? just the three of us on the sofa. i'll bring pizza. we can start easing back into things. slowly. properly."
his voice is still groggy. thick with sleep.
"you promise?"
"six o'clock on the dot. i promise, baby. gonna do things right."
he slips out of the house before sunrise.
you drop your daughter off to school in the morning. the afternoon is just structure. picking her up from school. helping with homework. life hassles.
the landline rings. the summer school coordinator calls to confirm some details. "hi, is this mrs. norris?"
"yes, speaking."
you hang up the phone after things are sorted.
you glance at the clock. 6:00pm. your phone buzzes.
lando: hey bby, sry debrief running late. ten more mins i swear xx
you: okay, see you soon and drive safe please
the clock keeps ticking.
6:30pm.
7:00pm.
7:30pm.
nothing else. no more texts. no ‘walking to the car now.’
just silence. complete fucking silence.
the warmth in your chest from the morning completely freezes. just replaced by that old, familiar weight in your stomach. the exact pattern of your marriage.
like fucking whiplash. thank god, you didn't tell your daughter about the plans. over time, you learnt how to protect her from the disappointment.
you pick up your phone.
you: don't bother coming over tonight. she's going to bed, school tomorrow.
a minute later, the screen lights up.
lando: i understand.
you stare at the two words. i understand.
what the actual fuck.
he doesn't explain. he doesn't tell you what happened. he just accepts it. maybe he knows he messed up the time. or maybe he just doesn't fucking care.
you don't see maturity. you don't see accountability. you just see a man who doesn't care enough to show up for his wife and daughter.
a second later, two texts slide in.
lando: can we meet tomorrow?
lando: pls
your fingers are ice cold as you type back. clinical. coparent mode.
you: you can pick her up from school if you want.
──── ☆☆☆
the next afternoon, the front door opens.
you're waiting in the kitchen, expecting to hear her little footsteps. instead, the house is completely quiet. just lando's footsteps on the hardwood floor.
he walks into the kitchen alone.
he looks exhausted.
you don't move from near your kitchen table. you cross your arms over your chest.
"where is she? why are you back without her?"
lando stops a few feet away. he looks raw, frustrated. defensive.
"she's at my brother's. having dinner with her cousins."
"without asking me?"
"i'm her dad, i don't need to ask you. and because we need to talk." his voice drops into that low, stubborn tone. "we can't do it with her in the next room. you sent me that text last night. you shut me out completely. and now you’re looking at me like i’m a fucking criminal."
"you broke your promise, lando. on day one. you stood her up, you stood me up, and then you sent a two word text like you couldn't be bothered." your voice is flat, lacking any warmth.
"i was trying to respect your boundaries." lando’s hands come out of his pockets. his fingers gesturing sharply between you. he continues to fire back.
"you told me not to come. what was i supposed to do? force my way into the house? kick the door down? i knew i was late. i knew you were pissed. i tried to be understanding and give you space. and now you’re using it to punish me!"
"i’m not punishing you, i’m reacting." you step closer, the anger bursting through your chest. you tell him what he doesn’t want to hear. what he needs to hear.
"you think this is about one movie night? it’s the exact same pattern as always. i spent years sitting on that sofa. watching the clock, waiting for you to choose us over a simulator or a meeting. you just found out about the baby, and the literal first thing you did was fuck me and then leave me alone in the dark for hours."
"it’s my job! it’s not like i was out partying. i was fucking working. trying to build a life for us, for the kids. you’re acting like i did this on purpose. and you wanted to fuck me too. take some fucking responsibility."
"some responsibility? i'm raising our daughter by myself at this point! i know you don't do things on purpose. that’s what makes it fucking worse. you just… you just don't think, lando. you never think about what happens after you leave the house. you’re great at the big moments. great at the sex, great at the grand gestures. so great at getting excited about a pregnancy test. but you don't know how to just show up on a normal fucking tuesday. i can't do this again. i can't raise another baby by myself while you're off playing world champion."
your voice breaks. tears finally prickle the corners of your eyes. you take a sharp breath in. the words continue slipping out before you can stop them.
"i don't even know if i'm keeping it."
lando freezes. the kitchen goes silent.
the petty, defensive heat in his face completely drains away. he stares at you. raw suffocation hits his eyes. like it's a physical blow. like he’s about to throw up.
"what? you don't mean that. you- you don't, right?" his voice is barely a whisper. a stutter, completely broken.
"i don't fucking know!" you cry out, the tears streaming down your face. "i don't know anything, lan. i'm terrified. sitting here, handling everything and you can't even make it home at six. how am i supposed to do this with two of them?"
"don't say that." he stammers, taking a frantic step toward you. his hands reach for your wrists. his fingers lock around them. tight, desperate. "please- fuck. don't say that. i’m here. i’m trying. i’ll fix it. i swear to god, i’ll fix it."
"you can't fix everything, lando."
"you still want me. you still love me. i saw the paperwork on the counter. still signing your name as norris. if you were really done with me, if you didn't want me anymore, you would've dropped it immediately."
his voice cracks. he's struggling to hold the narrative together. just rambling on, his ego demanding that you acknowledge the link between you.
you let out a harsh, mocking laugh. sharp and bitter.
"holy shit. you are so arrogant. you think i kept your name because i was secretly waiting for my husband to come back home?"
"why else then?" he snaps, his grip tightening.
"because changing it meant having to explain to a seven year old girl why mum's name didn't match hers anymore. because it was easier for her. it had absolutely nothing to do with you."
lando recoils. his hands slowly slip from your wrists. his jaw shifts. he looks hollow. you reach up to fidget slightly at the gold initial necklace around your throat. a bittersweet reminder.
"none of those things matter, lando. they’re just habits. showing up matters. consistency matters. fuck, lan. i still love you. i don't think i’ll ever stop loving you. but i don't trust you."
the house goes dead silent.
i don't trust you.
the words hang in the space between you. heavy and lethal. lando doesn't yell. he doesn't offer another petty excuse. he just stands there in the middle of the kitchen. the anger is gone. the ego is gone. there is just the quiet, devastating realisation. an acknowledgment of the original wound that broke you in the first place.
"what do you want me to do?" he whispers, his voice entirely raw.
"i don't know. i really don't know. but you should go back to your flat tonight. we need to figure out what we’re doing." you murmur, turning your back to him to try and regulate your breathing.
lando doesn't argue. doesn't beg. he just stands there for a long silent moment, looking at your back. when he speaks, his voice is completely flat. quiet and drained.
"she's sleeping over at my brother's tonight. i set it up before i came over. so you have all the time you need. and the house to yourself."
the words hit you with a sudden bittersweet ache.
he planned it in advance. no matter how the conversation went. whether it was a shouting match or a quiet breakdown. he made sure you wouldn't have to put on a brave face for her tonight. he protected you from the mess before he even walked through your door.
"okay." you whisper to the wall. cannot even bring yourself to thank him.
"okay. i love you."
his footsteps move further away. you hear the heavy thud of the front door closing a moment later.
the quietness comes back. it doesn't feel good. nothing is resolved.
⸻A WORD OF CAUTION mafia boss!lando norris x fem leclerc mafia!reader, 2,8k words, angst, mentions of depressive behavior and sadness, lando pulling up like a G
MASTERLIST
may had to be one of your favorite months. the bright flowers blooming, first signs of summer, more sunshine and the taste of real gelato melting on your tongue like a sweet relief after a long winter. monaco fell into a nice spring that bordered on summer already, the heat showed itself slowly but surely unbearable.
the air conditioning hummed softly in the quiet room. the fifth season of modern family just began playing after the fourth ended. or was it the sixth already? you don’t know. it was just a random distraction anyways. and the room was too cool already anyways so the fluffy blanket around you didn’t do much to shield the chill. however the remote was on the desk and you couldn’t bring yourself to stand up and switch it off.
you don’t know how many hours… or days have past since the moment you realised you’re soon going to get married. no one could bring you out of your room and you started to convert into a second vivienne. chayo brought food on a tray into your room, checking in on you and asking you random questions in spanish you couldn’t answer. you think she also checked your temperature once. but bless her heart, she was indeed concerned.
charles and arthur didn’t came and ask how you’re doing, not even once. they didn’t dare. lorenzo called you dramatic and your mom shrugged it off by being convinced you’ll come around eventually. your father…? yeah don’t even start.
you lie on your side in bed, laptop open beside you as your eyes followed the scene of the series. you weren’t really paying attention. anxiety choking you every now and then, crawling up your stomach and clinging to you like an invisible hand. closing your eyes you try to focus on your breathing. marriage. the word still so heavy on your soul. branded and still burning in large flames.
the train of thoughts is interrupted once your door creaks open and then quickly closes again right after. you frown lightly. chayo has already brought you all three meals. not that you touched them. but you know the others don’t really check in on you. they probably are relieved enough when chayo tells them you’re still alive.
lying with your back to the door you only feel the bed dip behind you a short moment later. there is a small silence and no one breaks it. soft breathing, distant laughter of the show. and you know exactly who’s lying behind you.
"you should see the flowers in the garden… they have these big drops on them from mom watering them earlier… it looks nice."
the gentle voice from vivienne hits your ears and your heart softens a little. you hum, pulling the blanket closer to yourself in attempt to hide from her a little more. she’s never seen you like this before. not even last year when you got screamed down by your father for sneaking to a festival and being gone for three days straight. you left your phone at home and made sure no one can track you. that was one of the biggest sneak outs in your history. you were grounded for a week back then and it sure as hell didn’t affect you like this one does right now. and the youngest leclerc feels concerned for your well being.
"’m sure it’s nice…" you mutter, voice tired and flat. no usual fire, no come back. no excitement. without another though vivienne shifts closer, her small frame curling slightly toward you in an attempt to hide with you. raising her hand she rests it on your shoulder. a tender gesture, caressing and yet so careful like you might snap at her. but you don’t. you wouldn’t do it anyways because she doesn’t deserve it. apart from being too tired to fight it.
"i took some photos. i'm going to paint one for you," she suggests, trying to lighten the mood and make the situation feel less suffocating. the sun is shining into your room, making the mess that has built up over the days more visible and even now you feel ashamed in front of your sister. not that she would mind. she doesn’t care about the mess as long as you’re still here with her.
"can’t wait," your answer is a small one. lacking any emotion and attention.
then vivienne leans her head against your shoulder for a second. a rare comforting gesture from her you don’t know. she isn’t necessarily huggy or overly affectionate with anyone. but right now she’s clinging to you like an anchor. like you might disappear. and she is scared you will. because fact is, peace is one huge thing for this war. but what will happen the moment you wear another name and a ring on your finger, is still written in the stars.
"dad told me…. about the wedding and all…"
you feel tears push against your eyes mercilessly. a sob choking and strangling your throat like barbed wired around a fool safe jail. the jail they put you in. without your permission. you bite the inside of your cheek, staying wordless to the statement and doing your best not to cry. you were sure she would hear it sooner or later. and the fact that she came to you right after is heart warming even for you.
vivienne feels the tension in your body immediately. if you didn’t radiate it already, she might think she just made it all worse. the silence stretching. long, emotionless, bland. just the ac. the show. vivienne and you. and those nagging demons in your head.
"you don’t have to talk about it…" she murmurs, starring up at the ceiling. "i just… just know that i’m here…"
it breaks your heart how supportive she seems and how reaction less you are. all those times when everyone thought she didn’t know and didn’t listen, where the times she observed. never worth her words but now she’s doing the most. and you do feel bad even thought you can’t help it.
you want to take the weight off of her shoulders. the worry and the concern you hear in her voice that she tries to mask. but even you struggle to take it off of yours. leclercs can be ruthless but deeply emotional if given the chance to. and you know nobody would ever leave another sibling trapped in the dark. so you take the remainder of your energy and give her the honor to turn around. blanket slightly falling off your shoulder, you’re wearing one of charles hoodies you had stolen ages ago. he’s still looking for it though. he doesn’t know you’re hogging it biblically and put it on to remind you of times when it was easier to play fight then to fight…
"it’s alright… it’s going to be alright…" the reassurance comes with a smile. a small stretch on your lips that tells more than a story. it tells something that you both are not ready to acknowledge even now looking at each other.
viviennes eyes mirror unease. the crease in her forehead, the draw of her eyebrows. and you feel so so bad. for causing her to stress over something none of you have power over. and never will. you know she doesn’t believe your words. not really. and you know why. lando norris isn’t the man you would want near your family… let alone marrying your sister. after all, all you know is blood and violence.
