⸻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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
summary: y/n gets a tour of red bull's factory, discovers formula one is mostly engineers and graphs, and sees a side of max she's never seen before.
warnings: slow burn, emotional repression, workplace competence being weirdly attractive, simulator day, engineering jargon, approximately six thousand graphs, simon causing problems on purpose, max being alarmingly good at his job, y/n learning that formula one is mostly spreadsheets
word count: 2.7k
authors note: as always, thank you for reading, commenting, screaming in the tags, and generally enabling me.
happy chapter 10 ♡
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ / ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 09 / ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 11
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
For the next two hours, I learned something deeply unfortunate.
Formula One was not actually built around drivers.
I know that sounds painfully obvious.
The sport is literally named after a technical rulebook.
The warning signs were there.
But somehow I'd spent years constructing my entire understanding of Formula One from helmet designs, podium celebrations, dramatic radio compilations, and the specific way certain drivers looked directly into cameras.
Which is to say I'd constructed absolutely nothing.
I'd constructed vibes.
And it turned out vibes were not a factory in Milton Keynes.
The races were the final product.
The visible part.
The shiny part.
The part people like me saw.
The actual sport lived here.
In endless rows of engineers.
In meeting rooms.
In simulation data.
In people carrying laptops with the urgency of emergency responders.
Every hallway seemed to contain someone walking quickly toward a problem.
Or away from one.
I wasn't entirely sure.
And somehow, in the middle of all of it, Max moved through the building with the ease of someone walking through his own neighborhood.
People stopped him constantly.
Questions.
Updates.
Conversations that lasted anywhere from thirty seconds to five minutes.
He answered every one of them without slowing down.
Like he was casually assigning additional homework with every conversation.
The realization felt deeply unfair.
Because up until now, Formula One had mostly existed in my mind as race weekends and champagne and very expensive watches.
Instead, it appeared to be thousands of people working themselves half to death inside a collection of gray buildings in Milton Keynes while one Dutch driver generated fresh homework for engineers at an alarming rate.
"You're staring."
I looked away from the glass immediately.
Across the room, rows of engineers scrolled through pages of cryptic numbers.
“I’m just trying to figure out what anyone here actually does,” I admitted in a whisper.
Simon, who had somehow remained standing nearby this entire time, glanced up from his phone.
"You and most of our sponsors."
I snorted.
“That’s… reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
I looked back toward the room full of screens.
“Does anyone ever explain things normally around here?”
"No," he said, as though it was the best joke in the world.
"Good."
"Why start now?"
I hated that answer.
Mostly because it felt exactly like something Max would say.
Somewhere down the hallway, said problem was currently trapped in a meeting.
Or creating a meeting.
Or ending a meeting.
I wasn't entirely clear on the details.
The factory itself seemed to operate on a language composed entirely of acronyms and urgency.
I understood approximately none of it.
Simon caught my gaze and nodded toward the conference room door.
"He's been in there forty minutes."
My brow shot up
"Forty?"
"And you’ve looked at that door six times."
Heat rushed into my face immediately.
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
I crossed my arms.
"I was observing."
He laughed. "Right."
After a moment, I looked back at him.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?"
"I do."
I waited.
Nothing.
"Then why are you still here?"
Simon pointed toward the conference room.
"Because he's in there."
I followed the gesture.
"And?"
"And when he comes out, he's supposed to be somewhere else."
I stared.
"So you're waiting."
"Professionally."
He shrugged.
"Mostly."
That explained far more than I wanted it to.
Then, like fate, Simon checked his phone one last time before he shoved it into his pocket.
"So…"
My stomach dropped.
The word had entirely too much energy behind it.
"So?" I echoed.
"You're from Monaco,” he said.
The statement felt suspicious.
"Yes?"
"The café."
He smirked.
I narrowed my eyes.
"What about it?"
"Nothing."
The smirk said otherwise.
"Just trying to figure out what conversation led to Max bringing someone here."
I stared.
Simon stared back.
Then shrugged.
"What?"
"You make it sound like he's smuggling endangered wildlife."
A laugh escaped him.
“Honestly? This is weirder.”
"That's rude."
"It's true."
"Does everyone here gossip this much?"
"Only when something interesting happens."
The answer did absolutely nothing to calm my nerves.
Because now I didn't just feel out of place.
I felt noticeable.
As if summoned by my anxiety, the conference room door finally opened.
I looked up immediately.
Which turned out to be a mistake.
"Seven."
I whipped around.
Simon looked entirely too pleased with himself.
"What?"
"Seven times."
My stomach dropped.
Again.
"The meeting door."
I stared.
Simon shrugged.
"You looked."
"I did not."
"You did."
"I was literally standing here."
"So was I."
That felt like a personal attack.
A small group of engineers filtered out into the hallway.
One of them looked exhausted.
Another looked caffeinated beyond what should be medically possible.
Then Max appeared.
My traitorous eyes immediately found him.
Unfortunately Simon noticed that too.
"Eight."
"Oh my God."
Max's gaze moved between us.
Slowly.
Suspiciously.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Simon."
"I've done absolutely nothing."
The smile on Simon's face suggested otherwise.
Max looked at me.
I looked at Simon.
Simon looked delighted.
The cycle continued.
"Your coworker is annoying."
"Yeah."
The agreement came immediately.
"I know."
"Rude," Simon muttered.
Neither of us acknowledged him.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Simon checked his watch.
Then pointed directly at Max.
"Simulator in twenty."
Max's expression did not change.
"There it is."
"The thing I have been standing in this hallway for forty-five minutes to tell you."
" You could've texted."
"I could've."
Simon looked at him.
"I didn't."
I got the distinct impression this was a recurring argument.
Many times.
Possibly every single week.
Simon sighed the sigh of a man who had accepted his circumstances completely.
"Food first."
Max nodded once.
Then Simon looked at me.
It was the look of someone leaving a friend alone at a party.
"Good luck."
I frowned.
"Why does everyone keep saying that to me."
"Because you're about to spend several hours in a room full of engineers saying things like 'the rear wants to rotate' and 'we lost the front on entry' and you're going to have to just sit there and nod."
I stared.
"That sounds made up."
"It's not."
"It sounds completely made up."
"Yeah," he said pleasantly. "It does."
Before I could respond, he was already gone.
Just gone.
Down the hallway.
Like a man who had delivered a prophecy and wanted no further involvement.
I watched him leave.
Then looked back at Max.
"Your coworkers are unhinged."
Something moved across his face.
Not quite a smile.
The threat of one.
"They have said the same thing about you."
I went very still.
"I'm sorry?"
He started walking.
"Wait…"
"No."
"You cannot just say something like that…"
"I can."
"Max."
He glanced back once.
"You coming?"
I stood there for one full second of dignity.
Then followed him anyway.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The further we got from the engineering floor, the quieter everything became.
Not silent.
Nothing in this building seemed capable of silence.
But quieter.
The hallway opened into a large lounge tucked away behind a set of glass doors.
I stopped immediately.
"This feels suspicious."
Max glanced back.
"What does?"
I gestured vaguely at everything.
A pool table in the corner with a cue balanced against it at an angle that suggested someone had left mid-game and never come back.
Several enormous couches around a television that was genuinely too large.
Someone's Red Bull sitting on the coffee table, half finished, sweating onto a copy of some technical document.
A racing simulator against one wall.
A coffee machine that had no business being that complicated.
The entire room felt less like a workplace and more like somewhere people accidentally lost entire afternoons.
"This."
"The lounge?"
"You say that like everyone has one."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
"It's just a lounge."
"Your definition of 'just' continues to concern me."
I wandered further inside.
The place felt lived in.
Not polished.
Not corporate.
Used.
Like people actually spent time here between meetings and simulator sessions.
Which somehow made it feel more real.
Less Formula One.
More workplace.
There was a shelf of helmets along one wall. Old ones, mostly. Scuffed. A few with stickers that had been partially picked off. One with someone's name written in marker on the inside of the visor in handwriting that looked distressingly like a grocery list.
I was reaching toward it when the door opened.
A team member appeared carrying several containers of food.
Not snacks.
Actual lunch.
A team member set them down without breaking stride, said "cheers," and was gone before I fully processed what had happened.
I stared at the containers.
Then looked at Max.
Then back at the food.
Then at Max again.
"...does lunch just appear here?"
"Usually."
"Usually?"
He finally looked up from his phone.
"Sim days."
I pointed at him.
"You people live like this."
"We're working."
"That's not the part I'm questioning."
A smile threatened briefly.
Gone almost immediately.
Unfortunately I'd started noticing every version of them.
The realization was becoming a problem.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
I was still processing the concept of scheduled simulator lunches when Max stood up.
No warning.
No "okay, we should go."
Just suddenly standing, phone already in hand, jacket already being picked up off the back of the chair like the decision had been made several minutes ago and nobody had told me.
I looked down at my sandwich.
Half finished.
Looked back up.
"Are we leaving?"
"We're late."
"You've been saying that since Monaco."
"Because we keep being late."
I picked up my sandwich.
Put it back down.
Picked it up again.
"That sounds like a personal problem."
Max held the door open and looked at me with the specific patience of someone who was not, actually, being patient.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The simulator sat deeper inside the factory.
The further we walked, the fewer people there were.
Not quieter, exactly. Just more deliberate. Like the building itself had decided this section was for people who had somewhere specific to be.
The hallway opened up and I stopped walking without meaning to.
"Oh."
Max turned around.
"What?"
I pointed at the glass.
Beyond it: rows of engineers behind monitors showing data I couldn't begin to read. Headsets. Radios. Someone's coffee going cold beside a keyboard nobody was looking at. And beyond another wall of glass, the simulator itself… a full cockpit suspended under curved screens so large they wrapped around it like weather.
"That's a simulator."
It wasn't a question. It was me correcting my own previous understanding of the word.
"Yeah."
"When you said simulator," I said slowly, "I thought you meant, like. A chair."
Something moved across his face.
"A chair."
"With a screen. And maybe a wheel."
"There is a wheel."
"Max."
"There is genuinely a wheel."
"That," I said, pointing again, "is a Formula One space program."
The almost-smile appeared.
"Probably."
He said it the way someone says *probably* when they mean *yes, obviously, but I find your reaction interesting.*
Then he pushed open the door.
I followed him in.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The moment we stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Not dramatically. Not in a way I could immediately point to.
Just. Different.
Someone looked up from a monitor. Said Max's name. Not like a greeting, exactly. More like a confirmation. *You're here, good, we have things.* Two more engineers peeled away from a screen and moved toward him before he'd fully crossed the threshold, already talking, already mid-thought, voices overlapping in a way that suggested this happened every single time.
"—rear balance on the long run, the data doesn't match what—"
"—correlation issue from last week, we pulled the—"
"—wanted to try a different approach on turn nine—"
Max answered all three. Somehow. Simultaneously, or close enough that I couldn't identify the seams.
I stopped walking.
Nobody noticed.
A chair materialized beside the observation window. One of the engineers gestured toward it without looking at me, the way you gesture toward a waiting room seat. Sympathetic. Practiced.
"You can sit wherever."
I sat wherever.
On the other side of the glass, the simulator cockpit waited under its enormous curved screens.
I looked at it.
It did not explain anything.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
A few minutes later, Max slipped into a back room.
When he emerged again, the difference was immediate.
Race suit.
Helmet tucked beneath one arm.
Ear pieces.
The version of him I recognized.
Not Monaco Max.
Not coffee-at-the-café Max.
Not helicopter Max.
Driver Max.
The air in the control center sharpened. Engineers hover over glowing screens, headsets click on, someone calls out a run plan. And in that moment I finally grasp it…
This wasn't a video game.
This wasn't entertainment.
This wasn't even practice.
This was work.
Real work.
The kind that involved hundreds of people and millions of dollars and details so small I couldn't even see them.
Max climbed into the cockpit.
The engineers settled into their chairs, fingers dancing over keyboards. The lights dimmed, as if the track itself had edged onto the screen. Then the whole space came alive, as if someone had thrown a switch.
I sat back in my chair and watched.
Determined to understand at least some of it.
Unfortunately, that determination lasted approximately fifteen minutes.
Maybe twenty.
I was trying.
Genuinely.
The engineers would speak.
Max would answer.
Someone would point at a graph.
Everyone would nod.
And somehow each conversation seemed to create three more conversations.
"Entry stability."
"Compared to the previous run?"
"No, turn nine."
"The second push lap?"
"Yeah."
I stared at the screen.
The screen stared back.
Neither of us learned anything.
A few minutes later, a different engineer was pointing at a different graph.
This one apparently mattered.
The last graph had apparently mattered too.
I was beginning to suspect all graphs mattered here.
The realization felt exhausting.Meanwhile, Max seemed to remember every corner, every lap, every setup change, and every adjustment with terrifying accuracy.
An engineer asked a question.
Max answered.
A follow-up.
Max answered that too.
Someone pulled up data from an earlier run.
Max remembered it immediately.
The room shifted around him.
Not dramatically.
Not in a celebrity way.
Nobody seemed impressed.
Nobody treated him differently.
Which somehow made it more impressive.
Because everyone in the room expected him to know.
Expected him to notice.
Expected him to be right.
And most of the time, he was.
For the first time since arriving at the factory, I understood why people listened when he spoke.
Not because he was famous.
Not because he won races.
Because he was good at this.
Really good.
This was the version of Max hundreds of people built their work around.
The realization settled somewhere uncomfortable.
Unfortunately, so did exhaustion.
There had been a helicopter.
A private jet.
An entire Formula One factory.
At least forty-seven conversations I didn't understand.
And approximately six thousand graphs.
The room was warm.
The chair was comfortable.
The steady hum of voices blended together.
Numbers.
Setup changes.
Run plans.
Words drifted in and out of focus.
Somewhere during the third or fourth discussion about a setup change I couldn't follow, I realized Max sounded different here.
Less guarded.
Less sarcastic.
Not softer.
Just certain.
Like this was the one place in the world where nobody questioned whether he belonged.
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The next thing I knew, Max's voice crackled through someone's headset.
A handful of engineers immediately turned toward their screens.
Hiii!! First time requesting ever. I love your fics so maybe a max verstappen fic inspired by the song 'Bed Chem' by Sabrina Carpenter where the oc is a singer or something like that and max is himself
i feel like i’ve read every possible variation of singer!reader over the years & i can never think of a version that doesn’t immediately remind me of ten other fics i’ve already seen.
absolutely nothing against the trope!! i just don’t think i’d have a unique enough take on it to write it myself
that being said, when & if inspiration strikes, i will absolutely write it & come back here to tag it 🫶
can i please request a ghost/psychological thriller max au where reader dies in a crash that he only vaguely remembers, only being able to recount how rainy it had been before they had gotten into the car and the way she screamed. however, when she appears next to him at her own funeral, he thinks its just sleep deprivation and grief dreaming her up. she speaks differently now, almost cruel, and everything points to her being a ghost - or at least to him. however the plot twist happens when after taunting from her, he finds out the truth. it was actually his funeral he was attending and he was the one that died.
sorry if it sounds too complicated, but ive been itching for some psych thriller reads recently and ik ull be able to pull it off! thank you !!
HERE
thank you for the request!! i unfortunately have to admit that i am too emotionally attached to max verstappen to kill him, so y/n ended up taking one for the team instead 😭
i kept the psychological thriller/ghost elements because i was obsessed with the concept, but the ending ended up going in a slightly different direction. hopefully you still enjoy it <3
author’s note: before anyone says anything, yes, i know the request was max being dead. no, i could not do it. i am weak. i am biased. i looked at that man and said absolutely not. anyway, welcome to my grief, memory loss, and emotional damage fic. enjoy. not proofread.
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Rain.
That was the first thing Max remembered.
Not the road. Not the bend. Not the impact.
Rain.
Hard enough that the whole world looked unfinished through the windshield.
Monaco smearing itself across the windshield in long wet streaks, the streetlights coming apart into something that wasn’t light anymore. The wipers couldn’t keep up.
He remembered noticing that. Remembered thinking it was annoying, the way you think something is annoying when you still believe you have time to be annoyed.
Too slow.
Everything else happened too fast.
Her hand had been on the center console.
Or maybe reaching for the door handle.
Or maybe just resting in her lap.
He could not remember.
He had looked away for one second.
He remembered her voice.
Not the words.
Just the way it changed. The way it went from whatever it had been a moment before.
Easy. Familiar. Hers.
Then to something else entirely.
High and sudden. Like she had seen the shape of what was coming before the headlights did.
“Max—”
A scream.
Metal.
Nothing.
The memory ended there every time.
He had tried. More than once. More than he would admit to anyone. Lying on his back at 3am with the ceiling doing nothing above him, chasing the edges of it like if he just pushed hard enough something new would surface. It never did. Just the same three things, in the same order, like a clip that had been cut wrong.
Rain.
Her voice.
Then nothing.
Everything after that belonged to other people. Nurses who said his name too gently. A policeman with a wet jacket. Someone’s hand on his arm in a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and floor cleaner. Blue and red light coming through a window in a color that had no business existing.
He had been unconscious for eleven hours.
He knew that now.
At the time he had not existed at all.
And there had been Y/N.
There had been Y/N, and then there had not.
That was the part nobody knew how to say properly to him.
He watched people try.
The nurse first. Then the policeman. Then Jos, his dad, who had flown in within hours and stood in the doorway of the hospital room holding his coat in both hands like he didn’t know what else to do with them.
She didn’t make it.
We lost her.
She’s gone, Max.
Gone.
As if she had simply stepped out.
As if she had left her keys on the counter and her book open on the nightstand and walked out the door into an evening that had swallowed her whole.
Max preferred the blunt version. The word the doctor had used. The first one. The one nobody repeated after that, like they had all agreed in a hallway somewhere to retire it.
Dead.
Y/N was dead.
He had been in the car. He had looked away for one second. And now she was dead.
He turned that over and over in the dark of the hospital room like something he could eventually get smooth.
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The apartment was too quiet.
Not just empty. Quiet.
Empty was something he understood. Empty was a hotel room after a race weekend, bags half-packed, shoes by the door, phone charging on the nightstand. A place that had never expected him to stay.
This quiet was different.
This quiet had weight.
This apartment had expected her.
It still did.
Her keys on the hook by the door. Her half-finished candle on the windowsill, the wax gone concave in the middle, the wick black and curled. A hair tie around the cabinet handle in the bathroom, the kind she always left everywhere, thin and cheap and purple, the elastic already going.
Max did not touch it.
He had not touched any of it.
He showered with his eyes forward. He made coffee without moving the mug she had left in the drying rack. He slept on his side of the bed.
He told himself it was respect.
He told himself these things were hers and you did not move things that belonged to someone else.
It was easier than the other thing. The thing underneath. The part that understood, in some wordless and humiliating way, that her hair tie on the cabinet handle was still her hair tie on the cabinet handle, and the moment he moved it, it would only be a hair tie.
His phone had not stopped ringing at first.
Christian. GP. Daniel. Lando. His sister. His mother.
He let it ring.
The messages came anyway. Stacked up behind the screen like people outside a door he had not answered.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Call me when you can.’
‘We’re here.’
‘Anything you need.’
He read them the way you read the back of a shampoo bottle in the shower. The words moved through him and left nothing behind.
So Max did what he knew how to do.
He kept moving.
Shower.
Clothes.
The same black zip-up he had worn three days in a row because it was the first thing his hand found in the dark.
The coffee he made every morning and then left on the counter until it was cold and then poured out. The mug rinsed and placed back in the drying rack next to hers.
He did not think about the mug.
He kept moving.
Phone face down on the kitchen table.Texts answered in the fewest syllables that still counted as answering.
Controlled. Focused. Compartmentalized.
He had heard those words his whole career. Said in a tone that meant it like a compliment.
Like the inside of him was a very clean garage. Like grief was just another variable to smooth out in the debrief, carry into the next session already solved.
He put on the black suit.
It fit. Technically.
The suit was the same one he had worn to the FIA gala a year ago. He remembered standing in front of the mirror, struggling with the awkward hook at the back of the collar until she stepped in with a quiet sigh.
Without asking.
Without looking up from whatever conversation they had been having.
Her fingers had found the clasp on the first try.
Done.
Easy.
When he caught her eyes in the mirror afterward, she had only shrugged and turned away, already searching for the earrings she'd inevitably misplaced ten minutes earlier.
The lining was too warm.
The collar sat wrong against his neck.
The cuffs felt too stiff.
He stood in front of the mirror and his reflection looked like someone doing an impression of him. Sharper in the face than a week ago. Eyes dark underneath. Mouth doing nothing.
There was a bruise along his jaw, yellow at the edges now, the kind of color that meant almost healed, which felt obscene.
Lucky, someone had said.
He wanted to laugh when he heard it.
Lucky.
He did not laugh. He nodded.
He was very good at nodding now.
His hand found the edge of the sink.
He did not decide to grip it. His knuckles just went white.
Behind him, the apartment stayed silent.
For one terrible second, he imagined her voice from the bedroom.
“You’re going to be late.”
Not soft. Not a memory he had gone looking for.
Just her voice, the dry version, the one she used when she was already a little amused at him. The one from mornings when she would sit cross-legged on the bed in whatever she had slept in, watching him check the time and pretend he wasn’t.
Max closed his eyes.
The apartment said nothing back.
When he opened them, his reflection was still the only person in the mirror.
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The funeral was held under a gray sky.
Not raining yet.
That felt wrong too.
The whole city looked washed out. The sea in the distance was the color of old concrete. People stood in clusters outside the chapel, dressed in black, speaking quietly enough that their voices blurred together.
Max heard none of it clearly.
He recognized faces.
Some from the paddock.
Some from her life.
Some from places where their worlds had briefly overlapped and then stuck there, awkwardly, now forced into the same grief.
Lando stood near the entrance with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, staring at the gravel. He had not done his hair. Max had never seen him not do his hair.
Daniel was beside him. Not talking. Daniel was always talking.
Christian had a crease between his eyebrows that had not been there a year ago.
GP put a hand on Max’s shoulder when he arrived and said something Max’s brain did not process into words. Max nodded anyway. He was getting good at that.
Everyone looked at him like he was something breakable.
It made him want to put his fist through something.
Then it made him feel sick.
Then it made him want to put his fist through something again.
He wanted someone to speak normally.
He wanted Lando to make a terrible joke. He wanted Daniel to complain about the catering. He wanted someone’s phone to go off with an embarrassing ringtone. He wanted one thing to happen that was just a thing happening.
Instead, voices dropped when he got close.
Hands started toward him and then thought better of it.
Bodies turned slightly, making room, giving him space he had not asked for and did not want.
As if grief had a blast radius.
As if they were all just waiting to see how far the damage went.
Her parents were inside.
Her mother had worn the blue coat. Max recognized it from a photo Y/N kept on her phone… some Christmas, some doorstep, her mother’s arm around her shoulders.
It looked smaller now, or her mother did.
Her father stood beside her with his hands clasped in front of him, and Max recognized the posture the way you recognize a word in a language you never formally learned.
Max recognized that.
He did not go to them.
Coward, something in him said.
He ignored it.
The chapel smelled like lilies the way a headache smells like lilies. Too concentrated. Too deliberate. The kind of smell that meant someone had made decisions.
The photo was on an easel near the casket.
He knew the photo.
Y/N smiling.
Alive in that careless, unbearable way photographs had.
The version of her in the picture had no idea she was being used for this. No idea people would stand around in dark clothes looking at her face like it was evidence.
Max stared at it until his vision blurred.
She had hated that photo.
Not seriously.
She had made a face when it came up on his phone once, reaching over to scroll past it.
“That one’s terrible.”
“It’s not bad.”
“My face is doing something.”
“Your face is doing your face.”
She had not been comforted by this.
He had not deleted it.
He almost smiled.
The almost hurt worse than the grief.
His eyes moved to the casket and he made himself stop there.
Closed.
Of course closed.
Someone had told him why.
He did not remember who.
He did not remember the explanation.
He remembered nodding.
He had been nodding at things for six days and the information had stopped arriving anywhere it could be kept.
The service started.
Someone spoke at the front. Max heard the shape of the words without the meaning.
A prayer, maybe.
A reading from something.
A woman’s voice cracked in the middle of a sentence and steadied again.
At some point, people laughed. Briefly. The kind of laugh that comes out wet. Someone had said something true about her.
Max had not heard what.
He was near the front because that was where they had guided him, a hand at his elbow, gentle and steering, the way you move someone who is not quite tracking. He had let it happen.
Not family.
Not not-family either.
Something worse.
The person who had walked away.
His hands sat on his knees. He had put them there and left them there because the alternative was letting them do something he would have to explain later. They looked unfamiliar to him. Too large. Too present.
He looked at the floor.
At the shoes of the man in front of him… black oxfords, one of them slightly scuffed at the toe, the kind of scuff that came from catching a curb.
At the grain of the wood on the pew.
At the program folded in half on the seat beside him, which someone had placed there and which he had not touched.
At everything that was not the casket.
Then, beside him, quietly, like someone who had come in late and did not want to make a thing of it:
“Bit dramatic, isn’t it?”
The cold went through him before the words fully landed.
His head turned before he had decided to turn it.
She was sitting in the space next to him.
Y/N.
Legs crossed. Hands in her lap. Looking not at him but at the casket, with the same expression she got when she was waiting for something to be over.
Not in black.
His mind caught on that first, stupidly.
The sweater was dark, soft-looking, the one she had been wearing the night of the crash.
Or he thought.
He was not certain. His memory of that night had edges he could not look at directly. But the sweater looked right in the way a word looks right when you’ve been staring at it too long to be sure anymore.
Her hair was down. A piece of it had fallen forward across her cheek and she had not pushed it back.
She never pushed it back.
She always waited until it annoyed her enough.
Max’s lungs stopped working in any useful way.
The chapel went very far away.
The voice at the front. The flowers. The people in black in his peripheral vision, sitting very still the way people sit when they are trying to hold themselves together in public.
All of it receded.
There was only her.
Sitting beside him like she had found the nearest open seat.
His mouth opened.
The air came out but nothing else did.
Her eyes slid toward him.
They were wrong.
Not visibly. Not horror-film wrong. No black veins. No milky stare. No blood.
Just colder. Like someone had taken everything warm behind them and moved it very far away.
“You’re staring,” she said.
Max’s fingers dug into his knees. The fabric of his trousers pulled tight across his knuckles.
Someone behind him sniffed. The person at the front kept speaking. A child somewhere shifted in a pew and was hushed.
Nobody turned.
Nobody reacted.
Nobody saw her.
Of course they did not see her.
Because she was not there. Because she was dead. Because he had not slept properly in days and his brain had finally done the obvious thing and broken.
He pressed his thumbnail into the side of his index finger, hard, and focused on the program he hadn’t touched. Her name on it in serif font. The dates underneath, which he had not yet been able to look at directly.
“Stop,” he whispered.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Stop what?”
He looked forward again. The lilies. The photo on the easel. Y/N smiling in the photo, her face doing its thing.
He fixed his gaze on the floor and tried to breathe through it.
In for four.
Out for four.
He had done that after crashes. After the car stopped moving and the marshals were running toward him and his hands were shaking on the wheel where no one could see.
In.
Out.
Beside him, she leaned closer. Close enough that he would have been able to smell her shampoo, if she had been there. If she were real. If any of this were something other than six days without sleep finally collecting what it was owed.
“You remember the rain?”
His throat tightened.
Max did not move.
“You always remember the rain.”
His jaw clenched.
The service blurred around him.
He could hear her more clearly than anyone else in the room.
“You remember that I screamed.”
A pause.
Then softer, almost curious.
“Do you remember why?”
Max stood so quickly the pew creaked.
Several heads turned. The speaker faltered. Christian looked over from two rows back, alarmed.
Max did not look at him.
“I need air,” he said.
Maybe aloud.
Maybe not.
He walked out before anyone could stop him.
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The chapel doors opened into cold gray light.
Max walked until the building’s corner cut him off from the entrance, from the flowers banked against the steps, from the particular expression people got when they were deciding whether to follow someone.
He pressed his hand flat against the stone and bent forward.
Breathed.
Once.
Twice.
His chest felt too tight.
The world tilted slightly, not enough to fall, enough to remind him that bodies were unreliable things.
“You left quickly.”
Max closed his eyes.
“No.”
“You did. The woman reading was only halfway through”
“You’re not here.”
“Obviously.”
He turned.
She stood a few feet away, her back almost to the wall, the way she used to stand when she was waiting for him outside somewhere and had gotten tired of looking at her phone.
Same sweater. The one with the pulled thread at the left cuff she had never gotten around to fixing.
Same face. Same eyes, except not… emptied of something he didn’t have a word for.
Nothing about her announced itself as impossible.
No shimmer. No shadow that fell the wrong way.
Just her, standing on a Tuesday in November outside a chapel where people were eulogizing her, looking faintly impatient.
Max swallowed.
“This is not real.”
Y/N tilted her head.
“Is that helping?”
His anger arrived before he’d decided to let it.
Thank God.
Anger was easier.
“You’re dead.”
Something flickered across her face.
Too quick to name.
Then gone.
“Yes,” she said.
Just that. No argument. No softening.
The simplicity of it cut through him.
He looked away. The gray sky. The gravel path.
His vision blurred, and he hated that. Hated his eyes. Hated his body. Hated the chapel wall under his palm and the fact that it was solid when she should not be.
“You’re not real,” he said again.
“Pick one.”
“What?”
“Dead or not real.” Her voice sharpened slightly. “You keep switching. Pick one and stay there.”
He stared at her.
That was not something she would say.
Y/N could be sharp, yes. Dry. Unimpressed. She had a way of going very still and very quiet when she thought he was being an idiot, which had been, in his experience, fairly often.
She had never once been impressed by the name or the trophies or the whole gravitational system of people that orbited him, and he had loved her for it in a way he hadn’t fully understood until now.
But this was different.
This was the voice of something that had found the exact shape of a wound and was pressing into it with both thumbs.
“You don’t talk like that,” he said.
Her mouth curved. Not a smile. The thing that lived next door to one.
“Maybe you don’t remember how I talk.”
He flinched.
He actually flinched, standing outside a chapel in the cold, flinching at something that wasn’t there.
Her expression shifted.
For just a second, something behind her eyes went soft.
She looked almost, sorry.
Like she regretted saying it the moment it left her mouth.
Then the chapel doors opened around the corner, and voices spilled out.
Max looked over.
When he looked back, she was gone.
Not faded.
Not vanished in smoke.
Just gone, the way you look away from a word long enough that it stops looking like a word.
Christian found him two minutes later, still holding his program, the corner of it bent from where he’d been gripping it.
“Max.”
“I’m fine.”
The answer came too quickly.
Christian stopped. Looked at him the way he had looked at him after Budapest, after the thing in Bahrain that they didn’t talk about, after every time Max had said he was fine and meant something closer to functional.
“You don’t have to go back in yet.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“I know what you said.”
Max dragged a hand over his face.
For one insane second he thought about saying it out loud.
*She was sitting next to me. She asked me something. I don’t know what it means, and I can’t stop hearing it.*
The words came all the way up and then didn’t.
Christian was already doing the thing with his face. The careful thing. The thing where he was trying very hard not to look like he was watching for Max to shatter.
“You haven’t slept,” Christian said.
“I’ve slept.”
“When.”
Max looked at him.
Christian exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Right,” he said. “Okay.”
He didn’t move.
Neither did Max.
The cold sat between them.
From somewhere inside the old stone chapel, wooden pews sighed as people stood. The service had ended while Max was outside, locked in a silent duel with a ghost…
Or a hallucination, or the darkest corner of his own mind.
He hated that he had missed it.
He hated that he was relieved.
The burial happened beneath a sky that finally gave in.
Rain began softly.
Then harder.
By the time everyone gathered around the grave, black umbrellas had opened in uneven clusters, shoulders pressing close beneath them.
Max stood without one.
Someone tried to give him one. He refused.
Rain stung his hair, his face, the collar of his suit.
Good. Let it punish him. He deserved worse.
The priest spoke.
Her mother cried quietly.
Her father stared at the casket with the empty expression of a man who had not yet accepted that he was expected to leave without his daughter.
Max fixed his eyes on the mud at his feet.
Do not look for her.
Do not look for her.
Do not look for her.
“You’re getting wet.”
His chest tightened. She was standing there, at the edge of the pit… no umbrella, no drop of rain marring her skin. The rain fell through her hair and slid off as though it feared her touch.
Max’s fists clenched at his sides. Nobody else blinked. Nobody else saw. Nobody else heard.
Her gaze stayed on the casket.
“You always hated standing in the rain,” she said.
He said nothing.
“Unless it was for work,” she continued, “Then the weather was just data. Information you processed like math.”
“Stop,” he whispered so quietly the raindrops seemed to hush.
Her eyes cut to him.
“There he is.”
His breath hitched. He couldn’t hear the priest anymore.
Y/N stepped so close he could count the frayed threads of her sweater, see her hair clinging wetly at the ends. She could fall into that open coffin and vanish forever.
“You know what’s funny?” she whispered.
“Don’t.”
“You’ve been telling yourself the same story for a week.”
He stared at a single droplet tracing his nose.
“You were driving. It was raining. I screamed. Then I died.”
His pulse thudded once.
Hard.
“Simple story.”
“Y/N.”
Her name came out broken.
Her expression fractured for a heartbeat, something achingly familiar flickering behind her eyes. Then she sealed it with a chill smile.
“Tell me what I screamed.”
Max’s throat closed.
The rain sounded louder.
“What?”
“You remember me screaming.” She leaned in, so quiet it felt like a confession. “So tell me what I said.”
He wanted to. He could recall that raw, shattered sound… the terror, the plea in her voice as it died. But the words themselves had slipped through his fingers.
“Max—”
Her tone was gentle, devastating. “Did I say your name? Did I beg? Did I warn you?”
He swallowed. “ I… I don’t remember.”
“There it is.”
He finally met her eyes.
The sweater was darker now, drenched. A bruise-gray shadow stained one side of her forehead. His chest clenched.
Then…blink…and she was normal again. Almost.
“You’re not her,” he whispered.
Her face went very still.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then who am I?”
He had no answer. The rain still fell, relentless, and the hollow earth waited for its next tremor.
The priest said something final. A word Max didn’t catch.
People began to move.
He watched them the way you watch traffic from a window.
A woman in a black coat laid tulips against the casket. Someone’s elderly father gripped a folded program so tightly it had gone translucent at the crease. A child near the back was staring at her own shoes.
Max stayed where he was.
Christian’s presence behind him was a specific weight. Not touching. Just there.
He could feel everyone watching without watching.
Waiting for him to do something.
To break.
To kneel.
To say goodbye.
But Y/N was standing on the other side of her own grave, looking at him like she already knew he would fail.
Someone pressed a white rose into his hand from the left. He didn’t turn to see who. The stem had a thorn that had been mostly but not entirely removed, and it caught the meat of his thumb when he adjusted his grip.
Finally, Max moved.
He walked to the edge.
Y/N watched him cross toward her like she had been waiting for exactly this.
They stood with the casket between them.
He looked down at the rose.
He thought about saying her name. To the real her. The one in the ground.
He thought about saying sorry.
He thought about saying I should have.
He let the rose go.
Rain hit the white petals immediately, darkening them at the edges.
“You forgot something,” she whispered.
He looked up.
She was beside him now, close enough that his body expected warmth and found nothing.
“What,” he said. Not a question.
She didn’t answer right away.
When she did, her voice had lost its edge entirely, which was worse than anything else she had done to him today.
“Me.”
Then Christian’s hand was on his shoulder and she was gone and someone was saying his name and the cars were pulling around and none of it was happening to him, exactly.
It was happening near him. Around him. He was present the way a coat left on a chair is present.
He got into a car. He got out of one. Someone handed him something. He put it down somewhere.
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At some point, he found himself standing in the apartment again… no memory of the drive, no recollection of how he navigated the slick streets.
Now the same steady patter tapped the windows, polite and indifferent, as if it had not ruined everything.
Max stood in the center of the living room, drenched in his wetsuit, staring at her jacket, draped over the chair.
It hadn’t moved. Of course it hadn’t.
He crossed the room slowly.
For the first time since the accident, he touched it.
It was impossibly soft… real. He clutched it, and something inside him snapped, dangerous and thin.
A sob tried to climb out of his chest.
He swallowed it.
No.
He would not do this.
Not now.
Not because of a hallucination with her face.
He lifted the jacket closer, inhaling. It still smelled like her… barely, but enough. His knees threatened to give.
Behind him, a voice whispered, “Careful.”
Max froze.
Y/N stood by the kitchen doorway, bathed in the dim wash of streetlight.
Her features seemed to flicker, less solid here than in his memories, or maybe he was just too exhausted to see clearly anymore.
“Smells fade,” she said.
His hands tightened around the jacket.
“Get out.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Of where?”
“My head.”
She almost smiled.
“Is that where you think I am?”
“Yes.”
“And if I’m not?”
“You are,” he said immediately. Desperately.
Something flickered across her face.
Pity, maybe.
Or disappointment.
“If that helps.”
His jaw tightened.
“Don't say that.”
“Then stop needing it to be true.”
Max threw the jacket onto the chair. Anger surged again, hot enough to feel clean.
“You don’t get to do this.”
Her face hardened.
“I don’t?”
“No.” He stepped toward her. “You don’t get to stand there and talk to me like I did this on purpose.”
The room stilled. Rain fingered the glass. Y/N watched him with quiet intensity. When she spoke, her voice barely rose above a breath.
“Didn’t you?”
The question landed like a stone in his gut. His chest tightened, and for a second he was back in the car… rain sliding across the windshield, streetlights smeared like bleeding stars, and then her hand on his arm, her voice calling his name.
“No,” he managed, but it came out uncertain.
Y/N heard it.
She watched him with those patient, haunted eyes.
“You don’t remember,” she said.
“I remember enough.”
“No.” The word was soft, final. “You remember what hurts least.”
He shook his head. “I remember the crash.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
Rain.
Wipers.
Her scream.
Metal.
Darkness.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Y/N stepped closer. “What road?”
His breath caught.
“What?”
“What road were you on?”
He wanted the answer to be there, fully-formed, but all he felt was panic. Monaco. It was always Monaco. But the road…
His mind offered nothing but fractured shards of glass and water and light.
Y/N’s eyes searched him. “What was I wearing?”
“The sweater.”
“Which one?”
He looked at her. The dark sweater. The one she had on now.
Except the longer he looked, the less certain he became.
Had it been dark?
Had it been white?
Had she worn a coat?
Why could he not remember?
“What song was playing?”
“Stop.”
“Where were we going?”
“Stop.”
“What did I say before I screamed?”
“Stop.”
“What did you say after?”
“Stop.”
“What did you do, Max?”
“Stop.”
His voice cracked through the room. Silence fell heavy and absolute.
Y/N stood very still… afraid not of him, but for him. That scared him worse than anything.
Max pressed his palms to his eyes. When he lowered them, she was gone. The apartment was empty and suffocatingly quiet. The rain continued its steady applause against the panes.
On the coffee table, his phone lit up, a message from Lando.
I’m downstairs. You don’t have to talk. Just let me know you’re alive.
Alive. The word felt obscene. He didn’t reply.
Instead, he sank to the floor by the chair, eased her jacket into his lap, and closed his eyes to the sound of rain.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
After what felt like hours, he finally unlocked his phone with fingers that trembled, as if they belonged to someone else.
The screen glowed in the dim room, revealing a gallery of moments he could hardly believe were real.
He opened his photos.
Searched her name.
Dozens… no, hundreds… of thumbnails filled the screen.
There she was, mid-laugh, looking at something off-camera; her hand instinctively blocking the lens.
There she was, asleep against the side window of his old car, the city lights carving patterns across her face.
There she was again, arms crossed in the kitchen, eyebrows lowered as if daring him to speak.
And once more, a snapshot of her striding ahead down a street he swore he should remember, every curve of her hair backlit by the sunset.
His eyes stung from staring too long.
He knew her smile, the way her eyes narrowed when she was trying not to laugh, the exact expression she made when he said something too blunt in public.
He knew her.
He knew her so well it hurt.
He tapped on a video. Her soft voice filled the room, echoing off bare walls.
“Max, stop filming me.”
He remembered the playfulness in her tone.
On screen, he laughed from behind the camera.
“You look very serious.”
“I am serious. You are annoying.”
“You like me.”
“Unfortunately.” She reached for the phone, and the clip went black.
Max played it again.
Then again.
Then again.
On the fourth time, something strange happened.
Her voice sounded different, not wrong exactly. Just unfamiliar at the edges, like listening to a song through a wall.
His pulse quickened. He rewound, played, paused.
“Max, stop filming me.”
The words were the same. The voice was hers.
It was hers. It had to be hers.
But panic crawled up his spine.
He opened another video.
Then another.
Her laughing.
Her complaining.
Her saying his name.
Each recording felt slippery, like trying to trap water in cupped hands. The more he listened, the less he believed it.
Had her voice always sounded like that?
Was her laugh always that high? That soft?
Did she really sound like this… or was the phone warping her memory?
He tried to steady his breathing. No. It was exhausting. Trauma. Grief made ghosts of memories, he told himself.
A soft voice drifted in from the hallway. “You forgot me already.”
Max looked up.
Y/N stood framed by the bedroom door. The dark sweater he remembered was gone… maybe replaced by something else he couldn’t quite see.
Shadows clung to her face, half-concealing her features.
“You were buried today,” he said, voice cracking.
“I know.” Her answer was quieter than he expected.
“Then leave me alone.”
“I’m trying.”
He forced a laugh, brittle and hollow. “No, you’re not.”
In the dim light, her eyes glimmered with something colder than tears
“You think I want to be here like this?”
Max stared at her.
“You think I want to watch you turn me into something ugly because it is easier than remembering I was real?”
His throat went dry.
“What?”
But the word barely left his mouth before she began to fade, as if the room itself was unlearning her shape.
Her outline blurred.
Her voice wavered.
“No.” He lunged forward, heart pounding.
For a heartbeat, she looked honest… tired, sad, achingly familiar… before her expression hardened again.
“You really think I’m the ghost story?”
Max could not move.
The rain against the windows stilled. The apartment held its breath
Y/N’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“You haven’t even remembered the worst part yet.”
And then she was gone, leaving only the echo of her absence.
summary: Y/N follows Max to the factory and discovers that Formula One looks very different when you're standing inside the machine that makes it work. Unfortunately, she also discovers that an alarming number of people seem to know exactly what's happening between them. Max included.
warnings: Slow burn, emotional repression, rich people behavior, Max continuing to rearrange reality around his schedule, Y/N continuing to have concerns about that, Simon being unhelpful, and international kidnapping undertones.
word count: 3.8k
author’s note: this chapter had approximately forty-seven different paths before finally deciding where it wanted to go.
happy race week everyone ♡
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ /ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 08 / ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 10
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The drive across Monaco felt strangely quiet.
Not awkward.
Worse.
Comfortable.
Like somewhere between the yacht and this morning, being alone with Max had quietly stopped requiring explanation.
That realization alone should have concerned me significantly more than it apparently did.
I watched the harbor slide past the window while Max took two short calls beside me in rapid Dutch, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, eyes tracking something outside I couldn’t identify.
I understood approximately none of it.
I didn’t need to.
There was something almost disorienting about watching him like this.
The version of him I’d seen photographed a hundred times on race weekends; helmet on, jaw set, already somewhere else mentally before the lights even went out; suddenly made a different kind of sense.
Because even relaxed, there was still something intensely controlled about him.
Like some part of him was always running calculations just below the surface.
Always clocking something.
I was probably one of the things being clocked.
That thought should have bothered me more than it did.
“You’re thinking too hard again.”
I looked over immediately.
“You say that like you can hear it.”
He shrugged without looking at me.
“Your face changes.”
“That feels invasive.”
“It’s observant.”
I crossed my arms.
“That is unfortunately your favorite hobby.”
A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, just for a heartbeat, before the car eased to a stop by the harbor.
Then I saw—the helicopter.
My stomach dropped instantly.
“Oh absolutely not.”
Max spared me a single glance out the window.
“You knew we were flying.”
“I assumed normal flying.”
His eyebrows rose.
“What does that mean?”
“It means commercial airports exist for a reason.”
“We’re late already.”
I turned toward him immediately.
“We?”
“For the simulator.”
Right. Because amid the chaos of my life, Max Verstappen still had a job to get to.
The car door opened, and he stepped out first, grabbing his backpack from the backseat. I climbed out more slowly, staring at the matte-black helicopter like it owed me an apology.
“This feels aggressively expensive.”
“That’s a strange criticism.”
“But correct,” I countered.
His lips twitch. Then, without warning, his hand rests lightly on my lower back, guiding me forward. Three seconds of that warm, steady contact, and my nervous system goes haywire.
I hated that my body reacted to him instantly now.
A pilot stepped forward, greeting Max with crisp professionalism; no excitement, no awkward recognition. Just efficient familiarity. The kind that came from seeing a world champion driver often enough that eventually even extraordinary things settled into routine.
And somehow that made my chest ache.
Because Monaco, race weekend, this entire increasingly questionable series of life choices still felt slightly unreal.
But this—
The helicopter waiting for sunrise departures.
The practiced familiarity.
The way nobody here looked twice.
This wasn't race weekend.
Wasn't spectacle.
Wasn't paddock access or hospitality suites or borrowed proximity to a world that wasn't mine.
This was his actual life.
Winds picked up around us as Max waited for me to stepped inside first. I hovered at the door.
“You’ve never done this before.”
Not a question.
I met his gaze.
“Do you profile every person you meet?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
That line lands harder than it should. I stepped in before I can overthink it. He follows, as effortlessly as grabbing a coffee. Headsets snap on; outside noise vanishes. The rotor thrum fills my ears, then the chopper lifts, and Monaco shrinks beneath us: yachts like toy boats, winding streets, my favorite café terrace, the balcony of my apartment.
Everything slowly pulling farther away beneath the morning light.
For a second neither of us spoke.
I stare out, trying to process that an hour ago I expected a lazy Tuesday. Now I’m flying over Monaco with Max Verstappen as if it’s perfectly normal.
Silence stretches until he murmurs,
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to convince yourself this is temporary.”
Below, the city blurs. And frustratingly—I still don’t know if he’s wrong.
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Twenty minutes later, the wind still whipped around the helicopter blades as we touched down in Nice.
Nice.
Somehow, that made it worse. More real.
My headset had barely come off before I noticed the black sedan waiting nearby, engine idling like it had been expecting us.
Of course, it had.
"You're kidding," I muttered.
"About?" Max asked.
"The fact apparently helicopters also come with connecting transportation."
"It's a car."
"Don't make this feel normal."
My words came out half-laugh, half-complaint. Everything about this felt alarmingly smooth; as if the world bent itself around him. No crowds. No security lines weaving through glass-and-steel halls full of yawning tourists. Just doors opening before we even reached them, agents greeting him by name, wheels turning, plans unfolding
I trailed a half-step behind, trying not to gape, my palms slick with sweating nerves. The terminal looked nothing like an airport I’d ever seen—floor-to-ceiling windows framed a pale moonlit tarmac, muted LEDs guided us down an impossibly spotless corridor. A woman at a sleek white counter looked up and said, “Mr. Verstappen,” her voice warm but poised. Then her gaze flicked to me, curious and professional, and moved on. That fraction of a second was enough to make my stomach pinch. Because suddenly I realized how ridiculous I must look: some random girl stumbling after one of the world’s fastest Formula 1 drivers, still riding borrowed confidence.
“You’re thinking too hard again.” Max murmured, and I nearly jumped.
“You cannot keep saying that every time I have a thought,” I shot back.
“I can if it’s accurate.”
“That’s incredibly irritating.”
He let a flicker of amusement dance across his face before he led me out onto the tarmac.
A matte-black jet so low and sharp it could slice through clouds. My pace slowed at the base of the stairs.
“That’s yours.”
Not a question this time.
Max glanced toward it once like he had almost forgotten normal people reacted to things like this.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
That single word somehow made the situation feel dramatically more insane.
The casualness of that admission made my brain stutter. I stared at the aircraft, mouth half-open.
“You own a plane.”
“You say that like it’s shocking.”
“It is shocking.”
Max’s lips curved in a faint, knowing smile, and he started up the steps.
“You’ll survive.”
That confidence again.
Like he already knew exactly how this day would go.
I followed him onto the jet, every nerve buzzing with disbelief.
Inside, it was hushed—cream leather seats, dark polished wood reflecting the cabin’s gentle glow. The kind of understatement that screams “money.” I paused at the doorway.
“This is actually making me feel poor.”
He lifted a brow. “You own a café in Monaco.”
“My mother owns a café in Monaco,” I corrected automatically, folding carefully into the seat opposite him.
He watched that correction. Not out of rudeness; he was really listening.
Attentive again.
Like he filed every tiny detail away somewhere.
“You talk about her a lot.”
The observation caught me off guard slightly.
Because he was right.
“She worked for Camille’s family when she was young. Saved up, bought the café when the old owner retired.”
Max leaned back, eyes never leaving mine.
“That’s why you stayed.”
His words hit harder than he knew. “Monaco never felt… mine. But the café did.”
Silence settled around us, punctuated only by the faint hum of engines deep below the cabin floor. Then Max tipped his head thoughtfully.
“That explains a lot.”
I narrowed my eyes immediately.
“That feels loaded.”
“You like having somewhere people return to.”
He shrugged, expression unreadable.
“You like having a place people come back to.”
It stung, because in under a week, he’d noticed threads of my life I hadn’t even fully acknowledged. I stared out at the runway sliding past.
“That was annoyingly perceptive.”
“I know.”
The jet started moving a few minutes later.
Smoothly.
Too smoothly.
Everything about today felt engineered to remove friction from existence entirely.
Meanwhile, I still felt mentally stuck somewhere between waking up and accidentally boarding a millionaire’s aircraft before noon.
I looked out the window as the runway blurred beside us.
“You do this constantly, don’t you?”
He glanced up from his phone
“Fly?”
“No. Entirely rearrange reality around your schedule.”
A flicker of something—amusement? resignation?—crossed his face
“That sounds dramatic.”
“You own a plane.”
He laughed softly.
“Still hung up on that, huh?”
“I think it’s reasonable,” I said, meeting his calm, focused gaze.
He set his phone aside and leaned forward. “You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m… processing.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
I smirked despite myself. “I think I hit dangerous somewhere over the helicopter.”
He let a ghost of a smile flicker, quick and gone. And I hated how well I’d learned its contours already. He allowed a small, quick smile—like a secret—and then it was gone.
I hated how much I had started noticing every variation of it already.
My stomach dropped slightly as Monaco disappeared beneath the clouds.
And suddenly this became real in an entirely different way.
Not yacht-party real.
Not Monaco race weekend real.
This felt permanent somehow.
Like I had crossed into a version of his life people did not casually return from unchanged.
I looked back toward him carefully.
“Do people know where you are right now?”
Max looked mildly confused by the question.
“What?”
“Like… your team. PR people. Whoever controls your existence.”
That earned a quieter laugh from him.
“Controls my existence?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No one cares where I am on a Tuesday.”
“That feels statistically impossible.”
“I’m going to the factory.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him another second. Just yes. Like my being here was the least interesting fact of the entire morning.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said.
“What thing?”
“Overthinking.”
“That accusation loses impact when you say it every fifteen minutes.”
“It keeps being true.”
“That’s incredibly unfortunate for me.”
He didn’t smile exactly. Something shifted in his expression; small, almost imperceptible; like a door opening one inch and then stopping.
I looked down at the table.
“You can quit being nervous around me.”
Max leaned back. “I’m not nervous.”
He said it the way people state the weather. Factual. Undefended. Like the idea of being nervous around me had genuinely not occurred to him, and he found it mildly interesting that it had occurred to me.
I didn’t have a response for that.
The flight attendant appeared at some point with a water and a small plate of things I didn’t register. I wrapped both hands around the cup but didn’t eat.
Max noticed immediately.
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I had approximately seven minutes to become a functioning person this morning.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He looked at me for a moment; not long, just enough; then reached across and pushed the plate closer. No comment. No eye contact. Just the quiet insistence of the gesture itself, like he’d already decided.
I stared at it.
“You’re strangely bossy for someone who claims this isn’t manipulative.”
“You’re still hungry.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Do you enjoy psychologically cornering people?”
“Only difficult ones.”
I looked away toward the window before he could see that land.
He definitely saw it land.
Outside the window, the clouds stretched out in endless waves of cotton and light; soft, blindingly bright, almost unreal.
It felt like drifting inside a painting, far removed from any echo of my actual life.
Somewhere below me, the little café and the apartment above it slid away into memory: the hiss of the morning espresso machine, Lucie’s cheerful shouts across the counter, the tourists with their wide-eyed questions every race weekend.
And here I was, hurtling through European airspace with Max Verstappen as if this were just another Tuesday.
“You’re quiet again.” he said, voice calm as the hum of the engines.
I exhaled softly.
“I think I’m still trying to understand why you’re doing this.”
He tilted his head, eyes fixed on me.
“Doing what?”
I waved my hand at the luxurious cabin, at us, at all of it. “This. Any of it.”
He paused; no evasion, just thought. And that pause felt more dangerous than any deflection.
Finally, he said, “You keep expecting there to be another reason.”
His words settled in my chest like a weight. Of course he’d said something like this before; on the marina dock, at the café door. But hearing it now, miles above everything familiar, made it impossible to argue.
“I just want to be realistic,” I murmured
“No,” Max said calmly. “You’re trying to leave before anything actually happens.”
Silence stretched between us, vast and charged. His gaze never wavered. I forced my eyes down to my hands.
“You say things like you already know how this ends.”
“Do you want honesty?” he asked, voice gentle but firm.
“That depends how emotionally damaging it is.” I shot back, half-grinning despite myself.
He laughed then; short, low, gone before it could be comforting.
And just like that, his face settled back into calm focus.
“I think you spend most of your life waiting for people to prove you right about leaving.”
The quiet that followed felt cavernous. No one had ever said that to me, at least not so directly.
And I hated how true it sounded. I watched his calm features, so unguarded, as he studied me. It was maddening how completely he saw me.
I looked away, out the window, where the clouds were thinning and green patches of England peeked through.
My arms folded across my chest; mostly to give my hands something to do besides betray my heartbeat.
“You make people uncomfortable on purpose.”
Max leaned back slightly in his seat across from me.
“Only when they’re pretending.”
“That’s kind of mean.”
“It was,” he admitted, and shrugged like it hardly mattered.
I exhaled once through my nose trying unsuccessfully not to smile again.
This was becoming deeply annoying.
Because at some point our conversations had stopped feeling like flirting and started feeling like psychological warfare with occasional eye contact issues.
“You know what your problem is?” I asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “You assume I only have one?”
I narrowed my eyes. “That confidence is exactly what I’m talking about.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. I hated how easily I could read him: the subtle lift of his lips, the sharpened glint in his eye when he was assessing me. I pressed on.
“I think,” I continued carefully, “you’re too used to people adjusting around you.”
That got his attention immediately.
He sat up straighter, fully attentive.
Not defensive.
Focused.
Like he genuinely wanted to hear the answer.
“Flights, schedules, weekends… everything bends to your will. You walk into a room, and everyone shifts to accommodate you.”
For once Max didn’t interrupt.
So I kept going.
“And I don’t think you even notice it anymore.”
He was silent, and I held my breath, waiting. Then he said softly, “You didn’t.”
The answer came too quickly.
Too honestly.
I looked at him immediately.
“I… what?” My voice caught.
“In Monaco,” he said, eyes unwavering. “You didn’t adjust.”
His words hit me in the gut so hard I had to look away. Because it was true.
I’d approached him as an equal, refusing to be dazzled. And that realization was terrifying: that I hadn’t been resisting him, but simply treating him normally.
Which made him more dangerous than I’d even realized.
I stared at the small table between us. “That’s a frightening thing to hear.”
He shrugged again.
“It’s true.”
No performance. No charm.
Just raw, direct honesty landing in my mind like bricks. I swallowed as the plane dipped gently.
Turbulence? No… descent. England was closing in.
He glanced out his own window. “We’ll land soon.”
The promise of ground below stirred something anxious in me. Once we touched down, my spontaneous Tuesday would end.
Then it would be his world; structured, controlled, impossible to slip away from silently.
Rain lashed the windows as we taxied to a smaller, quieter terminal.
This wasn’t Monaco’s glitzy spectacle; it was muted, functional, efficient: everything that suited Max more than flashing cameras and grandstands.
I followed him down the stairs onto the damp tarmac, the cold air biting through my jacket.
A black umbrella materialized next to us as if summoned.
Max lifted it and tilted it toward me, his movement so natural it unsettled me more than a grand gesture.
Not for show; just instinct.
Another black car waited. The driver greeted Max with the familiarity of someone who treated him not as a star, but as a colleague.
The door shut behind us, and I realized that from here on out, I was fully inside his world; and there was no jet at thirty thousand feet to escape to.
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The drive from the airport to Milton Keynes felt quieter than Monaco had been.
Inside the car, everything was hushed: the soft whoosh of windshield wipers, the faint hum of tires on wet asphalt.
Rain smeared the world into muted watercolors; steel-gray office blocks, dripping eaves, halos of streetlights blurred into one another.
I watched the droplets chase each other down the glass and finally looked at Max. His posture was straighter, his jaw set.
It was as if, the moment we’d touched down, some invisible lever inside him had clicked into place.
“You’re quiet,” I said, trying to catch his gaze.
His attention flicked towards me briefly.
“So are you.”
I folded my arms over my chest.
“That’s because I think I accidentally agreed to join your corporate empire.”
He actually laughed; short, low, and dangerously rare
“It’s not that dramatic.”
“You own a plane.”
“You’re still on about the plane.”
“I genuinely don’t know when I’m supposed to move past that information.”
I exhaled, watching raindrops race one another down the pane.
His jaw twitched with amusement. Then, quieter: “You’ll survive the factory.”
“That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
The car slowed as more buildings appeared around us.
Modern. Sharp. Glass and steel rising out of the rain.
Then I saw it.
Oracle Red Bull Racing
My stomach clenched. Because up until now, Formula One had still felt like a fever dream of paddocks and media scrums, champagne-soaked podiums under the Riviera sun.
But this was different. This was where the work happened. Where cars were designed, data was analyzed, problems were solved, and thousands of people spent their days chasing fractions of a second. The races happened on television. The reasons they won happened here.
And Max moved through all of it with the ease of someone who knew exactly where he belonged. The sprawling buildings, the endless activity, the pressure that seemed to hum beneath every surface, none of it appeared to weigh on him. Somehow, watching him here felt different from watching him in Monaco. Less like a world champion driver and more like a man walking into work.
We pulled up to the entrance. Outside, team members in Red Bull jackets hurried through the rain, umbrellas angled against the wind as they disappeared into the building. Suddenly, I became painfully aware of myself again. The leggings. The quarter-zip. The fact I'd been asleep four hours ago and had brushed my hair with my fingers somewhere over France.
Beside me, Max looked entirely composed, like showing up at one of the biggest Formula One facilities in the world on a Tuesday morning was the most normal thing imaginable.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” he murmured, and I snapped my head around.
“You seriously need a new personality trait.”
He almost smiled. “No one here cares what you’re wearing.”
I stiffened. The fact he could answer thoughts I never spoke out loud made my throat tighten. Did he always read me this well?
As we stepped inside, everything shifted. Not loudly. No dramatic announcement. No crowd gathering around him. Just a subtle change in the room. Conversations paused half a second too long. Heads turned instinctively. People adjusted their paths without seeming to realize they were doing it. Nobody made it obvious.
Which somehow made it more obvious.
Because this wasn't celebrity.
It was gravity.
The kind that came from years of being the person everyone expected to deliver.
And Max barely seemed to notice any of it.
A few people greeted him as we walked. Quick conversations. Easy familiarity. Professional shorthand moving too fast for me to fully follow.
Meanwhile, I stayed half a step behind, trying unsuccessfully not to feel visibly out of place.
“You made it back alive, then,” came a voice ahead.
A man in Red Bull kit approached, juggling three tablets like they were nothing.
Max barely slowed.
“Unfortunately.”
The man snorted. Then he turned to me with direct curiosity. “This explains the helicopter delay.”
I blinked once.
“Excuse me?”
Max chuckled softly, unfazed.
The man continued to Max, smiling wryly: “You said fifteen minutes, then suddenly everyone was trying to figure out why the helicopter was still in Monaco.”
“Oh my god,” I muttered. Max’s lips curved in quiet amusement.
“You’re Y/N, right?” the man said, shifting his attention back to me.
I opened my mouth. “How do you know my name?”
He and Max exchanged a look that immediately made me suspicious.
“No,” I said immediately. “I don’t like that silence.”
Max rested his hand on my arm. “Relax.”
“That usually means I should absolutely not relax.”
The man laughed, shifting his load of tablets. “I’m Simon. And for what it’s worth, half this building’s been trying to figure out why Max decided to show up early today.”
I shot Max a look. He remained perfectly composed. “Interesting,” I said, as dryly as I could.
“You’re dramatic.”
“You rearranged helicopter schedules.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“That feels exactly like the same thing.”
Simon grinned, clearly entertained by our back-and-forth. “Oh, this is significantly worse than I thought.”
“Please leave,” Max said flatly.
“Christian’s going to love this,” Simon called over his shoulder as he backed down the hallway. Then softer, to me: “He’s less friendly when you’re not here, by the way.”
Max gave him a look. “Simon.”
Simon grinned immediately. Then he disappeared around the corner still looking entertained.
Silence fell again. I turned to Max. “You have coworkers gossiping about you.”
He shrugged. “Your café is no different.”
“That is entirely different.”
“How?”
“Because you’re… you’re world-famous…”
He offered me a half-smile. “And yet somehow this still feels exactly like Lucie.”
His hand slid to the small of my back, guiding me down another hallway. I followed, heart still racing at the thought: an entire Formula One factory had already noticed the shift in Max Verstappen.
And for reasons I couldn’t quite name, that terrified me more than anything.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x mercedes!f1 driver!fem!reader
SUMMARY: summer break doesn’t feel all that glamorous when one moment breaks your illusion entirely.
WARNINGS: fluff, angst, denial, jealousy, oscar and reader feeling homesick, lando being messy, MAJOR DEVELOPMENT, white wedding, poor humour // poorly proof-read
A/N: here it is! would you believe i made this entire series solely based on this bet scene? AND I BET YOU THOUGHT I FORGOT 😭 but sorry in advance. you won’t like me after this.
🏎️ masterlist | ⚽️ masterlist | 🦋 heart of chambers
Home looked the way it almost always did. Even in the winter, it still had a way to shine. Nor was it particularly cold. A nice contrast to the incessant heat that been scathing everyone months on end.
The only difference was your house evidently looked like the house of a bride and groom. The sun has begun to set, pinks and purples stretched out across the horizon, allowing for the endless number of dainty lights you were sure Dylan had spent forever doing. Garlands came in swathes across the backyard, paired nicely with your aunt's flower of choice. The outdoor dining table, usually stashed away for the summer was out with the help of Edie and her father. Music, selected by Hattie, of course, lightly rang through the air, gentle and faint as though not to intrude on any conversation.
Oscar sighed, resting his arms on the balustrade of the porch, eyeing the set up for the rehearsal dinner as the few guests started to pour in. The air felt nice. A reprieve from the thick air of racing that had been suffocating him.
He had spent the two days back home with you, helping you arrange the last-minute needs for your aunt's weddings. You had been stressing the moment you stepped onto the plane, constantly eyeing the to-do-list on your phone as in-flight entertainment. He could tell you wanted things to be perfect. And he endeavoured to make that happen.
"So..." Your voice erupted into the air, catching Oscar's attention. "How does it look?"
Oscar's throat dried, brown eyes wavering over the sight of you. It wasn't anything particularly special. But he would digress. There weren't too many times he'd see you all dolled up. But with the happiness of wedding activities, you were especially beautiful. Cheeks all flushed and rosy, smile wide and bright. Hair all curled in the right places. Lips painted in a colour that made him want to fall to his knees.
"Oscar? The dinner?" You queried, blinking him out of his trance.
He cleared his throat, nodding, forcing himself to look out at the setup once again. "It looks great," he agreed, slowly reverting back to you. "Gorgeous," he breathed, unable to stop the whir of his heart.
You grinned, hands clasping excitedly, making him smile even harder. "Thank God!" You almost squealed. Stressed didn't even begin to cover it. You had barely been to any weddings as it stood. You had no idea what to do. Even though your aunt and Dylan said you didn't need to help. You felt awful for racing during most of the planning. You needed to do something. Which was why you had begged to help with the dinner months ago. And after some relentless pleas, your aunt had finally agreed.
"It does look gorgeous," you hummed, looking over the backyard with the setting sun. God, it was unreal. You pressed your lips, turning back to Oscar, eyeing his well fitted shirt. "I think I saw three of those white polos in your suitcase," you teased quietly, holding your hands behind your back.
"They're different shades," Oscar maintained, narrowing his eyes at you.
You chuckled softly. "Well, you look good," you murmured awkwardly, cheeks beginning to heat up even more. You prayed for the winter air to help even slightly. Why the heck did you say that?
"Thanks," Oscar smoothly responded back like his chest hadn't exploded entirely at your compliment.
You raised a brow, watching him take a step too close to you. Head leaning down, brown eyes softly falling over your face like he was examining you, hot breath just grazing your cheeks. You held your breath, frozen at his sudden movements.
"You have pretty eyes."
"Oh?" You blinked blankly, momentarily confused as you tried to register his words. "Oh. I... thank you?" You queried, rubbing the back of your neck, instantly feeling the hot skin on your fingertips
He simply smiled, leaning back, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers to prevent him from entirely freaking out. "Come on," he said, looking over at the people beginning to take their seats. "It's time for dinner."
You swallowed hard, watching Oscar take to the steps, only managing to get down one before he looked back at you. Your eyes fell to his stretched hand, mouth opening and closing like a blubbering fish. Had Oscar always been like this? So... God, you didn't even know how to describe it.
Drawing a quick breath, you gave him a tight smile, hesitantly sliding your hand into his, instantly feeling the warmth spread to your fingertips. You pressed your lips together, heading towards the steps. He's just being nice. You reminded the quickened pace of your heart before your brain got too carried away. You didn’t need to fall back to the ways of your old self.
You smiled openly towards the familiar faces gathering near the table as you and Oscar arrived. Suddenly, it really felt like you were home. It hadn’t been that way in a while.
"___, sweetheart," Oscar's grandma peered at the both of you, eyes wrinkling at the sight of you two together. "I was wondering when you'd finally start dating!"