"but… it’s lando… charles told me horrible things about him…"
it makes you wonder though. what did charles say, and what was his perception? and what did he tell vivienne? and is it really worth to be anxious over? or is there something you might not catching on. living in someone else’s believe for years and not seeing the sky that is blue. or was this too, wishful thinking?
"please…" you try yourself on a small smirk, cupping her rosy cheek gently. "lando has to fear me… i won’t give that man peace you can be sure."
you see the stretch of her lips, a chuckle leaving her right from her heart and your eyes light up when you see how she takes it. it’s healing, in a kind of way. sharing misery like you have a right to, but seeing how it keeps you from hurting. and she loves this. loves this side of you that’s smirking, playful and defiant. she knows you will never bend. even if others think you're going to.
"yeah..." vivienne nods immediately. "he should fear you. you’re scarier than lorenzo when he’s mad…"
it finally earns a chuckle from you too, and you wrap your arms around her in a big bear hug. pulling her closer you feel vivienne rest her head on your chest, listening to the heartbeat that starts to calm down from the interaction. the interaction that was better than any netflix movie you watched this week.
the embrace is warm, tight and protective. she melts into you, taking your promise to heart and hoping you’ll be alright. you have to. you always find a way and you would now too. but truth was that the running thoughts weren’t so easy to tame. and neither did they want to bend to your will. you haven’t heard from lando since then. he hasn’t reached out to you and you wondered if he's always going to be this distant even in the future. even when you're already... married.
"are you scared?" the question is slow, careful and full of expectation. she knows it could be a stupid question. but she needs to hear you say it.
"yeah… i am…" you swallow before answering, so it won’t clog your throat. no need to lie. not now. she holds you a little tighter, having predicted the answer like she’s feeling the same fear for you this whole time.
"i am too," she hums, pressing her cheek to your chest. "he better not hurt you… or i will hurt him..."
.☘︎ ݁˖
you can’t tell if the invitation you received through your father caught you by surprise or not. it was more tending to a yes than a no, when this friday you found out two hours earlier that you had to be ready by 8. lando was taking you out for dinner and he expected you to be ready by that exact time.
first you contemplated if you should just stay in your bed like you have for the past week. tell him to go fuck himself and stay at home or in his hell business. a date, he said. like it would change anything. after you lost half an hour just thinking about something that was inevitable, you decided to get up. wash your hair, shave, put on your favorite lotion and perfume. alone that made you already feel better and once you put on make up, a dress and did your hair, you wondered if life really was all that bad.
the sage green silk dress was long. with gold accents on the straps and a high cut on your thigh it managed to look sexy yet elegant. not giving too much but not giving enough as well.
as you applied the dark red lipstick you decided you won’t let the fear show. you won’t give in to whatever business game they were playing and to whatever it is the bigger picture is about. you made yourself mindstrong. set on not accepting about everything tonight and showing you did have a right in this marriage and in your life just as much as lando thought he had.
at exactly eight you decide to make your way downstairs, opening the grand front door and stepping out, no trace of lando yet. there is tension in your shoulders, your jaw clenched and a second later you even cross your arms. you look gorgeous. gorgeously intimidating even so. the look in your eyes promises that you don’t fuck around and you hold your nose high. not knowing what will expect you tonight, there is nothing wrong in being a little more arrogant than usual.
with one minute delay you see the gates open in the distance, the black mclaren purring softly like a predator as it makes its way up the driveway. the sound has awoke the two protectors as well and you don’t need to turn around to feel the presence of your brothers behind you. on either side, they look over your shoulder with a measured look. sizing up threat and getting ready mentally if necessary. since physically wasn't an option anymore...
the mclaren comes to a stop right in front of the polished marble stairs. sleek, silent and so perfect. the door opens and lando steps out, standing tall and smug, especially the moment he sees charles and arthur defending you already without anything said or happened prior. they don’t say anything, but their glare could melt steel.
closing the car door with one hand, the silver watch glints in the faint sun that is setting behind clouds, painting them pink and purple and bathing the scene into something more cinematic than it ever could be.
the black suit looks perfectly tailored right to his stance. black shirt underneath, yearning to match the silk fabric of your dress. silver christian dior belt hanging around his hips like an award. he looks like the devil himself. so fucking handsome yet so dangerous. his hair is neatly styled, curls deliberately perfect each one by one. the fade so clean you think he gets it done every week. which he probably does.
lando looks satisfied, calm and so sure of himself when he walks up to the mansions entrance with a bouquet of dark red roses in his right hand. long stems, full blooms. you know the bouquet alone had been expensive. dramatic. polished shoes clicking softly on the stairs and seemingly unfazed by your distant and cold face. yet he knows you study his every move. your eyes haven’t differ from him ever since he pulled up.
he stops a few steps under you, his expression simple. but there's something beneath it. calculation, control and maybe even curiosity for the night ahead. holding the roses out to you, you don’t miss how he stays lower than you on purpose. almost like he… bowed?
"for you," he says smoothly, voice low but clear enough for everyone to hear. it’s simple words, but intention clouded by the energy that was flooding your senses from behind.
"trying to let roses bloom over the blood you spilled?" the question is cool, your posture unmoving, and he doesn’t even flinch. not at the venom in your voice, not at the accusation. blood spilled. like it’s still dripping with the quiet rage of it.
and then he smirks, raising his head to look at you directly. not at charles scowl, not at arthurs jaw ticking. no. you. like he wants you and your attention only. like your attention only matters. and it unfurls something very weird in the pit of your stomach.
"no," lando answers simply, not offended. never offended. "i’m not trying to erase anything," he makes a small pause, studying your looks. the way the orange from the clouds catch your eyes, your crossed arm, the small frown on your face. so headstrong. so fine. so you. he wouldn’t want to have it any other way. "but i’m also not here to fight you tonight."
"what? you wanna tell me you came in peace?" you ask in icy disbelief, looking at the extended flowers then at him. he is so unbothered by the mass of attention on him, it almost makes you restless.
"yes," he says again, serene as ever. "i came in peace. can we go?"
with the bouquet still outstretched you slowly take it from him. hand reaching halfway to meet him there and take it from him. he lets you have it. the small touch, the skin on skin contact, sizzling even when he pulls away just slightly. letting you take the flowers as they are.
your gaze flickers down, and you wish it hadn’t. roses. your favorites in your favorite color. dark red, the wrapper a black glittery one. they look perfect, smell so sweet yet laced with something bitter like the irony of the situation. they are perfect. and you are sure you have never received anything like this ever in your life. not because it’s just flowers… just roses. no. because it’s meaningful and honest. thoughtful and moving something inside you that feels so foreign.
it shuts you, and behind you the boys shift uncomfortably. but you can't bring yourself to care. you take landos hand and let him guide you down the stairs. over to his car, opening the door for you and holding your dress as you get in. you don't look back to see any reactions. but your eyes are fixed on a total of 22 roses and white baby's breath, accentuating the color and your emotions.
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summary: four hours outside the stewards' room. one hotel bar. one room key. several very bad decisions.
warnings: coworkers to lovers, secret relationship, race weekends, alcohol, tension, emotional avoidance, max being entirely too observant, mutual pining, poor decision making, late-night hotel bars, two people who should've gone to bed hours ago, SMUT
word count: 4.4k
author's note: inspired by shameless by the weeknd.
welcome to the consequences of spending three years working together and accidentally having your first real conversation at one in the morning.
unfortunately, it only gets worse from here ♡
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ / ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 02
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Your phone lit up at 1:17 in the morning.
max
u awake
The hotel room was dark except for the screen.
You'd been staring at the ceiling for three hours.
Three hours ago he'd stormed out of your hotel room.
Three hours ago you'd told him not to come back.
Three hours ago you'd both said things that couldn't be unsaid.
And yet.
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Because this was how it always happened.
You'd fight.
He'd leave.
A few hours would pass.
Then one of you would break.
Usually him.
Always you.
Finally, you typed:
thought you were mad at me
The reply came instantly.
max
i am
You laughed. Quietly. Into the dark of the room.
A second message appeared.
max
open the door
You looked toward the hotel room door.
Then back to your phone.
max
before i start knocking
For a moment, you considered ignoring him. Setting the phone face-down on the nightstand. Going back to sleep like a person with self-respect.
You really did.
Then you were already crossing the room. Barefoot on the cold tile.
Because that was the problem.
It didn't matter how many times you fought.
Didn't matter how many times you swore this was over.
Didn't matter how badly he got under your skin.
There he was. Leaning against the frame like he hadn't just spent three hours being furious at you. Hair still messy. Jaw still tight.
Somehow still him.
And the second Max Verstappen came back…
you let him.
Every single time.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Working in Formula One meant accepting certain realities.
Flights at impossible hours.
Coffee as a food group.
The occasional eighteen-hour workday.
As one of Red Bull's social media admins, you'd spent the last three seasons following drivers through airports, paddocks, media pens, and public relations disasters.
Unfortunately, Max Verstappen generated more than his fair share of the last one.
The race had ended four hours ago.
Four.
Hours.
Ago.
And yet somehow you were still at the circuit.
You glanced at your phone.
11:47 PM.
The paddock was nearly empty now.
Most teams had already packed up.
Most drivers had already disappeared back to their hotels.
Most social media teams had already posted their content and gone to sleep.
You, unfortunately, were still sitting outside the stewards' room with your lanyard twisted around your fingers and your laptop open to a document you hadn't typed a word into in forty minutes.
Waiting.
Because Max Verstappen had managed to get himself summoned after the race.
Again.
The details weren't even interesting anymore.
An incident.
An investigation.
A potential penalty.
An incident that had somehow become everyone's problem.
Including yours.
The social team had already gone back.
The media team had gone back.
The PR team had gone back.
You were the unlucky one who had to stay.
“Just in case,” you were told.
Just in case there was a statement.
Just in case there was media.
Just in case someone needed clips updated.
Just in case.
You hated those two words.
The worst part was that nobody actually expected anything to happen.
Not really.
The FIA loved taking hours to decide things everyone had already made up their minds about.
Which meant you were stuck sitting in a folding chair outside a conference room while the rest of Singapore moved on without you.
The door finally opened.
You immediately sat up.
You checked your emails.
Nothing important.
Checked Slack.
Three messages.
One meme.
One reminder.
One person asking if the decision had happened yet.
You replied:
no ❤️
Then immediately closed your laptop again.
A member of the FIA staff walked past.
You watched him disappear around the corner.
Five minutes later, another one did the same thing.
You considered throwing your laptop at the wall.
Instead, you checked the time again.
11:49 PM.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Only two minutes.
Fantastic.
You leaned your head back against the wall.
Closed your eyes.
Immediately regretted it.
Because the second you got comfortable, the door opened.
You sat upright, so quickly your lanyard smacked you in the face.
Nothing.
Just someone leaving another room.
Not the stewards' room.
Of course not.
You hated this place.
Ten more minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
At some point, even the cleaning crew seemed concerned for you.
One of them offered coffee.
You accepted.
The coffee was terrible.
You drank it anyway.
Midnight approached.
The hallway grew quieter.
Emptier.
Until eventually it felt like you were the only person left in the building.
Then…
Finally…
The door opened.
Max stepped into the hallway.
He looked profoundly unconvinced.
You hated that expression.
Mostly because it meant he was about to be difficult.
"Everybody else left."
"Congratulations."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
His eyes narrowed.
"You sat out here the whole time?"
You gestured vaguely at the hallway.
"What gave it away? The emotional damage?"
A laugh almost appeared.
Almost.
Instead, Max looked around again.
At the empty corridor.
The empty chairs.
The cold coffee sitting beside you.
Then back at you.
"You could've gone back."
"And explain to Christian why there wasn't a statement ready if something happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Yeah, now we know that."
A pause.
Then:
"Still stupid."
You stared.
"Incredible."
"What?"
"You spend four hours arguing with FIA officials and somehow I'm the thing you have a problem with."
"I don't have a problem."
"You literally just called me stupid."