You almost choked on your breath, snapping your wide eyes to your hand still with Oscar's. You looked up, meeting the frozen expression etched onto his face. Snatching your hand back, a nervous laugh immediately spilled from your lips, head shaking. "Oh we aren't... um..."
Oscar pressed his lips together as you trailed off awkwardly, spotting you wiping your hand cautiously on your clothes, clearly agitated at the comment. He kept his frown at bay, brown eyes flickering elsewhere, only to meet the raised brows of his mother and your aunt nearby. Christ... was it that obvious?
Oscar's grandma frowned more obviously, low hum falling from her lips. “That’s a shame,” she simply said before taking her seat at the table.
You blinked blankly, mind whirring with confusion as you hesitantly turned to Oscar. "I... sorry. That was weird," you laughed awkwardly, rubbing your arm because it was the only thing preventing you from letting the ground swallow you whole.
Oscar shook his head, giving you a tight smile. "It's okay," he said, bending down to whisper into your ear. "She might have had one too many already," he joked before leaning back, hand curving over a nearby chair to pull back. He gestured at it. "Come on."
"What was that?" Your aunt asked Oscar as she and his mother came together, practically cornering him once the dinner had dispersed and the guest count had fallen to the two families lounging around the backyard.
Oscar raised a brow at the incessant eyes on him, gathering the remaining dishes left on the table. "What was what?" He asked coyly. It was best for him if he didn't get hounded by your aunt and his mother. Because when those two banded together, no secret of his was left unturned.
His mother huffed in amusement, taking the pile of dishes from her son's arms. “You know what,” she retorted, eyeing him carefully. "You've been awfully sweet to my girl all night."
Your aunt nodded, resting a hand on her lower back for support. "The steps."
"The whispering," his mother added.
"Jokes all night."
"Stuck to her like super glue really."
Oscar cleared his throat, tips of his ears reddening. “Would it be crazy to say you raised a good son?" He retaliated in his defence, taking back the dishes from his mother's arms, heading towards the very steps they had just been talking about.
Nicole looked over at your aunt knowingly. The past few weeks had been full of Hattie and her sisters giggling here and there. God knew why. But after tonight, it seemed to be a bit clear as to why. For so many years, you had been Oscar-crazy. Oscar this. Oscar that. The two of them had watched you devote your time till one day, you woke up and decided you'd act like he didn't quite exist—something they still couldn't wrap their heads around. And now, they had gotten their first inkling of him feeling the same way.
"Ten dollars he'll be blushing tomorrow the moment she walks in?"
"You really want to turn your own wedding into some matchmaking?" Nicole tilted her head at your aunt, grin already stretching onto her face. She paused for a moment before speaking. "Thirty he asks her to dance."
Your aunt snorted. "I'll take that action."
The George Ballroom was a restored heritage building. The ceilings were high with intricate decor, ornate period detailing in every inch of the room that combined perfectly with the soft light pouring in through the large windows. The timber below was warm and ready for the colder temperatures trickling in.
The perfect venue just thirty minutes away from home.
Oscar's role was to greet all the guests along with Hattie, make light conversation while seating them as you, his mother, and the rest of his sisters figured out any other last-minute logistics. It was the first time he had ever been grateful his sister couldn't shut up.
"Would a smile hurt?" Hattie retorted as the both of them returned to the entrance of the ballroom. They had just seated some close friends of your aunt's and her brother had sported an expression she couldn't quite name.
Oscar gave her a pointed look. "I am smiling," he maintained, "See?"
She made a face at the sight. It was a half of a smile and some sort of pained grimace. “That’s not even close," she huffed.
"Well, if someone asks me about F1 again, it'll be a frown," he sighed, folding his arms, resting his back against the edge of the door momentarily. Almost every conversation he had entertained had involved some sort of comment about his car, his performance, or his team. And as much he loved his sport, this was supposed to be the one place where he could escape them. But alas... that was never the case.
Hattie pursed her lips, checking for any new guests coming in. A grin stretched onto her face at the sight of you and her mother talking, presumably about the processional. She cleared her throat, hissing loudly, "___! Mum! Tell Oscar to smile more!"
Oscar tilted his head, instantly about to snap back some sort of defensive comment but the words seemed to die in his throat as his eyes landed on you. His lips parted at the faint green satin curled around your body. His breath caught at your pinned hair, loose tresses framing your face. And his heart seemed to pace at the light dusting of red on your cheeks and soft yet rich pink painted onto your lips.
He had seen you at the gala and that was one thing of itself. But now that he had accepted what he felt, the sight of you made him want to fall onto his knees and kiss the floor you walked on.
A smile curved onto your face, eyes shifting to Oscar. "You're gonna have to smile for these photos, Osc," you pointed out, giving him a small nudge.
Oscar felt that static spark surge through him once again, skin becoming impossibly hot and ears tuning in and out surrounding frequencies. All while he was oblivious to wide grins on his sister and mother's faces. Looked like Nicole was going to have to pay your aunt after all.
He cleared his throat, forcing a sarcastic smile onto his face. "Funny," he simply commented, unable to think of a better thing to say. It was better if he kept his words to you short. He’d make a fool of himself more than he already was.
Your tongue rested on the corner of your mouth as you looked over the shoulder of the wedding photographer. The processional wasn't too far away. But before 'everyone turned into a sobbing mess' (Nicole's words, not yours), you needed to take photos.
You smiled satisfactorily at the frame, hearing the shutter go off, capturing your four favourite siblings together. You stood back with a quick breath in, watching them organise themselves again for another snap. You had thought about it more than once since you got here but God, it was truly nice to have everyone together. Especially for such a special occasion. From Chris to Dylan's grandparents... they were all here.
Your family.
You hadn't realised how much you missed everyone until you were here. These past few years... they had all been for working towards this season. This seat. This opportunity. The people around you had given a lot for you to be here. But you had also sacrificed them to be here.
You missed birthdays and anniversaries. Graduations. Holidays. Home in Australia had turned into standing in a room full of strangers in another country. Learning new names and people when the one's you cared about were thousands of kilometres away.
Not a part of you regretted it. You understood. Some things were necessary. But you wished it could've been different. That some part of you could've been normal.
But for today, you could pretend. At least for a few hours.
"Okay, now you and Oscar," Mae breathed out, locking her eyes on you as she parted from her siblings, hand already wrapping around your wrist to drag you in front of the camera.
You blinked, eyes slightly widening as you looked at her. "W-What? But we already have photos."
"Yeah... with everyone else," Your aunt pointed out, folding her arms while she sat next to the standing Hattie who wore a shit-eating grin on her face.
Oh lord.
You swallowed hard as you came to a stop, w sizeable gap left between you and Oscar. You met those familiar brown eyes, sending a pang right to your heart. You turned your head instantly, consoling the strange whir your chest. With another stabilising breath in, you gave a calm nod to... well, whoever. "Okay, ready," you stated.
Nicole raised a brow, peeking from behind the photographer. "Can you act like you want to be in the same room?" She queried, eyeing the empty space between the both of you. "Come on. Closer, you two."
You pressed your lips together tightly, barely shuffling closer to Oscar. You gave Nicole a pointed look as though you were asking if this was enough. But her hands narrowed together, sizing still ever present opening next to you.
You tried not to sigh, fingers curling into the side of your dress while you neared him, fitting suit entering more of your peripheral as you did. Surely... this had to be enough. There was like a couple of inches left... this was fine.
Until the photographer peered out of their camera, unimpressed eyes wavering over you and Oscar. "Guys, come on. You look like strangers."
You opened your mouth to refute the statement but the feel of Oscar's hand sliding against the curve of your back silenced your words. They burned against your throat, trapped, too attached to the fingers searing through your dress, encircling around your waist before he tugged you closer to him. The action left you flushed against him, shoulder to shoulder as his head slightly tipped towards you, soft smile stretching onto his face while he stared at the camera.
Nicole grinned, giving a glance to your aunt before looking back at the both of you. “Perfect,” she commented casually, patting the photographer's shoulder as she took a step back. She eyed your frozen expression. The sight made her smile warmly, fingers moving to gesture for you to do the same.
You blinked, looking back over at the camera. Your heart seemed to claw at your chest, wild like an animal though the poised smile on your face arose smoothly. Like you had rehearsed for any other occasion than this. But it wasn't so easy. The corners of your mouth trembled with every shift of Oscar's fingers against your waist. You could even smell him, for crying out loud! Cologne curling around you like a warm hug.
You reminded yourself to breathe as every second seemed to become impossibly long. This was probably the most humiliation you had felt in years. At least two of them. You had taught yourself to stray away from these reactions. To steer clear of all things Oscar. But he had put a large crack into your walls. And of course, he didn’t know.
But Oscar stood next to you, anything but calm as the expression on his face. He couldn't remind himself to breathe for the fear that his next breath would shake. He was sure his ears were redder than anything he could imagine. Scarlet. He couldn’t look at his sisters and their knowing glances. And he certainly couldn't look at you.
But he did.
God, he did.
And from where he stood, he could've sworn his knees quivered. His throat bobbed nervously, pupils dilating at the sheer sight of you. There weren’t enough words to describe how you looked. Like some sort of angel had fallen from heaven itself. Like you were the only person that made his world spin. And a part of him needed you to know that.
His heart almost stopped when your head tilted and your eyes swiftly moved to him, catching him entirely in the act. If you knew, you didn't let on.
"What?" You raised a brow, voice gentle.
Oscar swallowed hard, forcing him to shake his head. "Nothing," he whispered.
"Dylan," your aunt shakily breathed in, not particularly bothered to wipe her tear-stained face. "You've always been there for me. Every all-nighter I've pulled to watch races. Every complaint of this pregnancy. Even through my subpar bacon and eggs," she chuckled, shaking her head with a watery smile. "I'm eternally grateful for your unwavering support. You have this light in you, and it never quite dims. It lights up my path and if I'm honest, I'm always a little jealous. All I know is that there is no one quite like you. So in this new path together, I promise to be that same light. Be there like a nuclear force and cherish you for forever. As my partner. My husband. The father of our children. As my love."
Oscar should have been paying attention. It was rude not too. But he couldn’t help drifting his eyes behind your aunt, finding you standing with a handkerchief, which was definitely meant for the bride, being dabbed onto your wet cheeks.
You were stubborn about it. He could tell. The pursed lips and consistent sniffles. Like you weren’t crying. But he could spot your glossy eyes from miles away. How soft they looked with every romantic word spoken into the air. Not jealous or envious. Just... happy. The way your arm curled around his mother's like you both needed support.
It took everything in him to not walk by the altar and wipe those freshy fallen tears. So instead, he kept his fingers by his side, quiet.
But the action did nothing to silence his brain.
How much longer could he wait? The words were almost on the tip of his tongue. Even though he had no idea what he would say.
That he had never like this before. So giddy. So consumed. So happy that it was you his heart ached for.
With every week that had passed since Canada, he had been falling more and more. And call him crazy and absolutely insane but he almost didn’t care for the Spanish footballer pining after you. But truth be told, he cared more than he’d like to admit.
All he wanted was for you to know. To hope that somewhere in your silent stares and flustered states, it was also your heart that beat for him.
"Okay," you cleared your throat into the microphone, nervously eyeing the guests in the room. Were there always this many people at the wedding? You swallowed thickly, breathing in once again. "I've been asked to make a speech and contrary to belief, I'm not that good with a microphone."
You smiled quietly at the low wave of chuckled ruminating around the room. Your tense shoulders relaxed, spotting the familiar ease of smiles thrown back at you. "But this is for the person who's quite literally has been my day one. No one really knows how much my aunt has given to me. Her time and efforts. Every dime to get me where I am today. My teacher, my mother, and my aunt in all in one. And while I'm sure I'll spend forever in her debt, there is no one quite like her. She’s relentless with the biggest of hearts. And she’ll always take your problem and make it hers. Late nights and early mornings. She's there twenty-four seven. To be honest, these things used to make me worried."
"But then she met Dylan," you breathed, grinning at her husband. "Dylan is the entire opposite of her. The guy who actually says, "Go with the flow." Who knows when balance is needed so he'll crack a really bad dad joke to see her smile. It's strange because like some sort of perfect puzzle, he matches her. And now I'm not so worried," you chuckled softly, blinking back the sting in your eyes. "When two people love each other as much as they do, it's hard to be worried. So if everyone would kindly raise a glass—because what's a wedding speech without a toast? To my aunt and Dylan. May you continue to remind the rest of us that real love is worth celebrating every single day."
Several glasses lifted into the air while some hands remained occupied drying tear-filled eyes. You took a step away from the front of the room, smiling warmly at your aunt who now stood from her table, arms open for bring you into a long hug.
She kissed the side of your cheek before murmuring, "I love you, honey."
You breathed in, fingers tightening around her. "I love you too," you mumbled against her shoulder, free hand reaching to grasp Dylan's, giving him a reassuring squeeze.
You sniffled as you pulled back, eyeing the newly wedded couple. "So... you guys gonna bust some dances moves out there? I think it's time."
Your aunt chuckled at your wiggling brows. "These littles ones are definitely ready," she answered, gesturing to her stomach. "They've been kicking non-stop," she heaved, shaking her head with a dry look.
You grinned, moving back to give them the space to do so. Quietly you watched the couple drift towards the centre of the room, shuffling their feet to the slow rhythm travelling from Hattie’s piano in the corner of the room. Their eyes never quite moved off one another, smiles ever persistent, warm and entirely content.
And as the music began to shift, the floor slowly became busy with Mae dragging her mother with her, Edie with her boyfriend, and Chris with his partner. You took the time to sit and watch happily; afraid you'd miss this moment like all the others.
It was a simple and sweet reminder right in front of you—not everything was as complicated as it was on track. Life seemed to be a constant plethora of schedules and training. But when you purposely pushed all of it aside, it wasn't so overwhelming.
You blinked at the sudden hand entering your vision, making you tip your head up to find Oscar staring down at you. You raised a brow at him, drifting your gaze to his hand again.
"Everyone else is dancing," Oscar stated the obvious, swallowing quietly. He reaffirmed his hand position. "So... dance with me?"
You pursed your lips at the question, unable to ignore the honey eyes boring into your face. Your fingertips tingled at the offer, though your mind and heart formed some sort of coalition, glaring obviously at you to decline.
This was dangerous territory once again. You had drawn your lines and ventured to never cross them. But Oscar, as he often did without realising, liked to blur them. But you weren't teetering on those lines. You weren't. Yes. You were metres away from it, if anything.
You knew your boundaries. You were safe.
A grin stretched onto Nicole's face as she danced with her daughters, spotting your hand glide into Oscar's palm. Her eyes flickered over to your aunt, brows raised pointedly as she mouthed, "You owe me."
Your aunt only rolled her eyes, looking over as both you and Oscar stepped towards the dancing bodies. The sight reminiscent to you both of the gala in Monaco.
You breathed in with a careful composure, not too shaky nor too calculated. Just normal. You were just normal when you planted your hand on top of Oscar's shoulder. Equally as indifferent to your hands almost intertwined or the press of his fingers against your upper back.
You both seemed to fall into the rhythm naturally, feet moving with smooth practice after Monaco. You could feel his eyes on you as you averted your gaze to somewhere else. Anywhere else. Only to find Hattie wiggling her brows at you as she joined the floor, leaving the music to the speakers. You almost groaned, shaking your head instinctively. Of course, she would find this very moment to make it about you and Oscar.
It was just a dance. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Oscar cleared his throat, brown eyes still on you. "That was a really sweet speech," he murmured with a soft smile.
You blinked, lifting your eyes back to him. Your lips stretched into a thin, warm smile. "Thank you," you said. "I did get some help from Edie though," you confessed, remembering the few times across the season you had spent with her over the phone. You weren't particularly great with words. Lucky for you, Edie had an affinity for them.
A hum fell from Oscar's throat. "Thought I heard a bit of her in there," he lightly joked, eliciting a soft chuckle from you as you shuffled your feet against the floor, in tune with the slow-paced music. "You did great though. Barely a single dry eye in the room."
You raised a brow before you narrowed your eyes. "Does that include you?"
Oscar pursed his lips, giving you a funny look. "I was sweating out of my eyes," he retorted despite the corners of his mouth beginning to quiver with amusement. "I was," he maintained when you blankly stared at him.
"Sure, sure," you rolled your eyes, shaking your head.
He chuckled gently, falling quiet as the warmth of his gaze fell over you once again. Being this close to you, he could see the specks of red in your cheeks, different from the blush dusted on them. He wondered if it was because of him and not the heat. He hoped it was.
He swallowed thickly before taking a calm breath in, watching your eyes waver to anything but him. "Did I tell you look you beautiful today?"
You could feel your body still despite the world moving around as you matched Oscar’s footsteps. Your mouth ran dry, mind unable to conjure a single word to respond with. So you danced, lips parted around nothing while your heart thudded in your ears.
Oscar smiled quietly at your wide eyes finally on him. "Well," he started, "you do. Very much so."
"I... well," you caught your breath, still hearing your hammering heart as though it was coming through the speakers. "We all wore similar stuff," you shrugged, ever aware of his fingers on your back.
A sigh fell from his lips, teasing eyes focusing on you. "Why can't you just take a compliment? You look beautiful, I mean you always do, but I’m telling you. Simple as that," he murmured, satisfied with the deeper shade of red flushing your cheeks.
Your throat tightened, feet shuffling dangerously close to your drawn lines. You breathed in, putting on a small smile. "Thank you," you said, almost a whisper.
Please for the love of God, someone interrupt before you did something you'd regret.
"Okay. Show and tell's over," Hattie intervened, patting her brother's shoulder. "It's my turn with her."
Oh thank God.
Oscar snapped his head to his sister as the both of you came to a slow stop, hands reluctantly peeling away from you. His eyes narrowed incredulously. "Your turn?" He queried, baffled. "You're not serious," he retorted, giving her a small glare. Why the hell was she practically cockblocking him? Her out of all people?
"You keep hogging her and besides, she's my best friend," she huffed back, folding her arms. My best friend that looks like she's going to explode but my best friend, nonetheless.
You forced a smooth chuckle from your lips. "It's okay, guys. There's enough of me to go around," you teased, nudging the both of them with your elbows.
Hattie smiled, tilting her head at Oscar. "See? Now go and dance with Mae. Go on," she ushered, hands shooing in him away.
Oscar gave his sister another small glare, still obeying her as his feet inched away from you and towards Mae. And just before he turned, he shot you a faint smile, tips of his ears slightly red.
Hattie watched her brother walk away begrudgingly, arm looping through yours naturally. Her lips parted, evidently about to say something about the situation with the cheeky glint in her eye but you had beat her to it.
"Not a word, Hats."
"But—"
"Hattie!"
Belgium had been a real kicker for you. A sprint win and P2 was no match for Oscar’s unconscious point advantage. Because his race win and sprint P2 had left you on the back foot and right back in the hunt for the championship lead once again.
Five points. That's all you had between you.
But God was the media having a field day with it. They couldn't stop talking about how tragic it was. You had just "had the championship in your grasp" and now "you were going to have to catch up to Oscar."
Talk about dramatic.
But as you stood on the podium in Hungary, grinning ear to ear as you held the P1 trophy to the crowd with the sun beaming down on you, the theatrics had only just begun. You could hear the journalists and officials' talk as you got out of your car.
"A two-point gap... Oscar better hope it doesn't get any bigger after the break."
"A new championship leader on the track Oscar got his controversial maiden win... talk about uncomfortable."
You breathed in, reverting your eyes back to the orange littered ceramic trophy, tracing the hand-drawn patterns momentarily. You hummed satisfactorily, carefully placing it away from Lando's vision. As much as you'd appreciate a remake of this beautiful artwork, you weren't sure if the artists nor the FIA would be too happy.
You blinked at Lando's nudge, watching Oscar pick up the nearby bottle of God knows what. Turning your head, you raised a brow.
"You might feel like a winner today, but you and Oscar have both lost," Lando yelled out over the endless roars of the crowd, hand tightening around his bottle.
Confusion poured over your face as Oscar mended his brows together, evidently feeling the same. "Did you drink before you got on the podium?" You joked, shaking your head at whatever antics the Brit was now pulling.
Lando chuckled. Of course, you two forgot. But he didn't. "It's Hungary," he stated the obvious, blue eyes wrinkled with amusement at the blank looks on your faces. "The bet. Oscar said I'd be leading by now. You said Oscar would be. But guess who won?"
Realisation flickered over your face as you took a step back, watching the bubbles of alcohol spray into the air and all over everyone else. You tried to recall the moment it had happened. It felt like a while ago. Shanghai. The cool room.
Your voice echoed in your brain. "What exactly are we betting on though? What happens if someone loses?"
Lando blinked like he hadn't thought about that. The sound of his fingers clicking rang. "Whoever has the wrong prediction will have to jump into the sea in Monaco. So, two of us will lose."
Your eyes slightly widened, head snapping to Oscar who seemed to have the same memory jogged, lips faltering away from the bottle of champagne. His brown eyes looked over at you in disbelief.
Ah fuck.
You turned towards Lando, eyes wincing at the sudden beam of sun behind him. You almost frowned at his wide smirk. Talk about a complex. "I thought you were joking," you whined, feet moving to take a picture with the papaya boys.
"You don't actually expect us to jump into the sea, do you?" Oscar queried from the right side of you as you all posed for the camera.
"Sure," Lando started, smirk barely falling as he turned back to the two of you, granting you momentary relief. "If you guys are chickens."
"Oh come on," you huffed, peace leaving as fast as it came. This was childish. You had better things to be doing than jumping into the Monaco sea in the middle of August for crying out loud.
Lando only smirked harder, stepping back with Oscar to let a Mercedes engineer take a picture with you. He folded his arms, inching closer towards the podium exit soon as you two did the same. He breathed in, entering a darker corridor to leave.
"If you post on your stories that I'm the best uncle Basil has ever had then you can be free."
Oh Christ.
You looked over to Oscar who had the same expression as you. Yeah. Like hell you would.
"Humiliation or humiliation," you sang dryly, shooting a half-amused glare towards Lando.
"Hey, at least it's summer," Lando retorted, hands rising in his defence. "Could've been an asshole and reminded you in winter."
"Gee, thank you, Lando," Oscar said sarcastically, navigating the exit with ease. "How can we ever repay you?"
Lando only grinned, patting both of your backs with a few thuds. "You know how," he stated, smoothly walking in front of you. "Happy summer break, you two!"
You eyed the retreating figure with slight disdain. "A few days with Basil and he's got an ego," you sighed, shaking your head.
Oscar pursed his lips, watching his teammate as Lando's incessant teasing for the past month or so came to mind. He curled his lip. "Trust me... this is a Pre-Basil thing."
"Lovely," you commented, voice hosting barely any humour at all. You clasped your hands, turning to Oscar. "So... call me when you want to jump into the sea?"
He raised a brow. "You going somewhere this break?"
Between the wedding and racing, he’d forgotten to ask what you were doing for the next month.
You nodded, following after your publicist. "Keeping myself busy with all the small stuff. Brackley. Reading. The gym, of course," you drawled dramatically, making him chuckle.
"Well, if you get bored of keeping yourself busy," Oscar started, nudging you with his shoulder. "I'm only ten minutes away."
You grinned, watching your paths split momentarily as your publicist headed into a different direction. "I'll try and remember that."
"Are you sure you want to do this?" You asked Oscar cautiously, brows slightly mended as you turned to him from the table.
Oscar looked at you, confused. He nodded slowly. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
You pursed your lips, hand reaching to scratch the back of your neck. "This just doesn't really seem like your type of... thing," you said awkwardly, settling on the most neutral word you could find.
He looked down at the blank white canvas in front of him and pots of small paints arranged across your table. He took a breath in. “Well… I’m not not an expert at this. I'm pretty sure I bet Lando in the video."
You blinked. Huh... You gave him a gentle smile, hand instinctively reaching out to pat his shoulder from across the table, the action almost consoling. "It is very important to me that you know this isn't a competition," you uttered with the finest balance of dryness and concern.
Oscar's lips parted as his brain struggled to form a single coherent sentence, too caught up in your fingers pressing into his shoulder and searing into his skin. His gaze drifted up your arm, finding your innocent wide eyes blinking at him like you weren’t doing anything to him. The air caught in his throat as you tilted your head, emphasising your concern, sending him into a coughing fit.
You retracted your hand, brows raised with surprise, reaching out to grab the glass of water nearby. Pushing it to him, you slightly leaned in with concern. "Did you just choke on air?"
He mulled over your question, tips of his ears red. "...No?"
You smiled, amused as you sat back in your chair, arms folded. "Good. Can't have you dying on me, Osc. It's no fun winning without the competition."
The confusion on his face fell flat, brown eyes raking over the evident spots of determination written over you.
"But you just said—"
"Let's start!"
They say time flies by when you're having fun. And as much as you'd hate to admit it, whoever ‘they' were... were right. Every minute seemed to pass by without too much thought. Any lines you had drawn, while in front of you, felt like you seldom drawn them. No guards. No caution.
It was the way Oscar made you feel when your heart wasn't slamming against every vessel of your body. At ease and warm.
You didn't overthink every laugh of yours as Oscar broke out every single horrid memory from your childhood.
The one time you and Oscar decided to swap karts for a race and raced under each other’s names. You even exchanged helmets and you tried your best to tuck your hair into your helmet. Much to your surprise, no one had realised. Of course, you still won.
Then that time you were in Albert Park, and you decided venturing up the largest tree was a good idea. Which was all fun and games until you looked down at felt gravity shift, becoming like a cat stuck up in a tree in need of rescuing. You were a kid. And as you defended yourself, "It was really high, okay?"
It was Oscar who tried to get you down while Hattie did the mental persuasion.
Nicole was the one who succeeded.
You had to get Oscar back for that memory. So you didn’t shy away from the endless times Oscar tried to look 'cool and casual' (his words, not yours) in front of Lily at boarding school. All of which had failed, naturally. Your favourite, however, was the time you all played dodgeball. All three of you were on the same day. And Oscar tried to protect Lily from getting out... only to get hit in the face.
"My nose ended up bleeding," Oscar deadpanned from across the table, swiping over the canvas so carefully hidden from you.
Your eyes brimmed with tears, skin hot, barely able to breathe at the memory with all the laughter. "B-But it was the way you left!" You gasped for air. "Hand on your nose, talking to Lily so casually to say you were fine. With that haircut too!"
He gave you a pointed look while he rested his paintbrush; his attempt being miffed. But even the corners of his own mouth trembled as your head came down onto the table, hand tightening over your brush, body shaking with uncontrollable laughter. The sound came from his throat all too easily, especially when he spotted the glimpse of tears running down your cheeks.
He almost leaped out of his chair, grinning and laughing so hard, fingers pressed on the edge of the table. "You're crying?" He exclaimed in disbelief, own head buckling with the weight of the sight. "It's not that funny," he breathed out despite the obvious answer.
It so was.
Sixteen-year-old Oscar. Hair all choppy in strange directions. In that horrid PE gear, hand shaking as he covered his very obviously bleeding nose, ears entirely red and ignoring the frantic calls of his teacher. Just leaning on a wall as he met Lily's concerned gaze nonchalantly. "I'm fine," he said, waving his hand in dismissal. He shrugged casually, half-wincing at the pain surging through is nose. "Could happen to anyone."
You sniffled after a few minutes, leaning your head back on your chair, letting the air cool your flamed cheeks. You cleared your throat, breathing shakily as you wiped your stained cheeks. "Okay," you croaked, voice broken, eliciting a small chuckle from Oscar.
You sucked in a sharp inhale of fresh air, looking at the back of his canvas. "Done?"
He grinned, nodding as his stomach ached from all the laughter. "It's a masterpiece,” he stated proudly.
You rolled your eyes. "Okay, Picasso. If you're so confident, why don't you go first?" You retorted, folding your arms.
"I will," he replied back without missing a beat, pompously turning his canvas with his raised brows and smug smile. "Ta-da," he sang.
You blinked, leaning in at the splurge of black, white, and grey. Your eyes narrowed, head tilting while you spotted the inklings of pink for a tongue. "Is that... Is that Basil?" You gaped, snapping your head to the poor dog in the corner of your apartment, lying down innocently, unaware of the tragedy that had just befallen.
"Obviously," Oscar said, frowning at your reaction.
"Oscar... that is so... discourteous," you hisser, shaking your head. "Baz barely likes you as it is!"
The offence was clear on Oscar's face. "We've had a strained relationship, but we've worked things out,” he defended, leaning back in his chair. He pointed at his canvas. "That is art. I'd like to see you do better."
You blinked blankly, turning your painting of what was so clearly both of your karts from the Oakleigh Go Kart Racing Club. Crisp lines from the track. The fencing. Down to the colour of the karts. Not a single detail missing (well... considering the time you spent laughing than painting).
Oscar pursed his lips, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent him from smiling hard. He sucked in a sharp breath, maintaining his composure far better than he once did. "You know you can be bad at things too, right?" He sighed, letting his half-assed annoyance flow into his voice.
You scrunched your nose, mocking. "Not my forte, Piastri."
Summer in Monaco was nothing like summer in Australia. No astronomical heat blaring into your skin. No melting thongs on paths. No backyard barbies nor your small conversation starter on how it was.
Instead, it looked like this for Oscar. A tennis court filled with athletes and people with a little more money in their pockets than needed. If there was one thing he had learnt in his time in Monaco was that after racing, the Monégasques loved tennis.
And while he respected every other sport, there was something only slightly dreary about watching a ball go from one side of the court to another.
Lucky for him, he wasn't alone.
"You think you'd ever be a good tennis player?" Oscar queried, sat in the provided box, turning his head to you.
You pursed your lips at his question, hands slowly raising after everyone erupted into an applause. "I mean there's some physics to the art," you murmured, squinting your eyes at the yellow ball before settling back in your seat. "But I don't think I'd make a very good one. It's too much pressure."
He raised a brow at you, corners of his mouth grinning. "More than racing?"
You tilted your head, giving him a pointed look. "It's too silent in here. Too many eyes," you grumbled. "When we race, I know I'm not alone. You’re on the track. The team watches over the data. Here it's every man for himself."
Oscar nodded in understanding. That was a fair point. Strangely enough, tennis was a vulnerable sport.
"I'd be a better football player anyways."
He blinked, snapping his head back to you. "You would?" He asked, unsure if he would like the answer you would give.
You nodded casually, eyes following the ball in action in zig-zag patterns. "Learnt a thing or two from Pedri. So you know... if the racing thing ever fails..." You dryly trailed off, grin stretched on to your face.
Oscar bit his lip, unbothered to hide the slight pained expression on his face. He breathed in. "How come you never told me about him?" He finally asked the question he had been thinking about for weeks now. You had spent two years with the guy, and he had known nothing about it. And perhaps it didn't bother him back then but it sure as hell bothered him now when he was still seeing your ex's face in the paddock.
You mended your brows, turning your head to him. "I told you in Paris," you retorted.
"Yeah, but I mean before that. I mean we barely talked to each other before the season started."
You swallowed quietly. Oh. That was the line you were going down. "Well, we were both busy," you said vaguely. "I didn't think you needed to really know about it. Or that you really care," you shrugged.
"But—" Oscar sighed, trying to find the right words. "—it was like you had basically cut off contact."
You breathed in uncomfortably, trying to focus your attention on the match. Lines. Drawn lines. You knew what you were doing. "I think things just got really intense," you said after some time. "Every other day was a conversation about my seat. My future. I think I was scared it would disappear when I was so close to it, you know? My relationships with everyone kinda got sacrificed along the way. So I focused on the people who were nearby at the time. So… sorry,” you smiled tightly.
Oscar tried to discern the look on your face. You weren’t telling the truth. At least not the full version of it. But he didn't want to push you. "Well, you've made it now," he murmured, giving you a gentle nudge. "Don't go ghosting me."
You chuckled softly, shaking your head, reverting your eyes back to the match with a quiet breath. If only he knew how much effort you had spent to ensure you were completely and perfectly normal in moments like these. Not the fourteen-year-old with hopes and one too many daydreams. Just normal you.
You opened the door, unfazed by the familiar figure in front of you. You had seen a lot of it in the past few weeks or so. "You know… I’m beginning to think you should just live here, Osc."
Oscar Piastri had practically been invading every second of your peace since this break had started. You didn't know how he knew what you had planned but you were almost bumping into him every other day. Grocery shopping. On runs. Even at the gym. And Lord... that was dangerous territory.
The only break you recently had was your few days back in Brackley.
Oscar simply smiled, walking past you as he entered your apartment. "I'm unopposed to the idea. Beats having to walk to ten minutes back and forth," he sighed, slumping himself onto your couch like he had owned.
You frowned at the sight. It was so... natural. Like he belonged there. As if he had just come from a long day of work and plopped himself right there. A routine. Shoes off. Traversing your apartment like the back of his hand. He knew where your cutlery was. That your light switches were actually swapped around thanks to the stupid electrician who previously worked on them.
You blinked yourself away from the thought. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at his peering gaze. "You're lazy for an athlete," you joked, maintaining a careful distance between him and the armrest of your couch. You sucked in a sharp breath. "Speaking of... I'm supposed to be working out."
An unimpressed grunt fell from Oscar's lips. He shifted on your couch, perking up so his brown eyes focused on you a little more. "It's eight in the evening. Do you ever relax? Why do you have to be doing something every second?"
You scrunched your face at him. "I don't do that.