"I called staying stupid."
"That's somehow worse."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Tiny.
Barely there.
You pointed immediately.
"There."
"What?"
"That."
"What?"
"You almost smiled."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"I definitely didn't."
"Liar."
For the first time all night, Max actually laughed.
Small.
Brief.
Gone almost immediately.
But there.
And suddenly the last four hours felt slightly less terrible.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The drive back to the hotel was quiet.
Mostly because Max looked like he wanted to fight somebody.
Possibly several people.
Possibly the FIA as a whole.
You didn't ask.
You valued your life.
You looked at your phone. Opened your email. Closed it again.
Outside, the city moved past in the particular way it did when you were too tired to actually see it.
The hotel lobby was nearly empty when you arrived.
A few team personnel lingered near the elevators.
Everyone looked exhausted.
You were halfway toward the elevator when a voice stopped you.
"You eaten?"
You turned around.
Max had stopped a few feet back.
Still annoyed.
Still tired.
Still somehow waiting for an answer.
"Not since lunch."
He stared.
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I spent the last four hours waiting for the FIA to decide whether you were a criminal."
Max looked toward the elevators.
Then toward the hotel bar.
Then back at you.
"Come on."
You blinked.
"What?"
Max jerked his head toward the hotel bar.
"You need food."
You stared at him.
The audacity.
The absolute audacity.
"You're the reason I haven't eaten."
"So eat."
"That's not an apology."
"I wasn't apologizing."
"Obviously."
For the first time all evening, something almost resembling a smile appeared.
Small.
Brief.
Gone immediately.
You pointed at him.
"There."
"What?"
"That."
"What?"
"You almost smiled."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"I definitely didn't."
"Liar."
Max rolled his eyes.
Then started walking.
Like the conversation was over.
Like you were obviously following.
You hated that he was right.
"You're unbelievably bossy."
His answer came without hesitation.
"You're unbelievably dramatic."
You laughed despite yourself.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
Because Max glanced over.
Caught it.
And looked entirely too pleased about it.
The hotel bar sat at the far end of the lobby.
Mostly empty.
A handful of guests lingering over drinks.
A television mounted above the shelves quietly replaying race highlights.
The kind of place that only existed after midnight.
You stopped near the entrance.
Max didn't.
"You coming?"
The answer should've been no.
You were tired.
Exhausted, actually.
You'd spent the last four hours sitting outside a stewards' room.
You had a flight in the morning.
Several reasons.
All perfectly valid.
Unfortunately, none of them seemed particularly convincing.
So with a sigh, you followed him inside.
A decision that would prove to be a mistake.
Several mistakes, actually.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The bar was mostly empty.
A handful of guests.
Quiet music.
A television on mute in the corner showing highlights from a race that had ended hours ago.
Neither of you looked at it.
It was the kind of atmosphere that only existed after midnight on a Sunday.
Max ordered a burger.
You ordered the same thing, glanced at the menu a second time, and added fries.
And for the first fifteen minutes, neither of you said much.
Mostly because you were both starving.
Eventually…
"You're in a better mood."
Max looked up from his drink.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You haven't insulted anyone in at least twenty minutes."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. The suggestion of one.
"Maybe everyone deserved it earlier."
"There he is."
The corner of his mouth lifted.
Just slightly.
The first real smile you'd seen all night.
Not the one from the podium. Not the press conference one, tight and practiced and aimed just slightly over everyone's heads.
This one was smaller. Crooked. Like it had gotten out before he could stop it.
You looked back down at your food.
That was unfortunate.
You took a drink.
Decided not to think about it.
Immediately failed.
"So."
Max stole one of your fries.
You watched it happen.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like he was daring you to say something.
"Did you just take my fry?"
"Maybe."
"You know those aren't yours."
"You ordered enough for two people."
"They're still mine."
"Hm."
You hated that noise.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
For a moment, the conversation fell quiet again.
Not awkward.
Just...
Easy.
Which felt strange.
Most of your interactions with Max happened in passing.
Content days.
Media sessions.
Quick conversations between meetings.
The occasional interview.
Never this.
Never sitting across from each other at nearly one in the morning with nowhere else to be.
"You know," Max said eventually, "you're a lot shorter when you're sitting down."
You stared.
"What does that even mean?"
"I thought you were taller."
"You see me every weekend."
"I know."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
A pause.
Then:
"I don't know."
You laughed.
Against your better judgment.
The smile returned.
Crooked.
Unfair.
Entirely too distracting.
You looked away first.
A tactical error.
Because when you looked back, Max was watching you.
Not in a weird way.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just...
Watching.
Like he was trying to figure something out.
The realization made your stomach do something deeply unhelpful.
You immediately blamed the lack of sleep.
It was easier that way.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The thing nobody told you about Max Verstappen was that away from cameras…
Away from interviews…
Away from race weekends…
Away from the particular performance of being Max Verstappen…
He was different.
Not nicer.
Definitely not nicer.
Just…
Easier.
Not easier to deal with.
Not easier to understand.
Just easier to be around.
He had opinions about everything.
Strong ones.
Delivered without apology. The FIA's penalty structure. The way certain circuits had been resurfaced badly.
A documentary he'd watched on a flight to Bahrain about deep-sea fish that he described with more enthusiasm than he'd shown in any post-race interview you'd ever clipped.
You told him about the worst social media comment you'd ever had to screenshot for legal review.
He asked to see it.
You showed him.
He stared at it for a long moment.
"People are insane."
"Welcome to my job."
He admitted he read his own comments sometimes.
You laughed at him for a long time.
He called you annoying.
You pointed out that he was the one voluntarily reading Instagram comments at two in the morning.
He conceded the point.
The world did not end.
Somewhere in there you'd both finished eating, and neither of you had moved to leave, and you hadn't checked your phone in what felt like two hours.
You weren't sure when exactly it happened.
The shift.
One minute you'd been sitting across from Max Verstappen.
Three-time world champion.
Professional menace.
The guy whose face appeared on your laptop screen approximately six thousand times a week.
The next…
You were just sitting across from Max.
A version that never appeared in interviews.
A version that didn't seem particularly interested in being impressive.
Or careful.
Or likable.
He interrupted himself constantly.
Lost track of stories halfway through.
Went on bizarre tangents about things nobody else would care about.
And somehow expected everyone around him to keep up.
It was deeply annoying.
You found yourself liking it anyway.
That was unfortunate.
Very unfortunate.
Because it suggested you were developing a problem.
And you'd always been told those were easier to avoid than fix.
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"Can I ask you something?"
You immediately narrowed your eyes.
"That reaction is concerning."
"Your questions are concerning."
"Fair."
He took another sip of his drink.
Then looked at you.
Really looked at you.
Not the way he looked at journalists. Not the flat, practiced patience of a press conference. Something more direct than that. Something that had no media handler standing just off to the side.
"What?"
"You always this nervous?"
Your drink nearly went down the wrong pipe.
"What?"
"You are."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I'm literally not."
A look appeared.
One that suggested he already knew he was right.
"In Abu Dhabi," he said. "You dropped your badge at the paddock gate."
You stared.
He continued anyway.
"Picked it up."
A pause.
"Dropped it again."
"Oh my God."
"Monza."
"Max—"
"You apologized to me twice in the same sentence."
"I don't think that's true."
"It is."
"You cannot possibly remember that."
"I do."
The answer came too quickly.
Too easily.
Like it wasn't something he'd had to think about.
Like he'd simply known.
Your stomach tightened.
Slightly.
Dangerously.
Then:
"You play with your rings."
Your hand immediately stilled against the table.
His gaze dropped to your fingers.
The thin gold one on your index finger.
The two stacked on your middle.
Then back to your face.
"You only do it when you're nervous."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Warmer.
Quieter.
"How do you know that?"
The question escaped before you could stop it.
For a second, something shifted in his expression.
Gone almost immediately.
Then he picked up his drink.
"I pay attention."
The answer should've been simple.
Instead, it landed somewhere beneath your ribs.
Heavy.
Unexpected.
Because the problem wasn't that Max had noticed.
The problem was how many times he'd had to look to learn all of that.
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That was the problem.
Not the flirting.
Not the alcohol.
Not the fact it was nearly three in the morning.
The problem was the look that followed.
The one that lingered a little too long.
The one that made you wonder whether he'd always looked at you like that.
Or if you were only noticing now.
Neither of you moved.
The conversation slowed.
Then stopped altogether.
The silence wasn't awkward.
Which somehow felt worse.
You looked at him.
Max looked at you.
Neither of you looked away.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
You knew it.
He knew it.
The smart thing would've been leaving.
The smart thing would've been pretending none of this was happening.
Instead…
"You're staring."
A smile appeared.
Small.
Annoying.
Entirely too pleased with itself.
"You've said that already."
"Still true."
You rolled your eyes.
His smile widened.
The room felt warmer than it had ten minutes ago.
Or maybe that was just the alcohol.
Or maybe that was just the exhaustion.
You took another sip of your drink.
Mostly to give yourself something to do.
Across the table, Max did the same.
Neither of you spoke.
The bartender walked past.
Collected two empty glasses from the table beside yours.
Somewhere near the entrance, a couple stood up to leave.
The door opened.
Closed.
Silence settled over the room again.
Neither of you seemed particularly interested in breaking it.
Which was strange.
Normally one of you would've made a joke by now.
Or started an argument.
Or found literally anything else to focus on.
Instead…
You looked up.
Bad timing.
Max was already looking at you.
Not away.
Not startled.
Like he'd been doing it for a while.
Your stomach immediately did something deeply unhelpful.
"You keep doing that."
His eyebrows lifted.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like that."
A pause.
Then:
"Like what?"
You hated that answer.
Mostly because it sounded genuine.
"You know what."
"I don't."
Liar.
The worst part was that he didn't even have the decency to look guilty about it.
You were suddenly aware of how late it was.
How empty the bar had become.
How the bartender was wiping down tables around you.
How nobody had asked for the bill.
How neither of you seemed particularly interested in ending the night.
That was the dangerous part.
Not wanting him.
That would've been simple.
The dangerous part was enjoying this.
The conversation.
The company.
Him.
And judging by the look on Max's face…
that problem wasn't entirely one-sided.
The realization sat between you.
Fortunately, the bartender did it for you.
He appeared beside the table holding the bill.
"Whenever you're ready."
You both looked up.
Blinking slightly.
Like you'd forgotten there was an entire world outside this conversation.
"Right."
The bartender disappeared again.
Silence settled over the table.
You looked at the check.
Then at the nearly empty bar.
Then at your phone.
3:02 a.m.
"Oh."
Max glanced over.
"What?"
"It's three."
A pause.
"That's probably bad."
You laughed.
"Probably."
Neither of you moved.
Again.
A terrible habit the two of you seemed to be developing.
Finally, Max reached for the bill.
You immediately grabbed it first.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because."
"Good argument."
"It is."
Max rolled his eyes.
Then paid anyway.
Which somehow felt entirely in character.
"You know," you said as you both stood, "most people say thank you when someone waits four hours outside a stewards' room for them."
"Most people don't wait four hours outside a stewards' room."
"You are impossible."
"I've been told."
Together, you headed toward the elevators.
Somehow, that felt more dangerous than staying.
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By the time you reached the elevators, neither of you had said a word.
Not the tension.
Not the stolen glances.
Not a thing.
You stepped inside.
Max slipped in behind you.
The doors slid shut.
Silence.
Five.
Ten.
Twelve.
Fourteen.
You stared at the floor indicator. Refused to look at him. Because if you looked at him…
“Bad idea.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Max chuckled softly beside you.
Neither agreeing nor denying.
“Probably.”
The elevator climbed higher.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
Neither of you spoke again. Neither of you had to.
Your floor arrived. You stepped out. Turned back.
“Night.”
“Night.”
And then the doors slid closed, sealing you off from each other.
You lingered for a moment.
Then another.
Finally, you turned toward your room.
The hallway was quiet.
Mostly empty.
The kind of silence that only existed at three in the morning.
You dropped your backpack onto one shoulder and started digging through it.
Nothing.
You frowned.
Checked the front pocket.
Nothing.
The side pocket.
Nothing.
"Come on."
You tried again.
Laptop charger.
Lip balm.
A receipt from an airport three countries ago.
Still no room key.
Fantastic.
Absolutely fantastic.
You closed your eyes. Took a breath. Opened your bag again.
“Looking for this?”
You froze.
Slowly turned around.
Max stood a few feet away.
Your key card dangling between two fingers.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Your stomach immediately betrayed you.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You had that the entire time?"
A crease appeared between his brows. Then he glanced down at the mess of your backpack.
"Oh."
You stared.
"Oh?"
"I picked it up in the elevator."
"And didn't think to tell me?"
"I didn't notice until too late."
"Too late for what?"
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"For you to spend five minutes digging through your bag."
"You are unbelievable."
"I know."
He didn't sound remotely sorry.
You stared.
Max stared back.
Completely unbothered.
The worst person alive.
Which would've been easier if you could stop looking at him.
"Give it back."
His grin widened, crooked and infuriating.
"Make me."
You laughed despite yourself.
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
"That's usually my line."
"Shut up."
The hallway felt smaller.
The air heavier.
Neither of you moved.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
You both knew it.
That was the problem.
"Max."
A warning.
Or maybe not.
His gaze dropped, then snaked back up, landing on you. A quiet laugh escaped him.
"Probably."
Then you kissed him.
Not because it was smart.
Not because you'd thought it through.
Mostly because neither of you seemed particularly interested in making smart decisions anymore.
Just raw need: his lips crushing yours, almost desperate
His hand braced against the wall beside your head; yours curled into the front of his shirt, fingers digging into the soft cotton.
For a second, the whole world narrowed to breathless warmth, the slick slide of his tongue seeking yours
You pulled back first… barely.
Just enough to breathe.
Just enough to remember why this couldn't happen.
Neither of you looked convinced.
The corner of Max's mouth lifted.
Without taking his eyes off you, he reached past your shoulder.
The lock clicked.
The door swung open behind you.
"You gonna stand out here all night?"
You laughed again.
A terrible sign.
Then he kissed you.
Less hesitation this time.
Less thinking.
You took a step backward, kicking your backpack from the floor into the room, not caring where it landed or spilled.
Max followed.
Then another.
And another.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Inside the dark hotel room, city lights bleeding through curtains. You both knew it was a bad idea, but neither of you could stop.
His hands settled on your hips, firm, possessive. You pressed your palms to his chest, feeling the hard plane of muscle under his shirt.
His mouth traced your jaw, down your throat, fingertips brushing the swell of your breast through your polo. Your breath hitched; he smiled against your skin.
“Okay,” you whispered, voice thick with want.
He laughed against your skin, then crashed back to your lips, tongue sliding into your mouth, hungry and exact.
Less talking. Less thinking. No counting consequences.
Later, you told yourself you’d deal with later.
Right now, his hands moved, yours followed.
His fingers found the hem of your polo, easing it up. You lifted your arms, let him pull it over your head.
Your jeans followed, denim dragging down your legs until you kicked them free.
His shirt came off next. Then his jeans.
Skin met skin, warm and electric, and you arched into him, seeking more contact, more friction, more of this thing you'd both been pretending not to want.
He walked you backward, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the mattress.
You sat, then lay back, pulling him down with you.
The city lights filtered through the curtains, painting him in stripes of amber and shadow.
His mouth found your neck, your collarbone, the slope of your breast.
Each kiss deliberate, mapping your body like he was charting territory. You arched into him, fingers tangling in his hair as he moved lower.
Past your ribs. Your stomach. The hollow of your hip.
His breath was hot against your inner thigh. You froze, suddenly aware of exactly where this was heading.
"Max-"
He looked up, eyes dark, asking without words. You nodded, small and desperate, already lifting your hips to help him ease your underwear down.
He spread your legs wider, settling between them.
His mouth replaced where his fingers would have been, tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles that made you gasp and buck off the mattress.
"God," you breathed, head falling back.
He didn't rush.
Just worked you open with his mouth, steady and unhurried, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread beneath him.
His tongue dipped lower, sliding into you, then returned to your clit with a pressure that made you see stars.
"Fuck," you gasped, voice catching.
He doubled his focus, tongue flat and firm, then flicking, reading every shift of your hips like a map.
You felt your pulse in your throat, your walls clenching around nothing, the emptiness becoming its own ache.
He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his mouth stayed where it was, relentless.
You cried out, the sound echoing off the ceiling as your orgasm hit, your body trembling, toes curling, thighs clamping around his head until he laughed against you, the vibration pushing you higher.
He paused, let you ride it out, fingers still moving gently until you caught your breath, limp and trembling against the sheets.
Then he rose from between your legs, already hard against your thigh.
The weight of him settled over you, and you felt the hard press of him against your entrance, still sensitive, still pulsing.
"Still think this is a bad idea?" he murmured, voice rough.
You pulled him down, kissing him, tasting yourself on his lips.
"Shut up."
He pushed inside in one slow, steady stroke.
You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, your body adjusting to the stretch of him.
He paused, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
Then he moved, and you moved with him.
Finding a rhythm that built from the wreckage of what he'd already done to you, climbing again, higher this time, until you fully came apart together.
His name breaking across your lips like a prayer you didn't mean to say.
For a second neither of you said anything.
Then he rolled off, settling beside you.
Both of you stared at the ceiling, chests rising and falling, the silence thick between you.
Your heartbeat slowly returned to something resembling normal.
"Well."
You immediately groaned.
"Don't."
"What?"
"'Well' is never followed by anything good."
A laugh escaped him.
You stared at the ceiling.
"Okay, now I'm definitely sober."
"That's unfortunate."
"Tragic, actually."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
You looked over.
Immediately regretted it.
Because that wasn't helping either.
"What's your flight?"
"Seven."
You glanced at the clock.
5:12.
"Oh, that's awful."
"I know."
"You should probably leave."
"I probably should."
Neither of you moved.
You closed your eyes and silence settled over the room again.
"This was a mistake."
"Probably."
A beat passed.
Then another.
Neither of you sounded particularly concerned about it.
Which was probably a problem.
"Are you actually leaving?"
Max glanced over.
"Eventually."
You groaned.
"That's not an answer."
"It wasn't supposed to be."
A terrible sign.
Another terrible answer.
Another reason you should've kicked him out twenty minutes ago.
Instead, you laughed.
Which was probably how this whole thing started in the first place.
⊹ ࣪ ˖chapter 5: one for the money, two for the show
⸻A WORD OF CAUTION mafia boss!lando norris x fem leclerc mafia!reader, 3,5k words, arguments, secrets, reader is having signs of a panic attack in the end
MASTERLIST
the smell of bacon and scrambled eggs filled the air of the kitchen this morning. your freshly pressed orange juice looked more inviting in your glass than you had appetite too. chayo (she insisted to be called like this because her real name was way to long), the maid who made all this amazing food and always kept making the best english muffins, scolded you with a look for not eating. it’s not like your brothers weren’t already eating half the table all by themselves.
arthur and charles sat opposite of you, stuffing first their plates and then their mouths full while small random chatter laid upon the table beside the silverware clinking. turning your head, you looked out into the garden. pool water glinting softly you decided to go for a swim and tan a little today. the sun was shining and despite being just the beginning of may it was already warm.
the doorbell rang once, and chayo left to open the door, cursing loudly in spanish before stepping aside. you frown, not because she cursed. she likes doing that a lot especially when she’s cleaning charles room. but because it sounded more surprised than agitated. you take a forkful eggs to your mouth but the motion freezes halfway.
lando walks in, giving chayo a small nod, and halting when he sees you and your brothers having breakfast. his lips quirk but you see he tries not to smile. smile in mock amusement. because the way that the boys look at him has its own way of killing with a look. it’s piercing, and you realise that it probably wasn’t them inviting lando over.
charles swallows his big bite, eyes staying on the man who just entered your home, poking his head briefly into the dining room and letting his gaze bounce from arthur to charles then to you with a cocky attitude.
"morning,"
is all he says, before continuing his way down the hallway. you frown. why is lando norris in your home? what made him come all the way from his hellhole up to the leclerc estate, walk in like he owns this place too, then stroll down to your fathers office.
your brothers shoot up from their seats, ready to go and get answers when your halt them with one word. "sit," is all you say. one determined and firm word. their heads stay in the direction of the doorway, instinct screaming at them to confront lando. to stop him from existing in the same space. but then they slowly sit down, much to your surprise to how good they listen when they want to. something tells you that there must be a reason he’s here. "he’s here for business."
they exchange a tense glance. charles with suspicion burning his eyes and arthur with quiet calculation. you feel your heart miss a beat for a short amount of time and you wonder what this is telling you. the fact that he walked in, wished you a good morning and went on, tells you he is not here for revenge or violence. almost like he came for peace.
"what the fuck is going on…?" arthur mutters, locking eyes with you. "how would you know?"
it’s a little accusingly. you don’t miss that. but even on your best day, you wouldn’t know what is going on right now. and if you didn’t know, your brothers would. so them asking you is a little odd.
"i don’t," you answer, glancing towards the hallway then back. "but if he wouldn’t be here for business with father, then he would have been shot as soon as he drove past the iron gates…"
arthur frowns, studying you meanwhile charles keeps quiet. they know it’s true. the security system around the house is brutal and no one, who doesn’t got an invitation or is expected, stands a chance coming past. but he walked in clean. alone. no weapons visible (not that you dont trust him to be armed). so yes, this has to be business.
your father must have given the clearance for entry ahead of time, which means he expected this meeting. after all, after your eavesdropping, you heard how he want to make peace with norris already. and it’s weird how charles and arthur didn’t go after him. sure, you told them to sit. but they never listen to you like that.
so you bite into your french toast, pondering about how you’d sneak out tonight to go and see your friend lyla for a few drinks. and it wouldn’t be too bad if your father and lando manage to make peace tonight. you have to drive through his territory to get to your destination.
just as you were thinking if you should climb down the window, leave through the garden or the front door, loud laughter echoes in the hallway. the meeting went only thirty minutes? thats a little too short. knowing how your father likes to negotiate the shit out of even small deals.
your mothers feminine and careless laughter melodies down the antique walls, followed by a deep tone that appears right behind veronica leclerc. a beautiful, blonde woman who always looks maintained. her manicured hand brushes landos arm in an amused gesture while he follows her into the kitchen like she just invited him to breakfast. but knowing her she maybe did.
they look like they were joking around before entering. your mother delighted by landos charm, his smile one of confidence and a little cockiness. she’s smiling and acting like a teenager talking to her crush. not her enemy who cut her own son right across the chest a few months prior.
"darlings, look who stopped by! we’re just catching up," she says brightly, waving her hand at him like she would at an appealing man she liked. your mom was complex person with a complex character. she was a control freak. giving a task out of her hand was her death. the moment she didn’t manage to control someone, (like your father or you) she would let him know by being a sulky moody wife. she is a maintained, elegant and captivating woman. liked by many men especially, because she knew how to bet her eyelashes right.
’the leclerc eyes’ how many people would describe, were THE siren eyes of women in existence. enchanting enough to draw you in, dangerous enough to make you regret it. beautiful in a way like a storm over the ocean in monaco, mesmerizing but best admired from a distance.
landos eyes follow her measured as she walks to the coffee maker, grabbing a small white china cup. he does not acknowledge you or your brothers for a long time. "please, veronica… i don’t mean to interrupt the family breakfast."
he’s so smarmy, trying way too hard and your mother takes it with a delighted chuckle and shrug. you see out of the corner of your eyes how arthurs nose is wrinkled in disgust and one might think he’ll comment it, but no. he knows he gets scolded and shot either with a sharp glare or a curse in french.
in the next moment vivienne walks in, wearing a fourth wing hoodie that was too big on her. your younger sister. she’s the unproblematic leclerc. as lorenzo would call her. a soft spoken girl. long brown hair somehow always soft and at least one braid in it. no matter if full hair or strands. she reads books, draws castles or scenes straight out of a cinderella tale in her sketchbook and has a very colorful perception of life that her art reflects. she likes to keep to herself, not talkative per se and feels safe once she was in her room that was 80% books and posters of some rom com movies.
at the sight of your mother placing an espresso in front of lando, and his eyes meeting hers briefly, she scrunches her nose just like arthur did. a little subtle. but it was there. most of a reaction anyone has seen from her this week.