You had only just spent the entire day looking over old races and data sheets and eyeing some of the potential upgrades the team could bring to the car. Work outside of work. That's what you had been doing.
"Yes, you do. It's like you're afraid of being unproductive," he retorted, raising his brows to make a point.
You mended your own brows, folding your arms as arms as the confusion wavered over you. "Well... what's the point in doing that?"
He tilted his head in disbelief. Without a second thought, he leaned over, hand wrapping around your wrist before he pulled you down with a swift tug. A yelp escaped your lips as you fell awkwardly half onto Oscar and half against your couch.
You blinked rapidly, heat immediately pouring into your face when you spotted the grin on Oscar's face. Your head instinctively leaned back as he inched closer. Your breath caught in your throat, heart slamming in your chest. All of a sudden, it was difficult to look away from him.
Your head screamed. Lines. LINES! Those goddamn lines.
"Learn to relax a little more," Oscar murmured, brown eyes warmly looking over your face. He smiled quietly at your small gulp, head tilting so he could grab your remote from the coffee table. “So sit and watch."
You swallowed thickly, heat growing in your cheeks when you looked down at the space between the both of you. Your hands retracted from his grasp instantly, lifting yourself up as your head rigidly moved towards your flat screen and you curled yourself into the corner of your couch.
A few minutes passed. You hadn't caught an inch of what was playing. Some show about some family. You were far too occupied with the constant flicker of those eyes boring into your head for seconds at a time.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you snapped your head towards him. "I'm relaxing," you grumbled, throwing a nearby cushion at his side, wishing he would stop.
Oscar hummed unsurely, quiet grin apparent on his face, jaw leaning on his hand as he reluctantly turned back to the screen, barely watching.
Night had fallen earlier than you had imagined. Much easier when you had fallen asleep. Apparently, you had taken the term 'relax' a little too close to home.
Oscar, of course, didn't mind. Not when you were half against him, quietly snoring away. He had paused the show probably a little more than an hour ago when he first felt the graze of your head fall against him. And the silence had kicked in, and his heart skipped one too many beats and as he watched you inch closer to him almost instinctively.
Before he knew it, he was fast asleep too. Arm hung around your body, keeping you close against his chest as his head tipped back onto the couch.
An hour had passed. The warmth between the both of you was immeasurable. If it wasn't for the constant ping of your phones, he probably would've slept forever. He had never quite slept like this. It was entirely different from Greece. The warmth of acceptance over his feelings made him feel... complete.
But nonetheless, it was your phones that made you both shift, heavy-lidded eyes wincing as you escaped your momentary slumber. Your head tilted up, one hand pressed against his chest, the other rubbing your eye to clear your vision. The bright blare of your phone from the coffee table made you lean over, still too asleep to register that arm around you keeping you balanced.
You narrowed your gaze at the series of text:
lando
guys i swear to god
if you two don't jump in the goddamn sea
i will hold this over your heads for forever
Iim picking a nice photo for your stories as we speak
You huffed with disbelief over your phone. You slowly turned your head to Oscar who was eyeing his own screen. "Fancy jumping into the sea right now?"
A tired grin stretched onto his face. "Ah yes. A dip into the sea in the middle of the night," he yawned, eyes flickering over to his arm resting over your waist. He pressed his lips together. "Just what I needed."
About to roll your eyes, you looked down at his arm, following where it connected. Your skin flamed as you met the soft gaze staring back at you. You swallowed quietly. Okay. Breathe. This was… normal. Everything about this was normal. There was nothing strange at all.
You cleared your throat, awkwardly stretching out to the other side of the couch. "Um, well," you started, very obviously stretching your arms, one leg out to begin standing up. "I have bathers. We can end this once and for all."
Oscar raised his brows at your words, hand already feeling the loss of heat as you had move away. "What are we waiting for then?"
"That looks... freezing," Oscar commented, brown eyes wavering over the darkened water under the moonlight. There was not a single soul in sight, the noise and clamber in the depths of some alleyway in Monaco where the sports cars were. He turned over to you; arms folded against his chest. "Did Lando consider we could get hypothermia from this?"
You made a face at Oscar. In his most rarest moments, his exaggeration often sounded like Hattie's. "We're already here," you grumbled, peeking over the cliff. "I'm not going home to find a picture of Lando in the group chat."
You sighed, drifting your hands to remove your shoes. You breathed in at the damp, cold grains of sand and dirt against your feet. Okay... it was a little cold. For the summer night at least. And he light breeze against the parts of your exposed legs did nothing to help. You folded your arms, now frowning at the sea of water in front of you. You turned back to him. "We need do to this before I back out. Because I'm already close."
Oscar sucked in a sharp breath, nodding in agreement as he took off his own shoes. "It'll only be for a few minutes. All we have to do is take a picture after as proof," he reassured the both of you.
"Like exposure therapy," you added unsurely.
He raised his brows sceptically. "Sure," he agreed, hands reaching towards the hems of his hoodie and shirt in one go.
You swallowed, turning back to look at the cliff before yourself staring at something you shouldn’t have. One problem after another...
You unzipped your jacket, immediately regretting it with the rush of wind swarming your top-half. Fucking hell... You pressed your lips, pushing your jacket off your shoulders, letting it pool on the ground. Tugging awkwardly at your shorts, you inched slightly closer towards the small cliff just a few metres above the water. An eerie feeling swirled in your stomach as you looked down.
You weren't sure if it was the air or the slight traumatic fear of heights from Albert Park, but you had a bad feeling about this.
A strained breath caught in your throat. You shook your head, hands at your side. "I don't think I can do this," you admitted to Oscar, still eyeing the water with heavy caution. "I mean it's dark. How do we know the water is even deep enough? What if we hit our heads or something?"
Your head turned at the warmth spreading into your palm as Oscar grabbed your hand. You looked down at your intertwined fingers then slowly back up his bare chest before you met his gaze, eyes slightly wide.
He gave your hand a small squeeze, glimpses of those brown eyes shining under the moonlight. "We'll do it together."
You blinked after a while, swallowing hard as you nodded slowly. Great. If you weren’t nervous enough before. You sure as hell were now. Even in this slight cold, you were sweating from the feel of his hand in yours, stagnant and not going anywhere. The both of you so exposed and so close together, bare shoulder touching one another, knuckles against your body. You breathed in. "On three?"
Oscar tipped his head in agreement, fingers tightening around yours. "One."
You pursed your lips, heart beginning to pace. "Two," you uttered out after one too many seconds.
"Three!"
The crisp night air wrapped around the both of you as you pushed yourselves off, gravity impossible to determine under the moonlight, stomachs churning wildly. Bracing for impact, your eyes shut while the sharply cold water splashed against you harshly. Even as you spent those few seconds underwater, Oscar never let go of your hand. Not once.
The gasp for air was dire as you came up, hands now naturally pulling apart to clear your faces, movements rigid and stiff.
"This... is fucking freezing," Oscar swore, pushing his hair back from his face, goosebumps littering his skin. In this particular moment, he wasn’t quite convinced it was summer.
You nodded, shivering almost instantly. "Move. You need to move. Build the heat," you said, waving your hands through the water to keep you afloat.
"I've heard body heat also is good."
You blinked blankly at his suggestion. Had he hit the water too hard? While your skin burned at the thought, you curled a wave of water towards him. There. That would wake him up.
Oscar almost winced, blinking through the droplets as his arms covered his face. Wordlessly and with a haunting smirk, he waded through the water, hands already reaching out to grab you. But after you peeled your eyes away from the trails of water glistening over his chest under the moon, you could see what he was planning from a mile away.
"Oh hell no," you muttered, sending endless waves while your legs scrambled through the water, trying to get you as far away from him as you could. The smile on your face was automatic, eyes squinting at the trickles of water up in the air.
"You shouldn't start things you can't win," Oscar tsked over the loud waves, chest heaving while he watched you swim backwards, amused grin wide on your face.
"Who's says I'm not winning?" You poked your tongue out, splashing him from afar yet again.
He rolled his eyes, inching closer towards you. “You should start playing fair then. I can't win if you keep distracting me," he sighed loudly.
You raised a brow, slowing your arms in the water. "Distracting you? It's only water. Don't be such a baby," you teased.
He waded in the water, pressing his lips. You couldn’t see him the way he saw you right now. Moonlight sparkling all over you, leaving you to shine in the ripples of the water. Smile as bright at that very light. Hair soaked, water droplets travelling down your body.
Distracting didn't even begin to cover it.
You exhaled quietly at his silent stare, body now slowly warming up to the water. Pushing yourself onto your back, you floated through the water, looking at the dark night sky quietly, trying to think of something other than those brown eyes boring into you. "You know... " you said after some time, "I'm the one who's leading right now. But why does it feel like I'm the one who freaking lost?"
"Well," Oscar started, voice suddenly a whole lot closer. Almost close enough to make you lose your balance. "You did bet on me. So... you kinda did lose. The journalists would love that, wouldn’t they?"
You made a face even though he couldn't quite see it. "They're tearing us apart out there, you know? Headline after headline. I don’t think we’ll be friends in their story by the end of the season," you chuckled softly, trying to spot any glimpse of the stars.
A frown made his way onto his face. His eyes slowly traced your side profile, memorising every curve as he spoke, "I mean... does it really matter? As long as we know who we are, the headlines don’t win," he said, gaze falling on your tattoo peeking out of your shorts.
You hummed idly, closing your eyes while you mulled over his words. He was right. They only won if you let them. "True. Nothing could break fifteen years of friendship," you murmured into the night sky.
Oscar swallowed your words, heart whirring. "Right?" He queried hopefully, inching closing towards you. His hand reached out hesitantly, fingertips shaking but not quite from the cold as they brushed your cheek. "You promise?" He murmured.
You opened your eyes at his question, momentarily startled by his proximity, sending your body out of balance against the water. You swallowed tightly as Oscar's hands curled around both of your arms stabilising you, leaving barely inches between the both of you. You could feel his breath, warm against your cold skin. See the heave of his chest. The gentle gaze of his eyes.
You blinked, confused. "You're one of my closest friends, Osc. Of course," you whispered, eyes unfaithfully dropping to his lips.
He moved one hand from your arm, cradling your cheek, thumb grazing over the heat flushing your skin. His breath stuttered as he drifted closer, leaning down while he tilted your chin up, forehead barely skimming yours. Your pulse jumped as his eyes flickered up to yours.
His word was brief. An ushered breath of hope.
"Good."
It was slow the way he brought his lips to yours. Careful and controlled. As though he had been out of practice. Like he was walking on glass, and he didn't want it to break.
His touch on you was so minimal, but God, it made your stomach churn. And it was completely random. Yet your movements felt rehearsed. Natural. The knock of your noses and tilt of your head for something more. His other hand fell to your waist, lingering like he was afraid you’d disappear. But the graze of your fingers just above the waistband of his shirt almost made him shiver.
Even amidst the coldness of the water, you were like two flames. Exploring the taste of moonlight and water around you, consumed. For a second, the water felt like lava itself. Everything about this surreal.
The soft noises from your lips. The deeper tilt of his head. The echo of your heart in your ears.
This was what you had dreamed about for years. This very moment. To be so close to him. To be in that position where you liked him and he finally—
Reality came crashing over you hard. Colder than the water you were in. Like a slap in the face.
What were you doing?
Oscar blinked as you pushed yourself away from him, brief smile fading as confusion poured onto his face. He could see your wide eyes, parted lips wrapping around nothing because you couldn’t quite get the words out. A harsh pang hit his heart as he recognised the small shake of your head.
"No. ___—"
But you had already turned, legs feeling heavy against the water while you waded closer towards the coast.
Oscar swallowed, fear creeping into his chest faster than he could think. He called your name once again. Twice more as he followed after you, heart now slamming in his chest at your reaction. The damp sand had reached his feet before his hand wrapped around your wrist, forcing you to stop for just a moment.
"What happened? D-Did I do something?" He queried, mended brows tilting with worry, brown eyes staring down at you, concerned and torn.
You breathed, chest heaving. "I need to leave," you stated, already looking for the closest route to get back to the cliff. Back to your clothes. Back to home.
"What?" He asked, more confused than ever. "But... I don't understand. What just happened, that was—"
"—wrong. That was wrong," you finished, pulling your hand out of his grasp, stepping back on your foot. The eerie feeling you had felt before now curled low in your stomach. Christ. You needed to get home now.
Oscar rubbed his face with his hands, trying to make sense of this situation while his heart gnawed at your words. Wrong. "Can you just stay?" He queried as he looked back at you. "Please? Stay and let's talk about this," he pleaded, voice careful and strained.
You shook your head, unable to even look at him as the sting behind your eyes began to form. "I... I need to get out of here."
"I don't understand. Why do you have to leave? Just stay with me and talk about this," he begged, hurt crossing his face in such a manner it made your heart clench. And yet your frustration grew.
"Why don't you understand that if I stay here for even a minute longer then—" You stopped yourself with a small gasp, eyes wide and breath shaky when you finally looked at him, reading his pain clearly.
Oscar breathed in sharply. "Then what, ___?"
Your chest uncomfortably tightened with the weight of it all. You were tired. God, you were tired. How much effort had you put into this? To keep it going. To stop it. Every second of every day you had been trying to not succumb. It was exhausting.
"Then I'll fall in love with you... again," you admitted, glossy eyes pleading, head shaking. “And you won't... again."
The breath Oscar had taken felt raw. Like it was his last as you turned and walked away. His feet didn’t move. He couldn't move. Stuck with shoulders now burdened with the new philosophy.
"Doesn't matter though, right? Pedri's her first love who came to her race."
Oscar, I love you but you're an idiot."
Oh how wrong he had gotten it.
It was him all along.
His heart ached.
All these years. It was him.
But the glass had broken. It was shattered entirely. And all Oscar had was the broken shards to walk on
pairing: max verstappen x fem!reader
warnings: slightly toxic verstappen
the tears falling from your lashes were soaking the blanket. you could tell by the wetness seeping through to your thigh. you sniffled yet again as the picture on your phone stared back at you, mocking you.
there he stood, in all his glory, hands wrapped around another girl and tongue so deep in her throat she was probably gagging. the news article glared on your screen, an incomprehensible dutch headline at the top.
you were so naïve.
wiping your nose with your sleeve, you got up from the bed on shaky legs. you threw your phone on the bed and walked over to the sink, splashing cold water on your face. your bloodshot eyes were now steely, a mission in mind.
you couldn't let him do this. let him walk all over you while you poured your heart out to him like a silly lovestruck girl. he needed to be taught a lesson. and lessons are only learnt when they're taught to people who pay attention.
oh, you were going to get his attention alright.
your fist rapped against the front door as you steadily ignored the stinging at the corners of your eyes. you caught your reflection in the metallic elevator double-doors. a pretty black dress hung low on your hips, accentuating your natural curves and pushing your tits up. the accent pearl necklace sitting on your clavicles glinted in the harsh hallway lamp as glittery eyeshadow above your lashes caught its light. you wrung your hands, taking a deep breath as you listened to the raucous music emanating from the loft. the loud laughter and chatter washed off as you heard footsteps nearing the door. heavy footsteps, ones you recognised.
the oak door swung inwards and you were blasted by the reek of alcohol. scrunching your nose, you instead focused on the man in front of you, dark hair falling over his stark blue eyes. the white dress shirt he wore spanned tight against his rising chest. you could see the grin fading from his face as his eyes fell on you, grip on the doorknob tightening.
"schatzi…you look beautiful."
you licked your lips and held your head high. holding eye contact, your hand found purchase between his pecs (which were annoyingly solid) and pushed him as hard as you could. he barely moved an inch. but he backed away at your gaze anyway, hands held up in defeat.
you walked in. the sound of your heels against the floor was the only noise heard in the now near silent room, party-goers staring at you instead with red beer cups in hand. everyone watched as your shaking finger rose to point at him, eyes maniacally bulging.
"how dare you."
something flicked through his eyes as you fumbled with your phone, raising the screen to his face so everyone could see the picture of him making out with another girl.
his gaze flicked between the screen and your face, before he finally muttered in a firm voice, "we were never exclusive."
you stared at him in pure shock and anger, before hysterically screaming.
"what do you mean? we've been going out for 2 months!"
max stared at you for a beat before grabbing your arm. his grip was rigid, but not to the point of pain. you tried to shake him off but couldn't. your eyes met his, and there was something weird about his stare.
..was he pleading?
your guard lowered for a second and he took advantage of it by pulling you aside, glaring at the onlookers as he took you to the balcony.
upon reaching, he gently let go of your arm before turning around to lock the veranda door. you stared, lips parted as he hung his head, back still turned towards you.
"i think we need to talk, baby."
stop this is so ass ive been hating writing recently. anyway i just did this cause an awesome anon asked for a fic like this, so thank you!! divider creds: @uzmacchiato . lemme know if yall want a pt2 w balcony sex
I KNOW ENOUGH
[ SLOW BURN ] [ TENSION ] [ 18+ ]
MAX VERSTAPPEN X FEM!READER
MONACO. CLASS TENSION. RICH MEN BEING INSUFFERABLE. PASTRY GIRL WITH ATTITUDE.
ONE-SHOT / REQUESTS
AFTER MIDNIGHT
[ SMUT ] [ 18+ ] [ TENSION ]
MAX VERSTAPPEN X FEM!READER
ONE NIGHT. BAD DECISIONS. WORSE SELF CONTROL.
RAIN MEMORY
[ PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ] [ ANGST ] [ GHOST!READER ]
MAX VERSTAPPEN X FEM!READER
THE FIRST THING HE REMEMBERS IS THE RAIN. THE SECOND IS HER SCREAM.
NO PROOF
[ ENEMIES TO LOVERS ] [ NEIGHBORS ] [ 18+ ]
MAX VERSTAPPEN X FEM!READER
THE FIRST THING THEY SHARE IS A NOISE COMPLAINT.
THE SECOND IS A BROKEN ELEVATOR.
SYNOPSIS — The contract said: smile for the cameras, hold his hand, don't fall in love. It said nothing about his teammate.
DISCLAIMER — this is only the second fanfic i've ever written in english, so bear with me. i do not own anyone from the f1 paddock; this is purely a product of imagination, feelings, and embarrassing amounts of free time. no harm or disrespect is intended toward any real person featured.
RATING — M (minors, please keep scrolling).
WARNINGS — fake dating / pr relationship; teammates to rivals; love triangle; cheating (it's complicated); morally gray characters, every single one of them; emotionally messy and psychologically dense; F1 paddock politics; slow burn; sexual tension with no chill; angst; explicit content / smut; alcohol, drugs, partying; blurred lines and bad decisions; not an innocent soul in this fic, including you.
WORD COUNT — 14,675 out of 22,625
N/A — this one has been living in my head for a long time. i tried to post it as a one-shot, but tumblr wouldn't let me, so i've split it in two. it's long and it's messy. comments are my love language — don't be shy. x
Pt. 1 - SOMEONE HAS TO (*out now*)
Pt. 2 - TERMS AND CONDITIONS (available 05.24)
You blamed the French Riviera for the start of all of it.
The coast in southeast France was small enough to be a village, so of course you met Lando through mutual friends around the time he moved to Monaco in 2022. The sexual tension between you was a given — essential, even, to the hang-out sessions and the kind of drunk parties that slowly turned you into actual friends. Despite the few nights that had ended with both of you in his bed.
That's why he came to you when pictures leaked of him getting a little too cozy with a mysterious man at a New Year's party.
Lando was already getting bad press for partying too much. He knew how relentless this sport could be towards anyone who didn't walk a straight line, and he deemed you worthy of his trust.
You didn't let him down.
The publicists hard-launched the two of you as a couple at the start of the 2023 season — blind items first, then paparazzi photos. The team controlled your narrative strictly, from public appearances to social media. The act had to be spot-on any time you were around anyone outside the five people who knew the truth.
You'd signed a contract. It came with a lot of big words and complex rules you'd since learned by heart. Main thing: obey and behave.
The 2025 season had started a little over a month ago and you had yet to be seen supporting your championship-contender boyfriend at a race.
Honestly, it didn't bother you much. The paddock was loud, overheated, constantly buzzing with stressed people sprinting in every direction, and the cameras always made your life ten times harder.
But you did sign a contract.
The call summoning you to Saudi Arabia didn't come as a surprise. The season was just warming up, and they wanted you there — Lando's teammate was catching up on points.
Piastri.
There he was: calm, polite, put together. Annoyingly unreadable. Always a little judgy, never quite pleased to play second driver to anyone.
You'd barely spoken to him beyond F1's official calendar. His relationship with Lando was strictly professional, bordering on amicable — and in the brief moments you'd shared with him, you'd caught enough eye-rolls to know the feeling wasn't mutual.
You hadn't seen Oscar since Abu Dhabi last year. His behavior, apparently, had not changed.
"You're late," he said to Lando as you arrived at the McLaren garage for qualifying. Casual. Like stating the weather. His eyes moved to you. "Y/N."
"Good to see you too," Lando replied cheerfully. "Went to bed late. My girl arrived last night."
"How great," Oscar said, emotionless. "Hope your lucky charm works this weekend."
Not unkind. Not warm. Like someone commenting on tire degradation.
He walked away.
"The fuck is wrong with him?" you asked, watching his back disappear into the garage.
"As if I'd know," Lando shrugged, entirely unbothered. He grabbed your hand and kissed it — right on cue for the cameras. "Go have fun and look pretty for the photographers."
Translation: smile, don't blink too much, and try not to ruin anyone's brand.
You watched him go, already slipping back into character.
~*~
A dramatic crash in Q3 had put Lando starting the race in P10. He'd finished P4.
Oscar was now leading the championship — by a margin small enough to be infuriating.
"I can't catch a fucking break," Lando muttered, throwing his helmet and balaclava onto the floor like the gear had personally betrayed him.
"You aren't that far behind," you tried. Uselessly. He wasn't listening.
"And the smirk on his face, God." His face was red. "Now I have to show up to media duty with that devil beside me and still have energy for this—"
He moved his index finger between you and him. An invisible line of blame.
You didn't know what to say. Part of you agreed. The other part was tired of being the collateral damage.
You knew the tension between the drivers was high — that's exactly why the PR team had called you in. But you didn't have to dig too deep to see that your presence added a whole new layer of stress for Lando. With you there, he didn't just have to perform on track.
He had to perform every second outside private rooms too.
He dropped onto the couch, face buried in his hands.
"Don't get me wrong," he said after a moment. "I value our friendship so much."
A sigh.
"But the acting kills me."
You sat beside him and rested a hand on his thigh. He grabbed it immediately, holding tighter than necessary.
"To think I still have to follow up with my publicist and get feedback on how to behave better next time I'm with my fucking girlfriend," he let out a dry laugh. "'Hold her like this, smile like that.' At this point I'm one bad race away from needing choreography around you."
"I'm sorry, Lan."
"It's nobody's fault but mine," he said, throwing his head back against the couch. "And I'm lucky enough to have you on board with this bullshit."
"I'm glad it's me," you said, pulling him closer — because if it wasn't you, it would be someone else. And he chose you.
Lando took a few breaths and relaxed under your touch as you ran your fingers through his hair.
"Sometimes I wish it could just be like this," he whispered. "No cameras. No script. No pretending."
"We'd get bored," you pointed out, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "And probably ruin it in a week."
He laughed. Small, quiet. Knowing exactly how true that was.
A knock at the door. Mark, Lando's manager, already halfway inside.
"Media duty, Lando." His eyes landed on you briefly. "Y/N, you're off the clock. Chop-chop."
You stood up, grabbing your purse. Touched Lando's shoulder a second longer than necessary.
On your way out, Oscar's side of the garage was still celebrating. You greeted a few people, did your best to leave without drawing attention — a skill you'd fortunately mastered.
But nothing escaped those careful brown eyes.
Almost nothing.
He approached just as you reached the exit.
"You know," his voice cut clean through the noise, "if you're going to be around for any other races this season — don't get in his way."
You frowned. This was the longest sentence he'd ever directed at you, and this was what he chose to say.
What had once been a joke between you and Lando now felt very real.
Oscar had a problem. With you, specifically.
"So you don't like me," you said. Not a question.
"I don't like distractions."
"Then stop staring," you shot back, already walking away — leaving him standing there, jaw tight, not used to being talked back to.
~*~
"He's unbelievable," you complained, tossing your phone back into your purse. "Did you see that quote about 'getting your head in the game'? How dare he."
"He's jealous," Lando said casually. "Doesn't get a lot of family time. Or girlfriend time. Makes everything feel heavier, probably."
"I just don't like the picture of you he's trying to paint."
You were in the back of a car on the way to a celebration party after the Miami GP — a McLaren 1-2, Lando in second, which apparently still counted as reason enough to drink like he'd won the whole thing.
You'd told him everything about your interaction with Oscar. He'd gotten a good laugh out of it. The kind that came with zero concern and maximum ego.
For you, it was more serious. You couldn't deny how protective you were of Lando's image — especially after how hard you'd worked to polish it. Or, more accurately, duct-tape it together.
You let those thoughts slip away when you arrived. Started drinking with friends, team members, acquaintances — anyone with a drink and a vague connection to motorsport.
A couple of hours in, Lando was already everywhere. Including, somehow, next to Oscar.
Annoyed, you watched them from a distance. You were drunk too, but not the friendly kind. The observant, slightly bitter, mentally-taking-notes kind.
"Hi!" A tap on your shoulder. "I'm Lily! It's so nice to finally meet you!"
Great, you thought. Today of all days.
"My pleasure," you smiled. Or tried to.
"I was just telling Oscar how crazy it is that the boys have been racing together for over two years and we've never met!"
This was no accident. You'd been careful — you didn't want to be forced into any relationship beyond the one with Lando. Especially not WAG drama, group chats, or forced brunches. So you'd gotten good at keeping a low profile.
A skill that was currently failing you.
"Our schedules never seem to line up," you said gently, like you hadn't been actively dodging this exact situation for years.
"That's such a shame, isn't it?" Oscar appeared, placing an arm around Lily.
His eyes were on you. Not her.
"Totally!" Lily agreed. "I'm not sure if you have plans tomorrow — maybe we could all—"
A very drunk Lando interrupted, pulling you in and kissing you.
Deep. Urgent. Almost passionate — the kind that felt less like affection and more like a statement.
"Sorry," he murmured, wiping the corner of his mouth. "She just looked too pretty. I couldn't resist."
Oscar's jaw clenched. He couldn't look away. His grip on Lily tightened just enough to notice.
"She really is gorgeous," Lily laughed sweetly. "You seem to be having a great time, Lando!"
"Well, I try. Doesn't matter who stood higher on the podium — a 1-2 is a 1-2, right?"
Oscar snorted. Sharp. Involuntary.
It very much did matter who stood higher. He did.
"Of course!" Lily smiled. "Incredible teamwork!"
You placed a hand on Lando's chest. The look: wrap it up before I do.
"I actually came to steal Y/N from you guys," Lando said.
"Oh please, do take her," Oscar replied, tone light, eyes anything but.
You caught the way his gaze lingered a moment too long on Lando's grip around your waist.
"Don't mind him," Lily rolled her eyes. "Oscar's no fun."
"No shit," slipped out before you could stop it.
All three of them stared.
Lando barely holding back a grin. Oscar blinking like he'd just been slapped with honesty. Lily trying to decide if she'd misheard.
"Lily, it was so nice meeting you," you said, pulling her into a quick hug. "Let's do it again sometime."
"I'd love that," she whispered, completely unaware of the emotional landmines she'd just walked through.
~*~
Paparazzi waited outside. You and Lando both knew — they were meant to. The PR team wanted those photos.
Lando grabbed your hand without thinking as the car pulled up, stepping in front of you like a shield against the flashing cameras. Chin down, smile rehearsed. The perfect gentleman.
All of that was calculated.
What wasn't was the way he didn't let your hand go.
Even once the cameras were gone. Even once the doors slid shut behind you.
Still drunk and laughing at nothing, you both stumbled out of the elevator.
"God, I missed drinking," he said, grinning. "Remind me to do this more often."
You caught his arm just before he walked into a wall.
"Remind me to hide your phone when you do. You almost left a voice message for Christian Horner."
"I just wanted to tell him how it is," he shrugged, far too gone to care.
You laughed, shaking your head — and then your eyes met.
Just for a second. But it was enough to flip the energy completely.
He cupped your face. Gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips. Then back up. Then back down. Like he was making a very serious decision.
"We're not acting right now," he said, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth. "Just so you know."
"I'm aware."
And then he kissed you.
Not the neutral, PR-friendly kind you pulled out for cameras. The real kind. The kind you only share when it's just the two of you and proximity does the rest.
Or when you're drunk. Or bored. Or just in need of something that feels sort of real.
"Do you have any idea how good you look?" he murmured, kissing down your jaw, your neck. "Contract or not, you're mine tonight."
Between sloppy kisses and wandering hands, you somehow made it to your room — tripping down the hallway, bumping into walls, laughing through all of it.
His patience lasted maybe eight seconds before he started pulling your clothes off like you might disappear if he didn't hurry.
You weren't being quiet. The thin walls between your room and his teammate's next door suddenly felt very relevant.
They were, apparently, to Lando too.
The TV volume next door turned up.
Something primal crossed his face.
"Been thinking about this all night," he admitted, hands tracing every inch of your skin like he was mapping it out.
You fell onto the bed, Lando following instantly. His knee pressed between your thighs, deliberate, as his mouth found yours again.
Not far away, a door slammed. Too hard to be accidental.
"Guess someone's pissed," Lando murmured against your ear. "Good."
And finally, it clicked.
He wanted to be heard. The idea pleased him more than it should have.
His hands slid down your thighs, his mouth following, as if he had all the time in the world.
Every time you shifted your hips to feel him better, he groaned — like you were doing something to him too. Every time you moaned, you could feel his smile.
“Lando—fuck,” you cried.
"Louder," he said against your skin, voice low, certain. "I want him to hear you properly."
~*~
The morning came faster than you'd like. The sun was already warm, the pool an offensive shade of turquoise — entirely too cheerful for how little sleep you'd gotten.
Oscar was already there.
Sitting stiffly on a sunbed, towel clenched in his fist, jaw tight. He looked ruined by lack of sleep. The kind that didn't come from jet lag or training.
The safest thing he could say. Because how was he supposed to explain the way his stomach twisted every time last night surfaced? How his brain, apparently bored with peace, kept replaying sounds he was never meant to hear?
He watched the two of you arrive.
Lando's hand glued to your waist. Your laugh soft and tired. Both of you walking like you shared a secret.
Which, in a way, you did. Several, actually. None of them helpful to Oscar's sanity.
Lily lit up instantly. "Hey, you guys! Come sit with us!"
Oscar's whole body went rigid.
"Morning," Lando said, dropping your things on the table like he owned the place.
"Didn't think you two would be up this early," Oscar muttered.
Lando's smile was slow. Knowing. Annoyingly well-rested for someone who absolutely was not. "Didn't get much sleep."
Oscar's eyes flicked to you before he could stop himself. Then away. "Right."
Lando took off his shirt and sat in front of you so you could rub sunscreen on his shoulders. Tilted his head back. Eyes closed. Entirely too relaxed for a man who had just chosen violence.
Oscar watched every second of it. Hated that he did. Hated more that he couldn't stop.
"I'm gonna jump in," Lily announced, already heading for the pool. "Coming?"
"In a minute," Oscar said, not looking at her.
And suddenly it was just the three of you. Which felt illegal somehow.
"You were loud last night," Oscar said. Voice too even.
"Not really," Lando replied, grin widening. "Could've been louder."
Oscar's grip tightened on the towel. "Just don't overdo it."
"What does that mean?" you asked.
His eyes met yours. Brief. Sharp. A warning he hadn't decided how to phrase. Then he looked down.
"Distractions are expensive."
The air shifted. Not heavy — tense.
Lando's smile didn't disappear. It changed. Smoothed into something colder.
"Guess that depends," he murmured, "on who's getting distracted."
~*~
Oscar didn't fully understand what the hell was wrong with him.
He had no business caring about Lando's relationship with you. If anything, it should've been convenient. A gift.
It was not.
He'd built a decent lead in the standings after Lando's disaster in Canada. Which should've felt good.
It did not.
Because it came at a cost.
He had to keep his distance from the two of you. Like avoiding a bad habit he'd never agreed to start. He and Lando weren't friends — just teammates with a polite, functional relationship. The kind that survived debriefs and died everywhere else. And now even that felt strained.
What he heard that night in Miami had messed him up. He'd forbidden himself from acknowledging what it made him feel.
Very mature. Very ineffective.
He was having a terrible time keeping his eyes off you. The more he tried, the more he noticed. Every touch. Every whisper. Every goddamn smile.
It made him sick. Worse: curious.
He'd let himself believe that your absence from the last few races meant something.
Hope, it turned out, was a stupid habit too.
So when he saw you walking toward the McLaren garage at the British Grand Prix, his heart sank.
Of course you'd be there for Lando's home race. He briefly considered that maybe he was an idiot.
You both did your best to stay out of each other's way. Almost succeeded.
But post-race Silverstone was dangerous — full of champagne and people feeling braver than they should.
The corridor behind the garages was quieter. The noise fading into something dull and distant.
It took you a few seconds to realize you weren't alone.
Oscar.
He hadn't meant to block your way — he just stood there like a poorly placed obstacle. Your shoulder brushed his chest as you tried to pass.
"Sorry," you said automatically, stepping back.