"isn’t he like…. the enemy?" she asks, brushing past him without a care and walking over to grab herself a bowl and cereals from the cupboard. the second your sister speaks, your mom’s eyes widen and and a small chuckle from lando is audible. clearly not taking offense and acting like he isn’t watched by two blood hungry leclercs.
he lowers his espresso cup after finishing it like a psychopath in one sip, still smiling. clearly mildly amused that your sister was so open to call him out. he heard of her. vivienne. a quiet one, yet with the same spirit that possessed you too.
"mon dieu, vivienne, un peu plus de respect…!" (my god, vivienne. show a little more respect…!) your mom scolds, shooting her a look she ignores as she slides beside you onto the free chair. she has to be the only one that doesn’t fear the wrath of your mom once she’s mad. vivienne simply doesn’t care.
"please, it’s fine… i'm off to nice anyways. got a busy day before me" lando says, dusting off his already perfect suit jacket with one brush of his hand. then his head raises and eyes lock with you. already waiting, already curious. icy blue, no doubt, no hesitation, no deception. it’s like he’s silently saying something. silently promising something you cannot yet make out. it’s the same look he gave you that day in front of sainz restaurant. a language you both need to learn but one that is only yours.
"have a nice day," is all he says as a goodbye before giving your mother two polite kisses on each cheek, nodding to your brothers and walking out of the mansion with the same simplicity he entered.
as soon as the door falls into its lock, the two idiots bolt up and are out of the dining room as fast as someone can blink. down the hallway with one destination on their mind.
you frown, finding it all too confusing to put two and two together after this scene. "what is this all about?" you then dare to ask, not missing the flicker of something akin to guilt flashing your mothers face. she doesn’t answer for a long time. doesn’t even look at you. and you know something is so not right.
then she starts to hesitate. say it. dont say it. with a filled plate of salad, she sits down opposite of you where arthur sat and you see the exact same face. and you already hate it. "your father and lando they… have been talking."
no details, no explanation. just that. plain and simple. like anything in this world is ever that simple. the tension is suffocating and you stare at your mom like she grew a second head. a heartbeat passes. then another. and then your name is being called out.
his voice carries down right to you, reaching your ears with an unease. exchanging a look with vivienne who even has stopped chewing on her coco puffs for a second, watches you stand up and leave.
the hallway suddenly feels longer than usual. even more strangling then the last time you were here for a whole another reason. shit. should you have told him you saw lando in nice? maybe it’s too late already for that. maybe it doesn’t even play a role anymore. he already mentioned it. maybe your brothers know? and if they knew and knew you didn't tell, will this be your last call?
you approach your father’s office slow, measured. inside, you can hear low voices. calm, controlled. now. you’re sure it hasn’t been like this five minutes prior when your brothers barged in like some maniacs.
once he sees you arrive in the doorway he gestures with his hand to one of the leather chairs opposite of him. "come in," your father orders. not a request. the old emerald green carpet is soft beneath your feet, the mahogany furniture polished and the leather seat too uncomfortable. arthurs arms are crossed, thumb and forefinger picking his bottom lip restlessly as he he stands beside your father’s desk. charles a few meters behind you, fingering that ridiculous bronze sculpture of mars standing proudly on the commode.
"good morning, father" you greet, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. trying to show you’re not as affected as you are.
vincent stares at you for a moment. looking you up and down and locking his fingers while his elbows rest on the armrest of his chair. then he sighs, eyes flicking to the papers on his desk. signed, black on white and heavy. like physical weight. he clears his throat, leans forward on the desk and changes the destination of his elbows to the smooth surface.
"lando was here," he attempts on a start, knowing very well everyone in this room had no chance to miss the presence of such a man. his eyes are thoughtful, maybe laced with regret but finality. "we had a conversation… a discussion. we came to an agreement that will set peace to this war for once and for all."
you nod, keeping your expression open and light. but there is something. there has to be a reason why you’re here. they never talk business with you. why would it lay in your interests now? it’s a good thing hearing that there will be an end to this war. but everything has a price tag.
"lando and i… we’ve agreed on a truce," a pause. but it doesn’t feel like any other truce he’s ever agreed to. because vincent has never agreed to something this big. "no more shipment attacks, no more territory disputes. and from now on we operate side by side. not against each other. not anymore."
you swallow, exchanging a look with a very suspicious looking arthur. you know there is a catch. there has to be. "that… that sounds good… no?" you try to stutter out, feeling pathetic just as it is. you swallow, maybe even swallowing the remaining words.
"yes," your father nods after a second. "it’s very good…"
it’s thick. like fog slowly spreading in a dark forest. hard to see, hard to make out the truth between so many things happening. vincent ponders, trying to make out the right words at the right time.
"the alliance is sealed with a marriage."
you feel the fog get even thicker. hanging in the air between all parties like a fucking disease. marriage. arthurs face goes pale, eyes flared and fixed on the man who just said the sentence. charles behind you? you don't even want to know. his hands are clenched, expression tight and too anchored right on the center of the room.
marriage.
for a second no one breathes. your father sits in the middle of the storm brewing in the distance. he keeps talking, like he just announced lunch planned and not an arranged marriage between two blood sworn enemies.
"lando norris is marrying my oldest daughter," he repeats firmly, knowing he got the wrath of two of his sons on him at the moment. "the agreement will be settled in two months with the wedding but all agreements are in immediate effect of the business and personal matters."
"two months?" arthur calls out, furious and untamed. he’s like a volcano bursting, spitting flames around him without a care in the world. he knows he didn’t hear this right. his sister… marrying… an enemy? well not anymore, as it seems. their father is this easy to buy… for whatever reason. "you want that fucking narcissistic sociopath to marry our little sister?"
your father doesn’t as much as blink at the outburst. he knew no one would be happy with this decision. yet he expected exactly this storm from the brothers. you on the other hand haven’t said anything since…
"language," vincent warns coldly, voice like drops on ice. "lando is not a sociopath. he’s a powerful man. this marriage ends bloodshed that has cost us millions and lives… it was time that something changes."
"lando is planning a new beginning in the underworld and we soon have to decide which side we want to be on"
the words echo in your head. your father’s words from a few days ago. and now they're reality. he decided which side he wants to be on. you heard it all. and you cant even argue with this anymore. not that you stood a chance. it’s final. it’s what there is to do. attitude and big mouth won’t save you. not now. not when there is more on stake than just a stupid sneak out.
"you’re giving her to him?" charles asks, voice laced with disbelief and frustration. there is no way that all these years the leclerc brothers tried to keep you safe from all the harms in the world only for your father to marry you off to a monster. a monster in their eyes. he never made them believe anything else, really.
"you can’t be serious… do you even hear yourself? lando kidnapped her! held a gun to her head! and you’re just… what? just handing her over like she‘s a fucking peace treaty?" the younger leclercs voice raises.
"he didn’t hurt her now, did he?" your father asks dryly, but it’s clear his patience is wearing thin. he clicks the expensive mont blanc pen on his desk, not meeting anyones look at all.
but then all eyes are on you, and you shift out of your haze for just a moment, voice thin and unstable. "n- no... he hasn’t but… father thats-"
"thats not the point," charles snaps. "she didn’t agree to any of this! this is fucking barbaric. forcing her into a marriage with norris? after everything? what kind of message does that send?"
it was just a matter of time and vincent finally has had enough. his palm lands loudly on the mahogany. sharp and final. and the boys finally close their mouths. "shut the fuck up! both of you! to answer those stupid questions, it does send that we are ready to bring peace into a country that has it coming because everyone is suffering from this conflict!"
he raises his voice effortlessly and when he picks that tone, no one can argue. no one dares to. even if they had the right to. you especially. there was no way to fall into those words. final, reserved and ultimate.
long heartbeats pass and you still haven’t said a word. eyes fixed on the picture of you and vivienne on your father’s desk when you were kids. smiling, without a care, and so blissfully unaware of all the darkness of this business.
"who…?" charles prompts, stepping forward and behind where you’re seated. "who‘s idea was it?"
now your father pauses. giving his head a silent shake. and for the first time in this conversation there is a flicker in his expression. almost… like indecision. a delay. reluctance to answer.
"lando proposed it…"
a scoff here, a sigh there. and you think it will all start again.
"enough..." vincent silences before another verbal fight can break out. "the decision is made. lando and you will get married in two months time" he points at you and you finally look up. "end of discussion. we‘re a point in this war, in this back and forth, where we can not keep poking the lion anymore. we use up all of our luck and lando simply has more and does more by now, we can not afford to loose more to him or to anyone."
as your father talks, it might be clear by now that they in fact tugged a lions tail and used up all of luck. it was provocation. it was a war that wasn’t necessarily initiated by lando…
but you don't hear it. you don't hear charles starting to shout and arthur arguing again. you don’t hear the business, the alliances, the power and the balance that is promised. you just hear static noise. so loud in your ear that it might burst through your eardrum. that, and the rapid beating of your heart.
the sweaty palms, the nails slowly digging into the caramel colored armrests. clinging. out of fear. and right in this moment you’re asking yourself if truly, any decision that you ever made lead you to this exact point in your life. every prayer left unanswered, every beg left unheard. you just always wished to get away with living life to its fullest and peeking over the surface.
and now? an agreement sealed with something that involves not only your name, but your soul and body. your heart and your mind. your all and your nothing. the room feels too small, the air too thin and the thoughts too big. consisted of how’s and why’s and when’s. no. this is different.
quiet uncertainty that speaks more than words could. it’s why you can’t say the words that die on your throat. flowers wilting from not enough care, you feel that spark of hope you gathered from all the secrets you bind with yourself on all the nights out die too. it’s final and it’s over. petals falling to the floor, and prayers lost in the wind.
.☘︎ ݁˖
reblogs and likes feed my soul and ego💋
tag list: @anaylen01 @liafics @f1overs @chala-mala-bing-bong @verstappenslibrary
Would you by chance be willing to write something based on Shameless by The Weeknd? Preferably with Max
well.
this was supposed to be a one-shot.
unfortunately, i have no self control.
so instead it's becoming a series.
here's a preview of ꜱʜᴀᴍᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ 🤍
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Your phone lit up at 1:17 in the morning.
max
u awake
The hotel room was dark except for the screen.
You'd been staring at the ceiling for three hours.
Three hours ago he'd stormed out of your hotel room.
Three hours ago you'd told him not to come back.
Three hours ago you'd both said things that couldn't be unsaid.
And yet.
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Because this was how it always happened.
You'd fight.
He'd leave.
A few hours would pass.
Then one of you would break.
Usually him.
Always you.
Finally, you typed:
thought you were mad at me
The reply came instantly.
max
i am
You laughed. Quietly. Into the dark of the room.
A second message appeared.
max
open the door
You looked toward the hotel room door.
Then back to your phone.
max
before i start knocking
For a moment, you considered ignoring him. Setting the phone face-down on the nightstand. Going back to sleep like a person with self-respect.
You really did.
Then you were already crossing the room. Barefoot on the cold tile.
Because that was the problem.
It didn't matter how many times you fought.
Didn't matter how many times you swore this was over.
Didn't matter how badly he got under your skin.
There he was. Leaning against the frame like he hadn't just spent three hours being furious at you. Hair still messy. Jaw still tight.
Somehow still him.
And the second Max Verstappen came back—
you let him.
Every single time.
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The race had ended four hours ago.
Four.
Hours.
Ago.
And yet somehow you were still at the circuit.
You glanced at your phone.
11:47 PM.
The paddock was nearly empty now.
Most teams had already packed up.
Most drivers had already disappeared back to their hotels.
Most social media teams had already posted their content and gone to sleep.
You, unfortunately, were still sitting outside the stewards' room with your lanyard twisted around your fingers and your laptop open to a document you hadn't typed a word into in forty minutes.
Waiting.
Because Max Verstappen had managed to get himself summoned after the race.
Again.
The details weren't even interesting anymore. An incident. A investigation.
A potential penalty.
A post-race investigation.
An incident that had somehow become everyone's problem.
Including yours.
The social team had already gone back.
The media team had gone back.
The PR team had gone back.
You were the unlucky one who had to stay.
“Just in case,” you were told.
Just in case there was a statement.