He didn't move. "Congratulations. To him."
"Cut the crap," you replied. "I see you, Oscar. If you have a problem with me, I'd rather hear it straight."
Silence. Thick. Almost impressive.
"That night in Miami," he said finally, almost under his breath. "I didn't ask to hear that."
He regretted it instantly. Your chest tightened.
"So this is about that," you said. "You were eavesdropping?"
"Hard not to. Walls were thin."
His eyes flicked to the sound of Lando laughing somewhere nearby — effortlessly alive.
You stepped closer. Not on purpose. Or maybe exactly on purpose.
"I didn't do anything wrong. That was Lando—"
"I know," he cut in too fast. "I know."
That stopped you.
Oscar swallowed.
"That's the problem."
For a split second he held your gaze. Clearly tempted to say something catastrophic. Something that would ruin several careers and his own self-image.
"Whatever you think you heard wasn't meant for you," you said, forcing neutrality. "You don't get to hold that over us."
"And I didn't ask to be fucking affected by it."
The sharpness of his voice caught you off guard. Your composure cracked.
"You don't get to say that," you snapped.
"You weren't supposed to be part of this," he said, eyes dropping. "And maybe I'm imagining things — but I think I speak for both me and Lando when I say you make it harder to focus."
He stepped back. Easing the tension just enough to breathe.
"You should stay out of this."
"Then why do I get the feeling you don't really want me to?" you asked, already knowing he wouldn't answer.
"Please go," he said. "Before this gets worse."
You nodded — even though the idea that this was already bad lodged itself firmly in your chest — and walked past him.
Oscar didn't move.
He just stared at the empty space you left behind, knowing he'd crossed a line he could never uncross.
And worse — that he didn't regret it nearly as much as he should've.
~*~
You knew better than to show up for the next couple of races.
Mostly because you were scared of your own brain — which had recently decided to become wildly unhelpful — and because Oscar had done the worst thing he possibly could.
He'd made you curious.
The way his eyes had held yours at Silverstone. Something new flickering behind them. Not anger. Not the usual annoyance.
Something else. Something inconvenient.
Something you kept telling yourself meant nothing — and that still left you uneasy days later, like a song you didn't like but couldn't stop replaying.
You'd never really thought about Oscar as anything other than Lando's competition. A tall, quiet obstacle with excellent bone structure. But that encounter had shifted something all the same, and the questions followed you everywhere — with work, with friends, with the carefully curated image of a perfect relationship you were supposed to be maintaining.
Which was how you ended up here.
"Love?" Lando called again after a few failed attempts. "Care to join me? I promise I'm very charming today."
"Yeah. Of course," you replied, abandoning your spiraling thoughts and moving closer.
He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you onto his lap, your hands resting around his neck.
Flash.
He kissed your cheek, gently. You giggled, automatically.
Muscle memory was a terrifying thing.
Flash.
"You two look great together," the photographer said, thumbs up. "I think British Vogue got everything it needs."
"Great," Lando smiled, effortless.
You waited while he said his goodbyes, doing the same with the handful of people you knew. After all, this arrangement wasn't meant to benefit only Lando — you'd been promised access and exposure within the industry too.
He grabbed your hand and tugged you toward his dressing room, shutting the door behind you.
"That went surprisingly well," he said, dropping onto the couch. "I actually had fun."
You nodded. A beat too slow.
"Where are you?" He frowned, pulling you down beside him. "You look miles away. Is this about the jacket you hate?"
You didn't answer — mostly because your brain was doing that thing it had started doing lately, the one where Oscar Piastri showed up uninvited and refused to leave.
Lando studied your face for a second, then pulled you closer. You let him. Easy. Familiar. Safe.
Safer than the alternative, anyway.
"Careful," he murmured when your lips drifted to his neck. "Or I might start liking this too much."
"You wouldn't dare," you laughed, pulling back. Grateful for the lightness.
"Thank you for showing up today," he said quietly, thumb drawing absent circles against your arm.
"I kind of had to," you replied. "Bureaucracy and all. You know how much your lawyers would love to fine me."
He bit his lip, eyes lingering. "I really hope they're paying you well. A woman this pretty shouldn't work for free."
"Some people do like to call me a gold digger," you said, half-joking, half-testing.
"Yeah?" he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed your skin. "People say a lot of stupid shit."
He smiled.
"Doesn't make them right."
And just like that, your chest tightened — because with him, things were easy.
And lately, easy felt dangerous too.
~*~
You'd barely seen Lando over the past month — which, considering you were allegedly his girlfriend, felt almost impressive. Just once or twice after the photoshoot, and even then only to fulfill public appearance duties.
Sure, there were stolen kisses here and there. Hands held a second longer than necessary. But that was it.
You didn't let yourself overthink it. This was what you'd agreed to. The moments you shared in private were supposed to remain rare — brief glimpses of what you and Lando could be, but ultimately weren't.
That's what you kept telling yourself.
So you couldn't deny it bothered you when your lawyer called to inform that Lando's team wanted you at the Dutch Grand Prix, but had very politely, very professionally, requested separate hotels for the weekend.
You knew what that meant.
Someone else.
You reminded yourself the contract didn't cover exclusivity. As long as it stayed private and scandal-free, it was nobody's business. Not yours. Not his. Not the internet's.
So you played your part.
Showed up for free practice. Walked through the paddock wearing the cutest outfit. Smiled when you were supposed to, looked worried on cue, delivered your usual reliable performance.
Ten out of ten. No notes.
But Lando noticed your distance. He always noticed — just never quite knew what to do with it. So he didn't say a word. He knew he was the one who'd asked for space, and he'd had the audacity to do it through other people.
He should've been content. He was getting exactly what he wanted.
So why didn't it feel like it?
He found you in the garage just before the race. One of the least private moments possible — which made it perfect, because you couldn't dodge him without making a scene.
"I'm really glad you came," he whispered against your ear, hands on your waist. "I'm sorry we haven't had much time together."
"Are you, though?" Your tone was flat.
"You know we both need space sometimes," he said.
"Space." You let out a dry laugh. "Right. I must've missed the memo where space comes with a hotel upgrade."
"Don't be like that." He kissed your forehead. "You're my best friend."
That one landed harder than you expected.
"I just hate being alone during race weekends," you admitted, dropping your voice. Allowing yourself, briefly, to be honest. "I'm only here because of you."
Lando took the hit.
"I'm sorry, love, I—" He cupped your face. "I just need something different right now."
You didn't feel like talking anymore. Or begging. Or pretending this didn't sting.
"We're probably better off like this anyway," you said, gently pulling away.
The words tasted bitter. Familiar.
~*~
Of course, you thought, watching the smoke rise from Lando's car with seven laps to go.
Life really loved its timing.
You took off your headphones and set them down. Watched the screen. Felt the lump settle in your throat as the camera found him sitting on the grass, defeated.
"He's okay," someone from the team touched your shoulder. "We'll take you to him in a bit."
You hesitated. Because you weren't sure you should go. It was what everyone expected — but was it what Lando wanted?
You moved away from the group, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Full commotion filled the garage when he arrived, helmet still on. Engineers swarming, everyone talking at once.
For a brief moment, your eyes crossed.
He saw you. Away. Waiting.
He excused himself and came to you. You hesitated, then stepped forward and gently lifted his helmet off — his face red and wet underneath.
The cameras went wild in the background.
"You okay?" you asked softly.
"You don't need to worry about me." He sounded almost childish. His voice cracking gave him away.
"I know, baby," you replied, laying a gentle hand on his face. "I do it anyway."
You held each other's gaze — too long to be nothing, too short to fix anything — before he grabbed your hand from his face and kissed it.
Without another word, he headed back to his team.
You started walking away, ignoring the questions thrown at you by the media — wondering when exactly things had started to hurt this much.
~*~
No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't sleep. Your brain simply refused to clock out.
Being in Amsterdam, there was one thing you could easily get that would help with that.
So you were discreet getting on the hotel elevator, careful getting in and out of a coffee shop two blocks away, and extra cautious walking back down the hallway.
None of that was a match for Oscar's attentive gaze.
He opened his door just as you reached yours, catching you completely off guard.
"Jesus Christ!" you blurted.
"Where were you?" he asked immediately.
"Why do you care?"
"It's late," Oscar shrugged. "And it's Amsterdam."
"What does that even mean?"
"What's in the bag?"
You stood there in silence. A staring contest you were definitely losing.
"It's tea," you said, already knowing he wouldn't fall for it.
"Yeah?" He raised an eyebrow. "Come in and make me some, then."
Your mouth opened and closed while your brain screamed at you to abort mission.
"Lando's waiting for me," you lied.
"No, he's not," Oscar said, far too pleased with himself. "I happen to know Lando isn't even here tonight."
"Doesn't mean I owe you anything."
"I never said that." His eyes darkened. "I asked you to roll me a joint. Is that a terrible offence?"
You blinked.
The last time you'd spoken, he'd practically begged you to leave so he could have peace of mind. And now—
"What's changed?" you asked.
"I just had an important win," he said. "Maybe I deserve to get a bit distracted."
You looked at him leaning against the doorframe. Messy hair. Flushed cheeks. Eyes fixed on you like he'd already made his decision.
You were lonely. Wired. And the curiosity you'd been cultivating about Oscar was scratching at your brain like an itch you could no longer ignore.
"Do you have a lighter?" you asked, walking past him.
~*~
You don't even remember when the tension left your shoulders. But it felt damn good to feel this light.
Both of you were lying on the fluffy rug, shoes off, laughing easily — like people who didn't have a championship, contracts, or common sense between them.
Oscar was different like this. More relaxed. More real.
"I didn't think you'd be this much fun," you admitted.
"Same," he laughed. "I used to think you were so fucking annoying. And a bit stupid, if I'm being honest."
"What!" You propped yourself up on one elbow. "That is so rude, Oscar."
You both smiled, high as hell.
"I think I notice patterns," he said after a moment, something quieter settling over him. "You're always there for him. No matter what."
A pause.
"People don't usually show up when it costs them something."
The words hit harder than you expected.
"You mean Lily?" you asked, avoiding his eyes.
"Yeah," he murmured. "But also the team."
Another pause.
"Even today — they were too busy crying over something else to care about our win." He gestured loosely between the two of you. "But this is quieter. I prefer it."
You swallowed. You'd always known Lando was McLaren's golden boy. You just hadn't stopped to think about what that meant for Oscar.
"Don't get me wrong," he said, running a hand through his hair. "But where the fuck even is Lando right now?"
You bit your lip before the truth could slip out.
"I don't think he realizes what he has," Oscar said. "Or how easy he has it."
You didn't interrupt. That alone felt new.
"It's not that I want what he has," he continued, eyes on yours. "I just don't understand how he doesn't lose his fucking mind trying to keep it."
You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
"I think the championship is taking a toll on you boys," you said lightly.
He smiled. Just barely.
"Don't act like it's just the championship," he said, voice lower now, gaze drifting briefly to your lips.
"Oscar," you cut in gently. "You're lonely and you heard something you weren't supposed to. Lando got in your head and now you think—"
"You seriously think it started that night?" he interrupted. "I noticed you way before Miami."
You sat up slowly, never breaking eye contact.
"And if I'm wrong," he continued, "then why do I get the feeling you flirt with the same idea?"
Because I do, you thought.
"You're too smart for your own good," you said.
"And you're too stubborn to admit it."
You held his gaze a second too long before looking away.
"Am I being a piece of shit?" he asked.
You laughed, unfiltered.
"I like it when you laugh like that," Oscar said quietly.
"You're different without the team around," you pointed out.
"I don't usually talk this much," he admitted. "And I don't get high. You make things complicated."
"That's what makes me such a good distraction."
"My favorite one."
Your eyes locked again. Bodies shifting closer without either of you deciding to.
"If you stay," he said softly, "I might stop being careful."
Your heart pounded.
"Don't tempt me," you whispered. "I thought that was my job."
You didn't know who moved first — only that suddenly his mouth was on yours, warm and urgent, like he'd been holding back for too long. Your legs wrapped around his waist as you settled on his lap, his hands gripping you like he was grounding himself.
"I want to fucking ruin you so bad," he muttered against your ear. "It's actually stupid."
"Maybe I like you stupid."
"Bet you get off on it."
His mouth found yours again.
"Oscar," you breathed. "We shouldn't."
"I don't want to stop," he said, eyes honest. "And I hate when you're right."
You pulled back, fixing your clothes. Heart racing.
"This was fun," he said, standing, exhaling slowly.
"I should go."
He nodded and offered his hand. You took it — and noticed he didn't let go until you were outside his room.
"Well," he scratched the back of his neck. "This Dutch weed is insane."
"Tell me about it," you laughed. "Guess I'll see you around, Oscar."
"Not if I hide from you first."
You didn't look back as you walked to your room. The door clicked shut behind you, and you stood there staring at it like it could contain the mess you'd just made.
Sleep, you realized, was not happening anytime soon.
~*~
After you skipped the next two races, you showed up to the cocktail Lando's team had arranged before Singapore — meant to celebrate his British Vogue cover launch before things got even more serious as the season went on.
It was supposed to be intimate. It rarely ever was. Hard to keep a small circle when everyone wants a piece of one of the hottest drivers of the moment.
Your plan was simple: keep a low profile, avoid public figures, other WAGs, and anything that smelled like drama.
A solid plan. Right up until it wasn't.
Because when you saw Oscar across the room, your heart did something embarrassing.
Even from a distance, you could tell he hadn't fully bounced back from the last race weekend. And after everything that had happened in that Amsterdam hotel room, you felt an almost ridiculous urge to check on him.
Almost ridiculous. You went anyway.
You approached when he stepped away from his group, touching his arm lightly — discreet, brief.
"Hey," he greeted, his fingers brushing the spot where your hand had been. "The party looks expensive."
"It probably is," you rolled your eyes. "I've been meaning to reach out. But I don't have your number."
"Don't say that." You frowned. "It was just a bad race. You still have it in you, Oscar. The championship, I mean."
"Wow." Lando appeared out of nowhere, hand firm on your waist, kiss pressed to the top of your head like punctuation. "Let's dial it back a notch, shall we? Dangerous words to throw around in a room like this, love."
Your cheeks burned. Oscar let out a dry laugh.
"She really is the cutest little thing, isn't she?" Oscar said, taking a sip of his drink. The sharpness in his tone calibrated to keep Lando comfortably ignorant. "Thanks, Y/N. But I don't need consolation. I'm a big boy."
"You sure are, mate," Lando replied, fist-bumping him. "Stuff like that happens to any of us."
Oscar nodded, smiling with his mouth.
"Still hoping to put up a good fight this season," Oscar said.
"Oh, I know I will," Lando replied easily, pulling you closer. "Got my lucky charm with me. Speaking of — where's Lily?"
Oscar's eyes flicked to you for half a second.
"Busy," he shrugged. "She'll probably show up to a couple races."
Your expression went blank.
Jealous? You filed that away to be horrified about later.
"Maybe we should grab a drink," you said to Lando.
"You read my mind." He kissed you again. "If you'll excuse us, mate. Gotta cause some trouble."
Trouble, indeed.
You didn't see Oscar again for the rest of the night. You also didn't look.
One drink turned into three, then four. Laughter grew louder. Touches sloppier. Lando's hand never really left your waist. Somewhere between the music and the endless champagne, the weight you'd been carrying for weeks finally loosened.
By the time you were in the back of a car, his mouth was already on yours — desperate and clumsy, like he'd been holding back for too long.
"It's funny," Lando said suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I don't usually care who you talk to."
He wiped the corner of your lip with his thumb.
"But with him, I notice," he added quietly. "People might get the wrong idea."
"About what?" you asked.
His hand slid under your dress, fingers pressing against the lace of your underwear with the kind of familiarity that came from way too many stolen moments like this.
"About who you belong to."
You gasped into his mouth. He smirked, watching your face as his fingers dipped lower.
"We exchanged like three words," you managed. "I was just being a good team player."
Lando's hands slowed for a fraction of a second — deciding whether to believe you or not. A moan tore from your throat before you could stop it.
That did it for him. As long as he kept winning and you kept melting under his touch, people could think whatever the fuck they wanted.
"You have no idea what you do to me when you look like that," he whispered. "Tell me you want this."
"You're insufferable."
"Yeah?" His grin was criminal. "Then why are you—"
His sentence died when you bit his earlobe.
"You are a fucking devil."
The wet sounds filled the car, mixing with your moans and his heavy breaths, as Lando had two fingers inside you, curling them against that spot that made you see stars.
“Stop teasing,” you begged. “Fuck me already.”
You reached for him, moving your body to sit on his lap. In a hurry, he opened his belt and you guided him to your entrance. Lando thrust in deep, filling you completely in one smooth movement.
You both groaned at the stretch, the way he hit every nerve inside you.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered.
His hands gripped your thighs, helping you move up and down as he pounded into you, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the tight space.
You did your best to pull him deeper, nails digging into his shoulders.
Sweat on his forehead, his curls sticking to his skin. You clenched around him deliberately, making him curse under his breath.
“Don’t,” he warned you. “I won’t last long if you keep up with this shit.”
And you let it happen. Goddamn, you wanted it to happen.
The windows fogged up, the world outside forgotten as he fucked you harder and deeper, pushing both of you over the edge almost at the same time.
Even with all the distance and silence, this was still you and Lando. You couldn’t even dare to deny you’d missed him like crazy.
His mouth, his hands, the way he took over your space until there was nothing left but heat and breath and need.
Only him could make everything else go quiet. And for a few hazy, drunk hours, it almost felt easy again, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
~*~
Three weeks later, Singapore.
The McLaren Constructors' celebration was loud enough to rattle the press area. You watched from behind the barriers, cheering, clapping, playing your part perfectly.
It took you a few minutes to notice someone was missing.
Oscar.
You scanned the area again. Nothing. No sign of him, or anyone from his circle.
That didn't sit right.
You knew you shouldn't go looking.
So you did anyway.
They already had what they wanted — photos of you cheering for Lando, videos of you whispering I love you back at the kiss he blew your way. You excused yourself early.
It didn't take long to find Oscar sitting alone in hospitality, champagne bottle in hand, drinking straight from it like he'd stopped pretending hours ago.
"Congratulations," he said as soon as he noticed you. "Funny how you seem to be more part of this team than I am."
"I came looking for you," you said, ignoring the jab.
"Well, that's new." He took another sip, then handed you the bottle. You accepted without comment. "Sorry. It's just — frustrating."
Silence filled the space between you.
"This," you gestured vaguely around. "All of this. It's kind fucked, if we're being honest."
He nodded, like that wasn't news.
"I hate it here," you admitted, pulling out a chair beside him.
"Then why?" He frowned. "Why do you keep doing this? Are you that in love with him?"
You wished you could tell him the truth. But Oscar wouldn't understand — you were already sure of that. And you knew better than to blow everything up for someone who would judge you for it.
"He's my best friend," you said. A half-truth, carefully delivered.
"I've tried," Oscar replied. "But I genuinely don't understand how that works."
A curve formed at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile.
Almost. It looked more like pity.
"He doesn't respect you," he said quietly. "The things I've seen him do when you weren't around—"
"And how's that any different from what we did?" you shot back.
Oscar stared at you like you'd handed him a puzzle with a missing piece.
"The difference is — I didn't pick you up at some party for a quick fuck and paid you to disappear," he said, barely above a whisper.
He stopped himself. Confusion flashing across his face before he could hide it.
"Did you do that?" he asked. "This. With me. To get back at him?"
"Of course not," you said sharply. "If you had the slightest idea of what I am risking—"
He reached for your hand.
"Maybe we shouldn't be risking anything," he said, eyes dropping, "when the stakes are this high."
He pulled his hand back first.
"Thank you for checking on me," he added. "But you should go."
"Friends?" you asked, already knowing.
His hazel eyes lifted, locking onto yours.
"I can't," he said.
The door swung open. An assistant, walkie-talkie already raised in relief.
"Found him. We'll be there in a second."
Oscar leaned back in his chair. Closed his eyes for just a beat.
And whatever you almost had slipped out of reach.
~*~
Both phones ringing early in the morning should've been your first sign something was wrong. The way Lando's eyes went wide — like he'd just heard the juiciest gossip on earth — should've been the second. The three hundred plus notifications you'd woken up to were the undeniable third.
"Hey, so," he called from across the room, voice already walking on eggshells. "Please don't freak out."
"Oh, that definitely helps," you replied.
He handed you his phone.
Your jaw dropped.
"What the fuck is this?"
"Well," Lando started. "It's… us."
You slapped a hand over your mouth. "No shit, Sherlock."
There you were: caught in the hotel mirror, happy and very visibly ruined. The flash swallowed half of Lando's face, but not his bare chest or the white towel slung low around his hips. His arm was tight around you, your body bent over the sink, head turned slightly from the camera. Nothing but a towel wrapped around your hair.
The fogged mirror sealed it — intimate, unmistakable, and absolutely impossible to deny.
"If I had to guess," he continued, scratching the back of his neck, "it's from summer break. Greece."
"How did they even get this?" you asked. Horrified. Or maybe just deeply offended on principle.
"Mark says they're looking into it."
You tossed the phone onto the bed. "Mark knows?"
"At this point," Lando said calmly, "it's probably easier to ask who doesn't."
You groaned. "What did he say?"
"Team knows. They want me to talk."
"Great," you whimpered. "I'm now fake dating a Formula 1 driver and starring in a soft porn scandal."
Lando rubbed your back, trying very hard not to smile. "I mean. I'm shocked. Deeply. Traumatized, even."
You glared at him.
"But," he added quickly, "on the bright side — we do look hot as fuck, love."
You stared at him. Speechless.
"I'm just saying," he rushed on, "there are way worse photos of us that could've leaked."
"Please shut the fuck up," you groaned, throwing yourself face-down on the bed and pulling the sheets over your head.
"Honestly, it's not that bad—"
"It's a mirror selfie!" you yelled from under the covers. "Do you think they can tell we fucked right before taking it?"
Lando raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you're emotionally prepared for the answer to that."
Silence.
Then you peeked out from the sheets.
"…We do look fucking good, don't we?"
Lando smiled, already resigned.
"Absolutely."
~*~
Oscar absolutely should not have done this. He knew that. He was painfully aware of it, in fact.
And yet.
He'd spotted you shopping around Monaco a few days before the circus packed up for Texas, and had made a series of increasingly questionable decisions that ended with his foot stopping your apartment door from closing.
To be fair, the alternative was exchanging polite, awkward hellos during race weekends for the rest of the season. When he framed it like that, following you home seemed almost reasonable.
It was not reasonable at all.
You didn't notice him until it was too late. You'd been busy spiraling — professionally, emotionally, cosmically, the usual — and the sudden appearance of Oscar Piastri in your doorframe nearly launched your heart out of your chest.
"What the fuck are you doing?" you snapped, eyes wide.
Then you actually looked at him.
Flushed cheeks. Apologetic eyes. A man who knew he was approximately thirty seconds away from being murdered.
Your voice dropped to a whisper immediately. "What the actual fuck do you think you're doing?"
He hesitated. "Visiting a friend?"
Silence.
"For… a visit?"
You stared at him.
"Since when are we friends?" You squinted. "Actually — since when do you know where I live? And don't you dare tell me someone leaked that too."
Oscar considered lying. It would've been elegant. Dignified. Entirely fictional.
"Depends on what you consider a leak," he tried, going for charming.
You didn't smile.
"I followed you," he admitted. "Alright? Can I come in before someone sees me and I ruin all of our lives in one go?"
You sighed, opened the door wider, and waved him in — immediately scanning the hallway behind him like a paranoid raccoon.
A photo of this would be catastrophic. A blind item? Nuclear.
"So," he said, glancing around your living room, hands shoved into his pockets. "This is your hiding spot."
"It's called an apartment."
"Smells like you," he added. Way too casually.
You froze. Then pointed at the couch. "Sit. Don't touch anything. I'll be right back."
You dumped your bags in the bedroom, splashed water on your face, stared at your reflection like it might offer guidance.
You can do this, you told yourself. You can have a normal conversation with Oscar Piastri without emotionally combusting.
Your reflection looked unconvinced. Honestly, fair.
When you came back, he was exactly where you'd left him — sitting stiffly, leg bouncing like it owed him money.
You sat beside him.
"So," you said. "What's up?"
He blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the floor.
"That photo," he said.
Your stomach dropped straight through the couch.
"What photo?" you tried, weakly.
"Don't," he said. "Not with me."
You leaned back, exhaling. "I didn't think you'd—"
"See it?" He almost laughed. "Yeah. I did. Believe me, I did my best to avoid it."
A pause. Something shifting in his expression.
"You looked happy," he said.
He stopped himself.
"Comfortable," he corrected. Like that was safer.
"This isn't fair," you said quietly. "You don't get to—"
"I know," he cut in. "Doesn't make it stop."
Your pulse roared in your ears.
"Why does it bother you?" you asked.
Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"Because every time I tell myself to stay in my lane," he said, "something happens that reminds me you're not just around him."
He exhaled.
"You're with him."
You shook your head. "I don't know what you want me to say."
The silence that followed was thick enough to sit in. You shifted closer before you could stop yourself — not much, just enough that your knee brushed his. Oscar noticed. His eyes dropped for half a second before he straightened, like the contact had woken him up.
"This was a mistake," he muttered. "I shouldn't have come here."
"You're already here," you replied..
"Doesn't mean I should stay."
But he didn't move.
Your hand rested on his knee almost distracted. Oscar looked at it. Then at you.
"You make this very difficult," he said.
His hand lifted slowly — hesitating halfway, still deciding if this was a terrible idea. His fingers brushed your jaw, warm and careful. You didn't pull away.
"This is exactly what I was trying to avoid," he said, almost to himself.
"Then stop."
His thumb traced your cheekbone. He didn't stop.
"I'm sorry that photo went public," he said instead, voice quieter now. Redirecting with the precision of someone who'd decided the other direction was a cliff. "And I'm guessing you're not the one who leaked it."
"God, no," you said. "Absolutely not."
He nodded. His leg had gone still.
"Still," he said, eyes on yours. "Don't think for a second that seeing you like that didn't make me wonder what it would take to be the one next to you when you look that unguarded."
The room felt smaller.
You laughed softly despite yourself, your hand drifting to his chest without permission. You filed that away to deal with never.
"I'm glad you're here, stalker," you said. "I could use the company."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "What about Lando?"
"He's not around tonight," you said simply. "Doesn't mean we have to ruin our lives though."
Oscar didn't answer with words.
He closed the gap — one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist — and kissed you. Unhurried. Like he'd made his decision and wasn't interested in second-guessing it.
You kissed him back. That felt like a decision too.
The kiss was soft at first, a gentle press that deepened into something profound — his mouth warm and inviting, his tongue slipping past your lips to taste you.
You sighed into it, your body melting against him, fingers threading into his hair to hold him close, as if letting go would shatter the moment.
His hand slid from your jaw down your neck, over your collarbone, tracing the curve of your breast through your shirt with feather-light touches that made your skin tingle.
You arched into him, nipples peaking under the fabric as he cupped you gently, his thumb circling the hardened bud with care.
“You’re going to be the end of me,” he murmured, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, pressing kisses to your neck, nipping lightly at your earlobe.
Your hands explored him with equal reverence, sliding under his shirt to feel the warmth of his chest, the subtle strength of his muscles toned from endless laps on the track. You traced the lines of his abs, feeling him shiver under your touch.
He captured your mouth again, the kiss turning deep, tongues dancing like they belonged together, hips shifting forward instinctively, his erection pressing against your thigh through his jeans.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
"Who even are you?" he asked softly.
"You don't want to know."
He smiled against your mouth.
"Maybe I do."
You pulled him into a hug that surprised both of you. His arms came around you after a beat — tentative, then firm, like he was allowing himself something he'd been refusing for months.
"That's sweet of you," you murmured against his ear.
"I can be sweet," he replied. "I can be a lot of things."
And somehow, that felt like both a promise and a warning.
~*~
"I cannot decide how to react to this information," Lando confessed, running a hand through his hair. "I absolutely hate that for you. For us."
"I don't want to keep secrets from you, Lan," you said, heart hammering. "I can't do that."
"I know." Something tight flickered behind his eyes. "Oscar kissed you. Twice. And you liked it. And he's still walking around the paddock with Lily like nothing happened."
You breathed out loudly, unsure of what to say next.
"Thank you for telling me," he said, standing abruptly and heading for the door. "I'm going to fucking kill that little bitch."
"Lando, no!" You stopped him. "I'm telling this to my best friend Lando. Not my fake-boyfriend Lando."
"Has it ever occurred to you," he asked, exasperated, "that they are the same fucking person?"
He paced the room. You stayed quiet and let him.
Looking at it from a colder angle, he couldn't really call it betrayal. The whole point of the contract was freedom on both sides, and he had taken advantage of that more than once. More than you ever did.
But still.
"He has a girlfriend," Lando said finally, his voice landing somewhere between angry and tired. "A real, sweet, official girlfriend."
"I know."
"And even if I was okay with sharing—" He stopped himself, jaw tight. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch people speculate about something that's supposed to be mine? Even if we both know the truth?"
"I'm tired of pretending I don't want more than what I'm allowed to have," you said, taking a step back from his touch. "Aren't you?"
"Are you doing this to get back at me?"
You rolled your eyes. "I know it might come as a surprise to you, after almost three years of my life—" you started, sharper than intended. "But not every aspect of my silly little existence revolves around you, Norris."
"When did this even happen?" He ignored your jab. "Why didn't you come to me before it got messy—"
"What makes you think I wanted to avoid it?"
"Uh, I don't know, maybe keep our asses safe from the shit PR will give us?" He sounded genuinely annoyed now. "You have no idea how fast they can turn you into a villain in this business."
"You have to decide what your main concern is here," you said. "If you're more worried about how this makes you look—"
"Shut up." His eyes went sharp. "Don't you dare insinuate that I care more about optics than I care about us. About what we actually are to each other."
A silence stretched between you. Not comfortable.
"Does he know?" Lando asked, voice going neutral. "About the true nature of our relationship."
"Of course not."
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. He walked around the room once, twice, like he needed the laps.
You stayed still.
"How does this leave us?" he asked finally.
"I'm not leaving you," you said. "I'm not even saying I'll have anything with him. I just couldn't lie to you. We go way deeper than that."
"Does it change how you feel about me?" A beat. "About us?"
"I don't think so."
He stopped pacing.
"This was never supposed to hurt," he said, quieter now. "They told me to protect my image. No one told me how to protect you. I know I failed that."
"I didn't sign up to disappear when it gets uncomfortable," you said. "It doesn't have to change anything."
"But it sort of does," he said honestly. "I don't like sharing what keeps me sane. Even if I know I don't get to control it."
He crossed the room and grabbed your hand, pulling you closer. Pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"Be careful, love," he whispered. "Not just with us. With you."
"I won't do anything too stupid."
You kissed his cheek. He held onto you a second longer than necessary.
"Don't make me compete with a straight man for attention," he muttered into your hair.
"You win most categories already."
"Good," he murmured. "Because if Piastri breaks your heart, I'm still killing that fucking dog."
He held you then — carefully, like you were the most important thing in the room. And then, with everything that made him Lando, he kissed you on the lips.
Sealing your dirty little deal once and for all.
~*~
The Texas heat hit differently in October. Dry, relentless. The kind that clung to your skin even when the wind picked up across COTA.
The paddock was already buzzing when you stepped out of the car. Cameras flashed the second Lando appeared beside you. He didn't hesitate — his hand slid into yours automatically, fingers lacing together like it had been rehearsed a thousand times.
Maybe it had.
You smiled for the cameras, tilting your head toward him just enough to sell the moment. Lando leaned closer, murmuring under his breath while his free hand waved at a group of fans.
"Remember," he said, "if I crash this weekend, you're contractually obligated to still pretend you like me."
"Don't worry," you replied. "I've survived worse acting jobs."
Journalists shouted from behind the barriers as you made your way to the garage:
"Norris, are you worried about internal competition?"
"Is it truly helpful to have your partner around at such a critical point of the championship?"
Lando pulled you tighter against his side, thumb brushing the back of your hand.
"I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her," he said, easy smile plastered on, photographers eating it up.
Half the paddock thought you were the most supportive girlfriend in Formula 1. The other half thought the same thing, just with more cynical intentions attached.
Neither version was the truth.
Across the garage, Oscar noticed anyway. He hadn't meant to look. But once he saw Lando's hand wrapped around yours — the way his body looked so comfortably pressed against yours — it was impossible to unsee.
That entrance alone made the McLaren garage tense from the start.
You did your best to keep a low profile and stayed near the hospitality unit while the mechanics swarmed the cars. Lando was already deep in conversation with his race engineer, gesturing sharply at the telemetry on a tablet.
That's when you felt someone step up beside you.
Oscar.
"Texas suits you," he said, voice low enough to be swallowed by the air guns in the pit lane.
"You've seen me in Texas for like five seconds."
"Still counts."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Lando's side of the garage.
"Busy weekend," you said, crossing your arms.
He exhaled through his nose. A faint, humorless trace of a smile. "Apparently."
"You two are fighting for a championship," you added. As if reminding him of the stakes would somehow restore the boundaries between you. A very optimistic theory.
"So I've been told," Oscar replied.
Silence. Heavy with everything you weren't saying.
He looked like he wanted to say something else — something that definitely didn't belong in a crowded garage — but a McLaren staff member called his name from across the room.
He didn't say goodbye. But as he turned to leave, his hand slid low against yours — just long enough for his fingers to catch your skin. Deliberate. Hidden.
You held your breath.
"See you around," he murmured without looking back.
"Yeah."
You watched him walk away, your stomach twisting into a tight, complicated knot. You gave yourself approximately four seconds to feel whatever that was, then filed it under not now and went back to looking like you belonged there.
You barely had time to get your heart rate under control before Lily appeared.
She walked into the hospitality unit looking bright and effortlessly pretty — a stark contrast to the thick, suffocating tension that seemed to follow you, Lando, and Oscar around like a bad smell.
"Hey!" She offered you a warm smile, scanning the room. "Have you seen Oscar? He said he was coming over after his media loop."
"He just went back to his side," you said, your voice coming out slightly tighter than intended. You forced a smile. "Do you want to sit?"
"Oh, gladly. My feet are killing me."
Before she could ask how your week was going, Lando practically stormed in. Finished with his briefing, and by the look on his face, it hadn't gone well.
He ripped his team kit collar open a fraction, dropped into the seat next to you with the energy of a man personally wronged by the laws of physics.
"If one more person asks me about team orders, I am going to launch myself into the nearest tyre wall," he muttered, throwing his phone on the table. Then, noticing Lily, his expression adjusted in a fraction of a second — smooth, charming, perfectly recalibrated. "Oh, hey, Lily. Didn't see you there."
"Rough morning?" she asked.
"The worst. Marketing wants me to wear a cowboy hat for the driver parade." He leaned back, arm dropping casually over the back of your chair. "Tell her I'd look ridiculous, love."
"You know damn well you're not allowed cowboys hats," you shot back.
Right on cue, Oscar walked back in. He froze for a microsecond when he saw all three of you, then his face smoothed into that unreadable mask and he took the empty seat next to Lily — which put him directly across from you.
Of course it did.
"There you are," Lily said.
"Media ran long," Oscar said shortly. He picked up a menu, thumb tracing the edge of the laminated paper. Not looking at you. Not looking at Lando.
"Lando was just complaining about the cowboy hats," Lily offered, trying to inject some lightness into the table.
Oscar flicked his eyes up to Lando's. The silence between them lasted a second too long.
"You should wear it," Oscar said. "Might distract people from your Sector 3 times."
Lando let out a sharp laugh, eyes going cold. "My Sector 3 is fine, mate. Focus on your own launch data. I saw your simulator runs. Brutal."
"Just keeping you honest," Oscar replied, entirely devoid of warmth.
You sat frozen between them, eyes moving from Lando's tight jaw to Oscar's white-knuckled grip on his menu.
"Anyway," Lily cut in, leaning forward with genuine, sweet concern. "I wanted to ask — are you guys doing okay? With everything that happened recently?"
Lando's eyes locked onto her. "What do you mean?"
"The photo," Lily said, voice full of pity. "I just wanted to say I'm so sorry. It's such a horrible invasion of privacy."
Across the table, Oscar went rigid. He didn't look up, but the muscle in his jaw twitched.
"PR is handling it," Lando said flatly, glancing at you.
"It just looked so unfiltered," Lily murmured, shaking her head. "You two are just — very physical. Very comfortable with your intimacy."
She paused.
"Oscar and I don't really do that kind of stuff."
"Lily," Oscar said. Low. A warning.
"I'm not saying it's a bad thing!" she rushed. "I just mean it must be exhausting to have something so personal exposed."
"It is," Lando said. His voice had dropped into something razor-edged. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Oscar. "You'd be surprised how easy it is for some people in this paddock to forget that boundaries exist. On and off the track."
Oscar raised his eyes. The look he gave Lando was charged with pure, concentrated loathing. For a second you genuinely thought he might flip the table.
"Maybe we should go get changed," Oscar said instead, standing and knocking his chair back. He didn't look at Lily. He didn't look at you. "Engineering briefing."
"Oh. Okay," Lily blinked, flustered. "Sorry if I brought up a bad topic. See you guys later?"
"Yeah. See you, Lily," you managed.
The second they walked out, the silence left behind was deafening.
Lando didn't look at you. He stared at the empty space where Oscar had been sitting, fingers curling into a fist on the table.
"He's losing his mind," Lando whispered. Dark, satisfied, and furious all at once. "Did you see him?"
"Lando, stop."
"I'm not doing anything," he said, turning to look at you. "But if he doesn't keep his fucking hands off you this weekend, I'm going to make sure his championship ends right here in Austin."
You didn't say anything.
Because the worst part wasn't the threat.
The worst part was that some small, inconvenient corner of your brain noted that Oscar's hand on yours had lasted maybe three seconds — and Lando had somehow already noticed.
~*~
Both of them. Reckless and impulsive.
Double DNF.
The McLaren garage went dead silent. Zak Brown threw his headset onto the desk.
Ten minutes later, the back corridor of the motorhome became a warzone. You were already there when Lando stormed in, helmet off, slamming it into the wall.
"Are you fucking insane?!" he screamed as Oscar walked in behind him, unzipping his suit with frustratingly steady hands. "You divebombed me like it was personal!"
"You closed the door on purpose," Oscar shot back, voice finally cracking out of its usual monotone. He stepped into Lando's face. "You'd rather wreck both cars than let me past for one second!"
"Because you don't respect limits!"
Lando shoved Oscar's shoulder.
Oscar didn't hesitate. He grabbed Lando's collar and slammed him into the lockers. "Say another word about it. I dare you."
"Separate! Right now!" Mechanics and PR staff threw themselves between them.
Oscar let go. But his eyes stayed on Lando — and then, for just a second, they found you over his shoulder.
Raw. Unguarded. Gone before anyone else could catch it.
You looked away first. Made yourself smaller in the corner of that tight, suffocating room and tried very hard to be furniture.
It didn't entirely work.
~*~
The hotel corridor was quiet in the way that felt cruel after all that noise.
You were reaching for your keycard when a shadow blocked the light.
You didn't need to look up.
"Oscar," you breathed, turning around.
He looked exhausted. Still in his race suit.
"We shouldn't be doing this here," you whispered, checking the empty hallway. "If Lando sees you—"
"Lando is downstairs threatening to fire his personal trainer," Oscar cut in. He stepped into your space — not touching you, just closing the distance until thinking straight became optional. "I don't give a fuck about Lando right now."
"You two crashed," you reminded him. "The team is on fire. You almost got physical in the garage."
"Because he looks at me like he owns you," Oscar said, jaw tight. "Because I had to sit at that table and listen to Lily describe how comfortable you two look together."
The mention of Lily landed like it was supposed to.
"It's just a photo," you said, looking anywhere but his eyes. "An old one."
"Don't lie to me."
Not loud. Just certain.
"We haven't even properly touched each other," he said, "and look at me. I just wrecked two cars because I couldn't get the image of his hands on you out of my head."
Your throat went dry. "Oscar—"
"At first I barely talked to you because I knew exactly what would happen." His voice dropped. "I forced myself to look away. It's not working anymore."
His gaze fell to your lips for a fraction of a second. Then back up.
"I can't keep doing this," he said. "Not after tasting you."
You opened your mouth to tell him to leave.
His mouth found yours instead.
Rough. Urgent. Nothing like the patience he usually carried around like a personality trait. One hand in your hair, the other pulling you against his chest.
A chime from the far end of the hallway — elevator doors opening.
Panic spiked clean through the moment.
Without breaking the kiss, your hand found the door handle behind you. You pushed it open with your back and pulled him into the dark, slamming it shut.
The silence of the room swallowed you both.
Oscar didn't let you breathe. The second the door locked, he had you against it — hands on your hips, face buried in your neck, a sound escaping the back of your throat that you'd be embarrassed about later.
Later, you thought. Problem for later.
His hands slid to the back of your thighs and lifted you like it was nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically.
He carried you to the bed.
He was desperate — you could feel it in every touch, the way his hands moved like he was trying to cover ground he'd been forbidden from for months. His mouth traced up your stomach, your ribs, your jaw, before finding yours again.
"Tell me to stop," Oscar whispered against your lips. "Say it now."
You didn't say it.
He pulled back just far enough to look at you — really look, the way he almost never let himself — and whatever he saw there made something in his expression break open.
Then he froze.
His hand went still. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.
Ten seconds of just his breathing, ragged and controlled at war with each other.
Then he rolled off you and sat on the edge of the bed, back turned, head in his hands.
"Oscar?" Your voice came out embarrassingly unsteady.
He stood up. Adjusted his shirt. Didn't look at you.
"Lily is here," he said, walking to the door. "I'm going back to my room."
He paused with his hand on the handle, looking back over his shoulder.
"Think about what you actually want," he said. "Because the next time I come into your room, I'm not stopping."
The door opened. Clicked shut.
Gone.
You stayed on the bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling.
Right, you thought. Fine. Completely fine.
Sleep was not happening.
~*~
Lando was spent.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands, blue bruises from the seatbelts already blooming across his collarbones.
You sat beside him without a word. After a moment, he laid his head on your lap, arms wrapping around your waist.
"I'm so sick of this," he murmured. "Of him."
You ran your fingers through his curls. Said nothing.
"Thank God you're here," he said into your stomach. "Honestly."
The weight of what you weren't telling him pressed down, heavy.
You had the perfect opening. Oscar outside your room. His hands. The door slamming shut. All of it.
You looked at Lando's exhausted, bruised shoulders.
"I'm here," you said instead, still touching his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
Worst part? You meant it.
~*~
The noise at the Mexico Grand Prix was completely hollow to Oscar's ears.
Lando had won. P1.
He'd officially overtaken Oscar in the standings.
While Lando drowned in champagne on the podium, Oscar had slipped away early and gone back to the hotel. He'd lost the lead on the track. But standing in the dark of his room, the anger vibrating under his skin wasn't about the points anymore.
It was about him.
Your knock at midnight was quiet. Almost hesitant.
When Oscar pulled the door open, you were standing there still dressed for a party you hadn't wanted to attend, head spinning slightly from trying to keep up with Lando's frantic evening and the alcohol meant to numb the anxiety of it.
"Look, I—"
You didn't finish the sentence.
Oscar reached out and pulled you inside. The door slammed shut behind you, and before you could catch your breath, his mouth was on yours.
This wasn't like Austin.
No hesitation. No ten-second pause. Whatever restraint he'd forced himself to maintain for months had completely evaporated with Lando's victory lap, and what replaced it was something quieter and more dangerous than rage.
Focus. Like he'd made a decision and was done negotiating with himself about it.
"Oscar, wait—" you breathed against his lips. "Lando—"
"Has the trophy," Oscar said. His hands slid to the back of your thighs, lifting you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically, like your body had already agreed to things your brain was still debating. "He has the points. He can have the whole fucking thing."
He carried you to the bed.
"But he doesn't have this," Oscar whispered, his eyes dark in the dim light. His hand tangled in your hair, tipping your head back. "He doesn't have you."
Doesn't he, you thought — and then stopped thinking entirely.
He was desperate, but it was a desperation with direction. Every touch deliberate, every movement building toward something. Like he'd been running calculations for months and had finally, finally reached the answer.
"I've been losing my mind watching you," he said against your skin. "You did this to me."
You had approximately zero arguments against that.
When he finally pushed inside you, stretching you open, a sharp breath caught in your throat, swallowed instantly by his mouth on yours. The rhythm he set was relentless — driven by months of locked glances in garages and conversations that always stopped just short of the truth.
He didn't hold back. And he didn't look away.
Every thrust was deep, heavy, and desperate.
Every time you pulled him closer, his grip on you tightened as he buried himself deeper and deeper into you, chasing his release.
Every time your hips rose to meet his, something in his expression cracked open further — like he was watching something he couldn't believe was actually happening and refusing to blink in case it disappeared.
"Oscar, please, it's too much—" you gasped.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice rough. "Right now and I will."
"We shouldn't—" Your fingers dug into his shoulders. "Lando's going to know—"
"Let him."
The two words landed like a verdict.
When you finally fell apart, Oscar followed — his body trembling as he spilled inside you, face buried in your neck, holding you so tight it felt like he was trying to make sure neither of you could come undone separately.
The silence came back slowly.
He didn't move away. He stayed, his head on your neck, heartbeat wild against your ribs. His hand spread flat over your hip — warm, possessive, completely still.
You stared at the ceiling.
Lando was king of the paddock tonight. Celebrating his P1 somewhere loud and bright and full of people who wanted to be near him.
Oscar had you.
And from the way his arms tightened around you — like letting go was something he hadn't budgeted for — he wasn't planning on pretending otherwise.
~*~
The tension didn't wait for the cars to hit the track in São Paulo. It arrived with the circus, hovering over the hotel lounge like a storm waiting to pick a victim.
Lando was walking around with a cocky, untouchable aura. Oscar had retreated into a cold, predatory silence. And you were doing what you always did in situations like this — working the room just enough to be present without being interesting.
You were good at that. Mysteriously, inexplicably good at that, considering.
Lando was at the bar, loudly debating something with George Russell, a laugh booming from his chest. Oscar was sitting with Lily across the room.
His eyes hadn't moved from you in ten minutes.
You finished your wine in one long sip and got up to leave.
Your foot caught the edge of a heavy rug.
The wine glass tilted. Your balance went with it.
A hand grabbed your forearm before you hit the floor.
Oscar.
For a fraction of a second, the world stopped. His hand stayed clamped around your bare skin, thumb brushing your pulse point, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that had absolutely no business existing in a public lounge.
He didn't just catch you. He held you.
"Careful," he murmured.
"Thanks," you breathed, pulling away quickly.
You didn't look back as you walked to the elevators. You could feel him watching.
What you didn't see was Max Verstappen, leaning against a nearby pillar with a drink in hand and the expression of a man who had just been handed a gift.
He waited until Oscar walked past.
"Careful, Piastri," Max said, dry and amused. "Going after your teammate's girl?"
Oscar didn't stop walking. "It's not like that."
Max chuckled. "Sure, mate. Keep telling yourself that."
He took a sip of his drink, deeply unbothered by the chaos that only ever seemed to benefit him.
~*~
Later that night, the silence inside Oscar's room was loud.
Lily hadn't taken her shoes off. Hadn't sat. She stood with her arms crossed, watching him like she was waiting for something to confess on its own.
"You were quiet tonight," she said.
"It's been a long day." Oscar threw his room key on the table.
"It's been a long few months," Lily replied, tone carefully calm. "And don't insult me by pretending you don't know what I mean."
He rubbed his face. "You're imagining things."
"No," she said. "I'm noticing them. I notice how you look at her when you think no one's watching."
"Lily—"
"Do you even realize you're doing it?" Her voice cracked, just slightly. "Looking at her like that? I noticed how you reacted when she touched your arm. When you caught her. And I noticed you didn't pull away." She paused. "Everyone in that bar saw it. Max was laughing."
Silence.
"I'm not asking if you slept with her," Lily said. "I'm asking when you stopped being here with me."
Oscar stared at the floor. "It's complicated."
She laughed once. Dry. Bitter. The laugh of someone who had been prepared for a lot of answers and not this one.
"Funny. Because it feels painfully simple from where I'm standing." She took a breath. "I came here because I love you. But I won't compete with ghosts, Oscar. Or with women who don't even know they're being placed between us."
"She knows," he said.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Lily's eyes snapped to his. Widening in the specific, horrible way of someone whose worst theory just got confirmed.
"Oh," she whispered. "So it's worse than I thought."
He stepped forward. "Lily—"
"No." She raised a hand. "Don't try to fix it tonight."
She grabbed her bag from the bed.
"I'm going home tomorrow. First thing."
Oscar frowned. "In the middle of the race weekend?"
"Yes," she said, standing tall despite the tears. "Because I refuse to sit in a paddock watching my boyfriend fall in love with someone else."
"That's not what's happening," he said. Too fast.
She paused at the door. Looked back at him one last time.
"If you truly believed that, Oscar," she said quietly, "you wouldn't look this scared."
And then she left.
The door didn't slam. That was almost worse.
Oscar stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, not moving.
He thought about texting you. Decided against it. Thought about calling Lando. Decided against that too, for obvious reasons.
He sat on the edge of the bed instead, in the quiet left behind by someone who had loved him cleanly and simply, and thought about how thoroughly he had complicated his own life.
He didn't regret it.
That was probably the most damning thing of all.
~*~
By Friday afternoon, the McLaren garage was toxic.
Lando was enjoying his moment as WDC leader with the energy of someone who had never once considered being humble about anything. The rumors and whispers from the night before had put Oscar on edge anyway, which meant the combination was particularly lethal.
During a break between sessions, you were sitting at a table in the hospitality lounge when Oscar walked in to grab a drink.
Lando, leaning back in his chair, tracked his teammate across the room with the focused patience of a man who had been waiting for an excuse.
"You've been paying a lot of attention to my girlfriend lately, Piastri," Lando said, loud enough to carry.
It sounded like a joke. His eyes said otherwise.
Oscar didn't turn around from the drink fridge. He grabbed his bottle, closed the door with a click, and finally looked at Lando.
"Someone has to," Oscar replied.
Flat. Calm. Entirely unapologetic.
Lando's grip tightened around his water bottle until the plastic crunched. The realization hit him slow and then all at once — Oscar wasn't backing down anymore.
You looked at the table and said nothing.
Which was, frankly, the only reasonable response to that sentence.
~*~
Sunday night in São Paulo brought suffocating humidity and a club that seemed to exist specifically to make bad decisions feel inevitable.
Interlagos had delivered its usual chaos. The result had only amplified the shift.
Lando had won. Oscar had crossed the line in a frustrated, silent P5.
On the track, Lando was untouchable. In the club, he was acting like it.
He was in full party mode — surrounded by mechanics, influencers, and people whose names he'd forget by morning. Turning over shots. Eyes bright with that specific dangerous energy that meant he'd be impossible to manage and completely charming about it.
He wanted you there. He pulled you into his side by the waist, pressed open-mouthed kisses to your lips just to make sure the room registered the claim.
But Lando also wanted the noise. He was pulsing with adrenaline and high on victory, so five minutes after kissing you he was already leaning into a circle of gorgeous strangers, enjoying the attention with the enthusiasm of someone who absolutely deserved it and knew about it.
He loved you. Tonight, he also wanted a taste of everything São Paulo had to offer.
He'd earned it. Allegedly.
You stood a few feet back, leaning against the wall, holding a drink you shouldn't be touching at this point of the night.
"Congratulations on Lando's win," a voice said near your ear.
George Russell. Entirely composed, which made him a stark contrast to basically everyone else in the room.
"Thanks, George."
"He's in a good mood," George agreed, taking a sip of his drink. Then his tone shifted — softer, but laced with something careful. "Tell me something. Are he and Piastri going to kill each other before Abu Dhabi? The vibe in the paddock is worse than Mercedes in 2016."
Your stomach did a violent flip. "It's just track rivalry, George."
George let out a low, dry chuckle. His eyes drifted toward the darkest corner of the VIP area, where Oscar was sitting alone, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that was doing absolutely nothing for your blood pressure.
"I don't know, Y/N," George murmured. "Oscar looks like a man who lost the championship but won a consolation prize. And he hasn't taken his eyes off you all night."
You said nothing.
"The paddock is small and people talk. God knows Max doesn't shut up about it." He patted your shoulder. "Just be careful. Oscar isn't the type to play loud. But when he moves, he's precise. Don't let Lando get blinded by the champagne."
He melted back into the crowd, leaving you with a half-empty drink and a very full head.
You finished the drink. Left the VIP area. Went looking for somewhere to breathe.
The corridor leading to the private restrooms was dimly lit, the bass from the main room reduced to a dull vibration through the walls. You pressed your back against the cool tile and closed your eyes.
A shadow fell over you.
You opened them.
Oscar.
He didn't waste time. He stepped directly into your space, one hand braced against the wall beside your head, close enough that thinking became a courtesy you could no longer afford.
"Oscar, stop," you whispered, hands pressing against his chest. "Everybody is right outside, Lando is—"
"Busy," Oscar said. His eyes were dark. "You keep pretending like nothing's happening. Like you're happily in love with him."
"I am with him, Oscar—"
"You were under me in Mexico," he said fiercely. "You didn't look happily in love with him when you were saying my name."
Before you could argue, his mouth found yours.
Desperate. Hungry. The kind of kiss that had been building since Amsterdam and surviving on restraint alone.
You gasped into it, hands tangling in his shirt, your body doing that deeply inconvenient thing it always did around him — deciding on its own that this was exactly where you were supposed to be.
He groaned, pulling you closer.
Click.
The heavy door swung open.
You pushed Oscar's chest, breaking the kiss just as a shadow filled the doorway.
Lando.
Breathing slightly harder than usual. Eyes moving from your flushed face to Oscar, who hadn't stepped back — his frame still half-blocking you from view.
The silence in that corridor lasted approximately one thousand years.
Then Lando smiled. Slow. Sharp. The smile of someone who had just decided exactly how to play this.
"Oh, good," he said pleasantly. "My favourite Australian."
Oscar looked at him dead-on. "You say that like you know more than one."
Lando let out a laugh — dry, short, the humor disappearing the moment it arrived. He stepped forward until he and Oscar were inches apart, the air between them pulled taut.
Then he got around Oscar, reached past him, and wrapped a hand around your wrist — pulling you out from behind his teammate and into the space between them.
Both of them looking at you now. Different reasons. Same weight.
"You can't possibly think I don't know," Lando said to Oscar, voice dropping into something quiet and vicious, "about the extent of your relationship with my girlfriend."
Oscar's breath hitched.
A small crack in the composure. The first one.
The realization hit him fully — Lando knew. Had known, at least to some extent, this entire time. And you'd both let him walk through it blind.
Oscar felt the room tilt.
He had stripped himself raw, risked everything, spent months drowning in guilt — and both of you had been standing on solid ground the whole time.
Lando saw the moment the math landed. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping further.
"Guess we're not just fighting for points anymore," he murmured.
Oscar said nothing. For once, he had nothing.
"So maybe you want the whole room out there to know why our garage is falling apart?" Oscar said finally, the paddock and the championship and your silence crashing down on him all at once.
Nobody answered.
With one last look directed entirely at you — dark, unreadable, and absolutely not forgettable — Oscar pushed the door open and walked back into the club.
The silence he left behind was a different kind of loud.
Lando didn't drop your wrist immediately. He stood there, chest rising and falling, the adrenaline bleeding out and leaving only the complicated wreckage of what you two actually were.
He leaned his back against the wall. Looked down at you.
"Don't play him like this," you said, voice low. "Don't risk everything for an imaginary fight."
"He hates that you're mine," Lando replied.
"I'm not."
A faint, tired smile touched his lips. His grip on your wrist softened — thumb brushing your skin once before he let go.
Thank you!It’s a Max request where YN is the daughter of Toto and works and one of the engineers at Mercedes.She’s stern and quiet(she’s a lovely person,but not open to anyone) and is respected in her work,and she’s got zero patience for arrogant or dumb questions. Max is totally in love with her.
so sorry this took forever 😭 thank you for being patient <3 HERE it is
summary: max keeps showing up. y/n keeps pretending that bothers her. unfortunately, twenty-four hour races make terrible environments for emotional repression.
warnings: SMUT, tension, slow burn, emotional repression, workplace boundaries becoming increasingly theoretical, exhaustion-induced poor decision making, one very long night at nürburgring
word count: 5.3K
inspired by: THIS REQUEST
author’s note: first time writing smut, please have mercy on me. sorry about the wait. i know i said i would get these done during the race but unfortunately my heart was broken for the team and i had to emotionally recover. not really checked grammar wise.
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Nürburgring never really slept. It only changed forms.
During the day, the paddock was loud in the polished, controlled way motorsport always was; cameras flashing endlessly near hospitality units, engineers rushing between garages with tablets tucked beneath their arms, radios crackling over one another while reporters crowded pit lane hoping for even a second of Max Verstappen.
The 24-hr race had sold out for the first time in years because he’d decided to race it. You could feel it everywhere. Fans packed shoulder-to-shoulder against barriers despite the rain, photographers lingering outside the AMG garages longer than necessary, media crews turning every garage exit into a spectacle the second Max appeared. The entire paddock felt louder around him somehow, like his presence alone shifted the atmosphere into something sharper, busier, harder to escape. At night, though, the place became something else entirely.
Colder.
Sharper.
Real.
Rainwater reflected against the glass overlooking pit lane as Y/N stepped back into the upstairs RAVENOL engineering office with coffee in one hand and telemetry reports tucked beneath her arm.
By midnight, the upper floors of the AMG garages had transformed into quiet command centers overlooking the chaos below; telemetry screens glowing pale blue beneath fluorescent lights while engineers monitored timing data, weather systems, and strategy projections running across half a dozen monitors at once.
Downstairs, mechanics battled the race.
Up here, everyone tried to stay ahead of it.
“Can I ask you something?”
Y/N didn’t even slow down at the voice beside her.
“That depends entirely on whether it’s stupid.”
The junior engineer following beside her visibly hesitated.
Behind him, another mechanic snorted into his coffee.
“It’s about tire degradation projections,” the junior engineer recovered carefully. “For the second night stint.”
“Then congratulations,” Y/N said dryly, finally setting her reports beside the nearest monitor. “You survived the screening process.”
A few quiet laughs spread through the room.
The younger engineer relaxed slightly.
That happened often around Y/N Wolff.
People who didn’t know her thought she was intimidating. People who did understood the issue wasn’t attitude — it was competence. She had absolutely no patience for laziness, arrogance, or questions someone could answer themselves if they bothered thinking first.
The team respected her because she respected the work.
Simple as that.
Even if she occasionally looked like she wanted to throw half the paddock into the Nürburgring barriers.
“Track temperature’s dropping faster than expected,” someone said from behind her.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“We might need to alter—”
“I already adjusted the projections.”
Nobody questioned it.
Y/N finally reached for her coffee.
Empty.
She frowned faintly.
She’d gotten it less than ten minutes ago.
“You drink coffee faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Her shoulders stiffened instantly at the familiar Dutch voice.
Max Verstappen stood near the doorway to the engineering office in partial race kit, dark curls still damp from the rain outside and pushed messily away from his forehead.
No one in the garage even reacted anymore.
That was the concerning part.
At some point over the course of the race, Max had simply started appearing upstairs often enough that everyone accepted it as normal.
Which it absolutely was not.
“You’re in the wrong engineering office again,” Y/N said flatly.
Max glanced around casually.
“Pretty sure this is still AMG.”
“You drive for Team Verstappen Racing.”
“And you work for Team RAVENOL.”
“Excellent,” she deadpanned. “So you do understand how logos function.”
The mechanic near the timing monitors physically turned away to hide a laugh.
Max only grinned.
That was another issue.
Most people eventually got uncomfortable under Y/N’s dry responses.
Max seemed to enjoy them.
Immensely.
He stepped further into the office without invitation, eyes drifting toward the telemetry spread across the monitors nearest her workstation.
“You’re compensating too aggressively through sector three.”
Y/N finally looked at him properly then.
Not because of the comment itself; plenty of drivers liked pretending they understood setup direction better than engineers.
But Max actually knew what he was talking about.
And unfortunately, he was correct.
“You were reading my telemetry?”
“You left it open.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Max shrugged slightly.
“You’re making it sound invasive.”
“It is invasive.”
“Then lock your screens.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly.
Max smiled like this was the highlight of his evening.
Which, honestly, it probably was.
“You know,” one of the engineers muttered while walking past with another coffee, “at this point we should just give him his own chair.”
“I heard that,” Max called easily.
“Good.”
Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose briefly.
“You’re distracting my engineers.”
“I think your engineers like me.”
“My engineers like watching me threaten violence against you.”
“That’s still attention.”
God, he was exhausting.
The worst part was that Max never acted like people usually did around her. There was never any awkwardness and he was never intimidated.
There were never any awkward attempts to impress or be extra careful around her because she was Toto Wolff’s daughter.
If anything, Max seemed entirely uninterested in the Wolff name.
He treated her exactly the same whether she was standing in Mercedes hospitality or sitting upstairs at two in the morning surrounded by telemetry screens and empty coffee cups.
It was… disarming.
Annoyingly so.
Rain hammered harder against the windows overlooking pit lane as another set of headlights disappeared through the darkness below.
“Forecast?” Max asked quietly beside her.
“Ugly.”
“That bad?”
“Worse by midnight.”
Max hummed thoughtfully.
It wasn’t dismissive.
He was just listening.
That was another deeply unfortunate thing about him.
He paid attention when she spoke.
Most people heard Y/N and immediately prepared their response. Max absorbed information like he intended to remember it later.
She hated how much she noticed that.
“You should probably focus on your own team,” she muttered, turning back toward the monitors.
“My team’s busy.”
“So is mine.”
“And yet,” Max said lightly, “you keep talking to me.”
Before she could answer, another engineer hurried toward her station holding updated timing projections.
“Y/N, we need confirmation on the alternate wet strategy before the next stint.”
She nodded once immediately.
“Give me five minutes.”
The engineer disappeared again.
Max still hadn’t moved.
“You know,” she said slowly, “normal people understand when they’re being dismissed.”
“Good thing I’m not normal.”
“That’s not the reassuring statement you think it is.”
His grin widened slightly.
“You haven’t actually told me to leave yet.”
Y/N opened her mouth immediately.
Paused.
Max noticed.
Of course he did.
Something smug flickered briefly across his face.
“I hate that expression,” she informed him.
“You like me.”
“I think prolonged exposure to racing fuel has damaged your brain.”
“And yet,” he said calmly, “you still didn’t tell me to leave.”
Rain hammered steadily against the windows around them while the Nürburgring disappeared beneath fog and floodlights outside.
Downstairs, the race continued endlessly.
Upstairs, Max stayed exactly where he was beside her workstation.
Still hovering.
Still watching her like she was somehow more interesting than the race itself.
It should’ve unsettled her more than it did.
Instead, after a moment, Y/N reached toward the tray beside the timing monitors without looking and slid the untouched second coffee sitting there toward him.
Silence.
“You got me coffee?”
Y/N kept her eyes fixed firmly on the telemetry glowing across her monitors.
“They accidentally made two.”
Max stared at her for a second too long.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“You’re still here.”
“Yeah,” he said softly.
And for the first time all night, his voice lost its teasing edge entirely.
“Funny how that keeps happening.”
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By two in the morning, exhaustion had settled over the AMG garages like fog.
Upstairs, the timing rooms had gone silent hours ago, conversations slowly thinning into low voices and radio chatter while telemetry continued glowing endlessly across monitors. Empty coffee cups littered nearly every available surface. Rain streaked steadily against the windows overlooking pit lane, blurring the floodlights outside into silver and white.
Downstairs, the race still roared on.
Y/N sat at the center workstation in the RAVENOL timing room with one leg tucked beneath her chair, eyes fixed on weather radar updating across the monitors in front of her.
Fog worsening through sector four.
Track temperatures dropping again.
Visibility unstable.
Classic Nürburgring chaos.
“You’ve been staring at that weather map for ten minutes,” Max said as he stepped further into the room.
She didn’t look up. She kept her gaze on the screens.
“You’ve been standing there for at least five.”
“Still counts.”
Max leaned against the edge of the workstation beside her, team jacket pulled back on now after finishing his latest stint, race suit tied around his hips. Exhaustion softened the sharper edges of his expression.
It was unfair how human he looked up here.
He was not Max Verstappen the world champion.
Just Max.
Tired.
Quiet.
Still somehow ending up beside her every single time he got out of the car.
“You look tired,” he said.
“That’s because I am,” Y/N muttered, “You should be sleeping between stints,” scrolling through another set of timing projections.
“You should too.”
“That’s not how engineering works.”
“No,” Max agreed quietly. “You just work worse hours than drivers do.”
Something in his voice made her glance at him briefly.
Max grinned slightly.
He wasn’t teasing but instead he was genuinely watching and observing.
Y/N immediately looked back toward the monitors.
She was getting far too used to him being there.
The timing room around them had mostly emptied over the last hour. A few engineers remained scattered near the back monitors while weather radar flickered across the glass walls overlooking pit lane below.
Rain hammered harder against the windows suddenly.
“Forecast still bad?” Max asked quietly.
“Worse toward sunrise.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Depends how much you enjoy hydroplaning through fog.”
His mouth twitched slightly.
God, she hated when he smiled like that. It wasn’t the smug ones he gave journalists or rivals or cameras.
These quieter ones. The ones that only ever seemed to happen around her.
“You know,” Max said after a moment, “most people are at least slightly nicer at two in the morning.”
“Most people don’t survive Nürburgring.”
“I do.”
“You survive through concerning amounts of confidence and poor decision making.”
“That sounds judgmental.”
“It is judgmental.”
Max laughed softly beneath his breath.
The sound lingered in the quiet timing room longer than it should have.
Y/N hated how aware she’d become of him over the course of the race.
The sound of his footsteps outside the office before he walked in. The way he automatically drifted toward her workstation first. The fact she had started leaving coffee beside the monitors before she even realized she was expecting him.
All of it was becoming inconveniently noticeable. Especially because Max clearly knew it.
“You’re staring again,” she muttered without looking away from the screens.
“Can you blame me?”
Y/N exhaled slowly before leaning back in her chair, exhaustion finally starting to settle heavily into her bones.
Outside, headlights cut through the fog below like pale streaks of white against rain-soaked asphalt.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke but, Max stayed beside her anyway.
He always did.