Just in case there was media.
Just in case someone needed clips updated.
Just in case.
You hated those two words.
The door finally opened.
You immediately sat up.
Max stepped into the hallway.
Looking exactly as irritated as you'd expected.
His race suit hung around his waist.
His hair was a mess.
His jaw was set in a way that suggested the meeting had gone exactly as well as expected.
"Well?"
He looked at you.
Then at the empty corridor stretching out behind you.
Then back at you.
"What are you still doing here?"
You blinked.
"What?"
"It's nearly midnight."
"Because they kept you here until nearly midnight."
"Yeah, but why are you here?"
You stared.
"Because I work here."
Max looked profoundly unconvinced.
You hated that expression.
Mostly because it meant he was about to be difficult.
send me your prompts, tropes, aus, songs, dialogue ideas, smau concepts or fully developed fic ideas.
i'm open to one shots, longer fics (if that’s where it leads), and smaus.
if you'd like, include:
driver:
trope:
fic or smau:
specific scene:
anything you want included:
angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, neighbors to lovers, university aus, fake dating, psychological thrillers, emotional devastation, and everything in between are welcome.
anonymous asks are on ♡
→ ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴇɴᴅ ᴀ ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛ
some drivers have unfortunately been assigned little brother status in my brain and will remain there indefinitely.
⸻A WORD OF CAUTION mafia boss!lando norris x fem leclerc mafia!reader, 2,5k words, arguments
once home, charles doesn’t concern himself with anything else than to get away from you and that as fast as possible. with long strides and heavy steps, he disappears upstairs in the mansion, door falling heavy into it’s place of his room. you shiver, starring after him and hating the feeling of your stomach clenching.
the entrance hall was lined with excessive paintings that screamed abstract in every absurd form from gilded frames. centuries-old chandeliers cast a warm glow over black-and-white marble floors, while dark walnut paneling gave the house the quiet confidence of something that had never once worried about money.
the mansion was old money. the leclercs were. with a library, an insane amount of rooms and the creak of the bathroom door upstairs that no one used. everyone had their own anyway. every room carried the unmistakable weight of inheritance, of fortunes built long ago and passed down through generations.
"we’re not done talking."
in an attempt to get away from the other brother, you try to slide past him in the grand hallway but he blocks your path like a wall. the mansion is quiet. too quiet. the kind of silence that only comes when something huge just happened and no one knows how to fix it. with a heavy sigh arthur takes of his zip hoodie and offers it to you.
you swallow, first looking at the piece of clothing then back into his awaiting eyes. slowly and with wary hands you take it from him. slipping it on, the warmth still clings to it. enveloping your cool and tender skin from past events.
arthurs expression doesn’t soften. not for now at least. but something shifts and it’s the same thing that shifts every time you and arthur are in the same room and in the same dilemma. you always found yourself bonding more to arthur than to any of your other siblings. maybe it’s both your hunger for more freedom, yet you both handle it differently. or how he knows you just a little better and can’t stay mad at you because he knows your intentions aren’t ill. he always says you’re just a little too spoiled and a little too comfortable.
"you really didn’t know what lando’s club meant? that going there was basically waving a red flag at him?" he does not accuse you this time. he questions you. seeing the smudged make up, your flushed cheeks and the slight redness where the ropes have been biting your skin, he feels possession and protectiveness flare up in him. it’s the difference between him and charles or even lorenzo. he gets mad because he cares.
you don’t answer for a long time. looking anywhere but in his awaiting face. there is a small coffee stain on the carpet. your mother’s shawl draped over the railing of the large marble staircase, the faint light coming in from outside after a long night. then you raise your head.
"i… i didn’t think he would be around… or that i would be seen like that," your answer is quiet. unsure. not after all these arguments and events. you can’t talk back like you’d want to. you don’t have the right to.
arthur exhales. long and slow. like he’s been holding his breath ever since the moment he saw the gun resting against your temple. he hates that answer. not because it’s necessarily stupid. but because it makes sense. lando owns clubs across europe and more in monaco as well. but he rarely shows up in person anymore. and what might have went unseen the last times, is more under sharp eyes than ever lately.
"you didn’t think," arthur repeats softly. your name meant to make you look at him again, but it sounds disappointed. concerned. "do you have any idea how close we came to losing you tonight? lando is unpredictable lately! it was one wrong move or one wrong word and it would have been our last…"
you roll your eyes a little, a small huff escaping your lips but it lacks its usual heat. you find him all too dramatic but something still shaky in your being.
"he would have not killed me…. he is not that stupid,"
arthurs eyes narrow slightly. it’s not the huff that irritates him, but the naive logic behind it.
"you think lando norris cares about being stupid right now? i know you snuck out before. you didn’t care before and now you think you can do it again… but times are different now. do not ever underestimate how far that man will go just to prove a point…“ his words hold something that make you realise why they were so on the edge today. and he’s right. times are indeed different. and everything that happened these past months, all the incidents and disasters. they were no coincidences. and everyone knows they need to watch their backs more.
you take in his words slowly, then give him a nod. arthur unclenches his jaw, lets out another breath and then grabs your arm to pull you closer. you reply the hug. who were you not to give it back to him. arms wrapped around him tightly you thank the gods above that they saved you once again. the brotherly protection wraps around you in anger turned relief, and you’re glad to have such a fierce protector and defender.
"go to bed, idiot…"
you give him a small chuckle, then peel yourself away from him. pulling the hoodie closer to yourself, you can’t help but wonder about lando’s words. it almost seemed like he has a reason to be fighting your family. almost like he is… protecting something. ’something that is rightfully mine’. you don’t concern yourself with the business. they never wanted you to. but something might does not sit right.
"arthur?" the simple name comes out a little weaker. but you clear your throat and square your shoulders when you got his attention. halfway up the stairs you find him in the dimmed light. "why do i feel like we fuck norris over more than we should…?"
an uncomfortable silence follows. no sound but the distant ticking of a clock somewhere in the house. your question lingers like smoke after gunfire. heavy. unsettling. he doesn’t answer right away just looks at you with a haunting calculation that might be answer enough.
besides, lando isn’t some random underground criminal. their families have been at war for a few years now. but lately it feels more personal. obsessive even. every move lando makes gets analyzed. every rumor checked twice, every encounter escalates. in return, all the leclercs do is seen as a provocation. a declaration of war. a personal attack.
but now you’re asking something like this. something that goes beyond the surface and something that feels uneasy, even though it shouldn’t. it has no business to be this way.
"i’m not talking business with you. especially not now… go to bed and stop talking shit. it’s better if you don’t know details you don’t need to know. if norris takes, we can’t afford to let him. that’s it."
his words are final and so is his look. after all you feel like you pushed boundaries enough today, and his eyes tell you no other wise. so you turn back around, continuing your way up the stairs and away into your awaiting bed. falling into the soft sheets you exhale. silence. strangling and shivering. landos hands a reminiscence on your skin, branded into your mind. and you hate it. hate how much it sticks to you. hate how the goosebumps erupt on your skin at the fact that rough hands can be soft for you.
.☘︎ ݁˖
for the following days the mansion feels like a tomb. no calls, no meetings, no shouting matches at dinner. conversations running short and restricting themselves to only important matters. there is a coming and going. your father’s men visit him or charles working in the basement, then leave. calls, meetings, tense moments in between
lando has made no move, seemingly satisfied with what he managed to bag last weekend. the shipping routes he got have been processed but nothing aggressive has come from him or his men. your father says it’s a ’temporary truce’ but lorenzo thinks lando is planning something bigger. arthur won’t talk about it. not to you at least.
however it still appears that everyone seems to be too busy for simple tasks and you find yourself as an errand girl one wednesday afternoon. it’s a simple and idiot safe job. bring the stack of papers in a manila envelope over to nice, to sainz sr.
your father has dealt business with him since forever and you find yourself pretty glad that this is a task that is very much doable and an opportunity to take off the heat of anger that is still on you by the male family members.
carlos sainz senior is old, but he trusts your father more than any other boss in the area. that much you know. he offered his son, carlos jr to marry your sister vivienne, but your father made it clear that she’s off limits. at least until she’s eighteen. but you wouldn’t wonder if he cut deals short and signed a contract already. it was disgustingly shocking but not surprising anymore that business has become more important than family. there’s a lot at stake after all.
carlos has been sending vivienne flowers, books and gifts almost every week since this was a topic a few months prior. he seems like a good guy and you wouldn’t be surprised if vivienne would fall for him. but right now she’s all buried under books and her paintings. she’s soft spoken and definitely not as unruly and wild as you are. you do wonder sometimes if your brothers prefer her. she’s no trouble after all.
so with the simple job to not ask questions, not say anything inappropriate (yes, your father found it important to remind you of that) and just drop off the simple envelope, you parked your white ferrari in the street of said building and killed the engine. grabbing the papers you were just about to exit your car when you realise who it is you're parked behind. or better said who’s car.
it’s no mistake that it was a mclaren. landos car. you’d know it anywhere. that sleek, glossy finish, the custom details and license plate. ’444’ like any angle could help him. you take a deep breath, opening the car door and walk over to the family restaurant that belongs to sainz, the spot the meeting is at. to your luck, the young boss exits just as you were about to open the door.
you halt, and so does he. refusing to bump into him, the eye contact that follows between the two of you is smothering. lando, in a navy suit without a tie, silver necklace glinting in the french sun, and eyes unyielding on you. studying you and sizing you up. like a fucking snake ready to strike. your glance on him, and he swears it’s a curse. those fucking leclerc eyes. like a spell that is unmistakable and makes people do crazy stuff. your brows draw together in irritation and it’s that exact moment a small smirk appears on his lips. oh he’s already so fucking satisfied with himself...
"look at you. out and about running errands for daddy," he says as a greeting, hands stuffing into the pockets of his pants so casually, you want to shove him into the wall.
"cut the bullshit. what the fuck are you doing here? you have never dealt with sainz…" you question pointedly, slicing right through all the lies he could possibly hit you with. your face, contorted in annoyance and disgust, gives you such a hot and determined look, lando almost misses it when he has to check his richard mille for the time.
"that a problem?" he asks calmly. that dangerous calm he has, that burns under the skin of his enemies. not yours though. you don’t even as much as fucking flinch. "i can meet whoever i want. carlos and i have business too… just not yours to worry about."
it’s disturbing. it’s almost like he’s teasing you, giving you small bits but still getting on your nerves with simple arrogant points. points he isn’t making.
"maybe it is mine to worry about if it’s our club burning next week…" you cross your arms, looking inside the restaurant through the glass, then back at lando with an awful reservation. "are you really always out to harm us?" so temperamental. only if half the leclercs had the balls you had, lando thought, they could even get away with most of the shit they pull.
landos expression falters. just a flicker. something about the way you talk to him. without fear. without that spark of anxiety most people have talking to him. it’s not even underlying. no. you’re just straight up pissed. resentful even.
"harm you?" he replies flatly. "i don’t burn clubs for fun..." your name on his lips. so final, so bored. it just rubs you the wrong way. "if i wanted to harm your family, i would’ve done it already."
it sounds so cold. so cruel. so lando. but you find truth in his words and thats the unnerving part. it’s laced with menace but he’s still so composed. like he’s making the rules. and you start to believe more and more that he is. and everyone else is just a pawn in his game.
"you know, not everything is about the leclercs…"
you dismiss him with a huff, a roll of your eyes, moving past him so you can be closer to the door and end this unnecessary conversation. it already burns in you to tell your brothers and father. almost like an instinct. you’re trained good… and you don’t even know.
"really? because from where i am standing it feels awfully like you sleep, wake and breathe with us on your heart."
lando smirks. amused. so delighted and cocky while he takes a step back, blue eyes studying you with a smug expression. "believe what you want, princess. if you don’t mind me now… i’ve got business to take care of."
you watch him turn and walk to his car. you should too, turn around and finish your business. go and ignore his ignorant face, drop off the papers on sainz desk and drive home to report. but you can’t. you’re frozen in place, watching him like some distant reflection. broad shoulders working in valentino, hand gripping the handle of his car to open the door.
"oh and… a good tip from a friend," he turns around to you, not having missed your stare. "you can’t always believe people only because they’re close to you. the truth will always surface…"
with that he gets in his car, mclaren purring to life like a some obedient pet, easing right under his hands. he pulls out from his parking spot, and drives off. you watch the spot for a long moment before you catch yourself.
my god… you’re listening to an enemy… the man who you were taught to hate and who was sold you as the bad guy. there had to be something on it when your families are at war with each other for so many years. but... what if there is some truth to his words…? it can't be only one sided now can it? there are always two sides to a coin. and two truths to the biggest lie in history.
summary: four hours. one broken elevator. several bad decisions.
warnings: enemies to lovers, neighbors, elevator entrapment, tension, arguing as a love language, pettiness, explicit sexual content (18+), bad decisions
word count: 4.7K
author’s note: i wrote this instead of working on literally anything else i was supposed to be doing. no regrets. green is still not a normal pen color btw. i didnt proofread, oh well.
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The first note appeared on Max's door three weeks after Y/N moved in.
PLEASE STOP RUNNING A JET ENGINE AT 2 A.M.
Beneath it, in smaller handwriting:
I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE SAVING THE WORLD.
It was written in green pen.
Max stood there with his keys still in his hand, his jacket still on, his bag still on his shoulder. He had been approximately four seconds from being inside his apartment.
Read it once.
Read it twice.
Looked down the hallway.
Apartment 15B.
The door was completely closed.
No sound.
No light under the gap.
Of course.
The new neighbor.
The one who somehow managed to look annoyed before anyone had actually spoken to her.
The one who treated every interaction like she'd already filed paperwork about it.
He looked back at the note.
Then went inside, dropped everything on the counter, and stood in his kitchen for approximately thirty seconds thinking about it.
Then came back out.
Found a pen in his jacket pocket.
A black pen.
A normal pen.
Because he was a normal person.
Unlike whoever owned a green pen.
He added a sticky note underneath.
IT'S A RACING SIMULATOR.
Then he went to bed feeling strangely victorious.
The next evening, there was another note.
THAT SOMEHOW MAKES IT WORSE.
Still green.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The feud escalated from there.
Not intentionally.
Neither of them woke up each morning thinking about how to annoy the other.
It just happened naturally.
Like breathing.
Like gravity.
A week after the simulator incident, she reported him for parking over the line in the garage.
The notice arrived on the official building letterhead.
It had a logo.
A watermark.
A reference number, as though his parking infraction had been assigned a case file somewhere in a government building.
Max stared at it for a long time.
He had been over the line by approximately four inches.
Four.
He measured.
Twice.
He used a tape measure he had to borrow from his own toolbox, which he had to locate, which took eleven minutes.
So he moved her packages.
Not far.
Not enough to be cruel. J
ust enough.
Every delivery that arrived outside 15B got relocated exactly three feet to the left.
Still in the hallway.
Still completely safe.
Still totally findable.
Just slightly, specifically, measurably wrong.
The next morning a note appeared on his door.
I KNOW IT'S YOU.
Max found his pen.
NO PROOF.
Another note appeared before dinner.
I DON'T NEED PROOF.
He took a picture of that one.
Sent it to Daniel.
Daniel did not respond for six hours and then sent back a single question mark, which Max chose to interpret as impressed.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Everyone in the building knew.
The concierge knew. He had started giving Max a look. Not a smirk, exactly. More of a deeply personal acknowledgment that he kept to himself out of professionalism.
The maintenance staff knew. One of them had started saying "your neighbor" in a tone that implied additional meaning.
The cleaning staff definitely knew.
The old woman in 15C knew.
This was the worst one.
"Your girlfriend was looking for you."
Max nearly choked on his Red Bull.
"She's not my girlfriend."
The woman considered this with the patience of someone who had been right about things for eighty years and had learned to wait.
"Then why do you keep checking if her car is in the garage?"
Max opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"I don't do that."
"You do."
"I don't."
"Blue Mercedes. Dented bumper, passenger side. You looked twice on Tuesday."
A pause.
"Have a nice evening, Max."
She went inside.
Max stood in the hallway for a moment.
Then went inside too.
Did not think about the blue Mercedes.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Two days later, he came home to another note.
PLEASE STOP MOVING FURNITURE AFTER MIDNIGHT.
Max stared at it.
Then stared at his front door.
Then stared at the note again.
He hadn't moved furniture.
He'd walked to the kitchen.
Once.
In socks.
He grabbed a pen.
I WAS WALKING.
The response appeared less than an hour later. He knew because he checked.
YOU WALK LOUDLY.
Max looked at the note.
Then at her door.
Then back at the note.
For the first time since she'd moved in, he knocked.
The door opened almost immediately.
Like she'd been waiting.
She was still holding a green pen.
Of course she was.
"What."
"You left a note."
"I leave a lot of notes."
"I don't walk loudly."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
"I was getting water."
"Congratulations."
Max stared at her.
Y/N stared back.
Neither moved.
Neither blinked.
Finally she pointed at the floor.
"Your heel strike is too heavy."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means you walk like you're personally declaring war on hardwood."
"That's ridiculous."
"I can literally hear you crossing rooms."
"You're making this up."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"Am not."
A pause.
Then another.
Then, somehow:
"You use a green pen."
"What?"
"The notes. All of them."
"And?"
"Who uses a green pen?"
She stared at him for a full three seconds.
Then slowly closed the door in his face.
The next morning there was another note.
GREEN IS A NORMAL COLOR.
Max laughed so hard he was late leaving for training.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
One Friday evening, Y/N came home carrying takeout and the specific exhaustion of a week that had refused to end.
The takeout bags in her arms rattled with the promise of comfort food, but even that felt like a poor substitute for sleep.
The elevator arrived from the garage.
The doors slid open.
And there he was.
Of course it was him.
Max stood inside with his hands in his pockets and the expression of a man who had somehow already been inconvenienced by the evening.
Y/N stepped inside.
What was she supposed to do?
Wait for the next one?
The doors closed.
Silence.
She pressed fifteen.
Max pressed fifteen.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
Neither commented on the fact that they lived approximately twenty feet apart and still managed to encounter each other everywhere.
The car shuddered upward. Three floors later, Max broke the silence.
"You're wearing heels."
Y/N closed her eyes.
"What."
"You complained about my walking."
"You walk loudly."
He raised an eyebrow.
"And yet you're wearing heels."
"I'm not stomping around at midnight."
"I wasn't stomping."
"You were."
"I was getting water."
The elevator hummed upward.
The argument continued.
As nature intended.
Then the elevator jerked.
Stopped.
The lights went out.
Silence.
A beat.
Two beats.
Then…
"No."
Y/N's voice echoed through the darkness.
"No, absolutely not."
Somewhere beside her, Max exhaled.
"I agree."
"This cannot be happening."
"It is."
"It can't."
"It literally is."
The emergency lights flickered on.
Yellow.
Dim.
Deeply unflattering.
The elevator remained completely motionless.
Y/N stared at the ceiling.
Max stared at the doors.
Neither of those actions helped.
Finally Max pressed the emergency button.
Nothing.
He pressed it again.
Still nothing.
"Fantastic."
"Maybe if you press it a third time."
"I was considering it."
"Good."
Max looked at her.
Y/N looked back.
"You're enjoying this."
"I'm not."
"You're smiling."
"I'm smiling because this is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to me."
"You think being trapped in an elevator with me is specifically your bad luck?"
"I know it is."
The tiny speaker crackled to life. A voice, garbled and unmistakably French, delivered fractured updates: an electrical fault, rescue teams en route, but it would take “a few hours.”
"How long is a while?" Y/N asked.
More static. Then, flat
"A few hours."
Silence.
"Absolutely not."
"Unfortunately," Max said, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, "I don't think we get a vote."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Twenty minutes in, Y/N sat down on the floor.
Max watched this happen.
Did not comment.
The elevator was not large enough for standing to remain dignified for very long.
The silence lasted approximately thirty seconds.
Then—
"You keep looking at the emergency button."
Max looked away from the emergency button.
"No, I don't."
"You do."
"I was checking if it had started working."
"You checked four times."
"It could have changed."
"In thirty seconds?"
"You don't know."
Y/N stared at him.
Max stared back.
His jaw was doing the thing.
The tight thing. She had started cataloguing these things without meaning to.
Neither blinked.
Finally she looked away first.
"You're impossible."
"You say that a lot."
"Because you keep earning it."
A pause.
The emergency light hummed.
Then:
"You still use a green pen."
Y/N let her head fall back against the wall.
"Oh my God."
"It's weird."
"It's a pen."
"It's a green pen."
"Green is a normal color."
"Not for a pen."
"Then why do they make them?"
Max opened his mouth.
Closed it.
She smiled. Just slightly. Just enough.
"That's what I thought."
"I hate this elevator."
"You hate losing."
"I wasn't losing."
"You absolutely were."
"To a pen?"
"To me."
He looked at the ceiling. There was a small scuff mark up there, which was somehow the most interesting thing in the room, and he studied it with great focus and intention.
She was still smiling. He could tell without looking.
That was the problem, actually.
That was the whole problem.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Forty minutes in, Y/N opened the takeout bag.
The smell hit immediately.
Sesame oil and something fried and the specific cruelty of good food in a small space.
Max's head turned approximately two degrees.
She pulled out the noodles.
Then the spring rolls, wrapped in their little wax-paper sleeve.
Then the fries, which had gone slightly soft but still smelled like salt and victory.
Max looked at the collection.
"That's not a meal."
"It's takeout."
"It's three different meals."
"I contain multitudes."
He watched her snap apart a pair of chopsticks.
"You bought appetizers."
"I like spring rolls."
"You bought fries."
"I also like fries."
"With noodles."
"Correct."
"That's chaos."
"You eat protein bars for dinner."
A pause.
"That's efficient."
"That's the saddest thing you've ever said."
He looked away.
She twirled noodles around the chopsticks with the focused energy of someone who was absolutely not going to offer him any.
The silence lasted about ninety seconds.
Then:
"Those smell good."
Y/N looked up.
Max was staring at the spring rolls with an expression he probably thought was neutral.
It was not neutral.
"You want one."
"No."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
"I was making an observation."
"You were making hungry eye contact."
Max stared at her.
Y/N stared back.
She picked up a spring roll.
Took a slow, deliberate bite.
Max watched this happen.
The betrayal was immediate.
"You're unbelievable."
"You weren't hungry."
"I never said that."
"You implied it."
"I implied nothing."
"You practically wrote a formal request."
Max stared at her.
She finished the spring roll.
Started another one.
The elevator suddenly felt much smaller.
And significantly hungrier.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
An hour in, Y/N was down to the fries.
Not because she'd run out of everything else.
Because she'd been saving them.
Eating them one at a time.
Max had been pretending not to notice, which was its own kind of torture.
She was eating them one at a time.
Picking each one up, examining it briefly.
Eating it.
One fry.
Pause.
Another fry.
Pause.
Like she was rationing supplies during a natural disaster.
"There are only four left."
Y/N looked up.
"What?"
"The fries."
"What about them?"
"There are four."
She stared at him.
"You've been counting my fries?"
"I haven't been counting."
"You literally know how many are left."
"I have eyes."
Y/N shook her head.
"Incredible."
Another fry disappeared.
She didn't look away from him while she ate it.
Three.
He reached over and took one.
The silence was immediate.
Heavy.
Judgmental.
"Did you just take my fry?"
"Yes."
"Without asking?"
"You weren't eating it."
"I was literally about to eat it."
"You say that now."
Y/N looked at the remaining fries.
Then at him.
Then at the remaining fries again.
"That was my favorite one."
"They're all the same."
"They're not."
"They absolutely are."
"That one was shaped better."
Something happened to his face then.
It started at the corner of his mouth, which he pressed together immediately.
Too late.
He laughed.
Y/N blinked.
He looked almost startled by it…
Like it had escaped without permission.
"You laughed."
"No, I didn't."
"You did."
"I breathed."
"Aggressively."
She held his gaze for one more second.
Then she started laughing too, which was deeply inconvenient, because it is very difficult to maintain a reasonable level of hostility toward someone when you are both laughing at the same fry.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Hour Two.
By hour two, they had exhausted every useful thing their phones could do.
The emergency call had been made.
The building manager had been contacted.
The repair crew was allegedly coming.
Neither of them believed that anymore.