Maybe that was what made this complicated. Most people wanted something from him constantly; questions, photos, interviews, attention. Even inside the paddock, people still treated him like an event before they treated him like a person.
Y/N never had.
“You know people already assume things before I even open my mouth,” she said quietly after a while.
Max glanced toward her immediately.
“They hear my last name first.”
She sounded flat, controlled. He listened.
“They decide what they think about me before I even get the chance to prove otherwise.”
Max stayed silent.
Listening.
Actually listening.
Y/N rubbed tiredly at her eyes.
“I’ve spent most of my career making sure nobody could say I didn’t earn being here,” she admitted softly. “And somehow it still follows me anyway.”
Rain filled the silence briefly.
“Anyone who watches you work for five minutes knows you earned it,” Max said quietly.
Y/N looked at him fully then.
Simple. Honest. Like the answer had been obvious to him from the beginning. The honesty in his voice landed harder than she expected, maybe because he meant it so completely. And suddenly, she understood why this had become such a problem.
“You say things like that very casually,” she said softly.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
God.
Maybe that was the issue.
Max said sincere things like they weighed nothing. Like honesty came naturally to him. No dramatics. No expectations. Just truth.
Y/N looked away first, pulse suddenly unsteady for reasons she did not want to examine too closely.
“You’re exhausting,” she murmured quietly.
“I know.”
“And persistent.”
“I know.”
“And constantly in my timing room.”
“I think we established hours ago nobody’s stopping me.”
A reluctant laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Small. Brief. Real. The quiet beside her shifted almost instantly. Y/N glanced over. Max had gone completely still.
“What?”
“That,” he said carefully, “might be the first time I’ve heard you laugh properly.”
Heat crawled into her chest.
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“You still laughed.”
Y/N became aware of everything all at once; the rain against the windows, the glow of telemetry across the monitors and of how close he’d drifted beside her at some point during the conversation.
Not enough to matter.
Just enough that she noticed it anyway.
And Max looked at her for a second too long before finally glancing back toward the rain-streaked windows overlooking pit lane.
That somehow affected her more than if he’d kept staring.
The way he kept showing up back beside her between stints like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way he listened. The way somewhere between weather projections and overnight strategy calls and exhaustion settling into her bones, she had started expecting him to.
Oh.
That was a problem.
The timing room door opening was what finally broke the silence between them.
“You’re good,” her relief engineer said carefully from the doorway, visibly trying not to look directly at either of them. “I’ve got it from here.”
Y/N cleared her throat immediately before standing from her chair.
“Everything’s updated,” she said evenly, already reaching for the reports beside the monitors.
Her relief’s eyes flicked once between her and Max.
Said absolutely nothing.
Which somehow felt worse.
Y/N grabbed her coffee with a tired exhale.
“Whatever,” she muttered. “Goodnight.”
Then she walked toward the hallway without looking back.
Y/N glanced over her shoulder as they moved through the quieter upstairs corridor overlooking the garages below.
The farther they got from the timing rooms, the quieter it became.
Less radio chatter.
Less movement.
Just fluorescent lights humming overhead and the distant sound of engines carrying faintly through the structure.
Y/N finally stopped outside the smaller upstairs room her side of the engineering team rotated through overnight; somewhere engineers attempted sleep, coffee cups multiplied faster than people, and alarms would inevitably start going off again too soon.
Max had stopped too.
“You know this isn’t your resting room, right?”
Max leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall.
“I know.”
“Then why are you following me?”
He looked at her for a second like the answer should have been obvious.
“Because you talk to me normally.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Not because they sounded romantic.
Because they sounded honest.
Downstairs, cameras still followed him everywhere he went. Reporters still crowded garage exits waiting for glimpses of him between stints. The entire paddock still bent around Max Verstappen like he was something larger than life.
Up here, Y/N had spent the entire weekend telling him his strategy choices were stupid and threatening to throw him out of her timing room.
Max looked exhausted beneath the fluorescent hallway lights.
Not the version the media saw.
Just a tired driver standing in a quiet Nürburgring hallway at three in the morning looking at her like she was the first normal thing he’d had all weekend.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Something warmer crossed Max’s expression then.
Like she finally understood.
And she did.
Y/N pushed open the resting room door without another word.
Max followed her inside immediately.
The room was dimmer than the timing office, lit mostly by soft overhead lights and the faint glow of Nürburgring floodlights filtering through rain-streaked windows. A couch sat against one wall beside abandoned blankets and half-finished coffees.
For the first time all night, everything felt quiet.
Just the distant sound of rain against glass and the muffled roar of cars somewhere out on track.
Y/N set her coffee down near the couch before turning back toward him.
Max hadn’t looked away.
“You know,” Y/N teased, “you could probably get actual sleep if you stopped following me around.”
“Probably.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“No.”
The laugh came before she could catch it, “what’s your problem?”
“I like being here.”
“Max….”
“No cameras.” Max responded quietly. “No media.” Another second of silence. “No one asking questions.”
His attention drifted briefly toward the rain-streaked windows.
“Just you.”
Not the assumptions that followed her into every garage and every paddock and every room she walked into.
Just her.
The version of herself she had spent years fighting to prove existed outside of everything attached to her name.
Max had seen that version immediately.
God.
That was the thing that got her.
Because Max Verstappen — impossible, frustrating Max Verstappen — had never treated her carefully because of who she belonged to.
Never softened things. Never looked at her like she needed something handed to her. Never asked her to be anything except herself.
Max moved closer.
Not a decision.
An offer.
His hand settled lightly against her waist, steady, like he was still waiting to find out if he was allowed.
She didn’t move away.
Warm. Quiet. The kind of thing that didn’t need to be dramatic to mean something.
Exhaustion and adrenaline still lingering beneath both of their skin after hours inside the chaos downstairs.
He kissed her like he half expected her to stop him.
Through the windows, rain kept going and Nürburgring kept going; indifferent, relentless, not waiting for either of them.
Up here, the world felt strangely still.
Just him.
Max pulled back first.
Not far.
Enough to breathe. Enough to give her the out if she wanted it.
“You should sleep,” she said.
“So should you.”
His expression shifted into something she didn’t have a word for.
God.
That.
“Y/N—“
She kissed him again before he could finish the sentence.
The second one didn’t have the same patience as the first.
The tension and lingering glances and one too many conversations finally collapsing into something neither of them seemed interested in pretending wasn’t happening anymore.
Max’s fingers found the hem of her shirt slowly, like he was still giving her time to change her mind. She didn’t. He pulled it over her head and the cool air of the room touched her skin all at once. He looked at her for a moment; not long, just enough; and she felt it low and warm before she reached for his jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. He helped her with his shirt after that. It joined hers somewhere on the floor.
When he kissed her again it was different than before.
She went backward as he guided her, the couch catching her at the backs of her knees. He came down with her; without breaking the kiss.
The couch was barely wide enough for both of them. He shifted her legs around his waist, elbows bracketing her shoulders, and somehow they fit. His mouth moved from her jaw to her throat, to the hollow of her collarbone. She let her head fall back against the armrest.
” Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his thumbs resting at the waistband of her jeans. She answered by pulling him closer.
He laughed, the sound vibrating against her throat, and undid her jeans. She lifted her hips as he pulled them off with her underwear, and then she was bare against the couch cushions, the cool air of the room finding every inch of her.
Her hands moved toward the fireproofs still loosely knotted at his waist before Max caught them gently.
“Hey,” his voice was quiet.
He waited until she looked at him.
Outside, the rain had gotten louder somehow.
“We don’t have to.”
She looked at him for a second.
“I know.”
“Y/N—”
“Max.”
Softer this time.
“I want to.”
Something in his expression shifted.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
He rose onto his knees and worked the fireproofs down, the fabric resisting once before giving way. She didn’t wait. Her hand found him, warm and already hard, and his breath caught sharply on a sound that seemed to surprise even him.
The sound did something to her.
The couch shifted when he settled back between her thighs. One hand guided himself. The other slid beneath her hip.
He looked at her once before.
“Ready?”
She nodded. Couldn’t speak.
One slow thrust.
They both went still.
The stretch of him. The fullness. His forehead dropped against hers and she felt his jaw working, the effort of holding himself there, not moving yet, giving her time she almost didn’t want.
” Okay?” he whispered.
She answered by moving first.
His breath left him.
“Move.” Her voice came out smaller than she intended. “Max. Please.”
He did.
Slow at first. Careful. The kind of careful he’d been with her all night, which somehow made it worse—made everything sharper and quieter and more than she’d been prepared for.
The rain helped. Steady against the glass. Something to focus on that wasn’t his jaw or his hands or the sounds he was making low in his throat.
“You’re so—“ He stopped. Pressed his mouth to hers instead. Like he couldn’t finish it.
She understood.
“Faster,” she managed.
She felt him lose the last of his patience then. The rhythm broke open into something urgent and unsteady and she stopped trying to muffle the sounds she was making. Her head fell back against the armrest. He found the angle that made her gasp and stayed there, relentless, his mouth finding her throat, her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder—marking her in ways she’d have to think about hiding under her team kit soon.
“ Close,” she gasped, her breath hitching as his hips snapped against hers. He groaned against her neck, his rhythm stuttering.
He murmured against her neck, “Me too. Let go for me, liefje.”
His accent thick with exhaustion, the Dutch rolling off his tongue like a secret. Fuck. That was playing dirty.
His hand found the space between them.
She stopped breathing.
Then forgot how to entirely.
The white came fast and quiet and she heard herself say his name like it had always belonged there in her mouth, like she’d been saying it her whole life.
Max wasn’t far behind.
She felt it. All of it. His exhale against her throat. The way he stilled. The way he held on.
Neither of them moved and the room settled quietly around them again.
The rain had softened sometime during the last hour. Just the occasional sound now. Tires somewhere below cutting through wet asphalt.
Max lay beside her on the narrow couch, one arm tucked beneath her shoulders.
Neither of them spoke.
Didn’t need to yet.
“You okay?” he asked eventually.
Low. Careful.
Like he’d been careful with her all night.
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“You sure?”
“Max.”
“Right.”
She felt him exhale quietly against her hair.
A small silence settled again.
Comfortable this time.
Outside, another set of headlights disappeared through fog somewhere below.
“What time is it?” Max asked.
Y/N reached for her phone.
The screen lit.
Oh no.
“Max.”
“What?”
She turned the screen toward him.
Silence.
“... Oh.”
“Your next stint—“
“I know.”
“My relief—“
“I know.”
A beat.
“Professionally,” she said, “this is a disaster.”
“Massively.”
Neither of them moved.
“You followed me upstairs.”
“You let me.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
She really, really didn’t.
That was information she was absolutely not processing right now.
“Come on.” She pushed herself upright first, because one of them had to. “Race isn’t finished.”
Max groaned quietly into the couch cushion. Something between a laugh and a sigh.
“Cruel.”
“Professional.”
“Same thing.”
Y/N didn’t answer that.
Reached instead for discarded layers. Pulled herself back together. Didn’t look at him while she did it because she already knew what his hair looked like and she didn’t need that information again right now.
Behind her, Max did the same.
Quiet.
Unhurried.
Like he had all the time in the world even though they absolutely did not.
Neither of them spoke much after that.
Didn’t need to.
Just the quiet sounds of a stolen hour putting itself away.
Downstairs, Nürburgring kept moving.
Unfortunately.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
By five-thirty, Nürburgring had changed forms again.
The rain had disappeared.
Fog still clung low across sections of track, thinner now than it had been hours earlier, headlights no longer disappearing completely into white but instead cutting pale streaks through mist hanging over asphalt.
The overnight chaos had settled into something quieter.
Not gone.
Just quieter.
The specific kind of quiet that lived inside hour nineteen of a twenty-four hour race.
More exhausted.
The kind of exhaustion that lived in cold coffee and someone’s playlist bleeding thinly through a laptop speaker two desks over.
Y/N sat back in her chair in the engineering room and stared at the monitors.
Sector times.
Weather updates.
Fuel projections.
Normal things.
Familiar things.
Things that did not follow her upstairs and lean against her workstation and make her forget what she was supposed to be doing.
Safe.
Which was exactly why she’d thrown herself back into it the second they’d returned upstairs.
Work made sense.
Work followed rules.
Work did not have stupid pretty eyes and a Dutch accent that got thicker when he was exhausted and absolutely no business looking like that under fluorescent lighting at three-thirty in the morning.
“Track’s drying faster than expected.”
Y/N glanced briefly toward another engineer.
“Sector one still damp.”
“Not for long.”
“Still enough.”
The engineer lifted both hands and went back to his screen.
“Fine.”
Quiet settled back over the room.
Good.
She needed quiet.
Outside the glass, mechanics moved through garages below with the particular kind of exhaustion that only existed at Nürburgring.
Cars continued cycling endlessly through the twenty-four hour machine Nürburgring became overnight.
Practiced.
Automatic.
Like her.
She was fine.
Completely fine.
Beside timing data in the corner monitor—
Car 3.
Y/N looked away.
Looked back.
Looked away again.
The telemetry didn’t care. It just kept scrolling.
Annoying.
Car 3 moved through sector four. Caught briefly in traffic behind a GT3 running wide. Yellow flag. Gone. Clear.
Then through the next sector. Clean exit. Good pace. Entirely unremarkable.
Normal.
Completely normal.
Completely, entirely, infuriatingly normal.
“You’re staring.”
Y/N nearly dropped her coffee.
“I’m working.”
“By staring at Car 3.”
“I work strategy. I literally watch cars.”
“Sure.”
“I do.”
“Mhmm.”
“I will actually end you.”
Somewhere behind her, quiet laughter rippled through two or three people behind her. She didn’t look. She already knew the faces.
Traitors.
All of them.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
By six-thirty, the sun had started making a halfhearted attempt at existing. It wasn’t really sunrise so much as the sky getting tired of being dark; a slow grey watercolor bleed at the treeline, the kind of morning that arrived apologetically after a long night and didn’t pretend to be anything more than that.
Y/N dragged a hand across her face and pulled another weather projection onto the monitor.
Track evolution improving.
Grip increasing.
Visibility stabilizing.
Finally.
She exhaled, letting the relief tingle through her fingers. Then footsteps approached behind her.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
She knew the exact weight of them by now.
No.
Absolutely not.
“You’re back.”
“Noticed that, did you.” His voice carried that smirk she could almost hear.
She kept her gaze fixed on the data, refusing to look over her shoulder.
“Shouldn’t you be in the drivers’ room?”
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere that isn’t here at six in the morning?”
“That’s not how engineering works.” she shot back, watching the forecasts cascade across the screen.
“Mm.”
He dropped into the empty chair beside her like he’d been doing it for years. Like the chair had always been his. Like the two feet of space between them was a totally normal and professional amount of space.
It wasn’t.
She caught the faint bruise at the base of his neck, the kind she was fairly certain she’d put there hours ago. She swallowed, eyes flicking back to the screen. No distractions. Focus.
“Still don’t understand how you people survive this.”
“You drive race cars at two hundred miles an hour in the rain.”
“Different.”
“It really isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“Okay.”
She heard him exhale. Almost a laugh. Not quite.
She hated that she knew the difference.
Something appeared beside her keyboard.
“Coffee.”
She looked down.
A cup sat beside her keyboard.
She hadn’t heard him set it down.
Already there.
Oat milk, from the smell of it.
Correct.
“Thanks.”
“Very enthusiastic.” He watched her with that half-smile, arms crossed casually.
She met his gaze.
“I said thank you.”
“With tremendous feeling.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“I know.”
Quiet settled between them, comfortable and heavy and full of words left unsaid. Y/N loaded another weather model.
Beside her—
Max leaned in, steady and silent with eyes focused on the monitors. Like he belonged there. Like the timing room had always had a chair for him specifically, and he’d simply been waiting for someone to point it out. Like none of it; bruises, the act, the raw weight of their half-spoken tension; had changed a thing. Which somehow felt even bigger than if it had.
“You know,” she murmured after a beat.
“Hm?”
“This feels professionally irresponsible.”
“Massively,” he agreed quietly.
“If my father finds out about this—”
“He won’t.”
“You sound very confident.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
“Good?” His head tipped, curious.
She tilted her head. “Means you’re as responsible as I am.”
“Interesting strategy.”
“You drive for a Mercedes partner team.”
“And you do strategy for Mercedes.”
“Not your Mercedes.”
“Still Mercedes.”
“My father’s mercedes.”
Another small silence.
“He has opinions about dating in the workplace.”
“Most people do.”
“Drivers specifically.”
Max glanced sideways at her.
“Does he.”
“Mm.”
A beat.
“You’re not going to tell me what they are.”
“Absolutely not.”
Something shifted at the corner of his mouth.
She looked back at the monitors.
Car 3 moved cleanly through sector two.
She was aware of exactly how close his shoulder was to hers.
Annoying.
Deeply annoying.
Outside the glass, Nürburgring was still pulling itself out of the dark the way it always did at this hour; reluctantly, incrementally, fog thinning at the tree line while the floodlights over pit lane still burned white against a sky that hadn’t fully committed to morning yet.
Beside her, Max reached over and adjusted the angle of her secondary monitor approximately two degrees.
about the reading: charles leclerc is the heir of a wealthy and influential royal family. but where his head has to be, his heart tugs him in a whole another way. which maybe will end up with more trouble and scandal then he already has on his head.
cards contained in this reading: royal!charles leclerc x fem!of creator!reader, 9,9k words, mentions of arrogant royals and humiliation, mentions of hyperventilation, angst, lots of conflicts, smut, oral f receiving, unprotected p in v
a/n: are we ready for the grand final???? yes, you waited sooo long, so you get a juicy long part. hope you like it, have fun reading 🫶🏻💋 part 2
the morning couldn’t have come earlier and charles felt a very bad foreshadowing in the pits of his gut. he didn’t look disheveled. well, not per se. a normal person could have not told what he was up to. he still looked like that put together prince, even while navigating the early pale blue morning streets from your apartment over to the absurdly big and pompous mansion.
he tried to be quiet. he really did. but the door was too loud, giving away his arrival. the footsteps on the polished marble felt deafening and the brush of taking his jacket off was piercing. arriving in the spacious dining room, nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him. and if he didn’t got fucked properly last night, then he sure will be now.
"where have you been, charles?" alexander asks, his tone leaving absolutely no room for bullshit or arguments. he definitely has had enough of excuses and stupid apologies from his eldest son who does absolutely anything as it seems but worry about his or monaco’s future.
arthur sits by the table beside his father, avoiding charles eyes like it’s the flu itself and charles gets a deja vu. he knows arthur wouldn't tell on him. he would never do that. but he also doesn’t know how much the younger told. his father probably noticed the absence of charles and his black ferrari sooner than preferred, so he had to push the only one who probably knows where charles was. and that was arthur who had always covered for him in situations like this. plenty of times, like alexander would say. but for charles it was only the third time…
anxiety runs down his spine like cold ice would on a hot summer day and freezes him in the doorway. caught red handed, charles eyes bounce from his father to his younger brother then back to his father. it’s a chill over and over again, watching alexander stern, regal and waiting. he hates this situation and yes he wishes he wouldn’t have to do go through it again.
arthur slumps in his chair, praying that charles can handle this. the clearing of the olders throat is too loud in the room. "i… i was out…" charles stammers, his voice less confident than he would have liked. he can feel his fathers disapproving gaze, cutting though him like a blade. "got some air… needed to clear my head."
"i don’t believe you," alexander says immediately, not even letting charles explain properly. explain something that is false. he doesn’t need to hear more of it. "you want to tell me you were out for a whole night? you think i am dumb? who were you with? what did you do? did you spend your money on whores and cocain?"
charles swallows hard, and arthurs head snaps up. arthur knows that this is far from the truth. but it’s what the tabloids believe. it’s what alexander believes. and yes, it hurts that the older never got the space to explain. and maybe he never will. soo arthur stays quiet, not daring to interrupt their father.
"i was not doing whores or cocain… father i was-" the words are carefully chosen, voice kept on a low even though charles slowly feels like he might burst. it’s no wonder his father is like that. and if he put himself in his shoes, he’d react the same. however, his father would never understand what charles felt. not the last time, and not this time. simply because it’s none negotiable. falling for a commoner? a nightmare.
"where?" alexander pushes, running out of patience that was already hanging on a thin thread fast. "with who? you don’t take this live seriously, charles! when will you understand that you need to marry a good woman and finally settle down. your folks are waiting for you to finally grow up!"
it’s the harsh truth he’s hit with sometimes. the truth that pulls him out of his fantasy life that allows him to have fun. to feel alive. to love whoever he wants. and yes, to be dominated. but really it’s the core feeling he gets. last night rushes back and he knows how he felt. praised, appreciated, someone else taking the lead for the first time and allowing him to be brainless. but that is not his reality. and he knows he can never allow himself to live that reality.
"i understand my responsibilities, father" charles reasons, trying to convince his father and himself even more that he do understands. that he can lead this life. that he is able to be all that and more. it’s the moment he feels arthurs eyes on him. the silence that stretches and the exact moment both brothers know that flames start to rise from a little white lie charles just poured gasoline on. "i met someone!"
the younger princes eyes widen and he can’t even look away anymore. it’s like a horrible accident. and it sure feels like one. charles did say this on accident. he had to. it surely was not meant to slip out, right? or is he digging his own grave before his own brothers eyes?
alexander raises a suspicious brow and leans back in his royal seat. he studies charles for a suffocatingly long time, looking him up and down. the tense posture, large nervous eyes, sweaty palms he rubs on his jeans. a king knows when someone is like that. and weirdly, alexander is intrigued. "you met someone."
"yes," charles confirms, his voice resembles something close to determination. it’s all or nothing. and maybe it’s stupid. but it could work like this. he tells his father your name. first name and last name, making it sound a little more velvety. a little more softer. a little less dominatrix. "she’s a good girl."
"define good girl," alexander prompts, not giving up so easily on this newly discovered secret. he has to make sure charles knows there is absolutely no space for more bullshit. oh and he knows. or he wouldn’t be searching for the absolute right words. his mind is reeling. he can’t just say how you’re a beautiful, hot dominant woman who shows herself half naked to the whole internet. well, thats anything but a good girl.
"she’s pure. innocent. she... she studies… law!" charles stutters, and fuck it he knows he is stuttering. but after all he’s telling the truth. half truth. the law thing is true. "and... her family is from st. tropez. she moved here to study and is a very smart and polite girl."
the situation grows significantly worse. and while arthur hasn’t prayed since middle school, he knows he is praying now for charles safety. because he came to know too, that this is anything but you.
"you want to tell me you met a nice and polite girl?" his father asks skeptically, hand rubbing the stubble on his jaw in discomfort. "is she fitting our standards?"
this is the moment of truth. he has to sell this so good, that there is no doubt left. yes, he is trying to do the impossible. "yes,“ he answers firmly, locking eyes with his father, feigning absolute confidence. "she fits every single standard. she comes from a good family, maybe not a royal one but still… a good family. she has manners, she knows her place. she’s exactly the kind of woman who will make a perfect future princess…“
"where did you meet her?" oh god, charles thinks, alexander knows how to torture people. he must have been a king in his past life too. think…. fast...
"at the university library," charles lies smoothly. maybe too fast. but it’s an answer. "you know i have been there a few months ago for a motivation speech for the younger generation… we met and hit off immediately."
alexander is quiet for a very long moment. it’s almost eery at how he stares at his eldest son. the boy who has lost his right to be trusted because he took it for granted is now telling him he met a suitable wife. it’s stupid. and absolutely absurd. so he starts to laugh. a breathy, cigar soaked laugh that he has to wipe off with a hand.
and charles just stands there. clueless to what is so funny when the lie was smooth and obviously good. like... come on.
"are you lying to me, charles?" he asks once he calmed himself down, a faint smile still on his lips. it’s more petty than actually kind. "no, father." charles answers immediately. and he regrets everything he said in a heartbeat.
"fine..." the king nods, standing up and patting off dust from his already perfect suit jacket. "if you’re not lying and this girl is…. real, you bring her along to the fundraiser gala…“
charles blood runs cold at the suggestion. more like an instruction. and he knows his father is not playing around. he looks at charles with the same eyes just colder, more calculated, giving him an out. but he won’t back down. no. he would be crazy.
"yes, father" he answers confidently, making the old man huff. "i’m telling you… if you mess this up? it will have consequences! and lord grace you mercy because i won’t.“
the prince nods solemnly, taking in every shade of cold in that look he’s been shot with. the weight of the threat hangs heavy between them, and charles knows exactly that one wrong move could mean disinheritance, exile… or worse.
realising he is not answering he clears his throat fast. "i understand father. i won’t let you down."
his father gives him one long look before he brushes past his eldest son and leaves the room. leaving the two brothers standing there surprised and speechless. they look at each other, none of them daring to say anything to the other for a heartbeat. two. then arthur stands up, making sure their father is really gone before closing the heavy mahogany doors and turning to charles.
"did you go insane? completely crazy and out of your mind???" his brother whisper shouts, feeling like even the walls have ears in this moment. last night must have actually been wild for charles, arthur thinks. he must have hit his head hard on your headboard, or maybe you hit him hard enough with your whip or whatever sick shit you’d use. but absolutely no explanation could make sense from what just happened.
charles lets out a shaky breath, placing a hand on his beating heart in an attempt to stop it racing. not that it would have helped anything. and it’s not getting better by the wide eyed worried younger sibling in front of him. "shut up, arthur. i know what i’m doing." he tries, avoiding that piercing gaze.
"you know what you really doing??“ the other pushes, making sure he heard him right. because there is no way in hell he did. "you just made sure our father meets a dominatrix who’s dragging you by your dick and you sold her as the perfect princess?? you have got to be kidding me!"
okay, now that arthur says it, it does indeed sound crazy. but he shakes his head, holding a hand up in an attempt to calm him "look… she wanted to come and see what it’s like anyways… father doesn’t have to know things are not like promised… i promise you it’s going to be fine… i have a plan."
the door opens in this moment, and a pretty woman walks in with a smile. kissing her son’s cheeks and shutting their conversation short. she cups charles jaw, offering him a toothy smile. "can’t wait to meet the girl who’s got you soft." great. she already knows too.
its affectionate. gentle. and so different from their fathers. charles mother was always the more hearty one. and arthur is sure that his brother inherited that big heart and emotions from her. "you really like her, huh?“
catherine seems to have caught up on it already. well, she heard it from her husband but also imagines you must be pretty important to charles if he brings you around to such an occasion. charles expression grows gentle and calmer at his mother’s words. he nods. shamelessly. because he knows he does. his stupid heart fell too fast. once more.
"if you’re happy i am too, baby," she says, sitting down by the table where her coffee and breakfast is served. and the prince only nods, leaving and pulling out his phone. hands sweaty when he finds your contact to text you. the urge to talk to you, yet the anxiety to do so are polar opposite. but you need to be prepared. especially mentally.
…
only a few days later are you able to meet him again. charles rings your door bell, and when you open you see him with a big bouquet of roses and a nervous smile. a smirk spreads on your lips, trying to ignore the embarrassing leap your heart does at the sight of his handsome face. right now, he looks every inch of the prince he is. kind, soft and a gentleman right at your doorstep.
"all gentleman now?" you tease him, stepping aside to let him in. he hands you the roses you take with a kiss on his cheek as a thank you, before walking ahead. "yeah... something like that…" he answers, watching your ass sway in those loose linen pants you’re wearing. fuck it, he wants to see it bounce again… not now
"you have to see this!" you say, placing the roses on the counter and turning your laptop to him. the onlyfans page is open, but from an angle he has never seen before. stats, going straight up and millions of views. and it’s your video. your shared video where he was completely under your mercy and he loved it. for a short moment he forgets why he came in the first place.
"is that…" he mutters in disbelief, leaning in to watch the information. and indeed, it went viral. "yeah, it is." you giggle, leaning into him and getting drunk off of the smell of yves saint laurent. "the people go crazy! they wanna know who this hot man with the big dick is," you say, pocking his side and earning red cheeks from him.
and besides your banter he actually takes a moment to scroll through comments. it’s him. him the people want. submissive, hot and shamelessly horny charles. not prince, responsibility, serious charles. it’s who he is and who he likes to be. free. a piece of freedom.
"you and i? we’d make bank! probably more than you’re making as a royal now!" your joke brings him back down to earth like a ufo just crashed. charles snaps out of it, and looks at your enthusiastic face. god... you probably never ever going to talk to him after this.
"yeah… yeah… probably… look, we need to talk about something." the attempt is brushed off quickly by a shake of your head and a laugh. "yeah, we do! you gotta tell me if you want to join me! you had fun too so it’s a win win… also you’d had more freedom."
Freedom. what a foreign concept for someone who is supposed to live the high life with a status like that. he ponders it for a minute, and hates how good it sounds coming from you
you turn back to your laptop, dismissing him in a quick hand gesture. "i’m sure it would but…“ charles steps closer, a hand on your arm to pull your attention back to him. "it’s… it’s probably not that easy…" your name on his lips is indeed like velvet. soft chocolate melting with that accent, you look back at his awaiting eyes.
you notice something is off and frown. "it’s fine," you reassure. "you don’t have to worry about details. we’ll continue without face, you get a stage name and identity and all… believe me, i'm the best person for this."
charles jaw tightens a little. it does annoy him that you won’t listen to him. or maybe he’s just too pressed to wait for you to shut up. "no!" he says determined, earning your eyes on him finally. oh, and that's the future monarch talking. standing tall here before you and catching you with one simple word. "i.. cant just be a faceless pornstar on the internet. i have responsibilities, a reputation and…. soon a very public relationship."
"of course you can, it’s just…" you try to dismiss him again, but your heart feels heavy when the words leave his mouth. you halt immediately, searching his eyes for a hint or a clue. or anything like that. "a public relationship?"
you cant believe him. so the rumors are true about this player prince. a few days prior he let you fuck his brains out and now he has a public relationship? is he fucking kidding you? is this your punishment for letting someone close to you again? your last relationship ended a long time ago and while you’re confident on the internet you like to hand pick the men you date. yet it feels like you picked wrong.
"yes, a public relationship. with someone who is… appropriate for my status and positions." charles pauses, letting the words sink in before delivering the final truth. "we're attending a gala together."
you take a moment, two, before closing your laptop and turning to look at him. your kitchen feels suddenly so small and weirdly suffocating with charles in the room. with prince charles in the room. maybe he was right, once people know who he is, he’s is someone else.
"a gala?" you repeat. slow. like your digesting. sure he didn’t mean you as in your person… right?
but his expression remains serious, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his ralph laurent clad chest. "yes, a gala. a fundraiser to be specific. a very important one with very important people. and i need a very important woman on my arm…" his gaze is never leaving yours, watching realization dawn on your face. you’re about to be introduced to the royals.
"i… i might or might not have told my father that i have a smart law student from a good family and that she’s polite and the perfect material for an obedient wife…"
silence stretches uncomfortably when you just stare at him. just like arthur did. and his father… and probably how everyone will once you arrive in the lions den too. if you arrive. he can’t sound that crazy… it’s a simple plan.. but it’s not what you think.
"you.... what?“ you question, having the strong feeling that something must be wrong with your ears. you keep misunderstanding his bullshit. "i had to tell him something!" he says defensively, turning around to pace the small living room a bit. "and... and you said it yourself! you're studying law… and… and your parents are respectable!"
"you better not thought of me when you fucking said that!" you point out, making charles sit down on your sofa and look up at you with guilty puppy eyes. you almost fold. almost. "you have to be fucking insane! what were you thinking? i am not some fancy eye candy! i am not an obedient stupid housewife and i am definitely worth more that just a nice accessory on your arm!
charles watches you walk over to your window, the setting sun illuminating your profile. you’re so gorgeous it hurts. he knows that. he knows you are more than that. you are smart, resilient, character strong. but nonetheless his heart is sinking. he is handling this poorly, but he didn’t expect such a strong reaction.
"is that what this gala is just about too? fancy, rich, royal people?" you question, having a hard time to keep your temper in check at the stupidity of the situation. but you see his gaze again. it’s the same he had before. the same he had when he was already honest to you the first time. and you know this is not the life he wants to live. he just wants to play a part. play a part to fit in. to make room, to give himself time. and this is not woven out of bad intensions. especially not towards you and your character.
"look..." he starts once you give him the air to breathe. "yes, it’s a gala for royal families and high-class businessmen. my father suspected me when i came home that last time. i panicked. i told him i met my future wife. and i know it sounds crazy. it is… but he expects me to bring you around. expects to meet you."
"meet me?“ you ask, a little calmer now but still in disbelief. "who is me? because the woman you described is not me, charles… and you fucking know it."
hell yes he knows it. and your curses are not helping the situation. but he needs this. needs you. to safe his ass and help him out. no matter how this is going to end, he can’t loose this now.
"please... just for the evening… a am begging you," charles stands up, walking around the small coffee table to stand by your side. "the woman i described is the woman i want you to be… even if it’s just for that stupid fundraiser. for my father… for the press. please, you can act like a perfect princess and if that's the reason you never wanna see me again after that weekend than fine, so be it… i won’t be mad."
he won’t be mad. but he will be torn. he has to accept it if you’re gonna be mad and disappointed in him. and he has to accept to never feel your skin on his, to never kiss you again and to never love on you like you’re the only thing that makes sense.
when he has your attention again, he tries to lighten the mood. a small effort. "you wanted to see my world too…“
you roll your eyes at that, but there is definitely less heat to it that you had before. "shut up," you snap half heartedly and fixing your gaze into the distance. so what? at least you could cross playing princess in real life from your bucket list. a false princess. you can play roles, you already proved that.
when your eyes meet, charles looks expectant. awaiting and afraid. he knows he’s asking to much. asking you to change just to fit in. even if it’s just for one evening. even if he likes you just the way you are. and he knows what you’re thinking. changing to fit in. it’s what he does everyday.
"fine," you sigh defeatedly, inspired by the odds and curiosity of it. "i’ll be your princess and future wife."
the relieved smile that spreads on charles face is so stupid that it’s almost sweet again. you already realised he can be foolish. realised he likes to test walking near the edge and realised how much you love when he is so naive it’s near cute again.
and charles didn’t think. his heart beats your name when he takes your head in his hands and presses a kiss to your forehead. "thank you!" he cheers, pulling you into a bear hug that you reply with an unintentional laugh. head on his chest your fingers curls slightly into his back like you could hold on to him. like you want to hold on to him. ike having him here is an anchor, taking all your mental load away. and maybe it is meant to be like this. two unfitting pieces in a world full of expectations, finding a way to beat together as one.
…
"i look like a doll..."
the glare you shoot the prince is bitter as you stand on the grand staircases, ready to enter the palace.
charles had this brilliant idea that arthurs girlfriend, sophia, could cosplay you as a good royal princess. and she did a great job, because if charles didn’t think you were the most gorgeous girl already, he sure can’t look away now. you look perfect, absolutely stunning and he’d rather have you in a whole another position than here right now.
the fundraiser gala is hosted by the leclercs every year, and plenty of royals are allowed to attend and introduce their fundraiser companies. inside, in the great hall, are small stands, flyers and staff of said companies, presenting the good deed that they want to reach with spent money.
outside, in the great gardens, is a bar, people already mingling, waiters in nice uniforms walking around and offering canapés and champagne on silver trays.
it’s something straight out of a movie, the golden lights, the high society, the fake laughter and measured looks that people give you the moment you step in. you keep walking beside charles, head held high and smile polite, lips not curling too much, eyes relaxed not too wide. it's how sophia taught you at least, so your job was too do exactly that.
"never look at the floor when you talk to my father," charles murmurs beside you, holding a hand on your lower back while you two walk through the crowd. he is greeting random people, shaking hands occasionally, but mostly he cant stop talking about the do’s and don’ts. you realise you’re not the only one being nervous.
"don’t offer him your hand to shake, don’t overlook him, that means don’t look past him at others he hates that too," he keeps going, eyes restlessly roaming the gardens. "oh and also never try to-"
"i’m going to be fine, charlie…" you smile softly, taking his hand in yours and coming to a halt before him. his hands shake a little, palms sweaty. you intertwine your fingers with him, giving him a deep long look.
it’s not the same look you gave him in that moody evening when he arrived at your apartment with questions. it’s not the same look you had when you took over control and he trusted you. although there is definitely the same determination in the nuance you have. no, it’s softer. it’s encouraging, and he knows it’s going to be fine. for now.
but the devil is closer than he thinks. a few moments later only does his father and his mother approach you, and first you only see a kind smile, gentle eyes, and a hand stretched out for you to take.
"hello, my dear," says his mother with a kind of compassion only a mother can have. she gives you a once over look, nodding approvingly. but not in an arrogant way because she can. but in a way that promises something she knows you don’t. "don’t you look amazing!"
you introduce yourself to them, the kings eyes trained on you with critisism and in an eerie calculated way. it’s like he looks straight through you. like he is searching for anything he can catch you with. a thin voice, an uneven statement. trying to catch you off guard with a striking questions. you can see his mother pokes his side sometimes as a silent warning but king alexander won’t loosen up his agenda only for someone he is pretty sure is an everyday simple girl.
but you won’t let yourself be talked down. you smile politely like taught, answer with devotion to your studies, prove him wrong at the views you have of politics and critical thinking of societies secrets. there is absolutely nothing that you could have done to leave a bad expression. your confidence is liked by his mother especially.
charles watches like a hawk and he hates how dissatisfied his father is. it's in the small crinkle of his nose whenever you voice an opinion catherine asks you about, his crossed arms or the doubt he leaves you with when you don’t get an answer when it’s your turn to ask.
catherine realizes the intense tension and even she feels like she can’t do more after a while. her hand on her husband’s arm as she shoots you and charles an apologetic look. "charlie cherie, why don’t you show the lovely lady around a little. show her the nicest places in the palace.“
the message is clear, and with a small wave you two are freed from the hard judgment of the king. you did it confidently, mastered it simply, yes but still you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding up until now.
you find yourself with charles at the bar, accepting another glass of champagne. "wow... thats gonna be a hard nut to crack," you comment, taking a sip while keeping eye contact with the brunette. charles huffs, his own hand shaking a little when he brings the cool whiskey to his lips, and you can’t help but wonder. why is he this nervous. you sure didn’t leave a bad impression. you spoke highly of monaco when his mother asked and after all you’re an educated smart woman. so what is it he’s so afraid of?
however you don’t have the time to ask when arthur comes around, stealing charles to meet someone important. an uncle or… was it someone else royal. you don’t mind, taking the time to walk inside and get a look at the fundraiser companies. you try to listen to a lot of them, take flyers and read a little through them.
there is one for an animal shelter, one for the building of more accessibility for disabled people so they can move in public places better, and you’re sure you even saw someone trying to keep rare species of flowers alive. they’re all truly amazing and you wish you could donate to them all. up until one certain stand catches your attention. the chatter of elder women draws your attention in, the center of the foundation no other than queen catherine.
"honestly catherine… why waste funds on commoners when we could support art instead? culture and that…" one woman says, grey hair in strict curls under a small sage green hat. her dark red lips curl in disagreement while she points the queen with a look. you frown a little, wondering why she would talk to someone highly with so much distaste.
queen catherines expression tightens but remains composed, clearly standing her ground firmly. "children’s education should never be a luxury. it’s essential. they’re our future," she points out, holding a small stack of flyers in her hand maybe with a little more grip than necessary. and you get the weird feeling she isn’t fighting this for the first time.
"please, catherine…“ the elder woman says with an eye roll. "you should really tell my son to fix the grand gallery. that needs more work then some commoner… schools… i didn’t abdicate to leave decisions like this to-"
"i’m sorry if i’m being disrespectful…" you sure heads never turned your way this fast. and suddenly you feel like you’re the only girl in the room. like a lamb in the lions cage. and maybe this is exactly what charles feels. can you really blame him for being nervous if every of his words and steps is analyzed?
"but education is important. and as someone who struggles to study and educate as a child… or at least my parents had to find a suitable way for me, i feel like it’s not something that should be taken lighthearted….“
the group falls silent, resistance clear in their faces while catherines eyes widen slightly. she’s taken aback by your sudden intervention and the raw honesty in your voice. except that she is nonetheless still on your side and gives you that exact space your speech deserves. the other noblewomen exchange shocked glances, clearly unprepared for such a bold statement from someone they assumed was part of a royal circle.
then they murmur and mumble, turning away from you and from catherine as well, suddenly acting like you’re not even there, making you feel closed out and most of all stupid. with evil giggles they scramble away, moving back out and over to the bar and you realise what kind of royals they are. arrogant and self centered. to say at least.
catherine approaches you slowly, her shoulders more relaxed now that the elders are gone. "excuse me," she starts, but you shake your head and raise your hand "i’m… i’m sorry… that was stupid. i’m a guest, i shouldn’t behave that way. it was thoughtless."
the queens smile widens and a hearty chuckle leaves her lips. “that was not thoughtless. it’s… them, that make you feel small." she motions with her head briefly. "you are correct. they think themselves better than everyone, but speaking one’s truth takes courage most of them will never have."
a soft hand comes to tilt your jaw up, nodding "and you’re right. you shouldn’t apologize for believing education matters.“
you smile at her kindness, heart warming that there is at least someone who seems to be a little human. it’s where charles probably has his heart from. all the while arthur has the determination from the king. a heartbeat passes, before you nod confidently. "i’d like to donate,“
You grab the check book and a pen from the table, ignoring catherines surprised look. “oh please you…. you really don’t have to." she tries, but it’s too late already. in a neat handwriting you have 10.000€ on the check in a heartbeat. like it’s nothing. like the sum is just another day spent for you, but fact is you make the amount in week if you want, and for what? for children to not fight for something simple and essential.
"please, i'd love to… o inherited from my grandmother… she would have loved for the money to go into a good place," you lie when you see the questioning look, and find yourself happy when she accepts it. she doesn't have to know. and the gesture is enough.
…
a few glasses of champagne later you find yourself suspicious of charles absence. it has been a while since you last saw him when he disappeared with arthur. the fundraiser has wined down inside, companies packing together, most have already left when you decide to go and take a look around.
you know you couldn’t be mad at him for leaving you. he has his duties and smiles to give and speeches to hold and impressions to make. you figured you’d be able to see him later in a much more compromising positions probably.
the royal hallways seem to be quiet up until a moment you make out an upset and a tense voice. pressed, impatient and the closer you try to get without being seen the clearer the words get. someones arguing.
the two agitated voices come from the end of the hallway right after the corner, one of which is unmistakably charles. he sounds frustrated, defeated even and has long given up after trying to prove a point. he might never make it right enough for his father. he will never be enough. "….please, father just… give her a chance…"
"a chance?" his father scoffs bitterly, like it’s the last thing he’ll do. like there’s nothing on this earth that could change his opinion about his son or you. "for what exactly? you think i buy that shit? that she’s a good girl and all that? she’s a commoner, thats what she is, charles. nowhere near suitable for you. nowhere near what you promised. again."
if you could get a dollar for every time you heard that word tonight, you might make more than with selling your panties. his father is mad. really mad. and he barely gives charles a breath to talk. but he tires. "she’s not like that, you don’t understand… not like angela. she’s different."
"different? or just better at hiding?" you cant help but peek over the edge of the wall. his father is raising his voice, and all you can see is a frightened boy who craves for something more meaningful and an old monarch with ancient expectations that simply don‘t fit this world anymore and into the heart of a son who just wants to love and be loved for what he is.
"you already dissapointed me once! i am sick of you! i am sick of your lies and of you not taking your responsibilities seriously!" his father says "it will have consequences! no more common girls and you have to understand why! i‘m arranging you a marriage!"
charles eyes widen and you feel your heart weirdly sink into the pit of your stomach. an arranged marriage? isn‘t that fucking dystopian. and does that mean you will actually never see him again? and suddenly, you feel his problem become significantly yours.
"no! you can‘t do that… i can‘t marry someone i don‘t love… you can’t cage me in more than you already do.“
"and you have to finally understand that the future of monaco is in your hands! and yes i am caging you in. i should have done it way earlier so the whole scandal wouldn’t have happened in the first place. sneaking out and sleeping with whores again? have you learned absolutely nothing?"
the last words cut like a knife. you have been called a whore before. it’s nothing new. but is this really what charles does? all the rumors and tabloids about him you discovered recently. are they actually true? did he lie to you? if the king himself says it it must be true, no?
charles just tries to gasp for air and the right words, but his father cuts him off. "this is my last word, charles! arranged marriage or you get disowned. and i don‘t care how you will get your life together after that! you brought another whore around and embarrassed us again! this was the last time!“
with that his father leaves in the other direction, leaving the prince standing speechless in the hallway at that ultimatum. arranged marriage or getting disowned? he doesn‘t know whats worse. trembling with anger and yes, anxiety now too, he feels the indescribable hurt crawl up his lungs and choke his throat. dark long fingers wrapping around them and denying him any sane thought.
footsteps echo as he makes his way up the marble staircase in a hurry, hands shaking and heart beating he fears he might faint from hyperventilating.
you bite the inside of the cheek, giving him a moment before following after him. carefully with wide wondering eyes you decide to slide your heels off to not make much sound. last thing you need would be to get thrown out if someone sees you up there. your heart clenches for him, never seen him in his environment like this.
and maybe that’s why you wanted to see his world too. you dared to say it‘s what you expected. it‘s what you suspected already that a polished looking world could be so ugly on the inside. with so much pressure and unreachable and unrealistic standards. he was born into this family, yet he is the most unfitting royal you have ever seen.
walking down the long hallway you see a large white door slightly ajar. pushing it open you see charles sitting on the edge of his big bed in this spacious bedroom. head hanging low, tension radiating off of him just like the long sigh that leaves his lips. hands drawing through his face and hair in an attempt to cool the heat that the anger had lit deep inside him.
"so this is the princes chambers you sent me your dick from?" you attempt at a joke, slipping inside once his head has turned and he has acknowledged you. a faint smile spreads on his lips, watching you lean against the door and close it with your back. you look so comfy in here. bare feet on the wooden flooring, heels tossing to the side when you walk up to him, letting yourself down on the expensive cotton sheets beside him.
a beat of silence, maybe two where he looks away from you again. "you heard that?" he then asks quietly, fingers tracing the lines of his dress pants absentmindedly. "all of it?“
the own curve of your lips fade and you nod. no point in lying. it’s why you’re up here. "yeah… all of it. didn’t mean to, sorry." you say the last part a little sarcastically, and he lets out a quick humorless laugh. oh he knows you’re not sorry at all. "sure...s
charles swallows, leaning his elbows on his knees. "arranged marriage or disinheritance. that‘s my future. and my father calling you a whore? yeah that was the highlight."
you watch his back rise and fall with every measured breath, debating how much he will reveal if you ask. still, curiousity will get the best of you. "why is your father so mad at you, charlie?" you then dare to ask, voice soft. unsure even. "why is it people call you a playboy… party animal… whatever."
he glances at you briefly, then sighs again, shoulders slumping. "because i gave them a reason to… it‘s a long story."
you smirk, tucking your legs underneath you, trying to fight the flowy fabric of the dress and not tear it, laying it out on the bed beside you. "we have time… unless you wanna go back to those stuck up royals down stairs?"
charles lets out a small laugh, and you feel a touch of relief that you manage to light his heavy heart a little. he then gives his head a shake. "god, no…"
leaning back a little so he can look at you better, even though he’s avoiding your eyes, he nods briefly. "alright uhm… you probably heard it all… i drink, i do drugs, i fuck around."
"and it’s not true…?" you try to make it sound like a question, but it comes out more as a statement. he appears all but these rumors. but royals also don‘t appear as this arrogant and narcissistic in public. well, you came to learn better of it today too.
"no," he admits quietly. "there was this girl. her name was angela and i knew her from school. a simple girl. she was nice, worked on the weekends at her uncles restaurant. well, a 'commoner' as my father would say. an ordinary family, but nice. the girl she was… pretty, she was kind and i- i stupidly fell for her i guess.“
the words tumble out of his mouth. a little complicated, a little thoughtful, a little slow. like he still relieves all the moments he could never tell you. he could never put it in words. even now you realise he has a hard time putting the pieces together and make it coherent for you. too much happened, in such a short time.
"you stupidly fell for her?" you repeat, encouraging him to keep talking and that you’d be here listening.
"yeah," charles runs a hair through his hair again, pulling slightly on the strands as he remembers. "i was young, stupid. i thought i was in love. we did a lot together, you know? i trusted her. i even considered marrying her."
the look he gives you is deep. hazel eyes, green dancing somewhere in between when he’s more emotional. you nod, it’s all that grounds him right now. and he is glad you’re not judging. he laughs shortly. without humor. like he himself can’t believe his own words and thoughts.
"I snuck out to see her, had arthur cover for me, lie for me… i risked a lot then already. a prince sneaking out to do what exactly? the thing ‘love‘ can’t exist for me. just my country, politics and making the right decisions… i then found out she lied to me about a lot of things. used me. wanted this and that… i bought her everything she asked for. she wanted me close, then pushed me away. i caught another guy texting her phone when she left the room one night it… it was awful.“
there is a small silence. charles just recollecting himself and reviewing his mistakes like he himself is the reason of it all. like he was the stupid one. maybe stupidly in love. but you know it, you see it in his wandering eyes over the room that he blames himself for every moment, every second, every lie.
"i asked her about it, she got mad. manipulated me. then sold stories to the newspapers. stating i was sex obsessed, obsessed with her too. that i couldn’t function without her. that i was this…. wild uncontrollable prince who would do anything to be liked. she painted me as this spoiled brat who couldn’t handle rejection. and then she dumped me. leaked private photos and videos of us at stupid school parties. it’s where the alcohol and drug rumors came from… my father was furious."
your eyes soften when you hear the whole story. he cuts it short, but it must have been way messier. and having something happen like this for a social and public person must have been the death of him. you can‘t imagine how he must have felt. being betrayed by someone he loves like this. publicly too. It‘s disgusting.
"humiliated the entire family. the scandal was massive. front page news for weeks," his voice is heavy with resignation. "ever since then, my father watches every move. every woman i speak to is automatically a gold digger or a whore in his eyes. and me?" he laughs bitterly. "I became a slave of a life that i never wanted. it’s stupid… i know…“
you shake your head immediately one he finished speaking, hand shooting out to cup his cheek and tilt his face to you. "hey, no… it’s not stupid," you say with a determination he almost believes. but when you sit here, so beautiful and confident, not sizing him up after all his mistakes. it does make him believe he has a piece of heaven with you.
"you got fucked over by a greedy bitch. you were brave enough to love and to fight for it… thats not stupid."
charles grows putty in your hands. face tilting to your touch, like a cat nuzzling right into you. he double checks your glance that is still on him after everything. after all this time, stories and after this night. he really put you out there for all these arrogant people and you mastered it. nonetheless there is still sincerity and understanding there. and he falls harder.
"you’re the only girl i texted on onlyfans by the way… it made me feel alive. giving up all the control and stuff..“
you chuckle at the sudden topic shift, tilting your head to analyze his features in the dimmed lights. so handsome, so obedient. like he has been destined to look at you just like this. yours.
"you like giving up control this much, huh?" your fingertips move through the chestnut strands, tugging slightly, earning a deep sound from within his throat. charles eyes flutter close briefly, before he looks at you half lidded.
"terrifying amounts…." he hums, voice low, careful. but he knows you’re the only one he can be true with. "my whole life is one big schedule… expectations, protocols, representing my country, being a role model… but with you… it’s different. it’s just you.“
"and you’re just charles.“ you repeat his words with a tenderness. just charles. the boy who loves too strong and lies badly. the boy who is a prince but a submissive at heart. growing weak at your touch but mind strong and confident in your presence. and then he decides.
"i dont care if my father disinherits me… so be it. i dont want this life. i want you. i love you."
the confession is heavy in the air between you. warm and charged with anxiety of being stupid and loosing all over again. he’s being thoughtless again. letting his heart lead and shutting his head off. and when you don’t say anything, he might think he played the game all wrong again.
but then you kiss him. leaning in to place wanting lips right on his awaiting ones. and he just knows that a kiss has never been this healing. never been this longing, never been this promising. the familiar chemistry between you spikes immediately, but there is something different now.
raw vulnerability in his touch, daring intention in yours. it’s not a role-play, not an act of who leads who. it’s organic. it’s natural and it happens so smooth, you don’t need an explanation for it. no words needed, and no excuses made. in the room where everything began, is only breathing, needy touches and words exchanged in real life time.
"take this dress off of me…." a command, maybe a little softer. a little more lenient. less dominant. but everything he needs to hear. "yes, ma’am…"
clothes get brushed off, tongues brushing on smooth skin, laced with panic sweat from previous conversations but now covered in hickeys and love bites. charles lays you down on the egyptian cotton, searching your eyes for command and approval. you just encourage him. words can’t be exchanged, don't need to.
your soft skin on his while his lips trail oh so slowly down. down your neck, over your collarbone, licking every nipple like his tongue is trying to memorize the exact hardness of each. the anticipant beating of your heart underneath his fingertips all the way down over that small piercing of your belly, and down to your pussy.
soaked already, eyes glazed with horny need as you watch him take what he wants. little greedy boy. trained well in reading signs and loving praise. the first lick earns him the loveliest moan, a buck of your hips, a tug of his hair.
"good boy… just like that…" it’s breathy, like you yourself need to put the words together. so reverent, charles is taking his time. sucking, kissing, teasing. then he’s worshipping you. your moans grow needier, echoing in the royal bedroom of the prince. and for a moment he wishes he could keep them there. trap them there, wishing to hear them the first thing in the moment and the last thing at night when his hand is wrapped around his cock just thinking of you. you. it’s always you. everything is you.
then he stops, and you almost scold him. warn him, hands shooting out to grip his arms and push him onto the bed. ready to ride him and make him whimper like the last time. but then his lips are on yours again. and you still. growing boneless into the mattress because you understand. he needs softness, understanding and backing.
his soul needs it. needs to feel commend and control in the same moment. needs to know what it is like to love and not be robbed in the next second. so you let him. parting your legs charles gets between them, holding them securely around his hips. cock hard, leaking on your belly, marking you as his. he needs this. needs you, grounding and anchoring.
but you nod nonetheless, and he takes both your hands to pin them above your head with one strong grip. he pushes inside, holding your hip down with the other and stretching you so deliciously, it feels like celebration watching your face contort in pleasure. this pleasure. his pleasure. the slow move of his hips is unsure and exploring. measured yet a little too eager.
"so good… charlie… you make me feel so good," your words end in a mewl and he knows he’s doing it all right. the nickname, the voice, your breathy moans. he sees it, feels it, catches it.
and above you? a young god. wide shoulders and small pants leaving his rosy lips. eyes struggling to stay open as your tight wet heat envelopes him like home. fuck it, you take him so well. so good, he almost praises you back. but you’re not there yet. right now, he just feels and bathes in you. all of you.
it’s hot and ascending. the pressure mounting in this delicious way that has you both make raw and needy sounds. burning like it knows it’s not supposed to. shamelessly having a mind of its own. an onlyfans model and a prince. both playing a character they don't feel. but not today. not right now. and you both know you don't need to. not when it feels this good and healing.
you cum first, legs wrapping tightly around him like you never want him to leave you alone. pulsing around him and milking him so perfectly, it only takes him mere seconds and he’s behind you. coming with a groan that is right by your ear, heart on heart when he collapses and lets go of your intertwined hands only to drive up your sides and feel how you’re still here. not vanishing, not on the screen, not in his fantasy. but here with him.
your arms wrap around him in a possessive gesture. like you want him to forget all the past people. all the past situations that done him wrong and feel just his heart whispering a promise to yours. you come down slowly, fingers tracing patterns on his overheated skin while his scent stays with you like a vow your souls had made up way before you met. it’s crazy… you know it too. but not when it feels this right. not when it makes you giddy every time, and then safe when you’re in his embrace.
"i love you," you answer. not becaus you have to say it. he did before. it’s different. not proving a point, but needing to voice something in the most simplest and softest ways already known to human kind. you allow to be vulnerable, and get rewarded when you look at him. you have him. and he has you. no need to act anymore.
…
the next morning is slow. a little hazy, a little blurry. you don’t recall right away where you are. blinking your eyes open, the gentle golden light filters through the large windows, painting the room in all its glory. you truly only now realise how big his room is. maybe like your whole apartment. a heavy body half draped over yours, sleeping peacefully with his hair in all directions. you pull him closer and he stirs, giving you two a few moments before reality will catch it from you again. tearing it out of your hands and making it its own.
you brought the clothes from sophia with you yesterday over to charles. leaving the dress there, the black hoodie he lend you swallows you almost whole, simple shorts when you decent the stairs together without a word. too afraid to break the delicate silence that will be broken for you soon enough.
the front door, foyer and dining room are connected in one, and you couldn’t have picked a better timing. the royal breakfast halts in all his movements, eyes watching you two like a crime scene, freezing just like you got caught too.
alexander looks first and charles then at you disapprovingly. arthur and aophia try to act like they didn’t even saw you two standing there, the fresh toast and eggs so much more interesting than the scene happening. it’s only catherine who stays quiet, watching with an unreadable glance over the rim of her fine china.
charles jaw clenches, hand staying on your back like he’s making a statement. finally bold enough and daring to follow his heart yet again.
"so you made your decision i see…" the king clears his throat, picking up his silver fork and knife again. "when you walk out that door don’t even bother coming back…"
you swallow, looking at charles to see his reaction. it stays firmly on his farther, unflinching. for a moment he looks like he is about to say something, but the queens cup slamming down on the long table gets even the youngers looks at the woman in disbelief.
"excuse me?" she asks her husband with force "what is this about?"
king alexander looks up, his expression flinching at the sudden furry in his wife’s eyes that are so similar to charles. he truly is his mother. he thinks for a moment, chooses his words carefully, but the stubborn king won’t just simply change his mind now. at least he thought.
"our son here seems to have chosen his life path. living with whore's like he wanted before already, over his city to this family and his country. if he wants to throw his life away with some whore, then so be it… he’s disinherited. effective immediately."
queen catherine sees red at the kings words. oh and he knows. his face turns into one of submission, and she hasn’t even said anything. no, her face tells it all. "atch your mouth right about now!" she warns, watching his shoulders hunch like a hurt animal. it’s that tone the queen uses. determined, dominant, and completely mercilessly, shamelessly her.
"you have no idea who you are talking about. this girl has more class than some of the royals we had at the fundraiser yesterday! she has a great heart, is educated and kind! how dare you talk about her like she’s the last human worth living. you should be ashamed."
oh and he is. the king is ashamed by getting called out in front of everyone. pride hurt, mask torn and ego in pieces. "b-but catherine… the… she’s… and charles he’s… i mean… all the things that happened?" he tries, but it’s clipped. he doesn’t really dare to say much, not when he’s under that glance. it’s frightening really. he never wishes anyone to be pinned by that look.
"everything that happened? oh for the love of god look at him… you really think he’s all that you believe? he’s a boy who loves hard and you’re just chasing some outdated rules about status in the palace! besides, have you forgotten who you married?“
the sudden silence is so thick, charles and you share a glance just like arthur and sophia do. the king, guilty, lowers his heads and lets the words sink in, making catherine nod. "that’s right… a commoner too. and why? because you loved me! even against all the odds. also, you see charles is not made for this life. you’ve got another son who has the perfect talent to obey all your duties and rules! so stop being stupid and let your sons be happy the way they deserve it!"
no one says a thing. too stunned to speak. the men at least. only a silent ’yes my queen’ from the normally so stubborn attention commanding king.
sophia gives you a look, a small smirk that makes you mirror it amused. she knows too, how much power women really hold. and how to use it right. catherine then nods at you, resuming her breakfast like they just happened to talk about the weather instead.
"off you go, we’ll talk about the rest later," she makes a hand gesture towards you and charles. "charlie, be a gentleman and drive the lady home."
charles doesn’t have the time to respond, your hand grabbing his and tugging him out of there. the soft morning breeze kisses his face and blows away tension that has been sitting in his chest for years. from one day to the other. from one moment to the other he is free. just like that. and when your smile stretches into the most beautiful one the moment you look back at him, he knows he has to thank you forever. his savior, his muse. and his object to all desires, love and passion. you saved him, in ways he has never thought you could.
summary: You're on Max's team for the 24h race at the Green Hell, but hell is what awaits you in the garage with Max pushing the boundaries of your patience just to get a kiss from you.
pairing: Max Verstappen x reader
note: Just a quick something, and it ends before what happened to them. Shit.
Twenty-four hours is a long time, even if you manage to take a nap between your stints in the car during the race here in the Green Hell. But whenever you want to focus, mentally prepare so you wouldn’t lose positions while it’s your turn in the car, your boss slash teammate keeps showing up like some sleep paralysis demon, trying to keep you entertained despite never asking him to do that. Still, behind closed doors, the two of you have been dating for about two months now.
It’s new, neither of you are planning to make it public anytime soon, especially since people might consider that you only got the chance to race with him here because you’re his girlfriend. That’s not the case, you were chosen before your first date, although sometimes a little voice in the back of your mind keeps telling you maybe he did this for you because he already fancied you.
Most of the time, though, you can get past this thought, just like now, when you’re more annoyed than self-conscious.
“Can you just stop?” you ask Max with a hiss when he corners you in the back of the garage, away from the cameras.
But not away from the rest of the team. A mechanic is munching on a protein bar, watching the two of you with interest, while someone from the social team is keeping track of the events with a raised brow. You give your boyfriend a pointed look, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on its meaning, because he keeps trying to lean closer to you despite your effort to push him away from you.
It’s not like you don’t want to kiss him, you do, but not here, in front of all these people, risking being exposed by some vulture from the press. That was a ground rule of yours before the race – keeping a safe distance as if you were nothing more but teammates. Later? You’ll see, but now no one could find out the truth.
Max gives you a sad look as he decides to behave for a moment. “You’re mean,” he says with a disappointed sigh. “I brought us back to P1, didn’t I? I deserve a treat for that.”
“You do. Later,” you inform him.
With a wide grin, he folds his hands behind his back and takes a few steps away from you. “I’ll get that kiss before the end of the race,” he tells you, his words sounding more like a threat than a promise.
Rolling your eyes, you walk past him and head to the rest of the team that watches the race on the screens. You need to focus on this now, you can’t let his stupidly blue eyes avert your thoughts from what’s waiting for you when it’s your turn. If you fuck up, it will be up to him to clean up your mess, and he’ll surely hand you the check for that later.
• • • •
It’s cold in the middle of the night when you stand in the garage with the others to watch the race once again. You’re supposed to sleep for a few hours, but a little nap was enough considering you’re way too worried about Max who’s currently completing his last lap before getting out of the car. He did great as always, the team is back to P1 after your royal screw-up in your sixth lap, but you know how much risk he’s willing to take for gaining a position.
When he stops, you turn to him and watch as he debriefs with the crew, then he takes off his helmet as he walks over to you with a bright smile. “Am I good or am I good?” he asks with a laugh.
You let out a huff of a laugh as you shake your head, thinking how this looks like he was a peacock opening its feathers just to flatter you. “I won’t comment on that one.”
“Oh, come on,” he says, casually putting an arm around your shoulders with a wide, shit-eating grin on his face.
With a sigh, you look up at him, and while every cell in your body wants to kiss him, deep down you know being here with him like this, right in front of the army of reporters who want to have a word with him, is a bad idea. Without hesitation, you try to shrug his arm off, but he doesn’t let go, instead he gently grabs your shoulder to keep himself attached to you.
Max knows exactly what he’s doing, because he tilts his head a little with a hum. “Hey, don’t blame yourself, we’re back in the lead, okay? I had a nice save or two, but that was pure luck I managed,” he tells you in an attempt to make you feel better.
But it doesn’t help for one very teensy little fact. “That wasn’t luck, that was talent,” you point out.
After a moment of silence, he playfully kisses the crown of your head, making it look like it was just a joke, but you know what he’s doing; he’s trying to make you feel better by replacing a proper kiss with this. “Just trust yourself, okay?” he whispers to you with a warm smile.
You gulp and nod obediently, and finally he lets you go.
“Alright, I’ll talk to a few people then I’m off to sleep. You know where to find me if you feel like joining,” he adds quietly, then dares to wink at you.
• • • •
Someone casually wraps his arms around your neck from behind, and you don’t need to turn back to know it’s Max bothering you again. There are only a few laps left until it’s your turn in the car again, and he probably came out to wish you luck, maybe give you a pep talk like he always does when you start doubting you have what it takes to stay in the lead.
“People are watching,” you warn him.
“I know,” he murmurs into the back of your head.
“They will talk.”
He snorts at this. “Let them.”
“Max.”
“What?” he wonders innocently, then lets out a sigh. “Anyway, I had some time to think before I fell asleep.”
Silence. His words are followed by silence, which is driving you crazy, because why can’t he be normal for once? “And? It hurt?” you wonder with a smirk on your lips.
“Oh, you want to know?” Max teases.
You want to turn around to give him a strict look, but he doesn’t let you, so you give in and say, “I want you to finish that train of thought, because it would be weird if you didn’t.”
“So you do want to know.”
“You know what? I don’t care.”
“Hey, okay, listen.” He nestles his chin in the crook of your neck, speaking softly so only you can hear him. “How about this? Once we’re done here, we go straight to Canada and rent some little house in the middle of nowhere. We stay there until I have to go to the track, then you’ll decide if you’re coming with me or not. I won’t get mad if you say no now, but when I return, we’ll have a week to spend there alone,” he lays out his plan.
It sounds nice, you can’t deny that, but out of the corner of your eye, you notice the flashes of the cameras. It’s already bad, people will talk, you can’t risk this relationship becoming official, not yet. It’s not that you don’t love him, because you do, but his life is so chaotic, always in the spotlight despite his best efforts, and you’re not sure you’re ready for that. You race in smaller series, you’re not used to that kind of attention.
And Max doesn’t stop here. When he realizes that you’re thinking about backing out of this, he tightens his grip around you and presses a kiss to your neck. “Stop overthinking. After the trip to Canada, I’ll need you to come back to Monaco with me. I need my good luck charm for the race there,” he adds with a short and quiet laugh.
“I’m more worried about this weekend. People are already whispering, let me go,” you ask him, but he doesn’t listen. “Please.”
With a groan, he lets his arms fall from around your body, but when you turn to him, he quickly puts a hand on the back of your neck and pulls you into a kiss, making it impossible to hide what’s between the two of you. Now the crew and the reporters all know, and if they know, the whole world will know in a matter of minutes.
Fuck.
“Told you I’m gonna get that kiss before the end of the race,” Max notes with a smug smile after he pulls away a little.
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