Y/N’s thumb hovered over her screen… she’d refreshed her messages seventeen times.
The little spinning icon felt mocking.
Max had cycled through the same three apps for twenty straight minutes, each launch greeted with that flat “No service” banner.
The elevator hung stubbornly between floors.
They sat in silence long enough for it to become irritating.
Y/N tapped her screen again.
No bars.
She opened Instagram.
The loading circle spun.
Nothing happened.
She closed it.
Opened it again.
Still nothing.
Across from her, Max was doing exactly the same thing.
Which somehow made it worse.
“You’re doing it again,” she said without looking up.
Max glanced up.
"What."
"Checking your phone."
He shrugged, reopening Instagram.
"It might work."
"It hasn't worked for two hours."
"It could start."
"It won't."
They stared at each other through a very heavy pause..
Then Max exhaled, loud and deliberate.
"You breathe loudly."
He blinked.
"What."
"You breathe loudly."
"I'm literally just breathing."
"Exactly."
He stared at her.
"That's not a complaint."
"It is when you do it."
"Who breathes incorrectly?"
"You manage."
Max sat up, curious.
"Explain."
"No."
"You brought it up."
"You know exactly what you’re doing."
"I genuinely don't."
"Even worse."
Another stretch of silence.
Then:
"You're insane."
Y/N nodded.
"Probably."
Max considered this.
"At least you're self-aware."
"At least I don't run a Formula One race from my spare bedroom."
"It's a simulator."
"It sounds like an airport."
He grinned, a glint of mischief in his tired eyes.
"It's not even that loud."
She looked at him.
He looked back.
Neither of them believed that statement.
"Okay," he admitted. "It's a little loud."
"A little?"
"A medium amount."
"You shook a picture frame off my wall."
"It was already loose."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You've never been inside my apartment."
"Then how do you know I haven't?"
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
Max smiled.
Small.
Smug.
Infuriatingly victorious.
She pointed at him.
"That right there."
"What."
"That's why people dislike you."
"People love me."
"I don't."
"You're one person."
"Thank God."
He laughed then, a sudden, bright sound that cut through the tension. They both froze… neither expecting the laughter, neither expecting it to land flat.
Y/N looked away first, and somehow that felt like losing. She refused to admit why.
"You know," Max said after a moment, quiet now, "you looked less angry when you first moved in."
She fixed her gaze on the flickering ceiling light.
"I have literally never looked less angry."
"You did."
"I didn't."
"You smiled at the concierge."
"I was being polite."
"You smiled."
"I know how smiling works."
"Could've fooled me."
Y/N grabbed a napkin from the takeout bag and threw it at him.
It bounced harmlessly off his shoulder.
Max looked down at it.
Then back at her.
Then, with absolutely no warning, threw it back.
The feud had entered a new phase.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Hour Three.
The argument should have ended by now.
Instead, it had morphed into something neither of them could quite name.
The air was thick with frustration and something else.
The fries were gone. Their phones were dead. The emergency button was a useless scrap of plastic. Yet here they were, still trading barbs.
“You know what your problem is?” Y/N asked, arms crossed so tightly her knuckles ached.
Max looked up from where he'd been leaning against the wall.
"I have several. You'll need to be specific."
She jabbed a finger at him.
“You think everyone likes you.”
"Most people do."
He smirked.
The dim yellow bulb overhead cast half his face in shadow.
"That."
"What."
"That right there."
Max laughed.
A dark, amusing sound.
“I wasn’t aware confidence was a crime.”
“It is when you’re this annoying about it,” she shot back.
"You keep saying annoying."
"Because it's accurate."
"Yet here we are."
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
"Trapped."
"Talking."
"Arguing."
"Still talking."
She hated that he had a point.
Almost as much as she hated that she was starting to enjoy this.
The silence that followed felt different.
Not awkward.
Not comfortable either.
Just... different.
Max was the first to stand.
He pushed himself off the floor and stretched, one hand disappearing behind his head.
Y/N immediately regretted looking.
Which, naturally, meant she kept looking.
The elevator suddenly felt much smaller.
Ridiculous.
There hadn't been any less space thirty seconds ago.
"Stop staring."
Max raised an eyebrow.
"You say that every time I look in your direction."
"Because every time you look in my direction, you're staring."
"That's not how staring works."
"Then stop doing it."
Max laughed.
The sound echoed softly off the elevator walls.
For the first time all evening, she didn't have a comeback ready.
That seemed to surprise both.
"Still think I walk too loudly?" he asked.
Her laugh came out softer than intended.
"Absolutely."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Yeah. I'd hate to think we're making progress."
That cracked something inside her, and she gave him a real smile.
No edge of victory.
Just warmth.
It startled her as much as it did him.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
"Don't what?"
“Say whatever you’re thinking about saying.”
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were."
"I was thinking something."
"That's worse."
"Probably."
He smirked.
For a moment she wondered how he could be so infuriatingly good at this.
"What?" she demanded.
"Nothing."
"Stop playing games."
His grin widened.
She groaned.
He laughed.
Neither moved to break the tension.
Their war of words had faded into something, neither of them seemed particularly interested in stopping.
He moved first.
Which wasn't surprising. Max had never been patient.
One moment, there was distance between them.
The next, his fingers were under her chin, tilting her face up, and he kissed her like a man who’d made up his mind long ago and was done waiting.
She kissed him back without hesitation.
Which was unfortunate for her pride.
Three hours trapped in an elevator apparently did strange things to a person.
When they broke apart, his expression made it clear he knew exactly what she’d just surrendered.
Y/N opened her mouth to deny it, to snap back, to salvage some dignity.
Max didn't give her the chance.
Instead, his hands found her waist, spinning her around until her back pressed against his chest.
One arm locked around her ribs, holding her in place, while his mouth traced the curve of her neck with deliberate slowness.
She felt his breath, warm and steady, then the faint scrape of his teeth against her skin… just enough to make her head fall back against his shoulder.
"Max—"
"Don’t." His voice was rough in her ear. "Don’t say my name like you’re still making up your mind."
She wasn't. She’d made her choice somewhere around hour two, maybe sooner. She just hadn’t admitted it yet.
His other hand slid up her spine beneath her shirt, his palm flat against her skin.
"Cold?"
"No."
"You shivered."
"I didn't."
His thumb traced a slow line along her ribs, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting.
He noticed.
His mouth pressed against her throat, dragging in a way that made her pulse jump, and when her hips rolled back against him without thinking, he smiled against her skin.
"Still annoying?" he murmured against her neck.
"Unbearably."
His hand moved from her ribs to her hip, gripping tight, and he guided her forward until her palms met the cold metal railing along the elevator wall.
The contrast was sharp… his chest warm against her back, the rail cool under her fingers.
"Now," he said, low and rough against her ear, "we're going to stop pretending."
She felt him against her through the denim, his grip on her hips pulling her back until there was no pretending either of them knew exactly where this was going.
The position left her exposed; her palms braced against the rail while his body caged hers in.
"Say it," he demanded.
"Say what?"
"That you want this."
"Absolutely not."
He laughed, low and breathless. "Of course not."
His fingers worked the button of her jeans, then the zipper, and cool air hit her skin before his hand did.
His hand slipped beneath the waistband, and she felt him find exactly what he was looking for… and the sound he made against in response was one she was already trying to forget.
"You're-" she started.
"Still me," he confirmed, voice tight.
"I hate you."
"You’ll have to sell it better than that."
She couldn’t.
Not with his fingers moving with infuriating precision, circling and pressing in a rhythm that made her hips arch back against him without permission.
She gripped the railing until her knuckles ached, her forehead nearly touching the wall. The emergency light bathed everything in a sickly yellow glow, but she barely noticed it anymore.
His free hand slid up her ribs, beneath her shirt, and closed around her breast. "Still hate me?"
"More than ever."
"Good."
He pulled his hand away, and she made a sound she immediately regretted—something needy, involuntary.
Behind her, the sound of a zipper then his hands were back on her hips, tugging her jeans lower. He placed his hand between shoulder blades pushing her forward.
"Tell me to stop," he said, not quite a request.
She didn't. She just pushed her hips back into him.
She felt him push into her, and her back curved without permission, fingers white around the rail, a sound leaving her throat that she was already planning to deny.
He stilled, fully inside her, his hips flush against hers, and she felt the tremor in his arms where they braced her against the wall.
"You're gripping the rail hard," he observed, voice strained.
"You're inside me."
"You're not complaining."
She wasn’t. Not even a little. She pressed back against him, just slightly, and a groan escaped his lips… a small victory.
He started moving, slow at first, each thrust pulling a sharp breath from her.
The railing was the only thing keeping her upright. The angle was cruelly precise, hitting exactly where she needed, and she bit her lip to keep from making any more sounds she couldn’t control.
"You're so quiet," he murmured against her ear. "That's new."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
She pushed back harder, meeting his thrust, and he groaned, low and rough, his rhythm stuttering for a second before his hands tightened on her hips and he picked up speed, less controlled, less patient.
"You're going to be insufferable about this," she managed, breathless.
"Probably."
"I'm going to hate you for it."
"You already hate me."
"More"
"I can live with that." His mouth found her neck, teeth grazing the tendon there, not quite biting. "Say it."
"No."
"Say you want this."
"Not even slightly."
He laughed, breathless, and one hand moved between her legs, pressing in time with his thrusts.
Her body arched, graceless and unguarded, and the last of her composure shattered.
"Liar," he murmured against her skin.
She couldn’t argue. Not anymore. Her hips were moving back to meet him, chasing each thrust, and she was making sounds she couldn’t control while he breathed hard against her neck.
The elevator was too small, the light too harsh, but none of it mattered.
"You're close," he said. Not a question.
"Shut up."
"Say it."
"No."
His fingers moved faster, circling with deliberate pressure, and her body tensed, her grip on the rail turning white-knuckled.
She was right there, teetering on the edge, and he knew it—he could feel it.
He kept the rhythm steady, relentless, not letting her fall, not yet, not until—
The speaker crackled to life.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Hour Four.
"The elevator should be operational shortly."
Max did not stop.
His rhythm slowed for one second.
"Better hurry, then," he said against her skin.
She would have argued, but her voice had stopped working entirely.
The emergency light flickered, and then the overhead fluorescents came on all at once.
Harsh and total.
No more shadows to hide in.
Just the two of them, completely visible, and she felt the heat rise in her face because there was nothing left to hide behind.
"I hate you," she said.
"No you don't."
She didn't. That was the problem.
His fingers found their rhythm again, his hips meeting hers, and she stopped fighting.
Her head dropped back against his shoulder, her knuckles went white on the rail, and she came apart, a sound leaving her that she was already pretending hadn't happened.
He answered with a low, broken moan against her ear, his body flattening against hers.
The elevator hummed.
Neither of them moved.
His forehead rested against her shoulder, his breathing ragged and warm against her neck.
She was still gripping the rail, her fingers stiff, her whole body humming with aftershocks.
"Shit," he muttered.
"Yeah."
The elevator hummed again, louder this time.
They pulled apart with the same awkward urgency, fumbling with zippers and fabric, hands bumping as they both reached for the same space.
She tugged her jeans up, fastened the button with fingers that wouldn't quite cooperate. He adjusted himself, smoothed his shirt, ran a hand through his hair.
They didn't look at each other.
The overhead lights hummed, harsh and bright, illuminating everything they'd just done.
The elevator jerked.
"Shit," she said again, louder, and grabbed for the rail.
He grabbed for it too.
Their hands met and snapped apart like they’d been burned.
A soft ding.
The doors opened onto the hallway, empty and unchanged, as if four hours hadn't just happened inside it.
Y/N stepped out.
Max followed.
The doors stayed open behind them.
"Well," Y/N said.
"Yeah."
"You're still annoying."
Something in Max's shoulders loosened.
"Likewise."
She smiled. He looked away.
"You still walk too loudly."
"I don't."
"You do."
"I really don't."
"You really do."
Behind them, the elevator doors slid shut.
"Goodnight, Verstappen."
"Goodnight, neighbor."
She turned toward her door. He turned toward his. Both made it three steps before stopping.
Neither turned around.
A moment passed. Two doors opened, then closed, and the hallway settled into a quiet it hadn't quite had before.
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